Dead at Daybreak

had trouble getting girls. She’d replied that that was because he was stupid with women.)

“I don’t know,” he eventually stammered.

“As payment you can take me out for dinner.”

My father only laughed again. And just over a week later, on a cold winter’s Sunday morning, he drove in his Morris Minor from the single quarters in Stilfontein to Potchefstroom. She, with easel and painting kit, got into the car and directed him – out on the Carletonville road, close to Boskop Dam.

“Where are we going?”

“Into the veld.”

“The veld?”

She nodded.

“Doesn’t one do it in a…an art room?”

“A studio.”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes.”

“Oh?”

They had turned off onto a farm road and stopped at a small ridge. He helped her carry her equipment, watched as she stretched the canvas on the easel, opened the case, and tidied the brushes.

“You can undress now.”

“I’m not going to take everything off.”

She merely looked at him in silence.

“I don’t even know your surname.”

“Joan Kilian. Undress.”

He took off his shirt, then his shoes.

“That’s enough.” He resisted.

She nodded.

“What must I do now?”

“Stand on the rock.”

He climbed onto a large rock.

“Don’t stand so stiffly. Relax. Drop your hands. Look over there, toward the dam.”

And then she began painting. He asked her questions but she didn’t reply, only warned him a few times to stand still, looked from him to the canvas, mixed and applied paint until he gave up trying to talk. After an hour or more she allowed him to rest. He asked his questions again, discovered that she was the only daughter of an actress and a drama lecturer in Pretoria. He vaguely remembered their names from Afrikaans films of the forties.

Eventually she lit a cigarette and started packing her painting equipment.

He dressed. “Can I see what you’ve drawn?”

“Painted. No.”

“Why not?”

“You can see it when it’s finished.”

They drove back to Potchefstroom and drank hot chocolate in a cafe. He asked about her art; she asked him about his work. And sometime during the late afternoon of a Western Transvaal winter he looked at her for a long time and then said: “I’m going to marry you.” She nodded because that was the second thing she had known with certainty when she saw him for the first time.

? Dead at Daybreak ?

3

The female attorney looked down at the folder and slowly drew in her breath. “Johannes Jacobus Smit was fatally wounded with a large-caliber gun on September thirtieth last year during a burglary at his home on Moreletta Street, Durbanville. The entire contents of a walk-in safe are missing, including a will in which, it is alleged, he left all his possessions to his friend, Wilhelmina Johanna van As. If the will cannot be found, the late Mr. Smit will have died intestate and his assets will eventually go to the state.”

“What’s the size of the estate?”

“At this stage it seems to be just under two million.”

He had suspected it. “Van As is your client.”

“She lived with Mr. Smit for eleven years. She supported him in his business interests, prepared his meals, cleaned his house, looked after his clothes, and at his insistence had their child aborted.”

“He never offered to marry her?”

“He was no…advocate of marriage.”

“Where was she on the evening of the…”

“Thirtieth? In Windhoek. He sent her there. On business. She returned on the first of October and found him dead, tied to a kitchen chair.”

He slid farther down in his chair. “You want me to trace the will?”

She nodded. “I’ve already explored every possible legal loophole. The final sitting at the Master of the Supreme Court is in a week’s time. If we cannot supply a legal document by that time, Wilna van As doesn’t get a cent.”

“A week?”

She nodded.

“It’s almost…ten months. Since the murder.”

The attorney nodded again.

“I take it the police haven’t had a breakthrough.”

“They did their best.”

He looked at her and then at the two certificates on the wall. His ribs were hurting. He made a short, obscene noise, part pain, part disbelief. “A week?”

“I – ”

“Didn’t Kemp tell you? I don’t do miracles anymore.”

“Mr. van – ”

“It’s ten months since the man’s death. It’s a waste of your client’s money. Not that that would bother an attorney.”

He saw her eyes narrowing, and a small rosy fleck in the shape of a crescent moon slowly appeared on one cheek. “My ethics, Mr. van Heerden, are above reproach.”

“Not if you give Mrs. van As the impression that there’s any hope,” he said, and wondered just how much self-control she had.

“Miss van As is completely informed about the significance of this step. I advised her of the potential uselessness of the exercise. But she is prepared to pay you because it’s her last chance. The only remaining possibility. Unless you don’t see your way clear, Mr. van Heerden. Evidently there are other people with the same talents…”

The crescent was bright red but her voice remained measured and controlled.

“Who would be only too pleased to join you in taking Miss van As’s money,” he said, and wondered if the fleck could become any redder. To his surprise she smiled slowly.

“I’m really not interested in how you acquired your wounds.” With her manicured hands she gestured at his face. “But I’m beginning to understand why.”

He saw the crescent moon slowly disappearing. He thought for a moment, disappointed. “What else was in the safe?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“She doesn’t know? She sleeps with him for eleven years and she doesn’t know what’s cooking in his safe?”

“Do you know what’s in your wife’s wardrobe, Mr. van Heerden?”