The Gooseberry Fool (8 page)

“Maybe you can lend me the collar of a priest; the government does not stop you going in.”

The nuns giggled appreciatively, even the greedy one whose mouth was full, and passed the beaker of soured milk down to their guest. Then they pressed on him another sardine. It astonished Zondi that they were all so recklessly trusting—he had not offered any proof of his assumed identity. But then they were probably accustomed to sympathetic strangers who, out themselves. Both sides of the coin had their virtues.

“You say, Holy Brother, that these people today were not everybody from Robert’s Halt?”

“Just Brother will do, Matthew.… No, they weren’t. Half went yesterday.”

“Like thirty?”

“Forty-five, to be precise. Look for yourself; I’ve the Father’s list here.”

Brother Kerrigan reached around for a school tablet and gave it to Zondi, who looked down the column of names and found Shabalala in the middle. The word seemed to rise in relief.

“How long was it that the government gave the people to make ready?”

One of the nuns tut-tutted and the others sighed.

“Well naturally there’s been talk about this Black Spot for some time. Father Lofthouse did what he could. Went round to the farmers, wrote letters, saw them at BAD. Even petitioned the Archbishop. But nothing could be done.”

Brother Kerrigan, true to his calling, swiveled again in his chair to produce the appropriate textual references—a bulky bundle of exchanges with the department of Bantu Administration and Development. Zondi hardly glanced at them.

“But how long, Brother?”

“It happened out of the blue, finally. An official from BAD came by three days ago, told the people the talking was over, and the police and lorries arrived yesterday morning.”

Time factors are always of vital importance in detective work—only Zondi did not much care for the simple explanation that now suggested itself. He forced it aside. He stood up.

“Many thanks,” he said, “but it is time that I go on to this place. It is the one near Blitzkop, is that not so?”

“Heavens, no, Matthew. Much further on. Called Jabula, believe it or not.”

“Kilometers, please?”

“At least a hundred and fifty.”

“Hau! This I was not told! What is the time?”

“Two. But you’ll still go, I hope?”

Zondi wound his watch.

“Maybe. First I must speak with my boss on the telephone.”

“You could do that from here.”

Zondi gave him a look as old-fashioned as the walnut instrument with its crank handle in the corner, and everyone laughed nervously. It was a widespread belief that private telephones, even on mission stations, had long since lost their innocence.

“Then we won’t keep you—you’d have had to go back to the main road anyway to reach Jabula. There’s a whites-only kiosk at the first service station, but the old chap there isn’t too fussy; he’s a Pole.”

Zondi took his leave of the nuns on the veranda and, avoiding the storm puddles, walked in silence with Brother Kerrigan to the car. It balked like a mule but finally got going.

“Difficult times, Matthew,” said Brother Kerrigan, stepping away from the driver’s window with a wave.

Zondi waved back, but was through the gate before replying, “Too damn right, boss!”

And then he drove very close to the limit along the dangerously muddy road, skidding and drifting, and not caring very much if he came unstuck. It was as though he was tempting fate into providing him with an honorable way out of the mess he had made; not that he had oblivion in mind, rather a few days’ blissful concussion and some sick leave.

It was totally unlike him to think like this, but then it was equally unlike him to jump so quickly to conclusions. He tried to work out what had made him feel so confident that Shabalala presented a sitting target, and found some of the blame could be shared with the lieutenant, whose mood the night before lieutenant had not prevented him from making checks at the bus and railway stations, nor had he dissuaded him from alerting informers in the townships. He, Zondi, had himself decided on the dawn departure for Robert’s Halt. Because he, Zondi, could not wait to show them what a clever Kaffir he was. Slima!

This obscenity doubled its work load as Zondi diverted his anger to a blue Volkswagen that unexpectedly overtook him, shouldering the Anglia almost into the ditch. It was out of sight in seconds, but he got its number: NTK 4544. For the next kilometer or so, he drove on at a more moderate speed, preoccupied by wondering what a Trekkersburg vehicle was doing so far from home, and then by the puzzle of where it had come from in the immediate sense—he was still on the section that ended at Robert’s Halt. Then he recalled seeing a farm signposted and dropped the matter.

When his thoughts returned to the Shabalala affair, his mind was much calmer and prepared to negotiate. First of all, the nature of the mess had to be established: very simply, Shabalala was not where he had been expected to be, Zondi had no idea of where to look next, and time was being wasted with both his own and the lieutenant’s reputation at stake. Calling in help was out of the question. So that meant he had to somehow narrow down the search again to a specific, limited area. And the best way of doing this was by acting on information received—but from whom? The town wife, Lucy, perhaps, and maybe other servants in Sunderland Avenue. The bus-ticket clerk or the orange seller in Trichaard Street. All were potential sources of fresh leads, but all were a very long way away and it would take hours to reach them.

It would not take as long, he suddenly realized, as he turned onto the national road, to do as he had promised the missionaries and go to Jabula. If anyone was able to supply a list of relatives and other possible harborers of the fugitive, it was his family. Never mind whether they wanted to impart this information; he would get it. Oh, yes, and quickly, too.

Kramer rang in from a call box in the vestibule of the Bayswater Hotel, keeping one eye on Pat Weston at her table on the veranda. They had not as yet got down to business and she could not be left alone for too long.

“Hello, Lieutenant Scott? John? Tromp Kramer here.”

“How’s it, man?”

“Just giving you a bell about those drinks we were going to have. Is it still on, hey?”

“Okay by me. When?”

“Around five. Saloon bar at the Albert Hotel.”

“See you then, Tromp.”

“Hey, just a sec—how’s the case going?”

“You mean your bloke Zondi?”

Kramer tried to keep the deep breath he took to himself.

“Shabalala. Any news?”

