Dead Before Dying

“No.”

“The local Chinese community?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Pharmaceutical companies?”

“There is one for whom we send marketing brochures to the medical profession, but Jimmy never worked with them.”

“Did he use drugs?”

“Never. It’s an absurd idea. Jimmy wasn'’t the sort.”

“Mr. Wallace’s politics. Did he have strong political opinions?”

“Jimmy? No . . .”

“Did you do business with any political group?”

“Not at any time.”

“Do you know how he and his wife got along?”

Schutte sat even straighter in his tall chair. “You’ll find nothing there, either, Captain.” His voice was reproachful. “James and Margaret were the perfect couple. In love, successful, beautiful children . . . young Jeremy plays a fantastic game of cricket. No, Captain, you won’t find anything there.”

Joubert realized that the time had come to free Schutte of his excessive respect for and protection of the dead.

The secretary brought in a tea tray with three cups and put it on the desk. She poured and they thanked her. When everyone had stopped stirring, Joubert asked: “Do you know why the deceased went to the Holiday Inn in Newlands yesterday?”

Schutte moved his shoulders as if the question was obvious. “James often had a beer there with his cricketing friends.”

“Mr. Schutte, how did the deceased get along with the women working here?”

“Very well. He got along with everyone.”

In the good old days, when Mat Joubert still performed his day’s work with the zeal of the newly converted, he developed a technique for reluctant witnesses like Walter Schutte— the Bull, as his colleagues called it. He would lean his big body forward, square and broaden his shoulders, drop his head like a battering ram, lower his voice an octave, and fix his eagle’s eyes on the specific person. Then he would speak, pulling no punches, in a somewhat superior, threatening tone. It was melodramatic, overdone, and feigned. But it worked.

But as Tony O’Grady said one day, a year or two ago, Joubert had lost “the beat in his baton.” And with it the motivation to use the Bull.

Whether it was the flickering flame of sexual hunger ignited by Yvonne Stoffberg, or Colonel Bart de Wit’s challenge to the remnants of his ego, Joubert would never know. When he switched to the Bull it was probably not a reasoned act but more than likely pure reflex.

The physical side of shoulders, head, and eyes he managed, but initially he had problems with the voice and the choice of words. “Yesterday afternoon Jimmy Wallace spent the last hours of his life . . . on top of a blonde. I’m sure it wasn'’t his first . . . escapade. And . . . I know someone in the office must know about his escapades because someone had to protect him when Mrs. Wallace looked for him. You now have a choice, Mr. Schutte. You can go on telling fairy tales about Jimmy Wallace and how exemplary and wonderful he was. Then I’ll have to bring in a team of detectives, which will keep each of the employees busy for hours. Or you can help us and we’ll leave as soon as possible.”

Joubert maintained his aggressive pose. Schutte opened his mouth and closed it again, struggling to find the right words.

“Jimmy . . . Jimmy had his little diversions.” The hands were quiet now.

Joubert leaned back in his chair— the Bull was no longer necessary.

“Mr. Schutte, you saw what James Wallace looks like now. We’re trying to find the person who had a reason for doing that to him. Help us.”

“He . . . liked women.” Schutte glanced swiftly at the door as if he expected James Wallace there, eavesdropping.

“But he had two rules. No nonsense at work. And no long relationships. Just once with each one. Into bed and that was it.”

Schutte’s hands started to move again. He was gaining momentum.

“You should’ve known Jimmy . . .” He gestured with his hands indicating a search for words. “He attracted people like a magnet. Anyone. He was mad about people. We were in a restaurant in Johannesburg and he bet us that within twenty minutes he could convince the brunette in the corner to go to the ladies with him. We accepted the bet. We weren’t allowed to look at them and he had to bring back a piece of evidence. Eighteen minutes later the brunette kissed him good-bye outside the restaurant. And when he sat down he took her panties out of his pocket. Red ones with a black . . .” Then Schutte blushed.

“We want you to think carefully, Mr. Schutte. Do you know of any of his relationships that might have resulted in conflict or unhappiness?”

“No, I told you he had no relationships. In his way he was very fond of Margaret. Okay, occasionally he broke one of his own rules. There was a little secretary here, a young pretty number with big . . . But it only lasted a week. In all honesty I can’t think of anything that would’ve made anyone want to murder him.”

Joubert looked at Griessel. Griessel shook his head slightly. They got up. “We’re sure there’s a jealous husband somewhere who didn't like Wallace’s rules, Mr. Schutte. Please phone us if you can think of something that would be helpful.”

“Of course, absolutely,” Schutte said in his deep voice and also stood. Solemnly they shook hands.

“I haven’t seen the Bull for a long time, Captain,” said Griessel when they were in the elevator on the way down to street level.

Joubert looked questioningly at him.

“The one where you lean forward like that.”

Joubert gave a lopsided, self-conscious grin.

“We all tried to imitate it,” Benny Griessel said, openly nostalgic. “Those were the good old days.”

Then he realized that Mat Joubert might not want to be reminded of them and he shut up.

7.

The doctor’s reading glasses were perched on the end of his nose. Over them he stared at Joubert, grave and portentous.

“If I were a mechanic this would be the moment to whistle and shake my head, Captain.”

Joubert said nothing.

“Things don’t look too good. You smoke. Your lungs don’t sound good. You admitted that you drink too much. You’re fifteen kilos overweight. You have a family history of cardiovascular disease. You work under stress.” The doctor linked his fingers on the desk in front of him.

The man should’ve become a public prosecutor, Joubert thought and stared at a plastic model of a heart and lungs that stood on the desk. It advertised some remedy.

“I’m sending the blood sample for tests. We must check your cholesterol level. But in the meanwhile we must consider your smoking.”

Joubert sighed.

“Have you thought of giving it up?”

“No.”

“Do you know how harmful it is?”

“Doctor . . .”

“It’s not only that you’re exposing yourself to diseases. It’s the manner in which you’ll die, Captain. Have you ever seen someone with emphysema? You should come to the hospital with me, Captain. They lie there in oxygen tents, slowly smothering in their own mucus, like fish on dry ground, unable to breathe.”