“Absolutely, old boy.”
Mr Abbott’s company had suddenly become tedious. Besides which, Kramer no longer felt rarin’ to go. So he went.
3
There was still no one in the Murder Squad offices when he got back, but a ridiculous note had been left in the typewriter. It said that Colonel Du Plessis had an important engagement and should be contacted at Trekkersburg 21111 only if absolutely necessary. That was the Brigadier’s home number. Of course, he was holding a braaivleis to celebrate his dragon daughter’s betrothal to some fair maid of an architect. Ordinarily, this would have invited a stock outburst from Kramer-what a bloody time to go stuffing yourself on barbecued sausage with an eye on the main chance. But, under the circumstances, he could not have wished for anything better. Whether something was “absolutely necessary” or not was entirely a matter of opinion. He could get on with the investigation without interference at least until morning. It was also pleasing to find the others were still out for this meant no pressure to delegate. The case was all his-and Zondi’s, when that idle kaffir bothered to look in.
He buzzed the duty officer.
“Kramer here, just back from Abbott’s place. White female Le Roux definitely murdered. Stab wounds. Suspect Bantu intruder.”
The duty officer’s silence was as loud as a yawn. Good, without lying he had made it sound sufficiently commonplace; after all, dozens of whites surprised burglars, to be fatally surprised in turn.
“But keep it from the Press, will you, Janie?”
Captain Janie Koekemoor reassured him of this on the grounds he knew bugger all about it anyway having just come on.
Perfect. He replaced the receiver.
Where to begin? There were already quite a number of people to see: Farthing, Dr Matthews, the Trinity agent, and the occupants of 223A Barnato Street. He would arrange for Ma Abbott to make her statement to the local police rather than recall her, it was the least he could do.
With speed as an essential factor, the party in 223A seemed the best bet. For a start it was likely they were Miss Le Roux’s landlords and that would save a bit of digging about. Kramer knew the properties down that side of Trekkersburg. Since the Act which kept most Bantu out of town overnight, many servants’ quarters had been converted at considerable expense into bachelor flats. This meant 223A would probably have a key handy and he wanted to examine the murder scene as soon as possible.
Kramer paused only to scribble an offensive note to Zondi. Then he went down the back way to the car park. There was a new batch of used cars on loan from obliging dealers and he chose a beaten-up black Chrysler with three wireless aerials, white-walled tyres, and leopard-skin seats.
The house at 223A was exactly what he had been expecting: a blankfaced bungalow wearing its mossy roof like a cloth cap pulled low over two verandah windows. It was set only a few yards back from the pavement, to allow plenty of room behind for a sizeable outbuilding.
A closer examination revealed many small signs of neglect, especially in the paintwork, and unusually heavy burglar guards over every aperture including the door, which was closed. A fortress for aged whites too nervous to have even a handyman prying around-folk who would not readily admit a stranger in the failing twilight. Well, the important thing was not to sneak up but give fair warning and let the Valentino charm do the rest.
So Kramer banged the gate and clattered the knocker as heartily as a priest. It worked. In less than a minute there was a rattle of chain, two bolts shot back, and the door opened just far enough for a grey-haired bantam of a woman to poke her beak out. The reek of lavender water would have sickened a bee.
“Yes?” she demanded.
Work-worn fingers began twisting her necklace as if she meant to throttle herself at the first sign of danger. But then she belonged to a generation that believed in a fate worse than death.
“CID,” Kramer announced, very civilly. He proffered his identity card. It was snatched away through the bars and the door closed.
Oh ja, life was made up of waiting for the gaps between the waits. Kramer glanced about him. The verandah was bare, apart from two chairs. One was made of cane, large, easy lines, and piled with enormous cushions with a flower pattern. The other must once have stood beside a Victorian dining table. It hurt just to look at it with its impossibly upright back. Their peculiar juxtaposition suggested something. The distance between them was less than polite society permitted but greater than intimacy required. They were, in fact, just close enough for pulse-taking. So in the cane chair you would find an ailing widow wealthy enough to have a paid companion seated by her side. It was a useful insight and Kramer used it unashamedly as the door opened again.
“Yes?”
“Ah, madam, I take it you must be the householder?”
“Oh, no, sir, that’s Mrs Bezuidenhout. I’m Miss Henry.” And she simpered because it was so nice to know she still had a look of gentility despite what had happened to her hands.
Kramer kept on smiling respectfully.
“Then I’d like a word with her, if you please,” he said.
“Of course, sir.”
Miss Henry’s defences were down and within seconds the guard door, too, swung wide. Kramer stepped inside.
“This way, sir.”
Miss Henry led him into a living-room immediately to the right. She blocked his view of the far side of the room and all he took in was a Persian cat that seemed to be comparing bald patches with the Persian rug on which it lay-both had some form of eczema.
“Here’s the policeman, dearie,” Miss Henry said, stepping to one side.
Facing Kramer was President Paul Kruger without his beard. It took a little longer to realise he had grown flat breasts instead.
“If it’s about my kaffir maid’s poll tax, I don’t want to know,” barked the President.
Steady. But the likeness was incredible, even to the way Mrs Bezuidenhout leant forward on a silver-tipped stick. She would go a bomb in the next pageant of the Republic’s forefathers, that was for certain. Just strap her in a bit and swap the full-length black dress for a shirt and tailcoat.
“I’m ninety-two, if that’s what you’re staring at.”
“No, you reminded me of someone, madam.”
“Then don’t think you can get round me with that sentimental muck. I’m not your wretched mother, thank God.”
“Now dear!” Miss Henry pleaded, casting a forgive-us look at Kramer. “This is a very nice young man.”
“Henry! Mind your place.”
“Madam, I would like to ask you just-”
“Sit down and don’t smoke.”
At least she wasn’t going to set the cat on him. Nasty things, skin diseases. He sat.
“It’s about Trixie you’ve come.”
“Who?”
“Trixie, Theresa, call her what you like. I did. Didn’t go to the funeral, don’t believe in them.”
And Kramer was going to try and break it to her gently.
“Why should you say that, madam?”
“Obvious. Said it from the start. Something fishy about her going like that.”
“Right from the start, you said it, dearie.”
“But why, madam?”
“Because I know who was responsible.”
“Hey?”
“Yes, that old fool Dr Matthews. I wouldn’t let him near a sick ox.”
Kramer winced. A rookie would not have fallen for that one. And here it came, hell hath no fury like a jilted hypochondriac. He had to act fast-shock tactics.
“Miss Le Roux was murdered.”
Miss Henry made a passable attempt at having the vapours. It was all coming back to her now, the way a lady should act, but mainly from novels written before her time.
“Vegetarian,” Mrs Bezuidenhout sneered. “She is one, you know-part of her religion, God help us. Was that true what you said? Murdered?”
“Yes.”