The ammunition is also a hundred years old?
Unbelievable, isnt it.
And its still effective?
In those days they built to last, Captain. Occasionally youll get a misfire. But most of them are still in working order. The guy can wipe out the whole of Cape Town.
You think its a man?
Definitely, Captain.
Oh?
Mauser kicks like a fucking mule, Captain. Takes a man on a horse.
16.
He swam with enjoyment for the duration of one length. When he turned, kicking against the wall of the pool and swam back, fatigue sent its feelers through his muscles again.
He strove for the weightlessness, the efficiency. He swam more slowly, then faster, rested, tried again, but it evaded him.
When he climbed out of the water he was hopeful about the swimming for the first time.
On that Thursday, the tenth of January, the chief subeditor of
Die Burger
had a small stroke of luck. Subs, the people who, among other things, have to think up the headlines in a newspaper, occasionally like an alliteration or a play on words to jazz up their work and, as his luck would have it, the words
Mauser, murder,
and
maniac
all started with the same letter.
That apart, the newspaper had decided to devote the main story on the front page to the murders. There were two reasons for that decision. The first was that the usual sources of information had nothing of note to offer that morning. No more people than usual had died in the townships, the various colors of the political rainbow had made no new serious references to one another, and the government wasn't involved in a new scandal. On the international front it was quiet too, even in the Middle East, eastern Europe, and Ireland.
The second reason was the murder weapon. The Mauser Broomhandle.
After he had seen the photographs of James J. Wallace and Drew Joseph Wilson lying on his desk the previous evening, the crime reporter of
Die Burger
had started playing around with a theory.
Both had black hair and black mustaches. They vaguely resembled each other. Both were in their late thirties.
The reporter had also telephoned Lieutenant John Cloete of the SAPS Department of Public Relations and asked whether it might be possible that the service was dealing with a mass murderer who had his knife his Tokarev out for mustachioed, black-haired men this side of forty.
It was Cloetes duty to keep the service in the medias good books. And if a crime reporter had some stupid theory or other, Cloete listened to it and promised that he would come back to him.
And so Cloete had called Mat Joubert away from a slice of skinless chicken breast, carrots, potato, and broccoli to ask him whether the reporter was onto something.
Joubert was fully aware of journalists habit of grabbing at straws and he sympathized with Cloete.
Were exploring all avenues, hed said because he knew that that was what Cloete wanted to tell the reporter.
Cloete had thanked Joubert.
Theres something else, John, Joubert said before Cloete could put the phone down.
Yes, Captain?
The murder weapon.
Yes, Captain?
Its a Mauser Broomhandle.
A what?
Joubert had told him. As much as he could remember.
Keee-rist, Cloete had said because he knew the press. And he knew
And then theres another thing, John.
Yes, Captain?
Dont let the newspapers refer to me as one of the Peninsulas top detectives.
Cloete had laughed, promised, and returned the reporters call. Captain Mat Joubert says theyre exploring all avenues.
Then Cloete told him about the Mauser.
Sensation, the reporter knew, was often contained in the minor details of a story. The condition and color of a pair of underpants, for example. The color of a couple or the difference in color. Or, as in this case, the age of the murder weapon.
The Mauser was manna from heaven. Old, rich in history, with a touch of controversy about it dating from the Anglo-Boer War, which might give it a right-wing color. It had a strange, exotic appearance. That was why
Die Burger
s front page looked the way it did that Thursday morning. In the newspapers attractive modular makeup, the main story, photographs, and a graphic box in a large square had been etched against a salmon-colored background. And the headline? Two words, alliterative, in big sans serif letters: MAUSER MURDERER. And below it, in smaller serif, the subheading: MANIAC MAY STRIKE AGAIN.
Joubert read the newspaper in his office.
His week of standby duty was over. He now had a three-week breathing space before he had to lead a standby group again. That was why he had the luxury of a newspaper on his desk that morning. He read the copy and shook his head over the inventiveness of a journalist who could make front-page news out of the make of a weapon, a theory, and a vague statement from the police.
But he didn't mind. Publicity was one of the great allies in the solving of crimes. Some criminals had even given themselves up as a result of a newspaper report stating that the police net was tightening. And as for the impact of television . . .
He read the report and looked at the photographs of Jimmy Wallace and Drew Wilson. He knew he didn't have one single solid clue and he was certain that this wasn't the last Mauser murder. Maybe the reporter was right. Maybe it was a man who came home to catch a black-haired man with a black mustache with his wife. And was now shooting such men to boost his ego.
Mat Joubert, armchair psychologist.
Never mind, he said to himself. Another few hours and he would be back with the real thing, his own personal physician of the soul. The one and only Dr. Hanna Nortier, interrogator, surgeon of the psyche, healer of sick souls.
Well see one another on Thursdays, Captain, she had said. He suddenly realized that he was looking forward to it.
What could that mean? He lit a Benson & Hedges Special Mild. It still didn't taste like a Winston. He folded the newspaper and looked at his watch. Half past eight. Perhaps the people at records were at work by now. He picked up the receiver and dialed the number. The time had come for them to start looking for a Mauser.
Ferdy Ferreira didn't read
Die Burger
on Thursday, January 10. Or on any other day. Because reading a newspaper was too much trouble.
And he had enough trouble in his life. Like his wife. His wife was Trouble with a capital T.
Ferdy, walk the dogs.