Startled by this sudden inquiry, which had been made without warning or preamble, Bantu Constable Goodluck Luthuli placed his eye to the star-shaped hole in the privy door and peered out at him.
“Hau!” said Luthuli.
“Well?” Kramer demanded. “You’ve seen me before, so out with it! I haven’t got all bloody day! Christ, now where has this one got to?”
The eye had vanished.
“Luthuli is saluting the officer, sir,” translated Zondi, after some mumbled Zulu from within. “At attention.”
For an instant, Kramer’s high hopes for the day sagged, then he managed to say quite calmly: “For God’s sake tell him I salute him back-and to stand at ease as quickly as possible. Plus, repeat my question.”
Zondi did that.
“He not here, suh,” Luthuli replied in kitchen English. “He go last night on holiday all time to Tuesday next week.”
“The sod!” Kramer snapped.
And the eye, which had returned to the hole, gave a little twinkle.
“Maybe it will be easier like this,” murmured Zondi, showing more tact in his use of Afrikaans than in his suggestion. “Remember what you said about the red herrings last time.”
“Rubbish! I want a few facts on the locals for a quick elimination job, and I reckon he’d have known them off pat. I wonder who he cleared this leave with?”
“We have not informed headquarters of our-”
“Look, man-stop being so bloody reasonable, okay?”
Kramer started back up the path through the weeds to the station house, walking with his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. The sudden departure of the Jonkers couple sounded very like the consequence of a domestic crisis, and he had only himself to thank for that-however, as Zondi said, it wasn’t all that much of a catastrophe, and the day was still young. A comic thought dashed through his mind.
“Who are you smiling at, boss?” asked Zondi, catching up.
“Me,” said Kramer. “Has it occurred to you that Sarge Jonkers might have really got the wind up after our little conversation? That he might be part of all this?”
“Of course.”
They laughed and walked on.
“What shall I do this morning, boss? You will be working in the office, not so?”
“What you like, Mickey. Catch up on some sleep.”
“You will give me a shout?”
“I shouldn’t think it’d be before lunchtime.”
“Okay.”
Tossing him the car keys, Kramer turned and went indoors. It was the work of a minute to sweep everything irrelevant off the office desk into one of the drawers, and another ten seconds saw the cat in the Out tray on its way. In the same time again, he had put a call through to Trekkersburg.
“Morning, Doc,” Kramer said, taking the telephone over to the barred window. “It’s Tromp here. I’m in Witklip, looking for a gallows setup such as you started to describe the other day on the way back from Doringboom. Something about half-inch adjustments? A vertical space at least twenty feet high? Just give me all the details and procedure notes and have them Telex it up to Brandspruit. Thanks, hey? Bye.”
“I suppose you’d like specifications for the hangman as well?” Strydom asked caustically. “It wouldn’t be any trouble. Or are you coping all right in that direction?”
“I’m doing fine, only I’m in a bit of a hurry right now. Anything you can let me have will be much appreciated.” Kramer killed the line. “Luthuli!” he yelled.
The tiptoeing in the charge office became the businesslike clumping of size-twelve boots, there was a knock, and the door opened. It wasn’t Luthuli but a Bantu constable still in his teens, flat-featured and bright-looking.
“Mamabola, sir,” he said, introducing himself.
“Lieutenant Kramer, Trekkersburg CID. I’ve taken over while the sergeant is away. Understood?”
“I understand, sir,” Mamabola said in Afrikaans.
“Can you drive?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take the Land-Rover to Brandspruit and wait there for a Telex I’m expecting. I want that Telex before it arrives.”
Mamabola smiled, saluted, and withdrew in his size eights.
“Cheeky sod,” Kramer said, enjoying the joke. “And now for his lordship.”
But it was a little too early to catch Colonel Muller in his office. Kramer compromised by leaving a message to say where he was, and that he’d be calling back later in the day, with any luck. Then he heard a horse come clattering into the yard behind him.
It must have done that by itself, because its rider arrived at the office door almost simultaneously, tugging a trouser crease out of his backside, and otherwise trying to assume the dignity of an acting station commander. The face was much as remembered, although the frown seemed more a matter of shortsightedness than personality, and the rest-with the exception of the strong, thick wrists-was nondescript.
“What do they call you?”
“Willie, sir. I mean-”
“Sit. Explain the absence of Sergeant Jonkers.”
“Um-well, it was his weekend off. He’s gone down to Durban-ja-because his mother or some relative was sick.”
“Do you know his address there?”
“He didn’t leave one, sir.”
Willie plainly didn’t believe the story he was giving any more than Kramer did, but there was nothing to be gained from dwelling on the matter. “Make me a list, commander, of the names of every farmer around Witklip, starting in the north.”
On the bank of a river about one kilometer south of Witklip, Zondi was giving Mr. Rat a nice long rest in the shade of some willow trees while he waited for the local girls to begin flirting with him. They were still at the giggle-and-peep stage, very conscious of the well-dressed stranger above them, yet wholly intent-or so they’d have the world believe-on the clothes they were washing in the silt-soupy water.
He had made the steep walk down from the village because he was after gossip, and this was where most gossiping was done. Then again, while his city bearing had an intimidating effect on male rustics, such as those to be found hanging about the general store, it invariably excited curiosity among their wives and daughters, making them very ready to strike up a conversation. And of course, as it always took time to win the confidence of strangers, Zondi liked to think that not a moment need be entirely wasted.
With unflagging pleasure, he watched the washing being slapped down on the flat rocks and rubbed so hard that breasts bounced and bracelets jingled. He laughed softly when someone knocked their packet of soap powder into the current and had to wade hastily after it; he clucked his tongue when a buxom maiden lost her footing, soaked herself through, and rose in a shift dress that had become skin tight and revealing.
“Have you no shame?” the others teased her.
“She would surely need no shame,” observed a coarse-faced woman, grinning up at him, “if all she desired was to be mounted by a lame dog-what do you say, stranger?”
“Hau, mother, that is true! But would not a dog prefer to mate with a bitch?”
Shrieks of delight followed as Zondi beckoned to the woman and patted the grass in front of him. Then the banter began, with the womenfolk speculating loudly and pessimistically on his worth as a lover, and, in return, being treated to the best repartee he could offer. The coarse-faced one enjoyed all this hugely, although she still managed to get through more work than any of the rest.
“Now, if I were seeking a wife,” Zondi hinted craftily, nodding at the clean washing she had been tossing up near him, “then I would wish to know your name, my mother.”
“My name you could have for nothing! But would you have enough cattle for ilobola? My husband gave my father twenty head of perfect stock for me!”
“And how long was it before he stole them back?”
Little by little, Zondi won her confidence, and when that was done, the rest of them felt free to join them under the willow trees. How they giggled.
“You are a wicked woman,” he whispered, giving Mama Coarse-face a nudge. “Can you not see how your lustful talk has put ideas into the minds of the young ones?”