Riotous Assembly (12 page)

Weighing up the various debts he owed to Konstabel Els and the ugly possibilities
that faced his career, the Kommandant came to a rapid decision.

“Els,” he said quietly, seating himself behind the desk, “I want you to think
carefully before you answer the next question. Very carefully indeed.”

Konstabel Els looked up nervously. He didn’t like the tone of the Kommandant’s
voice.

“What time was it when you deserted your post at the gate yesterday afternoon?” the
Kommandant continued.

“I didn’t desert my post, sir,” said Els.

The Kommandant shivered. This was worse than he expected. The idiot was going to
claim he stayed there all afternoon.

“I think you did desert your post, Els,” he said. “In fact, I know you did. At half past
three to be precise.”

“No, sir,” said Els, “I was relieved.”

“Relieved?”

“Yes, sir, by a large black-haired konstabel who had left his revolver at the
station.”

“By a large black-haired konstabel who had left his revolver at the station?” the
Kommandant repeated slowly, wondering where the trap was.

“That’s right. That’s what he told me, sir. That he had left his revolver at the station.
He asked to borrow mine.”

“He asked to borrow yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

Kommandant van Heerden mulled this statement over in his mind before going on. He had
to admit that it had the ring of utility about it.

“Would you be able to identify this large black-haired Konstabel again if you saw him?”
he asked.

“Oh yes, sir,” Els said. “He’s sitting in the cellar.”

“Sitting in the cellar, is he?” Kommandant van Heerden glanced out of the window and
pondered. Outside Sergeant de Kock was patrolling up and down on the path. Looking out at
the Sergeant, the Kommandant began to think he might have a use for him after all. He went
to the window and shouted.

“Sergeant de Kock,” he ordered, “I want you in here at the double.”

A moment later the Sergeant was standing in front of the Judge’s desk and regretting
that he had ever mistaken the Kommandant for a transvestite.

“How many times have I told you, Sergeant,” the Kommandant said sternly, “that I will not
have my men walking about in untidy uniforms. You’re supposed to set an example too. Look
at your uniform, man. It’s disgusting. You’re a disgrace to the South African Police.”

“Got dirty in the line of duty, sir,” said the Sergeant. “Flipping vulture died on me,
sir.”

“Birds of a feather, Sergeant de Kock, stick together,” said the Kommandant.

“Very funny, I’m sure, sir,” said the Sergeant unpleasantly.

“Hm.” said the Kommandant. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s inexcusable.”

“I didn’t choose to be there.”

“Don’t make excuses. I didn’t choose to be where I was just now, and I didn’t notice any
consideration on your part for my state, so you needn’t expect any from me. Get out of that
filthy uniform at once. Konstabel Els, fetch the prisoner.”

As the Sergeant undressed, the Kommandant continued to lecture him, and by the time he
was out of his uniform, he had learnt a great deal about himself that he would have
preferred to have remained ignorant about.

“And what do you think I’m going to wear back to the barracks?” he asked.

Kommandant van Heerden tossed him the rubber nightdress. “Try this for size,” he
snarled.

“You don’t expect me to go down into town wearing this?” Sergeant de Kock asked
incredulously. The Kommandant nodded.

“What’s good for the goose …” he said smugly.

“I’m not going to be made the laughing-stock of the barracks,” the Sergeant
insisted.

“Nobody will know who you are. You’ll be wearing this as well,” and the Kommandant gave
him the hood.

Sergeant de Kock hesitated miserably. “I don’t know…” he said.

“I bloody well do,” yelled the Kommandant. “Get into those clothes. That’s an order,”
and as the Sergeant, bowing before his wrath, squeezed himself into the revolting
garments and wondered how he would explain his presence in them to his wife, the
Kommandant continued, “You’re incognito now, Sergeant, and provided you keep your trap
shut, you’ll stay that way.”

“I sure as hell won’t,” said the Sergeant. “I’ll be out of the fucking things as quick as I
can. I don’t know how the hell you expect me to keep discipline when you make me look bloody
ridiculous.”

“Nonsense,” said the Kommandant. “That hood is a perfect disguise. You ought to know
that. And another thing, you keep quiet about what you’ve seen and I’ll keep my mouth shut
about you. Right?”

