And on Wednesday evening-twenty-four hours before-he had left in his car at about six after spending all day in bed. He had not come back.
“It’s a pity this isn’t last night,” Kramer remarked.
“Too true, boss.”
Zondi’s voice was tired, he had not slept in two days. It was very late and very pointless to track a man down in a strange city.
“Man, if we only knew one place this Lenny goes to,” Kramer sighed, reluctantly turning the Chev around to head for Central CID and the helpful deputy.
“Just a minute, my stomach he says we do,” Zondi replied, leaning forward over the seat. “What about the pie-cart?”
Kramer held the lock on the wheel until the Chev had completed its 360 degree turn and then he opened it up down West Street. Three blocks further on they saw the lights of the mobile diner where it had been trundled out into the car park.
“Two pies, boss?”
“Two each.”
They drew in with a screech of brakes and killed the lights. A bunch of teenagers in a hot rod beside them raised a small cheer, and two tramps-who had been pestering an elderly couple in a Mercedes-scuttled into the shadows.
But Kramer was aware only of the lime green ’57 Pontiac parked near the exit. One front wing was crumpled and the number plates were those registered in the name of Leon Charles Francis.
“I go, boss,” Zondi hissed. And he slipped out of the car.
Kramer watched him in his rearview mirror as he moved swiftly back towards the entrance. He was going to come in again at the other gate and have a look in the Pontiac as he went by. He moved out of sight.
Kramer flashed his lights for service. An old Indian in a filthy waiter’s jacket clamped his tray under one arm and advanced like a somnambulist.
As he gave his order, Kramer could see out of the corner of his eye that Zondi had reached the Pontiac and was giving the thumbs-down. Stuff it.
But the waiter was not as dopey as he looked. He was half-way back to the pie-cart when he returned to Kramer’s window.
“Sorry to be troubling you, master.”
“What’s the matter?”
“You come by this place with a native man in your car, master. That man by the other side.”
“What of it?”
“He is working for you?”
“None of your bloody business.”
“For police, maybe, master?”
So it was not that the man wanted to know whether he should bring half the order on a piece of newspaper.
“CID.”
“That car he belong to Lenny Francis. You look for him?”
“Could be.”
The waiter made his quota of change jingle in a pocket. Kramer gave him some money of his own.
“God bless you, master. Lenny leave that car here last night. He go with many chums in black stationary wagon. Along eight o’clock time.”
“Sammy, you’re a bright boy.”
“Chums they come from same place as you, master. Also got Trekkersburg numbering plate.”
Kramer winced. He had overlooked this in their elaborate plans for casing 14 Vista Road. Still, Lenny had not been there to care. And he could stay wherever he was at least until daybreak.
Durban had one virtue. The nights were warm. Kramer and Zondi slept in the car on the beach and were quite comfortable.
13
A high whine came from the print glazer in a corner of Photographic. Prinsloo slouched over and spat on the revolving chrome-plated drum. His saliva jittered into steam.
“Hot enough-we can begin,” he said.
Van Niekerk took a handful of small prints from the sink and handed it over.
“Not too many at once, Willie, I’ve got to lay them out on this cloth belt and it moves slowly.”
“Going to take a long time?”
“Ja.”
“He wants them by ten.”
“So? Your Lieutenant bloody Kramer is going to learn he can’t do everything in a hurry. And next time he’ll ask the blokes with the original negative for his prints.”
Van Niekerk took a snack from his left nostril unnoticed.
“Zondi’s the one who gets on my wick,” he grumbled. “What’s this with him and Kramer?”
Prinsloo shrugged.
“I can let you have them in batches if that’s any good,” he said, pulling over the guillotine ready to trim off the excess paper.
“Fine.”
“You can let me have some more now.”
“I slept here last night.”
“Oh, yes? He works you hard, does he?”
“Non-stop. And you should see him this morning, you would think he was up against the clock.”
“His nerves must be shot to hell.”
“Dead jumpy.”
Kramer cleared his throat two feet behind them.
Moosa was almost inconsolable. But Zondi managed it in the end.
“Where should I go, Sergeant?” he asked, accepting the photograph of Lenny.
“You can forget about Trichaard Street, Gershwin’s given it a bad name for a while. I’ve got some people at the market, the station, the beer halls. I don’t know-where you like.”
“I see. It’s all hands to the wheel.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re calling in all of us.”
“Sure, you’ve got it.”
“Then I might take a little stroll over towards the river. I’ve not seen that part for some time.”
“You won’t see much either. It’s white now.”
“Oh dear.”
“But go where you like, man. Just keep your eye on the cars-that’s the important thing. If you see him in one, get the number and ring in.”
“But will that rude Boer master answer me?”
“I’ll be there.”
“And the name? I meant to write it down.”
“Leon Francis-they call him Lenny. He was seen leaving his place in a blue suit. Five foot six.”
“Thank you.”
“So long then.”
Moosa got up to open the door for him.
“One minute, Moosa, another thing. You haven’t gone talking big all over the place, have you? Nobody knows?”
“Indeed to goodness, no! Allah forbid.”
But Zondi left still pondering the very different reception he had had from Gogol-and the knowing little wink.
Kramer was waiting for him in the Chev at the corner.
“Get in, man, we haven’t got all day. I want you for a job.”
They drove off.
“Moosa’s talked.”
“Let him. It’s a good idea to let them think we have to use Moosa.”
“We’ll still pay him, boss?”
“Why not? People may tell him things, revenge or some crap like that. Make it piece rates.”
“I’m sorry, boss.”
“I tell you Moosa was a good idea. But didn’t you pick up anything from the others?”
“Nothing.”
“Or weren’t they saying?”
“They are very worried about something, but I do not think they have ever seen this Lenny before.”
“Man, this is strange, Zondi. It was the same with mine. They would tell me if they knew-even just for protection.”
“Quite so, boss. A bad spirit is hiding here; it is like when the birds in the bush go quiet and yet there has been no sound.”
“Of course, I don’t think Lenny operated in Trekkersburg and we didn’t give them the link-up. So that leaves us with trying the pie-cart trick again. Remember his mother said that she had asked him to put flowers for her at the crematorium?”
“Mr Abbott he said no flowers.”
“That was only while he was there, man. Lenny could have come by later.”
Zondi put a Lucky in Kramer’s mouth and lit it. He took one for himself.
“So that is why we go this road?”
“Yes, I want you to have a word with the boys there. The ones who work in the garden. Ach, what’s the matter, man?”