“This is of great interest, my father.”
“There was a woman living in these parts who was called Mama Buza. A widow woman, whose husband had been killed in the mines, who had five small children. One day the youngest of these children, a boy of some six months, was taken from his sleeping place during the afternoon. Mama Buza had gone to borrow from a neighbor some article-I cannot remember what. For a long time, she thought that maybe the older children were playing a trick on her, and so she waited and listened for its cries. The neighbor came and was told of this curious happening, yet still nobody could believe that a baby had been taken, like a pumpkin from the hut roof. It must also be said that Mama Buza was not a very good mother to her children, and jokes were whispered that she had left him lying somewhere, perhaps beside the river. I know that many people were surprised by how very distressed she became.”
“Did you, my father, play a part in this?” Zondi prompted, shifting his weight off his heels as a cramp threatened.
“I was asked to take charge very soon after that. We began a search of every hut and granary and chicken house around there. When the sun started to grow red, I went to the village and spoke to Mr. Botha, the good man in the trading store. Then Mr. Botha told Police Chief Jonkers and a big, big search began. All the white bosses said to us, ‘Not to worry.’ ”
Zondi chuckled at this unexpected mimicry.
“Do you know, my son, for four days we looked for that child? But long before this, the rumors concerning Izimu were already on everyone’s lips. On the fifth day, God came to help us.”
“Hau! You found the child?”
“Dorothy Jele was led to it. She is the chief servant girl up at Mr. Jackson’s farm, which is on a hill with many trees around it. These trees come close up behind the servants’ quarters, right near to her room-or so those who have worked there say. This was the fifth morning, as I have told you, and these were the trees where we were going to look that day. Mr. Jackson was very kind, and said we may cross his whole farm, look anywhere we liked. It was not necessary because, just after the dawn, Dorothy heard the cry of a baby. She is a brave woman, that! She took up the wood ax and went towards the trees. For just a short moment, Dorothy says, she saw a figure running away, and that it looked very like Izimu to her from behind. The baby was wrapped up in an old sack and so dirty and hungry she washed it straight away. She also gave it food and a small blanket, then she woke Mrs. Jackson to tell her.”
“Izimu had become frightened of the police search, not thinking Mama Buza would worry to tell them, and he’d left the baby to be found?”
Mkuzi nodded, and fondled his yellow dog’s tattered ear. “Such is my belief,” he said, “but others think Izimu was attempting to escape that way when Dorothy Jele gave him a fright. The trouble was that she is a true Christian woman: she told the police she could not swear by God’s holy name it was definitely the witch doctor she had seen.”
“And what about Izimu himself, my father?”
“Oh, they did not trouble with him long,” sighed Mkuzi. “How could it be proved? He said he had been far away collecting herbs that day. We beat him also, three or four times, yet he stayed just as stubborn. Then, when his mother died of shame, and his wife fled to Nongoma, he suddenly went from us overnight, saying no farewells. I cannot tell you where he is now, although it is probably a great distance from here!” Then Mkuzi added politely: “Do you know, perhaps?”
“I know. It is a very, very great distance.”
“That is good. Have I told you what you wish to hear?”
“Indeed you have, my father! Believe me when I say that your words have brought great joy to my heart,” said Zondi, rising confident in the knowledge that the Lieutenant would feel the same way about the theft of Mama Buza’s baby.
Alone in the gloom of the station commander’s office, which was darkened by the approach of the four o’clock thunderstorm, Kramer sat hunched over the desk and glowered at some jottings he had made on the case. Only with an effort did he drag his mind back from worrying about what had become of Zondi-who was now several hours overdue-to the present state of the investigation.
The night before everything had been there, slotting together as snugly as anyone could wish: farm-party-uncle-hangman. But now, like alkalis added to acids, the words guest farm and barbecue party and Italian uncle had neutralized the whole process of deduction.
“Buggeration,” he said, losing concentration. “Come on, Mick! Let’s get out of here, man!” There was anxiety in his voice as well.
He doodled a noose and wrote Erasmus underneath it. He drew another to go above Ringo. The ballpoint dithered, trying to find a way of connecting them. The telephone rang.
“Tromp?” said Colonel Muller. “How goes it, man?”
“I’m getting Ferreira disease,” Kramer replied with a crooked grin, pathetically pleased to hear the old bastard’s voice. “I’m sure there’s a couple of-”
“The lead wasn’t any good?”
Mamabola looked in, holding out a large brown envelope.
“Hold on a sec, please, Colonel.”
Kramer opened the envelope and unfolded a huge wad of Telex. The DS had gone to town with a vengeance: it looked as though the screeds of figures might even include the hangman’s inside leg after all. Such a mass of mumbo jumbo was strangely comforting, if only as something to grasp onto when all else had gone to pot, and Kramer thought for a moment of the Bible in Tollie’s dead hand.
“The lead was fine,” he said, “but it led us nowhere, as I’ll explain.” Very briefly, he went over the main points.
“This uncle could have been-” the Colonel began to say.
“Looked like his sister, plus he had a passport. And wouldn’t old man Vasari have known a blood relative?”
“You made other checks, just in case?”
“Put it this way, sir: I’m quite satisfied there’s no bloody Italian anywhere near this place. All we’ve done is double-prove what we knew already. I don’t see this ex-POW as a suspect any longer either: paying the money was one thing, but carrying out a murder a whole year later doesn’t sound right anymore. A man like that wouldn’t take such a high risk, not in his position.”
The Colonel said carefully, “Now-er-what if I suggested we brought in some more men on the job, and made sure you were right on that last-er-business? I hear you told Marais he could get back on the scissors case, which leaves only you and your Bantu.”
“If you like,” Kramer sighed, leafing through the folios of Strydom’s message. Then he froze. On the last page was a postscript:
PLSE DNT FORGET MEMO REQD
B/SGT M. ZONDI MONDAY. C.S
“But what’s the matter, sir? Have you lost faith in the efficiency of your subordinates? We sweat our guts out and-”
“It’s not-”
“Jesus, that’s what it sounds like!” Kramer snapped, goading the old sod, yet knowing he’d have to give in afterward.
There was a shocked silence, then Colonel Muller spoke sternly and very coldly: “You do realize, Lieutenant Kramer, that your attitude is not necessarily in the best interests of the department?”
“Uh huh,” acknowledged Kramer, making the most of this while it lasted, and remembering Strydom’s exact words. “It could have far-reaching effects.”
“First you agree to a full-scale operation, and now you’re behaving like this? What’s going on, hey? You tell me!”
“Ach, something’s just come in to change my mind.”
“You bastard!” Colonel Muller laughed, with a warmth that surprised Kramer. “You bloody devious old bastard! For a while you were really giving me a bad time there; I thought you’d cracked. One day I’ll get you back, hey? That’s a promise! But you’d best get weaving now. Good luck!”