So Zondi half-heartedly tried the pandemonium of the overcrowded outpatients at Peacevale Hospital, and drew another blank.
He was third-time lucky back in the lower end of Trekkersburg, where the herbalists and witch doctors had their shops in a modern block with prosperous Indian families living above them. Msomi was studying a rack of desiccated baboons and other specialist items outside the entrance to Ntagati and Son. He had already made several purchases, which stuck out of his overcoat pocket.
Zondi parked on the other side of the street and was quickly camouflaged by idlers too idle to notice who he was, and who chose his car to lean against.
The problem was making discreet contact with Msomi in daylight. But now that he knew where Msomi was, he knew he could always follow him until the right moment came. One thing was for sure: Zondi was not going to be given the slip.
He began the wait by lighting a cigarette.
Msomi must have seen something in the reflection of the shopwindow, because he turned and, to Zondi’s great surprise, gave him the nod.
“Sta-tion,” he mouthed, and then went back into the store. To anyone else watching, it would have looked like nothing more than a man fighting off a sneeze.
They met on platform 2 behind a pile of mailbags, screened by rough rustics wearing blankets and sitting on wooden suitcases.
“Where are you going?” Zondi demanded.
“To the tribal homelands, you dig? Way, way away. Things is hottin’ up here and it’s time I went see where my roots come from.”
Then he told Zondi hastily about what had occurred in Beebop’s shop, and about the slaughtered butcher, who was a stranger to them both. And rounded off by agreeing that the robberies were something else.
“Brother, it’s this way. A guy here, a guy there, they know how I make a bit of bread on the side, see? Now just say I do pick up somethin’ that spins you by the tail-what then? What if I don’t, but word gets out anyway? And they think it’s me? Can I convince them? Let’s say the big heat is really on and-”
“They kill you to shut you up?”
“There you have it, little bird. Yeah, man. But if I’m outa town when it happens-well, groovy, baby.”
“You’ve hung six hard men on the rope,” Zondi reminded him. “What scares you so much this time?”
“What I’ve done seen today with my own two eyes! Guys comin’ and goin’ and nothin’ in between.”
“Huh!”
Zondi thought it over. Msomi had a ticket and a bag which must have been standing in Ntagati’s. He plainly meant to be on that train north. Therefore he had arranged this meeting because he knew that Zondi would follow him and he wanted his departure to be unimpeded by misunderstanding. That all made sense. But not his degree of apprehension.
“ Aikona, those two eyes saw more,” said Zondi. “You’ve got papers to travel?”
“Cool it, Mickey. Since when did Yankee-”
“Sergeant! Sergeant to you! And it’ll be a sergeant who arrests you, here right now, if you don’t speak the rest!”
There was a great hiss of steam and the enormous locomotive, pushing its water tender, slid in on platform 2, bringing the rustics to their feet. It was Msomi’s train, too.
Zondi caught him by the hair on his coat.
“Okay, okay,” Msomi said despairingly.
“Then what?”
“Chainpuller! Now can I blow?”
Zondi let go. Watching Msomi run for a place on the benches, and feeling a clawed fist grab the walls of his stomach.
Chainpuller.
The walls were pale lime with scuff marks. A map of Trekkersburg almost covered one of them. There was a gray filing cabinet to which a calendar had once been glued. A small table with a stool, and a large desk with pigeonholes and a chair. Two wire wastepaper baskets and a pair of telephones. Two ashtrays: one an inverted piston head, the other an empty paper-clip tin. A wooden pole with a leather loop at one end. Daubs of white paint saying CID on anything worth stealing. In other words, the office was not much to look at, but it had atmosphere.
Monty Stevenson apparently thought so. He stood on the scarred linoleum flooring as if expecting matter-of-fact violence to be done to his person at any moment. He shivered.
And the walls went on whispering.
“Still here?” inquired Kramer, just back from the same old story in Peacevale, yet with calculated suddenness behind his back.
Stevenson went rigid, which had its comic side.
Kramer picked up the pole, slipped the thong over his wrist, and let it swing to and fro.
“Getting stuffy,” he remarked, and used the pole to open both fanlights. Then he hung it up on its hook.
Marais came in, dusting the sugar from his teatime doughnut off his chin, and burping with selfish satisfaction. He picked up his notebook.
“Where had you got to?” Kramer asked. “How many more stories is he going to tell?”
“Swears it’s the truth now, sir.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But it is! I’m prepared to-”
“You shut up.”
“Can’t I even sit down, please?”
“Seen Zondi?” asked Kramer, seating himself at his desk. Marais was already back on the stool.
“Er-no, sir. Well, now it goes like this. After seeing the last customer out of his club at twelve-twenty on the night in question, he then-”
“Got his name?”
“It was one of my members, so I’ve-”
“Carry on, Marais; the time was twelve-twenty.”
“He went to close his office, remembering there he had business matters to discuss with Miss Bergstroom, the dancer. It was her last night of the booking and he would not be seeing her again. So he went to the dressing room and found she had been, quote, the victim of a tragic mishap, unquote. The snake was still moving slightly, but he could see it, too, was dead. His first reaction was to ring for the ambulance-and us- then he admits realizing the situation could, as you suggested, be turned to his advantage. He knew that by then the Sunday papers were already being printed and that on a Saturday night the daily papers usually had only a junior poopsqueak on call. By the way, the prisoner once worked on the advertising part of a paper, so that’s how he knows all this.”
“Births or deaths?” asked Kramer.
“So the point is, sir, he knew that raising the alarm then wouldn’t bring him the kind of attention he wanted, but he denies that he arranged matters so the press would be there before we. In all other respects, it’s much the same as we worked out together. He’s prepared to give another full statement, although I have informed him of his rights.”
“Yes, Officer. I thought that if I left everything just as it was, and had the boy go in there on Monday, then I wasn’t really doing any wrong. I mean, what harm could possibly come of it?”
“Now you know,” said Kramer.
Marais, the clown, wrote that down.
“By the way, Stevenson, did Miss Bergstroom have an agent?” Kramer continued after a pause.
“Of course! I don’t hire any old act for-”
“Then how come you had to talk business with her?”
“I’m sorry? What was that?”
Kramer laughed and stretched, lifting an imaginary pair of barbells, and arching his back.
“I look at it this way, Stevenson,” he said. “I know a bit about papers, too, you see. A morning one like the Gazette or the Durban Herald has a hell of a hard time filling its front page on a Monday with only the weekend to pick from. Man, the times I’ve been in a charge office on a Sunday morning and the reporters have practically begged me to take my gun and make some news. I agree with you about the early hours, but that doesn’t apply to around eleven-then you can’t hope to get better service. Everybody gets so sick of car crashes and sailing regattas and all that rubbish, and they miss the good juicy court stories. You could have gone in on Sunday, hey? Why not?”
Stevenson began to tremble properly.
“Ja, I thought so,” said Kramer. “If you’d said you’d just popped along to see how Miss Bergstroom was doing, your wife would have been suspicious, hey? And with good reason? Even so, you could have invented some excuse if you weren’t all tangled up by your guilty secret.”