Dead Before Dying

“And then?” he asked softly. She embraced his tone of voice and focused the big eyes on him.

“He . . . We had wine. A great deal of wine. And we talked. He said he was very unhappy in his marriage . . . His wife doesn’t understand him. There was something between us. He understood me so well. He’s a Ram. I’m Virgo.”

Joubert frowned.

“Star signs . . .”

The frown disappeared.

“Then we came here. I have a room here because I’m staying over. I have another appointment tomorrow. With someone from another firm. He left after six. I’m not sure of the time. And that’s the last time I saw him.”

The lashes fluttered again and the mascara tracks increased.

Basie Louw cleared his throat. “What happened here? In this room?”

She cried harder.

They waited.

She got up and went into the bathroom. They heard her blowing her nose. A tap ran. Silence. Then the nose being blown again. She came back and sat down. The mascara tracks had disappeared.

“You know what happened. Here . . .”

They looked at her expectantly.

“We made love.” She cried again. “He was so gentle with me . . .”

“Miss, do you know anyone in Cape Town?” Mat Joubert asked.

She took a tissue out of the sleeve of the white blouse and blew her nose again. “I have friends here. But I haven’t seen them for ages.”

“Is there anyone who’d be . . . unhappy if you slept with other men?”

Her head jerked up. “I don’t sleep with other men . . .”

The eyebrows of the three detectives on the bed rose with military precision.

“Don’t you understand? There was a vibe. We . . . we were . . . It was beautiful.”

Joubert asked again: “Miss, we want to know if you’re involved with anyone else who would mind that you and the deceased slept together.”

“Oh, you mean . . . No. No, never. I don’t even have a permanent relationship.”

“Do you belong to a political party or group, Miss van der Merwe?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“I’m a member of the Democratic Party. But what has . . .”

Griessel didn't give her a chance. “Did you ever have any connection with the Pan African Congress?”

She shook her head.

“Or with the Azanian People’s Liberation Army?”

“APLA? No, I . . .”

“Do you know anybody who belongs to these groups?”

“No.”

“What did the deceased say when he left here? Did he have another appointment?” Griessel asked.

“He said he had to go home, to his children. He is . . . was a good man . . .” Her head drooped. “There was a vibe. So beautiful,” she said.

Mat Joubert sighed and got up.

6.

He dreamed about Yvonne Stoffberg. They were in the mountains. She ran ahead of him, her white bottom bobbing in the moonlight, her brown hair floating. She was laughing, skipping over river stones, past a rippling stream. He was also laughing, his hard-on rigid in the evening breeze. Then suddenly she screamed, a scream of terror and surprise. Her hands shot to her breasts, trying to hide them. Ahead of them on the mountain track stood Bart de Wit. Between his eyes there was a third eye, a staring, scarlet pit. But he could still speak: “Ask yourself, Captain. Are you a winner?” Over and over again like a cracked record in that high, nasal voice. He looked round, searching for Yvonne Stoffberg, but she had vanished. Suddenly, de Wit was gone, too. The dark invaded him. He felt himself dying. He closed his eyes. Long auburn hair drifted across his face. He was lying in the arms of Margaret Wallace. “You’ll be okay,” she said. He started crying.

* * *

At the traffic lights Joubert stared at

Die Burger

’s poster as he did every morning without seeing it. Then as the letters took on meaning, he was startled: CHINESE MAFIA BEHIND BRUTAL KILLING OF CRICKET FAN?

The lights changed to green and he couldn't stop next to the newspaper seller. He drove to a café in Plattekloof, bought a newspaper, and looked for the report on the front page as he walked back to his car. He found it.

Cape Town— A murder gang of the Chinese Mafia may possibly be behind the brutal slaying of a wealthy Cape Town businessman who was shot with a Tokarev pistol at a Newlands hotel last night.

According to Col. Bart de Wit . . .

Joubert leaned against the car and looked up at Table Mountain. He sighed, not seeing how clearly the mountain was visible this morning or how the morning sun made a bright splash in the bay. Then he folded his newspaper, got into the car, and drove off.

* * *

“What’s beyond me is why he had a bit on the side with a horse-faced blonde when he had a film star at home,” Griessel said.

Joubert wasn'’t listening. “Have you seen the paper?”

“No.”

Then de Wit came in, ramrod straight, self-satisfied. The detectives fell silent.

“Good morning, colleagues. Beautiful morning, isn’t it. Makes one grateful for the privilege of being alive. But there it is, we have to get on with the job. Before we discuss yesterday’s cases . . . I'’ve now met all the officers personally and we had productive discussions. Today I’m starting with the noncommissioned officers. I want to get to know you all as soon as possible. Mavis has a list. All the adjutants must check the time of their appointments. Right, let’s discuss yesterday’s cases. Captain Mat Joubert called me for assistance with a murder in Newlands . . .”

He looked at Mat and gave him a friendly smile. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Captain. Can you give us a progress report?”

Joubert was somewhat taken aback. He’d asked de Wit to come to the scene because it was standard procedure with all murders that had a high publicity potential. Now the man was giving it a different interpretation.

“Uh . . . It’s pretty thin, Colonel. The deceased certainly had extramarital relationships. Today we’ll check whether there’s a jealous husband in the picture somewhere. Perhaps someone at his office . . .”

“You can drop that,” de Wit interrupted him. “As I told the press last night, this is the work of a Chinese drug ring . . . Good piece in

Die Burger

this morning. If you dig deeply enough into the deceased’s background you’ll find the connection. I think the investigation can only benefit if you involve the narcotics bureau as well, Captain. Drop that jealous husband theory of yours. Interestingly enough, last year at the Yard we had two similar murders . . .”

De Wit broke eye contact with Joubert. Joubert stopped listening. There was an uncomfortable feeling in his belly, as if an insect were scrabbling through his entrails.

Reluctantly he phoned the officer commanding SANAB— the South African Narcotics Bureau— after the morning assembly.

“What have you appointed there this time, Joubert?” the voice at the other end asked. “A clown? Cloete of public relations has just phoned me, asked whether de Wit had spoken to me. Cloete is mad as hell because your new boss chats to the newspapers himself. Cloete wants to know whether he can retire now and fish full-time. and what’s this crap about the Chinese mafia?”