“I suppose it will have to be.”

In the next few minutes Sergeant de Kock learnt that he had never so much as seen a
vulture and that he hadn’t visited Jacaranda Park. He had, it seemed, been away on
compassionate leave visiting his sick mother. The fact that his mother had died ten
years before didn’t seem worth mentioning. With the knowledge that he would be known for
the rest of his life as Rubber Cock unless he did what he was told, the Sergeant didn’t feel
he was in any position to argue with the Kommandant.

 The Bishop of Barotseland had reached much the same conclusion. The whole thing
was a mistake, and the police would soon discover their error, he told himself as
Konstabel Els frogmarched him up to the study. He was delighted to find the Kommandant
in a much friendlier state of mind than he had been earlier in the day.

“You can take the handcuffs off him, Els,” said the Kommandant. “Now then, Mr
Hazelstone,” he continued when this had been done. “We just want to make a little
experiment. It concerns this uniform.” He held Sergeant de Kock’s bloodstained tunic up.
“We have reason to believe that the man responsible for the murders yesterday was
wearing this uniform. I just want you to try it on for size. If it doesn’t fit you, and I
don’t for one moment suppose that it will, you will be free to leave here.”

The Bishop looked at the uniform doubtfully. It was clearly several sizes too small
for him.

“I don’t suppose I could get into it,” he said.

“Well, just put it on and we’ll see,” said the Kommandant encouragingly and the
Bishop climbed into the uniform. In the corner a grim figure in a nightdress and hood
smiled to itself. Sergeant de Kock had begun to see daylight.

Finally, the Bishop was ready to prove his innocence. The trousers were too short by a
foot. The fly wouldn’t do up and the arms of the tunic just covered his elbows. It was
obvious that he had never worn the uniform before. He could hardly move in the thing.

He turned cheerfully to the Kommandant. “There you are,” he said. “I told you it
wouldn’t fit.”

Kommandant van Heerden put the Sergeant’s cap on his head where it perched
precariously. Then he stood back and regarded him appreciatively.

“Just one more thing,” he said. “We’ll have to have an identity parade.”

Five minutes later the Bishop was standing in a row of twenty policemen while
Konstabel Els walked slowly down the line. For the sake of verisimilitude, Els chose to
hesitate in front of several other men before finally halting before the Bishop.

“This is the man who relieved me, sir,” he said emphatically. “I’d know him anywhere. I
never forget a face.”

“You’re quite sure about it?” the Kommandant asked.

“Positive, sir,” said Els.

“Just as I thought,” said the Kommandant. “Put the handcuffs on the swine.”

Before he knew what was happening the Bishop was manacled once more and being bundled
into the back of a police car. Beside him, hooded and hot, sat the grim figure from the
study.

“It’s a lie. It’s a mistake,” the Bishop shouted as the car began to move off. “I’ve
been framed.”

“You can say that again,” murmured the figure in the hood. The Bishop looked at it. “Who
are you?” he asked.

“I’m the executioner,” said the hooded man and chuckled. In the back of the police car
the Bishop of Barotseland fainted.

 On the front steps of Jacaranda House, Kommandant van Heerden was giving his
orders. They were quite explicit. Find, restrain and transfer Miss Hazelstone to Fort
Rapier Lunatic Asylum. Find, collect, and transfer every lethal weapon in Jacaranda
House to the police armoury. Find, collect and transfer every piece of rubber including
bathmats and raincoats to the Piemburg Police Station. In short, collect every piece of
evidence and get the hell out. No, the Bubonic Plague and Rabies noticeboards could be
left up. They were relevant, and if anything understated the dangers Jacaranda Park held
for visitors. From now on Kommandant van Heerden was going to conduct the case from a
more secure base. His headquarters would be in Piemburg Prison itself where Jonathan
Hazelstone couldn’t get out, and more important, his sister couldn’t get in. And get that
damned hypodermic syringe out of his sight. He’d seen enough hypodermics to last a
lifetime.

As the men dispersed to carry out his orders, the Kommandant called Konstabel Els
back.

“Very good, Els,” he said charitably. “There was only one little mistake you made.”

“Mistake? What was that?”

