“Out with Elizabeth. They’ve gone down to the swings.”
“Who?”
“Oh, just my new kaffir maid. Sonja got her for me-she’s very clean.”
Kramer smiled wryly.
“Come on in, Trompie, people can see me.”
He stepped inside and leaned back on the door to close it. The click cocked his nervous system.
The Widow Fourie walked towards the bedroom. Then, noticing that Kramer was not following her, she turned and allowed her housecoat to swirl open. She had nothing on underneath.
Kramer approached her. She closed her eyes and he kissed her. Then he covered her nakedness.
“Got any Lifebuoy?” he asked.
The Widow Fourie blinked.
“Could ask you the same thing,” she smirked, regretting it instantly. “Hey, no you don’t! You stay right here. There’s your chair. I’ll get the water running.”
But Kramer was afraid to sit. He stayed standing until she returned to undress him, very gently. It was a mother’s touch.
“That’s not Lifebuoy,” Kramer protested as he was led into the sun-bright bathroom. “I’ll come out of here smelling like a bloody poof.”
The Widow Fourie responded by sprinkling another handful of crystals into the already murky water. She knew how he liked them.
The first thing he did once he was in the water was to grab a plastic toy and hurl it into the corridor.
“Man, you’re in a funny mood,” sighed the Widow Fourie. “Annie loves her duck. Don’t you remember bringing it to her?”
“So?”
“Now, look here, Trompie-”
“More hot, please.”
He forgot the duck and concentrated on the cabin cruiser. It was a good wide bath and by moving his arms skilfully it was possible to create a current that sucked the boat all the way from the plug. On his third attempt it went aground on the weed-locked shores of his chest.
“You’re just a big kid,” the Widow Fourie muttered, tying her belt tight like apron strings. “I suppose you want chips with your eggs?”
He was asleep.
And he stayed asleep until she tried to change the water which had become surprisingly chill for such a hot day.
“No, leave it,” he said. It was like a Cape stream in spring.
So the Widow Fourie perched on the wash basket and lit two Luckies. Kramer dried a hand and took one. He began to talk.
Eventually the Widow Fourie asked: “What was this Gershwin like when he confessed? Was he all relieved like they are in plays on the radio?”
“Oh ja. All off his chest. One big smile.”
“I can never understand that. It seems so stupid. I mean, now you’re going to hang him.”
“So? What is everyone afraid of? What they don’t know. Now he knows. Simple.”
“Still, it must be hard getting it out of a kaffir like him.”
“True.”
“Zondi has their mind, of course.”
The cabin cruiser sank beneath his fist.
“True, too.”
Bubbles came up in a thin stream.
“Why so quiet all of a sudden?”
“Nothing.”
“Can’t you see a connection between these two cases-is that what’s troubling you?”
“Naturally, we wasted a whole night on it. I tell you it’s quite straightforward. Gershwin killed Shoe Shoe for some damn fool reason, you know what these wogs are, and now he’s trying to make a good story for the court. They always do, even if they know they’re going to hang.”
“You mean this thing about getting a message from an unknown gang to kill his bloke or else?”
“Yes, it’s either that line or the one about spirits whispering evil things in their ears. What made it sound wrong at the start was he didn’t know the gang’s name. We just didn’t give him a chance to make one up, that’s all.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Trompie, he could have heard something somewhere.”
“A whisper you mean? Okay, so there’s a gang that makes small fry like Gershwin jump to attention and mess themselves. Let’s say the same lot’s behind Miss Whatsit’s murder. Is it likely that an outfit that uses a hired pro would delegate a job to a fumbler like Gershwin?”
“Thought you said you were impressed by his m.o.? It was a fluke you found Shoe Shoe’s body so fast. It could have been there years and then do you think anyone would have bothered to even ask Gershwin about it? Not a chance. You didn’t do anything when he was stabbed. And that’s another point; if Shoe Shoe was found dead in an ordinary way, surely the chances would be that someone would look for a spoke hole?”
“That’s my girlie, but it wasn’t a fluke that we got on to Shoe Shoe-it was a logical progression from the Le Roux murder. Zondi just followed it up.”
“Ah, but they didn’t expect that to be discovered in the first place, did they? There’s your fluke.”
Kramer began to soap his hair.
“Have it your way,” he said. “But this is all theory. The only link it suggests is that a gang with a name we don’t know is going about knocking off white girls and black beggars. Take it from there, if you can.”
The Widow Fourie went out and returned with a fresh packet of Luckies. Kramer had slid down to rinse his hair and so only his nose, mouth and knee-caps were above water level. It startled her mildly when the lips parted to speak.
“I know for a fact that Gershwin Mkize murdered Shoe Shoe,” the lips intoned slowly, “and I know for a fact that even if what Gershwin said was true, there is nothing more he can tell us.”
It was strangely impressive, rather like a scene from some ancient legend about a sub-aqua oracle. The Widow Fourie stood fascinated.
But Kramer said nothing more. He surfaced with a great splash and grabbed for a towel. The Widow Fourie handed him one absently.
“What about Shoe Shoe though?” she asked. “Surely he would know-you’d have thought he’d have said something when they were doing that to him.”
“According to Gershwin he had a hell of a lot to say-but it was all nonsense. He must have cracked with the shock. Can’t say I’m surprised, it was the second time for him.”
“What sort of nonsense?”
“Just gibberish and it didn’t help matters that Gershwin tried to put it all into bloody English as usual. We pushed him hard on this but got nowhere. In fact Gershwin was beginning to go a bit himself by then and you couldn’t really tell one lot from another. Stuff about people who tipped him-Shoe Shoe, I mean-and those that didn’t and councillors and the mayor’s car and all the important things he knew about important people watching from in front of the City Hall all day. Ach, I can’t be bothered. We didn’t even try to write it down in the end, just let him run on until he keeled over.”
“Do you remember any of it?”
“No. I tell you most of it was real rubbish.”
“Oh, just try to remember one thing. I think you’re so lucky to have an interesting job like yours is.”
Kramer could see he had made her day. Come to think of it, it was high time he made her. So, simply to sustain the mood, he said: “The last thing he said was ‘the steam pig’.”
“The Steam Pig,” she repeated slowly.
Kramer looked up from her legs.
“Come again?”
She was puzzled.
“The Steam Pig-the same as you said it.”
“No, it wasn’t!”
“For God’s sake, Trompie, there’s no need to snap like that over a little thing.”
The Widow Fourie had reached the door before Kramer could speak again.
“You see,” he said quietly, “you say it like it’s the name of something.”
She turned and understood. And shivered.
Van Niekerk had made a most satisfactory start. For years he had gone about with a platoon of ballpoint pens ranged at the ready in his breast-pocket. One wrote in mauve ink, the others in red, black, green and the conventional blue. The thing was that he seldom felt justified in using them all in a single engagement, but this time he had.
And nobody could dispute how much such diversity had helped to clarify the complicated case sheet he had drawn up from his notes. Colonel Du Plessis, who had wandered in to ask casually after the Lieutenant, had done him the honour of staring at the finished job for fully five minutes.