But only for a minute.
“Let’s get this straight from the start,” Kramer said. “Farthing did the whatsits.”
“Removals, officer. The old woman from the State morgue-Sergeant Van Rensburg was up to his eyebrows after the derailment-and the girl from her home.”
“Go on.”
“Then he had the morning off. I was rather rushed so-”
“Yes, yes!” Kramer interrupted.
“What happened was we left for the crematorium before Dr Strydom arrived.”
“But there must have been forms.”
“Mrs Abbott always saw to that.”
“Who had them?”
“Farthing. That was it, you see. Miss -er, she was covered up with a sheet and the Trinity doesn’t allow for an inscription plate-that’s an ordinary Arabella over there. Farthing just saw a coffin.”
“Both women were about the same size?”
“Yes.”
“There was a minister at the crematorium? Didn’t he say the name?”
“I’d gone out again to park the hearse, they were expecting another right on our tail.”
“And this bloke Farthing?”
“In the crematorium office still, signing the book.”
“So it wasn’t until you got back here you knew you had made a mistake?”
“No.”
Ambiguity exercised its single virtue and a subtlety escaped Kramer. Mr Abbott finished his glass in a gulp.
“Okay, if you weren’t there at the start, were you inside at any stage?”
“The whole of the latter part.”
“Ah, then can you describe any of the mourners? Anyone that struck you as-”
“There weren’t any.”
Kramer put his glass down. This was unexpected. According to the medical evidence, there should have been at least one. A forlorn male wondering where his next was coming from.
Mr Abbott continued hastily: “I assure you it was advertised in the local papers as is required by Trinity under its policy, but not a soul turned up. And that’s another reason I didn’t expect anything was wrong: elderlies, especially the ones on Trinity’s books, often have no one. That’s why they join.”
Now came the moment that Kramer had been trying to avoid.
“Have you got Miss Le Roux’s papers handy?” he asked.
Mr Abbott pointed to a ledger emblazoned Trinity Records beside the telephone. Kramer began to leaf slowly through it.
“I see what you mean,” he murmured, “half these old crones have got one foot and a cornplaster in it already.”
Finally he reached the entry he was after and found it revealed nothing but the name, the policy number, the date and means of disposal, and the coding. He noted down the latter and then unfolded a document which had been tucked into the page.
It appeared to be the official go-ahead from the local branch of Trinity Burial Society, and there were a few details above a mass of small print about expenditure.
Name: Le Roux, Theresa
Date of birth: December 12, 1948
Race: White
Address: 223B Barnato Street, Trekkersburg
Status: Single Occupation: Music teacher
Next-of-kin: None
Instructions: Disposal as convenient
Well, that solved something. Or did it? Even orphans generally have someone to weep over them. And what about the people living at 223A? And-most significantly of all-what about the pupils? A teacher dying posed parents a problem they would be only too eager to smother under a mountain of wreaths. There was the time factor, of course; the Press notice had only run one day-the day of the funeral.
“No flowers?” Kramer asked.
“None,” replied Mr Abbott, pausing a moment to think visibly as he refilled his glass.
Very, very strange. For a single, unguarded moment, Kramer felt intense, almost affectionate, respect for whoever had set up this killing. For once a murderer had attempted to do a proper job. Most never bothered to give their deed any constructive thought-Nkosi had been a good example of this. With them it was a case of deplorable self-control followed by instant action with whatever weapon was handiest. Nkosi had snatched up a cane knife, slashed Gertrude thirty-two times in front of the neighbours, and then stood around wiping the blood from his hands on the seat of his trousers while the police were called. Some did try a little harder. They were usually whites or sophisticated wogs who had gone to mission schools. In either case, he was sure it was a question of reading. Do-gooders, who saw to stocking mission libraries, always seemed to have limitless private sources of second-hand Agatha Christies. This type of murderer felt a social responsibility to adopt the key role in an intricate game of skill-some would call it mischance. They were careful with alibis and fingerprints. They had answers for everything. They often took tremendous pains to eradicate the body. In the final analysis, though, they saw themselves ranged against the police-whether in the open or watching from a thicket of deceit. They knew that the very act of concealing their connection with the murder had incriminated them. They were committed to a battle of wits. Even if they succeeded in setting up a “missing person” situation, they never knew when the bugle might suddenly sound as a pet dog unearthed a delectable but forbidden bone. A perfect murder, however, owed nothing to this outlook. Its perpetrator made no attempt to disassociate himself from his deed-simply because he was totally confident his deed would never be recognised as such. He shed clues without a care because no one would ever seek them. He did not give the police any more thought than they an unfamiliar name in the Gazette ’s Deaths column. His way was Nature’s Way. A pedant might insist that some element of risk remained: a husband impregnating his wife could not be certain a mongol would not result. Yet in both cases only the odds were what mattered. And the odds against having a mongol would be considerably lower than those against a doctor doubting his own opinion on the demise of a known cardiac case-and astronomically lower than those against a professional undertaker switching bodies in the heat of some unspeakable passion. Yet the battle had begun.
“Well, Georgie, I must say you’ve really pulled one out of the hat this time,” Kramer remarked, affable on adrenalin.
“Thanks,” Mr Abbott muttered. He was well into his third glass and very, very much happier.
Kramer’s glands had, in fact, started to cause havoc with their secretions. It was like being love-struck; he felt lighter than air, eager and ready for action. All he wanted was to go charging out and get his man. Sick. It was altogether a condition to be profoundly distrusted. So he decided to sit back, talk a little, ponder a little, be nice to Georgie who was not bad for an English-speaking bloke.
“You see,” he said, “it was a case of all or nothing with the bastard who did it. You can bet your last cent he had a lot at stake. So what does he choose?-the ultimate weapon, a bloody bike spoke. Only, things have gone wrong and it’s like getting caught in your own fall-out. Anyone can shoot a gun, or stab with a knife, but very few can handle a spoke. That narrows it down.”
“I’d say.”
“Another thing: what was a white girl doing getting mixed up with kaffir gangster tricks? That’s a good one for you.”
“It is indeed, marvellous.”
“Go easy on that stuff, Georgie.”
“Never fear, old boy, Ma’s gone home to mumsywumsy. Even worse, she is. Still alive only because she doesn’t want me to get my hands on her.”
Kramer laughed.
“Tell you what, bring the bugger back here when you get him,” Mr Abbott offered, “I’ll see to him for you.”
His leer was frightening.
“Not a chance,” Kramer replied, standing up. “This one’s all mine. He won’t know what hit him.”
Mr Abbott raised his glass to toast the sentiment.
“Just you see he doesn’t get to hear of what happened today,” Kramer warned softly. “This gives us a good start as long as we keep it quiet. Understand?”