The Steam Pig (16 page)

“Lenny is going to be really cross when he hears what's happened now,” Mrs Francis added quietly.

Moosa had been pacing up and down his room for more than an hour. At least that was all Gogol could conclude from the heavy thumping sounds overhead. He stood behind his till and stared fascinated at the ceiling. It showed no movement but one of the neon strips had developed a stutter with the vibrations. Altogether it was quite extraordinary—the old devil was normally so lazy he kept a chamber pot in the wardrobe.

A customer slipped into the shop, a white youth in a T-shirt, jeans and expensive suede shoes. Gogol ignored him.

“I'd like these grapes, please.”

“One pound—two pounds?”

“One.”

He did not want grapes, Gogol knew that. Still, he might as well go through it—every little helped.

The grapes were dumped into the dirty scale-pan, weighed, tipped into a brown paper packet.

“Anything else, sir?”

The old ritual. Gogol realised the youth resented his look of disdain, but no doubt it was preferable to the recriminatory expression of a chemist's assistant.

“Two, please.”

Gogol reached under the till, palmed a couple of packets of rubber prophylactics and popped them in with the grapes.

“One Rand fifty, sir.”

The youth paid without demur.

It amused Gogol to watch him head for his sleek sports car on the other side of Trichaard Street and make a mess of his take-off. They were always so nervous.

The thumpings had stopped.

Gogol turned from the shop window just in time to see Moosa, all dressed up to the nines, lifting a bag of peanuts from the spike. He must have come downstairs on tiptoe like the Phantom Avenger.

“Hold it!”

Gogol snapped his fingers and extended his right hand. To his immense surprise, Moosa put a Rand note into it.

“On account,” Moosa said airily. Then he walked to the shop-door and opened it.

“Where the hell you think you're going?” Gogol asked.

“Out on a little business,” Moosa replied. “I'm going to see a man about a car.”

Of all the bloody cheek.

Kramer had one thing on his mind when he arrived back at his office with Mrs Francis: he was hungry. So ravenously hungry that the void had squeezed its way right up his gullet and was now fingering the little button that makes you retch. It reminded him of his childhood and that was intolerable.

As was the sight of Van Niekerk tidying up the remains of a late lunch eaten at the desk off a large white table napkin. The sergeant's wife was obviously an excellent provider. In the centre of the cloth was a pint-size thermos flask with splashes of gravy on its wide rim. Around it were gathered a number of translucent plastic containers, very like those used for cultures, each containing a scrap of lettuce or some other organic residue.

“All you need now is a ruddy microscope and you'll really be set up,” Kramer grunted.

“Pardon, sir?”

“This all you've got to do—eat?”

“It's after two, sir. I've been busy and I've got something for you.”

“Not now. Where's Zondi?”

“Oh, he's back. Just fetching my coffee.”

“Right.”

Kramer turned to Mrs Francis, who had been doing her best to remain hidden from Van Niekerk behind his back.

“I'll take you down to an office where you can be alone for a while,” he said. “The Bantu sergeant will bring you something to eat.”

He escorted her to a vacant interrogation room, switched on the light, and left her to her thoughts. None of which could have been too pleasant.

Zondi had taken care to slop a good deal of coffee into Van Niekerk's saucer. And so he was standing, pokerfaced but happy, listening to the recipient's plaintive grumblings when Kramer spotted him.

“Food!”

“Yes, boss?”

“Go round to the Greek's tea-room and fetch me one big curry with double rice.”

He handed Zondi his change.

“And while you're there, get a pie for yourself and the old woman.”

“Thank you, boss. Coffee, too?”

“I'm not drinking the muck from the canteen at this time of the day. Make it two pots of tea as well, hey?”

Van Niekerk watched Zondi's exit with some satisfaction and then went on packing his lunch things away in an airline bag.

“You've been there?” Kramer asked, pointing to the sticker which read:
NEW YORK
.

“No, you buy them like this,” Van Niekerk explained.

“Uhuh.”

“Do you want to hear now what I've picked up, sir?”

“Okay, go ahead.”

Van Niekerk rose from behind the desk and gestured at his vacated chair.

“You'll be needing it for your lunch,” he said.

Kramer murmured his thanks, and sat down.

Assured now that he had Kramer's full attention, Van Niekerk flipped open his notebook.