The Kommandant smiled. “It wasn’t a konstabel who took over from you at the gate, it was
a sergeant.”

“Oh yes, so it was. I remember now. A sergeant.”

The prison in Piemburg is situated on the edge of town. It is old and looks from the
outside not altogether unattractive. An air of faded severity lingers about its
stuccoed walls. Above the huge iron doorway are printed the words “Piemburg Tronk and
Gaol”, and the door itself is painted a cheerful black. On either side the barred windows
of the administrative block break the monotony of the walls whose heights are delicately
topped with cast-iron cacti which give the whole building a faintly horticultural air.
The visitor to Piemburg who passes the great rectangle of masonry might well imagine
that he was in the neighbourhood of some enormous kitchen garden were it not for the
frequent and persistent screams that float up over the ornamental ironwork and suggest
that something more voracious than a Venus Flytrap has closed upon a victim.

Inside the impression is less deceptive. Opened by Sir Theophilus in 1897, the Viceroy
had complimented the architect in his speech at the unveiling of the flogging post for
“creating in this building a sense of security it is hard to find in the world today”, a
remark which, coming as it did from a man in whom a sense of insecurity was so manifest,
spoke for itself. Sir Theophilus’ enthusiasm was not shared by most of the people who
entered Piemburg Prison. Notorious throughout South Africa for the severity of its
warden, Governor Schnapps, it had the reputation for being escape-proof and having the
fewest recidivists.

If the prison was escape-proof, the Maximum Security Block was doubly so. Set near
the execution shed which was appropriately nicknamed Top, the Security block
huddling half underground was known as Bottom.

The Bishop could find no fault with the name. “I can see it’s the bottom,” he said to the
warder who pushed him into his tiny cell. “I don’t have to be told.”

“I could tell you a few other things,” said the warder through the grille.

“I’m sure you could,” said the Bishop hastily. His experience with the hooded man in
the car had taught him not to ask unnecessary questions.

“I have always kept this cell for murderers,”, the warder continued. “It’s convenient
for the door, you see.”

“I should have thought that was a disadvantage with prisoners who have such strong
motives to escape,” the Bishop said, reconciling himself to the thought that he was a
captive audience.

“Oh, no. They didn’t escape. It made it easy to take them across to Top. We rushed them
along the passage and up the steps and they were gone before they knew it.”

The Bishop was relieved to hear this. “I am glad you put so much emphasis on the past,”
he said. “I gather there hasn’t been a hanging for some time.”

“Not for twenty years. Not in Piemburg, that is. They hang them all in Pretoria these
days. Taken all the fun out of life.”

The Bishop was just considering the dreariness of a life that found hangings fun when
the warder went on, “Mind you, it will be different in your case. You’re a Hazelstone and
you’re privileged,” the warder said enviously.

For once in his life the Bishop was thankful to be a Hazelstone. “Why’s that?” he asked
hopefully.

“You’ve got the right to be hanged in Piemburg. It’s something to do with your
grandfather. Don’t know what, but I’ll see if I can find out for you,” and he went down the
passage and left the Bishop cursing himself for asking yet another silly question. As
he paced his cell he heard the sound of vehicles outside and peering out through the tiny
barred window saw that the Kommandant had arrived.

 The Kommandant had taken the precaution of driving down from Jacaranda House in
an armoured car and was busy explaining to Governor Schnapps that he was taking over his
office.

“You can’t do that,” the Governor protested.

“Can and will,” said the Kommandant. “Got Emergency Powers. Now then if you’ll be good
enough to show me where your office is, I’ll have my camp bed moved in and we can get down to
business.”

And leaving the Governor to write a letter of complaint to Pretoria, the Kommandant
installed himself in Schnapps’ office and sent for Konstabel Els.

“Where’s Luitenant Verkramp?” he asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

For once Konstabel Els was better informed. “He’s in hospital,” he said. “Got himself
wounded up at the gate.”

“That fellow shot him, did he? Deserves a medal.”

Els was surprised. What he had seen of Luitenant Verkramp’s courage didn’t seem to him to
warrant a medal.

“Who? Verkramp?” he asked.

“No, of course not. The fellow who shot him.”

“He didn’t get shot,” said Els. “Threw himself into a ditch.”

