Of course, she had lice; half a million humble parasites who knew nothing wrong in dwelling with her and sharing the take.
And crabs. Like the one they were after.
“Where do we go first, boss?”
“CID Central.”
Zondi gunned the Chev over the intersection on the amber and squealed off left down a side street. He did not like Durban much either, judging from the speed at which he was driving. Or maybe he needed a piss.
Captain Potgeiter was off sick.
“Can I be of help?” his deputy asked.
“Lieutenant Kramer, Trekkersburg CID. I’ve come for a picture.”
The deputy straightened up from the counter, his smile almost conspiratorial.
“Oh, ja, the Captain’s friend. I’ve had the message. Here they are, old mate-not very recent though.”
Kramer studied the two mug shots-one full face, one profile-which were still tacky from the glazer. Now it was obvious why Lenny Francis had not followed his sister in trying for white: he belonged right on the border line where only an official pen stroke could define his proper position.
“It’s an easy face to remember,” the deputy remarked, coming round to look over his shoulder.
That was true. The youth had an unusually long neck with an adam’s apple like an ostrich that had swallowed a beer can. Balanced on top of it was a round head, capped in tight curls and dimpled deep in each cheek. The nose was aquiline enough, but the lips too sensuous-they dragged down a little to the left side. The eyes were sinister but this was probably because the lids had been caught in mid-blink by the photographer’s flash.
Kramer half-closed his own eyes and saw before him a silhouette almost identical to that in the locket picture. The heavy shade had disguised a great deal.
“He can’t have changed much,” Kramer observed, tucking the photographs into his breastpocket. “Bit like a poof pop-star.”
“You could have something there,” the deputy replied. “Just before you came in, one of the Indian staff was saying that Lenny learnt some nasty ways in Doringboom. A tart he knows by the pie-cart once told him that she wasted a whole night on the guy. No joy.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing. But I made a check with Traffic-I thought I remembered something-and he’s facing a reckless charge. I’ve still got the papers down here.”
“Let’s have a look.”
Kramer flipped through the docket. There was nothing remarkable in it-failure to comply with a stop sign, and a collision involving another car but nobody hurt. He noted down the registration number of Lenny’s ’57 Pontiac and its colour, lime green.
“Ta very much, then. How’s the time?”
“Getting on for eight.”
“And how far is it over to his place?”
“Should take you about twenty minutes. I can send someone along with you.”
“No thanks. I’ve got my boy with me-he knows the town.”
Which would have been news to Zondi, who was making his third awkward reverse out of a narrow cul-de-sac.
“Try the next one,” Kramer said, cursing the Chev’s nonfunctional cabin light. He held another match over the street map.
“It’s okay, boss, we’re here. Vista Road.”
“Carry on to that fire hydrant and then stop.”
There were lights burning on the front verandahs of most of the houses but no one about except for a Coloured man across the road tinkering with the side car on his motorcycle. He glanced up for a moment as Kramer and Zondi got out-the latter tugging at the seat of his oversize overalls where they had become caught in the crotch.
“Not a bad area,” Kramer said quietly.
Zondi nodded.
The suburb had, in fact, been white until four years before when it was redesignated under the Group Areas Act. Each bungalow had its own small garden and most had a garage. It would still have passed for a white neighbourhood, if the need for new coats of paint had not been so obvious even in the moonlight. It seemed an odd address for Lenny Francis, but then again it was something like what he had been used to.
“Come on, boy,” Kramer said loudly for the benefit of the kerbside mechanic. “See you hold that torch nice and steady this time.”
Zondi nodded and shambled after him, dragging his shoes which had their shoelaces undone.
The owner of the first house on the even-numbered side of Vista Road responded quickly to the loud knock on his front door.
“Electricity,” Kramer said.
“I’ve paid my bills.”
“Not bloody interested, I’ve come to check on a power leak. Where’s your meter?”
The householder sullenly admitted them and pointed to the meter board on the hall wall.
“Boy!”
Zondi leapt to it. He flicked on the torch, reached up on tiptoe and shone the light on the main current dial. Kramer noted down a figure.
“This one’s okay, let’s go.”
Without another word, they left the house and went into the next. And as they worked their way down to No. 14, they became aware that the street was not half as deserted as it had first appeared. Kramer had anticipated this: Lenny might also be peering out between lace curtains, but he was to have no warning of what was really approaching him.
“You think he’ll be by his place so early, boss?” Zondi whispered as he closed the gate to No. 12.
“I reckon this is about the time he gets up,” Kramer answered. “The day’s just beginning for his kind.”
Zondi shambled up to the front door of No. 14 and tapped it with his torch.
Van Niekerk could not believe the time. It was midnight and the telephone was ringing again.
In his struggle to answer it without leaving his warm cocoon of blankets, the bloody stretcher unstretched and he rolled on to the floor.
He struggled to his feet, making a wild snatch for his pyjama trousers. The night was cold.
It took two syllables to incense him.
“Look here!” he shrieked into the mouthpiece. “If you ring up one more time, coolie, I’m sending a van down for you! Understand? Zondi is not here and there are no bloody pictures for you. Now shut up!”
He slammed the receiver down and stood trembling.
There was a sound of laughter from through in Housebreaking where they were working late.
Kramer was driving now and Zondi was on the back seat. They were cruising downtown Durban, thinking about what they had just learned and wondering what to do next.
The door to No. 14 had been opened by an old man in braces. He said he was Willem Peterson and that his son, who owned the house, was out. The only other resident, a used-car salesman called Lenny Francis, was out, too.
Kramer had pushed him aside and searched the house. It was empty. Zondi had checked the outbuildings and garage. Nothing.
So they had taken a closer look at what Lenny’s room had to offer. It was not much. The dresser and wardrobe were filled with jazzy clothing. There was a bulky pile of musclemen magazines and a rusty chest-expander. There were some comics and a paperback on karate. There were no letters or papers of interest.
They had gone back to old Willem, who was waiting as instructed in the front room, and asked him what he knew about the lodger.
Only that he sold cars and went out a lot at night-sometimes not returning until the next day. He did not like this but his son did not mind. He had explained to Willem that salesmen often worked such hours as they could hardly expect men to leave their jobs to buy a car during the day. It was natural for the lodger to be out after hours and on Sundays.
The old man’s patent disapproval of Lenny was a great help. By pandering to it, Kramer was able to extract a reasonable account of his movements over the past few days.
Lenny had got back very late on Sunday, the night Tessa had been killed.
On Monday he had remained in his room until about seven in the evening before going out for about three hours.
On Tuesday he had gone out very early, no doubt to break the news of his sister’s death to his mother. (How odd that he knew in advance that it would be worth his while to go to the station and buy a copy of the Gazette.) Lenny had returned at lunchtime to pick something up. The son had asked for a lift into town but Lenny had said he was going upcountry. He could have been meaning Trekkersburg.