“I did these calls in alphabetical order, sir, as I took them from the directory. The last one of all was to Messrs Webber and Swart in Buchan Street. I spoke to Mr Webber himself and he told me he had prescribed a pair of contact lenses such as I described.”

“Make them himself, did he?”

“No, sir, he sent to Germany for them.”

“I see. Go on. Did the girl buy them from him?”

“The customer gave her name as Phillips, sir—but we're pretty sure she's Miss Le Roux all right. You did tell me to stay in the office and not go out.”

“Fine. I can drop in later with a photo. But when was all this?”

“She took delivery of them three weeks ago.”

Kramer whistled softly.

“So recently? Did she give any reason for wanting them?”

“She said she was a model, blue eyes were better for business purposes or something. Webber saw nothing wrong in this because she looked like a model. Anyway, he was pleased to be asked to do something so different for a change. It took him quite a bit of time to find the name of the German firm.”

“I'm sure Mr Webber was only too happy to be of assistance,” Kramer said drily. “These dollies. Tell you what, ring him and get him to come round here—that'll save some bother.”

“Okay, sir.”

Van Niekerk was on the telephone to Mr Webber when Zondi returned with the food.

“Take a cup of tea and a pie down to Room 18 and then come back here,” Kramer instructed him. “There's something I want you to hear.”

And two minutes later he gave his subordinates a résumé of the Francis interview.

The chubby little fellow in the doorway appeared so awed by his surroundings that he could not bring himself to knock. This gave Kramer time to mop up the last of the curry before finally pushing his plate aside.

“Come in,” he said.

“I'm Mr Webber,” the visitor announced, not moving an inch. For a man of about fifty he was being very childish, but the place had this effect on some of the better class of person.

“Just the man! I'm Lieutenant Kramer and this is my assistant, Sergeant Van Niekerk.”

“How do you do?”

“Take a chair, Mr Webber.”

The optician scuttled across, sat and glanced all about him.

“Not at all what I expected,” he volunteered. “So bare and so ordinary; like a waiting-room—not that you've had to wait long for me, mind! Ha ha.”

“The torture chamber's next door,” Kramer said.

“Pardon?”

“Haven't you ever been in a police station before, Mr Webber?”

“No, not CID—not in this country.”

Van Niekerk looked interested.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Reading, it's a place in England.”

“Very nice, very nice—and you like it here? Are you going to take out your papers?”

“I'm a citizen already,” Mr Webber replied smugly.

And the momentary tension in the room was eclipsed.

“You've no idea what they say about this country at home,” Mr Webber hastened to explain. “The stories I've read in the Sunday papers.”

“Well, now you know, Mr Webber,” Kramer soothed. “And some day, when we've got time, I'll tell you what I'd like to do with the people who write such rubbish without understanding our problems.”

“I couldn't agree more, Lieutenant.”

Kramer looked away. God knows what trouble the Government was having with its immigration programme if this was what was being allowed in. No guts at all.

“Here's the photograph, sir,” Van Niekerk said, holding out one of the head-and-shoulders. Kramer took it and wandered round to Mr Webber's side.

“Is this the same girl?” he asked.

“Yes, it is—that's Miss Phillips all right. I'd know her anywhere.”

“Certain?”

“Yes.”

But Mr Webber still took the photograph from Kramer's hands for a closer inspection.

“How did she pay for the lenses?”

“Cash. I must say she looks rather odd in this.”

“She's dead.”

“Good gracious.”

Now he seemed entirely reluctant to give up the photograph. Kramer turned to Van Niekerk.

“Have you got the other ones handy? I think Mr Webber would like to see one or two.”

Van Niekerk frowned. This was most irregular. Nevertheless he handed them over.

Mr Webber got to his feet for his treat and became the first man Kramer had ever seen go green.

“But—but she's been ripped right up the middle!” he gasped. “Who could have done a terrible thing like that?”

“That's what we intend to find out,” Kramer said.

Mr Webber made a very swift exit.

“Ah, well,” Kramer said, pouring another cup, “that's the way the cookie crumbles. I'd like to bet that only a bloody immigrant would have lapped up her story about modelling.”

“It sounds reasonable enough to me, sir.”

“Maybe.”

“How was she to know he was a redneck? Look at this list—she could have picked any one of them. They're not all from overseas.”

