“How about that?” Hendriks remarked, the marvels of science driving from his mind any thought of his own discovery.
“This young fellow filled me in on your conclusions with regard to the injuries, Lieutenant. They seem pretty fair to me: the usual sex killer’s workout. Talk about circumcision…”
Dr. Strydom rummaged in his bag for cotton wool. He wiped the thermometer and tilted it to catch the light.
“There you are, my boys, let’s see what this tells us.”
Kramer snapped his fingers and pointed to the stub. Hendriks handed it over with a grin and then, like his colleagues, gave his full attention to medical matters.
The stub was a Texan and it was fresh and that was not all.
“Almighty God, but this isn’t an easy one to guess, Lieutenant.”
Kramer glanced up.
“What do you mean?”
“You see, if we go on the usual average of the body cooling at about two degrees an hour over the first twelve, it’s easy. But here you have a naked body, that cools half as fast again. Got that? But-ah, another but-it’s a hot night, which slows things down. On top of which, you were right-the body temp is above normal.”
“So?”
“I’ve got to make some sort of allowance for the fact it’s a child and pretty thin-muscled at that.”
“Want me to do your sums for you, Doctor?”
“Please, just let me explain why I can’t be certain. There are other factors, too. These dark stains indicate postmortem lividity but they’re not as definite as I would expect.”
“The body has been moved, remember.”
“Ah, that helps. Let me see…”
Dr. Strydom felt the limbs.
“Rigor’s no guide at all on this occasion-it’s hot and he’s not a big chappie. Sets in faster, you see, especially if the metabolism is pronounced at death, which it would be if he’d been running to get away or anything.”
“Just an estimate, for God’s sake!”
“Make it around six last night. No earlier than five.”
“Thanks. Now I’ve a little business at the clubhouse. Keep an eye on things here, Hendriks.”
“Okay.”
“One other thing, Hendriks.”
“Ja?”
“What do you take me for? A bloody pansy?”
“Sir?”
But Kramer was gone, crashing away up the slope, carrying with him a Texan stub that bore a faint trace of orange lipstick.
3
It was 2 A.M. but far from the still of the night.
In the clubhouse hallway Freddie Harris, Mr. Jones, and Sergeant Kritzinger were caught in their own verbal crossfire and ricocheting their row off the walls right down to the ballroom. There a pair of dog handlers were trying to keep their charges away from the potted palms while about thirty uniformed men milled about discussing what they would do to the murdering bastard when they caught him. And from the kitchen came the harsh sounds of a team of Bantu detectives interrogating the club’s ground staff-all of whom had been dragged from their beds in the compound and thought it must be a private nightmare.
The billiard room was the quietest spot Kramer could find. And it had become even quieter now that Jonathan Rogers had stopped bawling like a baby.
“Where should I put it, Miss Jones?” Kramer asked, using the rest for his cue. “The top pocket or the middle?”
Still nothing would evince the slightest response in her. The yellow ball cannoned off a loose red; one went in the top and one in the middle. Not a flicker.
“I should have known,” Jonathan said.
“That’s what I’m paid for,” Kramer replied lightly, “putting the old two and two together-or, in your case, the two and one. Nice of you to round it off for me.”
“But the detail!”
Kramer placed the corner torn off a small aluminum foil packet on the edge of the table. Jonathan whimpered.
“It’s all right, son-I’m not a Catholic. Just thought you’d be interested. And so everything had an answer-even the blood.”
“You do believe me?”
“Why not? Besides, you’ve got an alibi for the early part of the evening and that’s all that matters. It’s simply my job to tie up all the loose ends. Got a smoke? I’m out.”
Jonathan fumbled a packet from his jacket and held it out.
“Texans, hey? Smoke a Texan and cough like a cowboy. Want one, too?”
“No, thanks.”
Kramer lit up and chalked his cue.
“How come a tennis player smokes?”
“At-only at parties.”
“Uhuh.”
The brown shared a pocket with another red-always a tricky shot.
“When was your last, may I ask?”
“Cigarette? Afterwards, I think. To steady my nerves. Yes.”
“And Miss Jones here?”
“She doesn’t-”
“Not in the syllabus?”
“Please!”
“So you didn’t try to snap her out of it with one little puff?”
“No!”
“Okay, okay. Think I could wipe off a bit of her makeup? Ask her for me.”
Jonathan whispered to Miss Jones, who merely swallowed noisily.
“Go ahead, Lieutenant. I’m sure it…”
Kramer wandered over, tearing open a used envelope.
“Few things cleaner than the inside of one of these things,” he remarked. “Remember a nurse telling me once it was almost sterile if you needed something for first aid. It’ll do very nicely.”
He braced Miss Jones gently with his left hand behind her head and then pressed the envelope over her lips. When the paper came away, it bore a large, sticky print in orange lipstick.
“She puts it on thick!”
“I told you, Lieutenant, she just wasn’t very used to this sort of function.”
“I bet.”
One loose end dangled.
“What are you looking at me like that for?”
“You say you kissed Miss Jones?”
“Er-yes.”
“Hard? Often? Make a meal of it, did you?”
“We-”
“Come over here under the big light.”
Jonathan hesitated.
“What’s the matter? Think I’m going to give you the third degree?”
The youth came across. There was a tiny orange smear dead center of his upper lip-exactly where you would expect a novice smoker to pout for a draw. Simple, when you knew how.
“I think you can go now, and Miss Jones, too. I’ll send somebody round for a written statement tomorrow. We’ll overlook what you said to Sergeant Kritzinger earlier on.”
“Then-are you saying that I haven’t done anything wrong?”
“I’m Murder Squad, son, not bloody Vice Squad. Good luck with her pa.”
Kramer stepped out of the billiard room, pulling the door shut behind him and absently tucking the envelope away with the stub. He carried more junk about in his pockets than nine kangaroos with kleptomania.
“I say!” said an elegant figure, tossing aside a copy of Country Life and rising from a deep leather armchair in the passage. It was that swanky specialist who went around with an Afghan hound in his Lotus and insisted on hot water bottles to warm his hands before touching an opulent abdomen.
“Yes,” Kramer prompted irritably. “What do you say?”
“Gerald Jones got me out to take a look at his daughter Penelope. Where is she?”
“Second door down.”
“Really? Quite finished with her, are you?”
A specialist in sarcasm, too.
“Yes-and worth quite a penny to you by now.”
Without having once broken his stride, Kramer continued on his way.
Kritzinger accosted him in the lavatory a minute or so later.
“ Ach, there you are, Lieutenant! I’ve been all round the building. They’ve got a possible identification for you.”
“Oh, yeth?”
Kritzinger tactfully averted his eyes. Kramer was washing a denture under the cold tap.
“That’s better; bloody hamburger had chips of bone in it. Got underneath. Go on, Bokkie.”
“There’s a boy aged twelve answering the description, including the birthmark, who was reported missing around midnight. Name’s Boetie Swanepoel and the address is 38 Schoeman Road.”