There was more to Mabatso than that. After his ten years in a penal colony, to which he had been sent, as a robust youth, on the word of his brother, Chainpuller had created for himself a reputation for obsessive privacy. Even the brother had moved away from their hut-nobody was ever sure where to.
While Chainpuller lived on alone, high on a slope overlooking Peacevale, sitting with his back against the porch upright and watching. Ostensibly he had become a witch doctor, and wore inflated pig bladders in his plaited spikes of hair, but as no one seemed ever to visit him, at least during daylight hours, word got around that he was really a wizard.
Word also got around-more times than Zondi could remember-that whenever there was a mysterious death in the township, Chainpuller was behind it. The wizard did nothing to discourage these rumors, and when challenged by a relative made reckless through grief, would simply make a fresh mark in the mud wall beside him.
Yet no police investigation had ever been able to link him in any other way to what had happened.
Once, another black sergeant had tried to prove that the gifts of cash left near the hut were not given in charity but as blood money-payments made to have the donor relieved of a burdensome wife or mother-in-law. This sergeant had died in his sleep before bringing any charges
Such stories made the lieutenant laugh, and call Zondi a superstitious kaffir, yet even he stood back when a visit to the hut was demanded of them. Just as the arrival of certain people can make you suddenly in a party mood, in the same way Chainpuller’s presence was like having shadow put in your blood.
So a common denominator between Chainpuller and the robberies could be found in the uncanny. This was, however, at the level of pure gossip and rumor, and Yankee Boy Msomi operated some way above that.
Making the idea at once less acceptable and twice as much worth looking into.
Zondi’s wait was rewarded. He snatched the passer-by from the street and handcuffed him to a drainpipe.
“I will leave you there for Chainpuller,” he snapped, “unless you and me have a good talk together.”
This one was not going to get away.
Kramer splashed up through the puddles to the door of the Wigwam and found Joseph Ngcobo hunched there on his haunches, using the drizzle to soften his half loaf of stale bread.
“Come to clean, hey?”
Ngcobo sprang up beaming, quickly swallowing his last mouthful, showing all the painful eagerness of a poor man paid by the day. Then his face fell.
“Boss not coming this morning,” Kramer explained, flipping him a coin for his trouble, glad that Zondi wasn’t there to make him feel a fool.
“ Hau, thanks!” said Ngcobo, getting the hell out before lightning hit him next.
Untrue. The boss was coming. It was just that Marais had been unable to find a parking place, and the now pathetically cooperative Stevenson had offered up his personal bay in a multistory one short block away.
Kramer tried the Yale key, stepped inside, and left the door unlatched. Then he saw a new show card propped on a child’s easel that had been covered in glitter. The card announced:
YOU KNEW HER-YOU LOVED HER-SEE THE ROOM WHERE IT HAPPENED-MEMBERS ONLY-NOTHING HAS BEEN TOUCHED!
It made him proud to be a pig.
A note had been left in the eagle’s beak in the phony totem pole disguising a coat stand. The message was that someone signing himself Mohammed had finished work at 4 A.M. and respectfully requested prompt payment-in cash-of the sum agreed.
That sent Kramer clattering down the steps and across the stage. The warning notice had gone and the passage was carpeted in blue and had striped wallpaper over the cracks. Even the little stairs had been covered.
He took them at a bound, examined the key ring, chose a chunky old-fashioned one, and hurried down the passage.
There was no keyhole in the door with the star on it. Just a bolt on the inside.
His fist smashed into the paneling.
“Marais!” he bellowed.
“Coming, sir! Stevenson was just worrying the painters hadn’t closed the front door behind them properly and-”
“Marais! Look at this, man! And tell me what sort of person-especially if she’s just driven a lot of sex maniacs half mad-walks around, bare-arsed, in her room without locking the door first? Hey? ”
“Oh, Eve wouldn’t have done that,” Stevenson agreed obsequiously. “She hated strangers bothering her-and the snake was loose, too, and he was terribly expensive. What if he had escaped into the club and one of my members took a-”
“Shut up! Ja, Marais?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“And you, Stevenson?”
“Well-um-didn’t think of it at the time. So much else on the go.”
“That seems to be the trouble with quite a lot of people around here.”
Marais went into the dressing room and came out again.
“Sir, it’s possible that in her struggle she tried to get out and get help and had pulled the bolt back before-”
“And which hand did she use?”
“That’s when the snake got the better of her!” said Stevenson. “She had her hand off and-”
“Which hand?” Kramer repeated. “She’d never let go the tail, according to Strydom, and there’s no bites on her. The door was closed, you said?”
“Completely. I even wondered for a moment if her light was on, and I remember glancing at the edge to see if-”
“Light? Was that on, Marais?”
“Yes, it was on. I noticed because there’s no window and-”
“Actually, it was off for a bit,” Stevenson confessed. “Every penny counts and-”
“Shut up!”
“You never let me finish a-”
“Take him to his office, for Christ’s sake,” ordered Kramer.
While Marais was away, Kramer began a careful search of the room. He found two Gunstone butts in a corner, a dress-shirt button with a fancy design under the basin, and nothing to suggest the divan had ever been used for anything except as a place to put the snake basket.
“Who smokes Gunstone filter-tip?” he asked Marais on his return. “You?”
“Ja, sir, but I chucked them both-Where’s that button from?”
“That’s the first of your problems,” Kramer said, handing it to him. “The second is why, with all this bloody mess-powder everywhere, lipsticks without their tops, eyelashes stuck to the mirror, coffee spilled on the hot plate… you see what I mean?”
“Sir?”
“I want to know why I’ve just noticed that she washes a mug and glass nicely and then leaves them on a box that’s got jam smeared on it.”
“Man, oh, man,” Marais murmured. “I didn’t think.”
“Thirdly, I want Stevenson’s alibi for what he did here on the night fully investigated. Get hold of that club member he showed to the door.”
Kramer was surprised to find his anger had gone-and reasoned this was because he had been as much to blame in making these oversights.
“What sort of inquiry is this?” Marais asked. “Has it-er-changed?”
“Not all that much, from what I can see, but if he was in there when it happened, that’s a further piece of false information.”
“But Stevenson seems-”
“Marais! Just do it, hey? Get Gardiner here, too. I’ll take the bugger back on foot and have him locked up for the night. If you want me, use the radio. Okay?”
“Peacevale again, sir?”
“You never know,” answered Kramer, and he went down the passage into the office.
Stevenson looked different.
“Been on the phone, have you?” Kramer asked lightly. “Been giving your lawyer a bell? Who is he?”
“Ben Gold-”