“It's just that I think this Tessa was no ordinary girl. She knew what she was doing. Picked her men.”

“Like who?”

“Like the doctor,” Zondi suggested. “You say so yourself, boss, he is not Number One.”

“But good enough for her purposes,” Kramer added. “How about that, Willie?”

The sergeant shrugged. It was a mere detail.

The outside telephone rang.

“For you,” Van Niekerk told Zondi.

The conversation was very one-sided. Zondi listened in silence apart from the occasional grunt and then put his hand over the mouthpiece.

“It's Moosa,” he said. “I put him on to the Lesotho car lead this morning. He's found out about it. Seems it's used by one of the fellows who fetches Gershwin his cripples from the reserves. The Lesotho plates are just so as not to make anyone suspicious of seeing it out on the dirt roads.”

“Cross it off, Willie,” Kramer sighed, pushing the crime sheet over to him. “There's one little theory down the drain.”

“But what shall I tell him, boss?”

“Moosa, is it? Hell. I hope you know what you're doing,
kaffir
.”

Zondi grinned.

“He's a new man, so he tells me. Don't worry.”

“Then have him wait in his place. You can go and see him later with a picture.”

“Who of?”

“The brother, Lenny—now
he
worries me, and no mistake.”

 

12

T
HE COLONEL WAS
flattered.

“Put it this way, Lieutenant, I never allow a wog to touch my delphiniums,” he said.

“Quite right, too, sir.”

In another minute Frikkie Muller, the Colonel's clerk, was going to have to leave the room in a hurry. He was already putting a bend in his plastic teeth by biting on them so hard. If only Kramer would not look so solemn.

“Take these along to the Brigadier, Frikkie,” the Colonel ordered, handing over the bunch of blooms. “Say it's a thank-you to his wife for that wonderful party the other night.”

Frikkie departed thankfully.

“Sorry to interrupt you like that, Lieutenant, just thought I'd get them out of the way as they looked so damn silly in this office.”

Not half as silly as the Brigadier would look carrying them out to his car.

“That's fine, sir. There isn't much more to tell.”

“So you think this case is maybe not such a serious one after all?”

“That's right, sir. The brother has a record, not a big one but a record.”

“The important thing is that it's a
criminal
record. This gives us the bridge between the girl and the sort of trash who might associate with a spoke man.”

“I agree, sir. And I'm pretty sure that he and his sister were mixed up in something together. She hasn't much in her Post Office book but then we know she wasn't shy to change her name when it suited her.”

“Ah, those contact lenses—a funny business that. I don't quite see it myself.”

“We've only got theories so far. Sergeant Van Niekerk did some research on the notes of the case and came up with something based on what the eye specialist said about contacts.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Well, she had had these lenses for three weeks but nobody saw her wearing them until after she was killed. Why wear them at all and at night? Because the specialist said that anyone using these things for the first time had to do it in easy stages, get used to them. We think she was practising after dark.”

“When was she going to wear them then?”

“She had made her move to Trekkersburg. Why not another somewhere else? Another new life?”

“I like that. If she and her brother were in trouble, they might try to run for it. The others just got to her first.”

“Yes, sir, along those lines.”

Kramer had to admit his admiration for the way Colonel Du Plessis had grasped the problem. He was a strange one.

“If the contacts were her big secret, Trompie, do you think she would have answered the door in them? Stop! I know what you're going to say—yes, she would, if she was expecting someone.”

“Her brother.”

“But it wasn't. It was the killer.”

“Van Niekerk had an answer to that one, too. Trudeau said that this kind with painted irises worked best in bright daylight on account of the pupil being made small. Farthing swears that there was only one light burning in the flat and it was in her room.

“Now supposing she was in bed waiting for whoever it was—her brother. She hears a knock. She gets up just in her nightie, goes through to the other room and opens the door a little way. The light is shining from behind her and with those pupils she wouldn't be able to see a thing out there. She hears a voice she thinks she knows. She leaves the door and goes back to get into bed because it's cold—and it was cold on Sunday night.”

“I've got the picture,” the Colonel interrupted. “Your eyes or my eyes would open wide but hers couldn't. The opposite of the dazzle. Yes, but all this wouldn't work if she wasn't expecting a caller. If it was her brother, why didn't he pitch up?”

“He could have been afraid to. He could have known things had gone wrong.”

