Kramer gave an amused snort. “And the scene in your office?”
Colgate fetched over the brandy bottle to replenish their glasses. “She came walloping in, was fended off by my clerk, then by a junior-and ended up chucking the money about. Better than a grand opera! I had to have her into my room, if only to place the money in the safe, and despite my maidenly protestations, she insisted on pleading her case.”
“Uh huh? I mean, yes?”
“Say when. Here’s where I break my professional confidences, I’m afraid.”
“When.”
“Bit of background first,” Colgate said, sitting back and warming the brandy between his huge pink hands. “In ’42, Signor Vasari was interned by Smuts, having left Italy four years previously because of an intense dislike of fascism. Often wondered if he was aware that the illustrious Field Marshal, architect of the UN and all that, had once had a native village bombed for not paying its dog tax-but that’s by the by. Off he went with the other Italian chappies, and the little woman was left to fend for herself. Not a bright prospect, when your English is still wonky and your Afrikaans is non est, so she did the only sensible thing: she took in lodgers. Plenty of youngsters were after digs in Durban at the time, having been seconded from the back veld to take over jobs left behind by men in the armed forces, and she experienced no difficulty in soon establishing herself. They got used to spaghetti and she learned to speak Afrikaans; dreadfully lonely, many of those youngsters were, of course, and quite unable to feel at ease among the lower sophisticates of the post office sorting room. On one occasion, when she was sitting in the parlor alone with one of them, she burst into tears over hearing that her home town had been razed by the Yanks-they were listening to the nine o’clock news-and was mortified when her guest, while attempting to comfort her, burst into tears himself. But I seem to be wandering rather from the point, except it is pertinent to understand she had a true mamma mia’s heart. Those young men all loved her, as I heard subsequently from other sources. Now I shall attempt to remove your glazed look by corning to the nub of the matter: Signora Vasari was unmistakably Italian, a comely wench with dark eyes and a gorgeous accent, and this-”
“Nub?” Kramer said, in his most Afrikaans accent.
Colgate toasted him with his glass. “Oh, very well, you unromantic son of the earth, I’ll come to it. An Italian POW escaped from the camp at Hay Paddock just before the end of the war and sought sanctuary with her; he’d been in some scrape with a homosexual guard or other-I’m afraid that’s a bit vague now. Rather stupidly, although one can understand her compassion, she took him in. The police were round like a shot, but were so taken with her Afrikaans that their search was most perfunctory. Her lodgers were beginning to drift back to the country again by now, and she managed to keep this chap hidden for several months without detection. On the eve of the internees’ being released, she supplied him with clothing and a little money, and he was able to slip away. Just how he managed after that, she hadn’t any idea-quite a number of POW’s stayed on, so he may have just swapped identities-but years later he popped up again in a letter. He’d done very well for himself and wanted to repay her.”
“Two and two makes four,” Kramer said, placing his glass on the mantel shelf, “but why the anonymous voice? I don’t follow that, hey?”
“Then you weren’t listening, as I thought!” Colgate snapped irritably. “Why did Vasari leave Italy? What sort of man had his wife been harboring?”
“He felt that strong about fascists? This bloke mightn’t-”
“If you’d met Signor Vasari, you would be left in no doubt that it could well have ended their marriage. He was a man of such stern principle that I’m certain he was really to blame for his son’s delinquency, far too overbearing. Those two daughters they later adopted must be leading a devil of a life among all the temptations of Europe. Ironically, he also loved that boy deeply-perhaps he wished too much of him. It doesn’t take a mathematical mind to see that Anthony Michael was the blessing of their reunion, give or take a few weeks.”
“So the father never-”
“God knows, I did the best I could!” Anger uncurled in Colgate’s deep voice, and he rose, standing with his back to the cold fireplace. “I’ll never understand what possessed Roberts! I’d only just agreed to take him under my wing with Vasari-who insisted I should do so-when I found out we were too late. That wasn’t a murder until that damned little renegade started lying!”
Kramer waited and then said, “So the father never got to hear about this man? She kept it to herself?”
“Wouldn’t you have done? Sorry about that-er-little outburst.”
“And she never actually saw him again?”
“As a matter of fact, I think she did. Yes, took the family to see him without the old man being any the wiser-which is how this chappie knew about the son, one presumes.”
“It was also in the papers. Did she tell you his name?”
“For my part,” Colgate answered him, frosting slightly, “I was satisfied that the ‘well-wisher’ had a most admirable reason for not intruding, and saw no reason to press the matter. The poor woman was distressed enough by having to entrust her secret to me-it ultimately destroyed her, you know. Ghastly business. And furthermore, I’d like to remind you, I was being paid in cash.”
Colgate always slipped them in at the end, using laughter like some kind of antacid.
Without letting his smile fade, Kramer pressed harder. “No idea of his occupation?”
“None. Came originally from farming stock; that’s the best I can do, but that’s true of so many Italians. Your questions are beginning to interest-”
“Did she say-imply, even-when this get-together took place?”
“A ‘chance’ encounter on the beach seems most likely, wouldn’t you say?”
“What about at Witklip?” suggested Kramer.
And saw Mr. Cecil Colgate, S.C., M.A. (Cantab), slap, a hand to his forehead in a courtroom gesture of sudden, very decided comprehension.
“Witklip was where Vasari wanted to be buried, old son,” Kramer disclosed some thirty minutes later.
The Chevrolet was wending its own way to Kwela Village; he and Zondi had just lit their last cigarettes of the day, and the smoke was tasting stale and unpleasant.
“Hau, boss! Everything goes click.”
“A lot does-or seems to,” said Kramer, “but we shouldn’t try to generalize. Keeping what I’ve found out just to Ringo, let me fill you in on the rest of what old Colgate had to say first.”
“Yebo?”
“Witklip came up in conversation just the once, directly after sentence of death had been passed. Colgate had gone down to the cell to shake hands and say an appeal would be useless. The kid took it calmly, like they often do, and Colgate asked him if there was any request he’d like to make. Vasari wanted to know if it would be possible for his burial to be at Witklip.”
Zondi clucked his tongue.
“Ja, it put him in a hell of a position. He hadn’t any means of knowing whether the Commissioner of Prisons would be giving the body back, nor did he know what sort of funeral might be permitted. He asked if there was some special reason, not having ever heard of the place himself. Not really, Vasari said; it was just a place he’d always liked. A long time before, when he was still a kid, he and his folks had stayed there with an uncle over a long weekend. He’d gone horseback riding and swimming, and there’d been a party at the farm one night. But best of all he’d liked walking in the veld and being so far away from people. The only other time he had been in the country was at Steenhuis Reformatory, and being there had made him talk about Witklip until his pals teased him. In the end, if anything went wrong for one of them, the catch phrase was: ‘Ach, it’ll be okay when we get to Witklip-hey, Vasari?’ He talked a lot in the cell, making jokes like that, but Colgate could see it meant something to him. Then they took him away to catch the train.”