He was alone again now, having moved into the Lieutenant’s delightfully spick-and-span office with all the paraphernalia he could possibly imagine his duties would require. He had pinned a large street map of Trekkersburg on the wall and marked various pertinent addresses with coloured drawing pins. He had spread the crime sheet on a card table borrowed from the sergeants’ mess. And he had placed the sparse collection of reports in a yellow basket labelled “ PRIORITY ”.
Which somehow forced him to read them all again even though they contained very little information. The one from Fingerprints on the cottage was a complete waste of time.
So he picked up two lists prepared from the Yellow Pages and debated whether to begin on the dispensing opticians or the electronic organ retailers.
A spin of a coin decided him on the latter. Soon he was copying down immense lists of improbable names read over to him, somewhat irritably in most cases, from invoice books. As the traders pointed out, this check failed to take into account the cash sales; but his reply to this was to the effect that the class of person he was interested in would hardly be likely to indulge in such vulgarity. This was also the reason he gave himself for omitting the two large cash-and-carry bazaars in the main street. The old women in Barnato Street had been most emphatic that the men they had seen going for lessons had been well dressed, prosperous-looking types.
As it was, Van Niekerk lost a lot of his early enthusiasm when he totted up the results and found he would have to check out one hundred and seventy-three names. They could wait. The opticians might provide an immediate lead.
But an hour later, and with two names still to contact, he was looking exceedingly sourly at Kramer’s name scrawled on the telephone directory cover. The opticians had been astounded by his inquiry-some had had to have the whole thing explained twice to them. Cosmetic contacts were definitely still a thing of the future in Trekkersburg, if not the entire Republic, and most of them doubted very much if they would ever catch on. He shuddered at the thought of going on to make a list of possibilities in Durban.
Thankfully the coffee arrived just then and, combined with a dozen brisk press-ups, restored something of his former vigour.
In fact he was actually reaching for the telephone again when Mr Abbott came through.
The undertaker had asked specifically to be connected to Lieutenant Kramer’s office so he wasted no time on formalities. He spoke briefly in a hurried whisper and rang off.
Van Niekerk shook his head sharply to clear it. Then he looked down at his shorthand note of the message:
“Got someone in the parlour asking questions about the deceased girl. Come quick. Not sure I’ll be able to keep them without a fuss.”
The mild-mannered co-ordinator took his cue. He was up and away and streaking for the street before it occurred to him to call the Lieutenant. But then this was a matter of extreme urgency and everyone knew how difficult it was at times to contact him. He could be anywhere.
Kramer was four blocks away in the cells of the Trekkersburg Magistrate’s Court, talking to Pop van Rensberg, the sergeant-in-dcharge.
“Anything for you, Trompie old son,” Pop was saying, keeping an eye on the Bantu prisoners tiptoeing up to the tap outside his office door to fill tins with drinking water.
“Hey, Johannes, you old skelm,” Pop bawled. “Don’t tell me you’ve been at the ntombis again?”
A lanky prisoner looked up from the tap and smiled bashfully.
“Greetings, my father,” he said respectfully in Zulu.
Pop waved an affable paw.
“Just one of my old friends,” he explained to Kramer. “I tease him about the girls, say he’s a rapist-he thinks it’s helluva funny.”
Kramer glanced at the man.
“What is he then?” he asked.
“Buggered if I know, but he does it often enough. Now who was it you wanted in the end cell by himself?”
“Gershwin Mkize-he’s just been remanded.”
“Of course, Mr Banana. I’ve got names for them all you know. You see he-”
“Wears yellow. Will you get it moving, Pop?”
The sergeant took it good humouredly and waddled out into the hall bawling orders. His staff shepherded all the stray prisoners into their cells and took a yellow figure into one in the far corner.
Zondi came in through the grille from the court corridor and joined Kramer.
“Nice timing,” Kramer remarked. “He’ll have a week now to become a pretty boy again before he comes up in front of a court. But why wasn’t the remand earlier?”
“Big round-up last night for pass offenders. I gave your note to Mr Oosthuizen and he put Gershwin through in between cases.”
“Uhuh. Sam Safrinsky turn up to represent him?”
“Not a chance, boss.”
Pop returned to greet Zondi warmly.
“Hello, Cheeky,” he said. “Is this the way you want it?”
“Too quiet,” Zondi observed.
“He’s right,” Kramer agreed.
“Damn right,” Pop echoed, “you never know who you’ve got in here these days. Come on you lot, I want to hear you talking.”
His staff took up the cry, translated it, and immediately there was a babble of voices. After half a minute or so, it settled down.
“Fine,” Kramer said, and he and Zondi walked shoulder to shoulder down to the end cell.
Pop retired to where he could overhear nothing incriminating and joked with Ephraim, another old favourite. They enjoyed some good laughs.
Kramer had the broad piece of plaster ready in his hand before they entered the cell-the gauze which had kept it sterile was back in Pop’s wastepaper basket. And he applied it to Gershwin’s mouth before he could utter a single whimper.
They closed the door.
“Listen to me, Gershwin,” Kramer said. “I have come here this morning to ask you one question. When I take that plaster off I want just to hear your answer-nothing else.”
Gershwin nodded vigorously, clasping his handcuffed hands before him.
“No, we haven’t time to have a rehearsal,” Kramer went on. “Or to talk all day, too. Sergeant Zondi and I are going to give you half of something-if you lie, we’ll let you have the other half later.”
Gershwin cringed, trying to protect his head.
“First, the question,” Kramer went on. “Last night you used the words ‘the steam pig’. What we want to know is: was this some nonsense of yours-or was it something that Shoe Shoe said?”
Gershwin was mouthing frantically as Zondi took up his position behind him.
They concentrated on the soft parts of the body, the areas where there was no backing of bone to fracture or aggravate capillary damage through excessive resilience. One soft part was particularly favoured for its extreme sensitivity and relative isolation from vital organs.
They did it all with the fingers, never with the fist.
She kept her eyes on him all the time, which made Van Niekerk feel even more of a fool when he had to replace his revolver in its holster before leaving.
And she had such frightened eyes, that poor little old lady perched on the edge of the sofa in Mr Abbott’s showroom. Small wonder when you considered the way he had come in off the street.
Mr Abbott was hovering about waiting for him at the front counter.
“Any good?” he asked.
“I want words with you,” Van Niekerk growled. “What the hell do you mean making phone calls like that and having me think you had a bloody tiger around here?”
“Steady on, I said nothing about tigers.”
“You said you ‘couldn’t keep them’ without a fuss-what was I to think?”
“But you always fuss old ladies if you spring things on them. I didn’t want her upset. This is a business, after all! I thought you’d know how to handle it better than I.”
There was quite a considerable pause.
“Thanks, anyway,” Van Niekerk conceded. “It could have been something big. You never know.”