“Another presumption—how would they know about his call in the first place?”

“They could have arranged it and told both of them beforehand. Or only the one.”

“The girl?”

“Yes.”

“Much simpler—that could be the way things happened. They tell her the brother's coming at, say, eleven. She hears the knock, opens the door and goes back to bed. They get her. Fine.”

“They could have done it the hard way, too, once that door was open.”

“True, too. But we keep saying ‘they'. Who are we talking about?”

“I don't know, sir. A gang.”

“There are not many left who go to this sort of trouble, Trompie man. They could have got her much easier with a car.”

“She didn't go out much.”

“
Ach,
man, you know what I mean.”

“Yes, sir. What about a gang playing for high stakes?”

“Like the one Shoe Shoe dreamed up? I think that's a lot of bloody rubbish.”

“According to Mkize's statement it was not rubbish that made him kill Shoe Shoe.”

“That will be the day Shoe Shoe knows something about his VIPs that gets him the chop. I can't accept that. The Steam Pig … Huh! If you ask me, it's a lot of steam pudding.”

After an obligatory laugh, Kramer said: “But we are agreed then, sir, that this fellow Lenny could probably give us answers to a lot of questions—including that one?”

“Agreed.”

“Then I have your permission to go down to Durban with Zondi and see if we can find him?”

All along the Colonel had displayed a slight anxiety despite Kramer's unusual affability—or perhaps because of it. He was like a man expecting to have to pay for his fun. Now he knew the price.

“I'm surprised you bothered to ask me, Lieutenant,” he replied heavily.

“Port Natal Division doesn't welcome intervention from our side, sir. It could lead to trouble.”

“Like last time? You think I don't know that? Captain Potgeiter said he never wanted you there again. Those are big-city Press boys they've got down there—they're not so easy to tame.”

“I was thinking of administrative troubles, actually. You know how the Brigadier is about protocol.”

“I'm sure you were.”

“It's the truth, sir. No need for any rough stuff on this trip—we'll just pick him up and bring him back.”

“And if Captain Potgeiter sees you? What then?”

“I'll tell him you've fixed it up at the top. He can't argue with your rank.”

“If it's all so simple, why not let Potgeiter do it for you?”

“I thought it would look better in your report if it all came from this division, sir.”

The Colonel blinked balefully at him from the ropes. One day he would win.

“I'll see about it, Lieutenant. In the meantime, is there anything you can give me to show the Brigadier?”

“I don't think so. It might not be wise—so much is still up in the air. But you've helped me a lot with it. Thanks.”

“Don't be too cocky. What if you can't find this Lenny?”

“Then I'll pick up a photo of him and start looking elsewhere. Here, for example.”

“And if you still don't find him?”

“We'll know that there's a pretty good chance he's gone the way of his sister. Better than nothing.”

“Hmmm, tell you what,” the Colonel said, holding his paper-knife by the tip, “you wrap this case up by tomorrow night or I'm going to put the whole squad on it. You seem to have overlooked the fact that my Press statement, which you made so much fuss about, has been the biggest help to you so far. Without it there would have been no old woman and no brother.”

It was a draw.

Van Niekerk was waiting for Kramer with a sheet of Telex in his hand. He was surprised when it was ignored, and perturbed by the expression that went with the snub.

“Trouble, sir?” he asked.

“What's Durban got to say?”

“A bit more than we know already. Leon Charles Francis got a year in Doringboom Reformatory for theft—while he was there he received a total of fourteen strokes with the heavy cane.”

“Give here.”

“Six for committing an indecent act and eight for serious assault.”

“I said
give here!
”

Kramer snatched the paper away and glared at it. The next paragraph read:

“
HELD ON SUSPICION THREE OCCASIONS SINCE RELEASE. ASSAULTS, TWO GBH. INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE. PROBABLE CONNECTION WITH SOME GANG. LIVES IT UP
.”

And that was all.

“This the best they could do?”

“Well, he's not what you might call big stuff, sir. Even Trekkersburg has more of them than we can keep tabs on.”

“I suppose so. But this ‘insufficient evidence' bit shows he's good at his work.”

“Oh, yes. I wasn't saying he doesn't sound a really bad bugger.”

“Well, we know who we mustn't show this to,” Kramer said, nodding in the direction of Room 18.

