“Got every bloody tearoom these days,” said a young constable who overheard them. “Worse than the coolies.”
Their glasses were empty.
So Gardiner led the way out, pausing to question a uniformed sergeant who was drinking an orange squash in the doorway because he was on duty, and firearms weren’t allowed in the canteen anyway.
“Who’s the pushy little poop, Sarge?”
“One just talking to you? Oppenheimer.”
“Oh, ja,” said Gardiner, and then he and Marais walked down the wide passage and out into the yard, making for the latrine. Which had batwing doors like a Wild West saloon for some amusing, if obscure, reason.
“Well, here’s what I think of you,” said Marais, careful to aim at Trekkersburg between the bowls because the pipes into the gutter were missing and otherwise he’d soak his moccasins. “Now for the popsie and the back row at the drive-in. Pity Mickey’s made work for you or-”
The batwing doors clattered wide.
“Okay, Sergeant Marais, to my office,” Kramer said softly, his hands on his hips.
Gardiner tarried to rinse out his left stocking.
Zondi handed over the keys of the Chev Commando, which was better than new now, and borrowed his bus fare off Kramer. Then he walked around Marais, gave a quick smile behind his back, and left for home.
“Look, sir,” Marais began stiffly, having been given time by the interruption to prepare his defense.
“No, you look,” Kramer contradicted him, and indicated he should take a seat. “I’ll accept what you say about the papers in Jo’burg listening in on our radio and getting to the scene of crime just as quick. I’ll accept all that.”
Marais perched on the edge of Zondi’s little table, relaxing slightly.
“If I hadn’t been at the Wigwam, too, then it would have been a very different matter, Marais. Then I would expect you to take it personally- very personally. But, as it was, I had the same chances as you. The main point is this: it seems to me that there’s a definite case for thinking we’ve been buggered about by this arsehole who runs the club. The police, that is. I want this fully investigated. And if there is anything in it, I want charges brought against him. False information, obstruction-”
“Perjury? I’ve got his statement already, sir.”
“Hey? First class-let me see it right now.”
The prodigal left the room like there was veal on the menu, and Kramer used the delay to ring the Widow Fourie and say he would be later than planned. And yes, he had told Mickey that his help would be needed for the move to the house. He realized it could not keep being put off. He would see her.
Marais had just returned, bearing the docket, when the Gazette reporter rang through with his story.
“That’s not bad,” Kramer said, with a half smile of relief at the end of it. “Except you don’t get a fusillade with five shots set days apart, hey? I do appreciate it’s in English, but… Ja, that’ll be fine. Perfect. Uh-huh, and I’ll scratch yours.”
He glanced across for a reaction, but Marais was too engrossed in scribbling something.
“Oh, ja? Never! ‘Bye.”
The receiver’s weight cut the rest dead.
“I’ve listed them,” Marais announced.
“Go ahead-read.”
“ One -suspect’s report to duty officer logged at ten-thirty; for press to be there at ten-forty, calls must have been made immediately afterwards.”
“Or before?”
“Hmmm. Two -suspect’s abusive manner on finding press had been asked to wait outside.”
His diplomacy was acknowledged by a curt nod.
“ Three -suspect’s response to learning that exhibit A was being removed from the premises. By that I mean his offer to save police time and put it in his pig bins.”
“Come again?” Kramer asked, tossing over a lighted Lucky Strike.
“Ta, sir. Well, I thought Monty was just arse-creeping at the time, but obviously, now we’ve got this publicity angle, he hoped the snake could go in the newspaper pictures. It would have looked good, and if you can print crash pictures, I don’t see why not.”
“Uh-huh. Sharks-they publish killer sharks. And?”
“ Four -suspect’s excited manner. Warrant Gardiner was telling me tonight that once Monty found a junkie dead in his bog and-”
“Hey!” interrupted Kramer. “What about number five? Now, that really interests me.”
Marais had no fifth point listed. He looked up, slightly off balance
“Sir?”
“When you’re on night duty, man, what time do you get up after a night off? Early? Or late, like after the nights you’ve been on?”
“You-um-get into a sort of cycle, really. So it’s usually late like the others. If you don’t, by the time… Oh, I get you. Ten seems early for him?”
“Gives him a fifteen, sixteen-hour working day.”
“Ja, but-hell, that’s a nasty allegation!”
“But what?”
“According to his statement, he always comes in at ten to see the post, fix cabaret bookings, order drink and grub, and let the cleaner in.”
“How do you make a reservation, then?”
“That’s done through his home number-his wife sees to that. Let me see…”
Marais nipped a statement sheet out of the docket.
“Here it is. ‘I always go into the club for a couple of hours in the morning, returning home to sleep at around noon. I had no appointments, so this was my intention until a report was made to me by Bantu Male Joseph Ngcobo, in my employ as a part-time-’”
“Never mind the pieces you wrote,” said Kramer. “Just tell me where you took over.”
His insight tickled Marais, who put a finger on the third line down. “From ‘until a report’ onwards, sir. Hell, he tried to make it a bloody book and wanted to put in hearsay.”
“They all do, old son. That was a nice thought while it lasted. You were saying? Four?”
“ Ach, just that Monty didn’t seem so easily shocked before. Very cool, the warrant said. But four isn’t such a big deal because, I suppose, with a female and a bloody snake like that wrapped around her neck, it must have-”
“Still there, was it?”
“Here’s the photos-Kisten did a quick job.”
Kramer played patience with them for a while.
“How come if she knocked its brains out on the wall it was still round her neck?”
“Doc Strydom says they’ve got funny nervous systems; probably locked in a spasm. You know how the wogs say that a snake can’t die till sunset, doesn’t matter what you do to it.”
“Cut its head off with a spade and it still jumps around hours later, you mean?”
“Ja. Doc’s going to check with the snake park for more details to put in the thing he’s writing.”
The photographs were tossed aside. They were irrelevant to the matter in hand, and Kramer was niggled at being thwarted. He had a very clear picture of the manager and an equally clear idea of what he would like…
“ Six!” he said. “What is today in Trekkersburg? And don’t give me bloody Monday!”
“Wash day?” Marais postulated, with pleasing swiftness.
“Spot on. Think how the bugger was dressed. It all looked new to me. Even if it wasn’t, tell me who doesn’t wear his best casuals at the weekend? On Saturday arvie, or Sunday? Who goes to the trouble to posh himself up for the postman and a bloody coon boy? He didn’t have any appointments. For two hours, hey? Who goes near a nightclub in the daytime? When exactly was Mr. Joseph Ngcobo admitted to the premises? With wine bottles all over the place? Dead bugs in the passage?”
Marais began to pace about, clicking his thumb against his front teeth. Then he stopped suddenly.
“What are we saying, sir?” he asked, very solemnly.
“Just this: that Monty ‘Publicity Stunt’ Stevenson may have reached the club before Ngcobo, checked to see if the girl had pinched anything maybe-and saw certain advantages of a commercial nature in the situation.”
“Christ! You’d have to be cool to do that!”
“And what did your pal Gardiner have to say about him?”
Marais slapped his thigh in self-recrimination. “But I didn’t bother with times when I interviewed Ngcobo! I’m sorry, but it seemed-”