“Typical,” said the Kommandant. “Anyway, I want you to go and fetch him from the
hospital. Tell him he’s got to interrogate the prisoner. I want a full confession and
quick.”

Konstabel Els hesitated. He was not anxious to renew his acquaintance with the
Luitenant.

“He won’t take orders from me,” he said. “Besides he may have hurt himself seriously
falling into that ditch.”

“I wish I had your optimism, Els,” said the Kommandant, “but I doubt it. The swine’s
malingering.”

“Why not leave him where he is? I don’t mind getting a confession out of the
prisoner.”

The Kommandant shook his head. The case was too important to have Els botching it up
with his dreadful methods.

“It’s kind of you to offer,” he said, “but I think we’ll leave it to Luitenant
Verkramp.”

“There’s gratitude for you,” thought Els, as he went off to fetch Verkramp from the
hospital.

He found the Luitenant lying on his stomach taking nourishment through a straw.
Verkramp’s back, it appeared, made it impossible to eat in any other position.

“Well?” he asked grumpily when Konstabel Els reported to him. “What do you want?”

“Came to see how you were,” Els said tactfully.

“You can see how I am,” Verkramp answered, regarding Els’ dirty boots with disapproval.
“I have been seriously wounded.”

“I can see that,” Els said, grateful that the Luitenant couldn’t study his face. He
regretted having peered down into the moat now. “Got you in the back, did he?”

“Came at me from behind,” said the Luitenant who didn’t like the imputation that he had
been trying to escape.

“Nasty. Very nasty. Well, you’ll be glad to know we’ve got the bastard. The Kommandant
wants you to start interrogating him straight away.”

Verkramp choked on his straw. “He wants what?” he shouted at the Konstabel’s boots.

“He says you’re to come straight away.”

“Well, he can say what he likes, but I’m not budging. Besides,” he added, “the doctors
wouldn’t let me.”

“Would you like to tell him yourself?” asked Els. “He won’t believe me.”

In the end a telephone was brought to the Luitenant’s bedside and the Kommandant had a
word with him. It was rather more than one word and in the end Luitenant Verkramp was
persuaded to report for duty. Short of facing a court martial for cowardice, desertion
in the face of the enemy, and incompetence in that he allowed twenty-one policemen
under his command to be slaughtered, there didn’t seem much he could do to remain in
hospital. Verkramp was in a very ugly mood and not altogether clearheaded when he
arrived at the prison to question Jonathan Hazelstone.

 It was hardly less ugly than the mood Kommandant van Heerden was in. After a
momentary spasm of optimism that the case was as good as closed now that the prisoner was
in Bottom, the Kommandant had succumbed to a state of extreme pessimism on learning that
Miss Hazelstone was still at large. Since leaving the Park she had not been seen. The police
Land Rover had been found abandoned but of Miss Hazelstone there was no trace, and while the
Kommandant felt pretty sure she wouldn’t break into the prison to renew their
acquaintance, he had no doubt that what she might do outside was just as likely to
jeopardize his future.

For one thing he couldn’t afford to allow her to run about the country telling all and
sundry that she had had him trussed to a bed in a rubber nightdress and that he hadn’t been
man enough to take an injection. He was just consoling himself with the thought that Miss
Hazelstone’s circle of friends was pretty exclusive, when he remembered that among
other assets like gold mines, the Hazelstone family owned the local newspaper, whose
editor had never shown any great regard for the police. Kommandant van Heerden had no
desire whatsoever to provide copy for the Natal Chronicle and the thought of headlines
like: “The Tiny Prick. Kommandant in Rubber Nightie says No to Needle”, made his blood run
cold.

He gave orders that road blocks be set up on all roads leading out of Piemburg and that
the homes of all Miss Hazelstone’s friends were to be raided. Every hotel and guesthouse
in the town was to be checked and plain-clothes men were to mingle with the crowds in the
shops. Finally, the Kommandant ordered that notices be put up announcing a large
reward for information leading to the capture of Miss Hazelstone, but just to make sure
that Miss Hazelstone’s confessions did not reach the public, he plucked up courage and left
the safety of the prison to pay a personal call on the editor of the Natal Chronicle.