“Oh, she was asking for you. Wondering if she can go home now.”

“Not until we get sonny boy. He warned her to keep away from here so there's no telling what he might do now.”

“What's the plan then, sir? Take her to the cells?”

“I know a place, leave it to me. By the way, how are you fixed for tonight?”

“Want me to come down to Durban?”

“Actually I need a bloke here in case anyone phones in. You never know.”

Van Niekerk adjusted his tie and outlook. He cleared his throat.

“Fine, sir. I'll just ring the wife.”

“You do that. When Khumalo comes on, tell him to bring up the stretcher from the library—or you can have a spare bed from the barracks if you prefer.”

“I'll be all right, sir. Probably have the best sleep in weeks without the kids.”

Kramer wondered about that.

The cottage stood on the fringe of the sewage farm, surrounded by the most verdant vegetation Trekkersburg had to offer outside the Botanical Gardens. Six blue gum trees teetered behind it and strips of pink bark lay strewn on its rusty corrugated iron roof. The setting sun put a blush on the whitewashed walls, glinted off the windows which had glass, and gave the children in the clearing their own leaping shadows to chase.

Mrs Francis peered at the couple waiting in the doorway to discover what brought a big flashy car their way down the rough track. You could tell she liked the look of them.

Then the man recognised Kramer up front in the passenger's seat and came running out.

“What a pleasure, Mr Kramer,” he said, opening the door for him.

“How's it, Johannes?”

“Fine! Mary's here to greet you, too, and the kids!”

Aware of Zondi's gaze, Kramer attempted a bluff manner but gave in to the children's teasing. One of their little friends edged his way into the circle to see what manner of white man could cause such excitement.

“Just a minute, I've got a visitor for you,” Kramer protested, and he let Mrs Francis out.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

“What does she want here?” Johannes demanded. “She's from a church? Sorry, we don't want your charity, madam.”

Mrs Francis's sudden smile threw him.

“Can't you recognise your own kind yet?” Kramer chided. “This is Mrs Francis who has come up from Claremont for a few days. I want you to look after her.”

“Of course,” Mary said, pushing her husband aside and taking Mrs Francis by the hand. “Come along with me. We'll both have some tea before it's time for the children to come in.”

Without a backward glance, Mrs Francis went. And so did the children.

“No luggage?” Johannes asked thoughtfully.

“None. She came up on the bus to find out about a relative. Maybe she'll tell you about it later.”

“It doesn't matter.”

“How are things then, Johannes? How's Katrina?”

“The same.”

“Uhuh.”

“But she likes it better in the hospital now. They give her work to do—she makes baskets for dirty washing.”

“That's good.”

“You understand my sister, Mr Kramer. Now don't you worry about this lady you brought. She'll be safe and sound with us till you want her.”

“Don't throw her out before Sunday, anyway,” Kramer grinned. “Bye for now.”

Zondi started up and drove off as Kramer's door slammed shut.

“What was that talk about old Katrina, boss? Have they cured her of killing her babies yet?”

“Hell, no. It's just that she hasn't been raped lately. You black buggers are slacking.”

Infanticide and rape, both capital offences, were very much on Moosa's mind as he waited in his room for Zondi to appear with his next assignment. If the Pillay baby on the other side of the wall did not shut up, he would go round and strangle it. And while he was there, with the voluptuous Mrs Pillay presumably in a dead faint, he would make a night of it.

Gogol banged open the door and confronted him, his fez wildly askew.

“Moosa!”

The Fiend of Trichaard Street cowered against the wall.

“Moosa, you just telling me what damn tricks you are up to!
Five
Coca Colas and a Pepsi?”

Moosa opened one eye.

“Now don't you try denying it, man. That's three people in the shop tonight telling me that you have been sitting in Sammy's Tea-lounge all afternoon drinking Cokes. With
whose
money, I ask? Whose money?
My
money!”

“It wasn't your money.”

Gogol caught his fez as it fell.

“Wasn't mine?” he said and giggled nastily. “I tell you that every cent you have in your pocket from now until the day you die is my money.”

“It was expenses, not money.”

“You can call it what you like. I want it, so hand over.”

“Just where do you think I got money from?”

“Why should I care?”

But that stopped Gogol. It made him ponder.

“You spoke about business,” he said at last. “Can it be you have something lined up?”