“Only there’s no such place as Robert’s Halt.”

“Since when? Christ, I’ve been—”

“Since yesterday, Tromp.”

“Hey?”

“Black Spot removal. Saw it ten minutes ago on the daily report from up near there.”

This time Kramer just let his breath hiss out and the hell with it.

“So it seems your boy is having all the luck,” Scott said. “Man, it’s a problem. Colonel Du Plessis wants me to go up there myself, maybe organize a manhunt in the hills. What do you think? You know this Zondi—can he cope?”

“Ach, he’ll cope.”

“Sure? Colonel Dupe—”

“I’m certain, man, John. Anyway, I thought we’d fixed for some drinks. You want to go arsing about in the veld on this case to worry about. If I were you, I’d give Zondi till the day after Boxing Day to come up with something—nobody’ll be interested before then. And you can’t tell me that Du Plessis is going to miss his pudding for this one either.”

Scott laughed. “Maybe you’re right, Tromp.”

“Right? Course I’m right!”

“See you at five then.”

The receiver at the other end went down, leaving the one in Kramer’s hand bleeping wrong wrong wrong. He should have given himself time to think. In his hurry to protect Zondi’s interests, he had forgotten his own. Now, should the investigation fail to deliver within two days, Scott could quite justifiably pass him the buck. And with the kind of odds Zondi was facing out there, the chances of that happening were very great. So great the Colonel was probably in for his best Christmas goody in years: Kramer and Zondi, the pair of them, in one fell swoop.

An Indian waiter knocked hesitantly on the glass and pointed out a hotel guest who wanted to make a call. Kramer replaced the receiver, took his drink, and left the booth.

Wrong. There was a lot that was wrong with the Shabalala case, when you paused to consider. It was wrong that he had been taken off it, and it was wrong that Scott had not done anything himself all day—at least, that was how it seemed. It was also wrong that Colonel Du Plessis had not simply ordered that manhunt without consulting Scott first, and probably even wrong that it had not been tackled on a large scale right from the start. But most troubling was the wrong feeling Kramer had experienced on his return to Sunderland Avenue, when he had noticed little changes in the study, and thought something was missing. Behind it all was an elusive.…

“I thought you’d never be coming,” said Miss Weston, putting away her powder compact.

Oh, God, you never got a proper chance to think.

“Sorry, Pat. Duty before pleasure, hey?”

“It’s getting late. I wanted to do some last-minute shopping.”

“Gone off me, have you?”

“What gives you the idea I was ever on?”

“When I went to the bog you undid your two top buttons, am I right?”

She blushed pink as a carbon monoxide stiff and covered her cleavage with a spread hand. Then she tried to push her chair back but the cane legs caught in the coconut matting.

“You Afrikaans,” she said. “You’re as crude as my father’s always said. I’m used to gentlemen!”

“Afrikaans is a language, Miss Weston,” Kramer replied, smiling pleasantly, with an effort. “I am an Afrikaner. But talking of gentlemen, which one in particular? Mr. Mark Wallace, Esquire?”

“I’m going!”

“But you won’t!”

“Huh! So you think!”

Kramer made no move to restrain her, but leaned back and stretched.

“Why not?” she snapped.

“Because you don’t want to miss the rest of the show.”

She was half out of her seat when she stopped to stare quizzically at him. Slowly a wry smile appeared and as slowly she sat down again.

“Is that what it is, Lieutenant? I’m fascinated. Tell me, where do you get all your ideas—the bioscope?”

“Nice guess. Walt Disney mostly. Lady and the Tramp, y’know.”

“I’m flattered!”

“How do you think I feel? Playing up to you as a member of the inferior breed. All sniff and let’s get on with it.”

“Daddy—”

“Ach, of course he has said that, too, Miss Weston! I wasn’t bloody born yesterday.”

When she blushed this time, she went pink as a schoolgirl. Poor kid.

“I—I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

“No need. My mistake for letting it get personal.”

And Kramer meant that. He had pushed it too far. This was just another reminder that ever since his arrival at Swart’s house the night before, he had not been quite himself. In trying to make something of the Wallace case, he had been forcing the pace all along. To cap it all, now he had somehow dragged in the Widow Fourie’s children and the cartoon treat he had given them at the Durban drive-in. Which was entirely the sort of thinking he wanted most to avoid. Still no word from her.

“You said Murder Squad.”

“Hey? Oh, yes. Well, all suspicious deaths fall into this category until we sort them out, you see. And ‘suspicious’ can also mean just deaths that don’t make ordinary sense.”

“What’s the mystery in a car crash? Every week we’ve got customers who—”

“Can’t reveal anything at this stage.”

“Okay. Don’t then. Can I finish the sandwiches?”

“Please. Now let’s get something out of the way right at the start: How did you get on with Mr. Wallace?”

This time the question was phrased and uttered so gently she did not even glance up, but went on carefully teasing the fat from the ham filling with her fingers.

“To be honest, I thought he was very attractive—most of us girls did at the Montreal. He was always polite and cheerful and he didn’t pat our bottoms, unlike one I could name.”

“Old McDonald?”

She laughed, winking over the neat bite she made in the bread.

“What you said about presents was almost right, Lieutenant, because every birthday—and I’ve had three there—he’s brought in a posy and said his wife made it.”

“Uh huh.”

“Only I know the stall in the market where they come from! Poor Mr. Wallace.”

Kramer changed position, leaning forward and cupping his chin in his hands, assuming the absorbed pose of the gossip-gatherer—a technique he should have thought of in the first place. She brought her chair in a little closer on reflex and then they were all girls together.

“Like that, was it, Pat?”

“Well, it’s just guesswork really, but I’ve been on switchboard long enough to be right pretty often.”