“I’m acting under Emergency Powers,” he told the man, “and I am ordering you to
publish nothing Miss Hazelstone may submit. In fact, if anything is submitted by her
you’re to forward it to me unread,” and the editor had gone off to cancel Miss
Hazelstone’s current contributions to the women’s page which was called, “How to Convert
a Zulu Kraal into a Country Cottage”. He read it through to see if there was anything
subversive in it, but apart from the recommendation to use latex for loose covers, he
couldn’t find anything unusual in it. In any case he had his hands full trying to find out
how many victims there were in the bubonic plague and rabies epidemics that had
apparently hit the community. As far as he had been able to ascertain, the only
people exhibiting symptoms of rabies were the Piemburg police.

Throughout the night and the following day the search for Miss Hazelstone continued.
Hundreds of plain-clothes men scoured the town or hung about indecisively in shops
making life difficult for store detectives on the lookout for shoplifters. A number of
elderly ladies suddenly found themselves in handcuffs and being driven at high speed in
police cars to Fort Rapier Mental Hospital, where several had to be admitted with
nervous breakdowns as a result of the experience.

On the roads out of Piemburg queues of cars and lorries waited for hours while
policemen ransacked each vehicle. There were particularly tiresome delays on the
Durban road where trucks carrying offal from the abattoir to the Jojo Dog and Servant
Meat Cannery had to be searched. Since Kommandant van Heerden had impressed upon his men
the need to search every square inch of every vehicle no matter how unlikely a
hiding-place it seemed to be and since the Jojo trucks contained twenty-five tons of pig
brains, ox guts and the inedible and doubtless nutritious entrails of every conceivable
diseased animal that contributed its share to the liver and love Jojo promised the dogs
and servants, the men at the Durban road search-point had to go to considerable trouble
to make absolutely sure that Miss Hazelstone was not hiding in the disgusting mess that
greeted them every time they stopped one of the lorries. The occupants of the cars piling
up behind were astonished to see policemen clad only in bathing-trunks and with
facemasks and schnorkels clambering aboard the Jojo lorries and diving into piles of
semi-liquid meat so enormous that even the late and unlamented vulture would have been
put off its feed. The policemen who finally emerged from their prolonged and fruitless
search were hardly a sight to reassure the citizens of Piemburg that the police were
looking after their interests, and faced with the prospect of so thorough a search a good
many motorists decided to cancel the trips they were making and go quietly home. Those
that stayed had the upholstery of their cars irremediably stained by the half-naked and
bloodsoaked cops who climbed in and poked under seats and inside glove compartments for
the elusive Miss Hazelstone.

In the meantime the homes of Miss Hazelstone’s friends were being searched with equal
thoroughness, and a good many people, who had boasted of an acquaintanceship with her
which they had never enjoyed, found that Miss Hazelstone’s friendship carried with it some
awesome consequences, not the least of which was the knowledge that they were suspected
of harbouring a wanted criminal.

 In spite of all these drastic measures, Miss Hazelstone remained at large and
cheerfully unaware that she was the object of such a meticulous manhunt.

After driving the police Land Rover through the gates of Jacaranda Park she had
followed the main road to town, had parked the car in the main street, and had walked into
the Police Station to give herself up.

“I’m Miss Hazelstone of Jacaranda Park, and I’ve come here to be arrested,” she said to
the elderly Konstabel on duty at the desk, who was in fact one of the post-operative
cases Kommandant van Heerden had insisted return to duty. Missing his gall bladder
and the lower portion of his intestines, he had not lost his wits as well, and he had been
in the police long enough to have got used to the queer customers who came in regularly to
make false confessions. He looked the old gentleman in the salmon-pink suit up and down
for a minute before replying.

“Oh yes,” he said sympathetically. “So you’re Miss Hazelstone are you, sir? And what do
you want to be arrested for?”

“I’ve murdered my cook.”

“Lucky to have one to murder,” said the old Konstabel. “My old woman cooks for me and if
the state of my insides or what remains of them is anything to go by, she’s been trying to
murder me for years, and it’s only thanks to the miracles of modern surgery that she hasn’t
bloody well succeeded. Do you know,” he went on confidentially, “it took the surgeons
four hours to cut away all the rotten stuff there was in me. They took my gall bladder and
then my…”