holes barged through it.
“Jesus Christ,” said Kramer.
Through the wide doorway he could see Wessels, Constables Smit and Hamlyn in uniform, and an old woman kneeling over a body, while a tall foreigner looked on.
“That’s more than just shooting, boss,” Zondi murmured with a nod.
“Eyewitnesses,” said Kramer.
“Right,” said Zondi, and turned to the crowd.
As Kramer entered the cafe Wessels came up and gave a concise account of what he had seen and heard, adding that the victim was breathing his last, following a bullet wound in the head.
“Uh-huh. Tell Smit to get outside and clear a path for Kloppers and the doc. Hamlyn better stand on the door.”
“And me, sir?”
“What about that car number?”
“I’ve given it to Control, sir.”
“Good. Ach, start on interviewing the nonwhite staff-how many?”
“Just that cook and a waiter.”
“Then while it’s still fresh, hey? You know how fast these kind of memories can dwindle.”
Kramer sat down at a table near the window, took a straw from the glass of them on the checked tablecloth, and looked round the room. It was nothing special. A typical cafe. A typical cafe whether run by Indians, Greeks, Italians, or Portuguese. Yellow walls, blue floor tiles, wooden tables, chairs made out of chromed pipe, big electric fans, pictures of sunsets and snowcapped mountains, a jukebox, menus in plastic stands, all as plain and simple as its fare, made inviting by the aroma of hot dogs and soup. When the man died, that’s when it would look different.
The general impression would go, and in its place would come tedious exact measurements, notes on its little oddities and exclusive features, photographs by the bucketful, and a requirement that all this should reconcile with what could have happened. Had happened.
The tableau about the body changed. The old woman sat back on her thin heels, and the foreigner crossed himself.
What made the Munchausen look different from many other cafes was the mezzanine floor, or balcony, above Kramer’s head, which brought the ceiling down to a much cozier height. Or what would have seemed cozier if its structure had not been so flimsy and doubtful. He would check what was up there. Then again, there was not much of a counter, and that stuck away in the far corner with the till on it, and glass cases of cigarettes behind it. On the near side of the till was a rack festooned with cellophane packets containing potato chips, biltong, dried beef sticks, and other goodies. The rack could well obscure a view of the doorway. He would check on that first.
Skirting the dead man and mourners, Kramer went and placed himself behind the open till. Visibility was good. He then noticed that the kitchen door could also be seen from this position, off to his right, and assumed that the manager liked to keep an eye on both his customers and his staff without having to move about much.
The balcony, he noted, was reached by a single flight of wooden stairs screened off against the outer wall. The left-hand third appeared to be a small office, and the rest had three more tables to offer. Yet plainly for a better class of meal, as he could make out napkins folded like bishops’ hats, and the decor included fishing nets, big glass balls, and old wine bottles with straw around them.
He looked again at the street.
Wessels came out of the kitchen and wandered over.
“The chef was doing lunches for boys to fetch for their bosses, the waiter was helping him, and Mrs. Funchal-that’s the old lady-was whipping up something special. I was wrong, sir; there’s also a black dishwasher who is down at the clinic getting a tooth out.”
“But what did they see?”
“Nothing. Heard the bang and Mrs. Funchal told the chef to see what was going on-it didn’t register with any of them it was a gun-and he stuck his head out. Nobody was in the cafe. Then he put his head out further and looked this way to see if Mr. Funchal-that’s the old woman’s son-knew what it was about. He saw the till open and then Mr. Funchal’s hand. They dragged him out onto the floor there.”
“What about him?” said Kramer, nodding at the man still standing beside the body.
“That’s Da Gama, their nephew. He was yelling ‘Police’ when I ran in. He’d been up on the balcony, working in the office. He also thought it was a backfire and didn’t come down immediately. His aunt’s scream brought him.”
“She was screaming for you first, then?”
“That’s right, sir. I wasn’t in time to stop them moving him, but that’s where he was.”
And Wessels pointed just to the left of where Kramer was standing.
“So, man, where did the bullet hit?”
“Smack between the eyes, sir. He’s not as tall as you, and I reckon that the killer fired it from his own shoulder height straight across the counter because otherwise it would’ve gone through this stuff and I can’t find any holes.”
Wessels demonstrated what he meant, holding an imaginary firearm at right angles to the counter between the till and the rack.
“Looks like it, but we’d better wait for Doc Strydom’s little words of wisdom.”
“Hell, the bastard was fast, sir!”
“Ja, so I’ve heard. How much was taken?”
But just then the tall man approached, very shaken, and shyly took off his hat. He surprised Kramer by having very blond hair while otherwise conforming to type-not the squat and jolly one, as the dead man appeared to have been, but its twin, the thin and miserable one. His eyes had the hardness of a man well acquainted with suffering.
“That is my uncle,” he said.
“Mr. Da Gama?”
“Mario Da Gama. Are you the police chief?”
“Lieutenant Kramer, Murder and Robbery.”
“That’s what it was,” Da Gama said bitterly.
“Know how much is missing?”
Da Gama went over to the till.
“Don’t touch!” Kramer warned.
“Phew! Eighty-one hundred? I must check in my cashbook. It was little.” And he shook his head.
“Looks like someone’s arrived, sir,” said Wessels. “Oh, must be relatives that have got the news.”
“I ring them,” said Da Gama. “They come to take Mama away. Would you like me to look in the book now?”
“Fine, on my way Wessels, go and tell Smit he can let two women in, but they must take the old lady and get out again, hey?”
“Sir.”
“No trouble. I fetch the book,” Da Gama offered.
“Less trouble if I come,” replied Kramer, eager to quit the ground floor before an emotional scene began.
And he followed Da Gama up the staircase onto the balcony, feeling he had gone up on deck, for a strong breeze was buffeting in through little windows that were open over the street.
“Smell of the cheap food,” explained Da Gama, noticing his raised brow. “The hamburger, you know? It all comes up here and can spoil the work of many hours. This place is for the specialty customers.”
“Oh, ja?”
“The special dishes of the house that Mama makes. I serve them myself sometime. Only at night, you understand?”
“Very nice.”
“Oh, I must have the roll from the till, Chief. How can I take if I don’t touch? Just one button I must press.”
