The Gooseberry Fool (17 page)

“Be delighted,” blurted Dr. Smith-Jenkins, on his way as if the President had called for an enema.

And giving Kramer just enough time to adjust once again: outwardly, he relaxed and smiled; inwardly, he brought his blood back to a point above freezing.

“I don’t know about you,” he said to Scott, “but these bloody quacks bloody well get on my nerves sometimes. Christ, all I did was ask how Zondi was and he goes off with all these bloody long words.”

“Ach, I know, Tromp. Smart alecks, that’s what they are.”

Scott’s tone was sympathetic, but his eyes suspected something. So what.

“Can you tell me then, John? About Zondi?”

“Not much. The poor Kaffir’s had a hammering. Shabalala was killed in the smash, you know. Mtembu says it’ll be two days before he can say how it’ll be with him.”

“So now I know. Thanks, man.”

“A bloody shame.”

“Uh huh.”

Kramer helped himself to one of the doctor’s cigarettes on the desk and took a light off Scott.

“Tell me, John, exactly what happened?”

“Zondi doesn’t remember.”

“Uh huh.”

“First we knew about it, there’s this farmer up that way, near a resettlement area called Jabula, who rings his local station to say he thinks there’s been a crash.”

“Jabula?”

“You’ve got quite a clever little bugger there, Tromp, man. Seems Shabalala’s lot were moved to this place two days ago and Zondi got on to it. He made his arrest at Jabula; I’ve got that out of him.”

“Why did the farmer just think?”

“It appears that the car went right down this cliff and into a small gorge thing. It was dark and the bloke couldn’t get down himself. He saw the car go over—or at least he thinks he saw it. You know what people are like. Anyway, he gets home and gives the locals a ring.”

“Time?”

“Around midnight. Well, our lot have got a van going out to a report of a faction fight, so they stop for a look. They find the car, see it’s police from the cuffs, and think everybody has kicked it. Then they notice Zondi is breathing and haul him out and send for an ambo, which brings him down here.”

“Time?”

“Arrived in Peacevale about ten-thirty.”

“Hell, what’s with this ambulance? Did they have to pedal it?”

“Sorry; first they take Zondi to a mission hospital close by, but they haven’t got proper equipment so they come on down the whole way. Get here and tell CID and the duty officer phones me at the hotel.”

“You poor sod. Bet you had a headache this morning, hey?”

“I’ll say. Anyway, I tell them to find you and I come up here meantime.”

“Fine. You say Zondi told you he made his arrest at Jabula. Anything else?”

“Ach, man, he was rambling a lot, hey.”

“Like?”

“Nothing I could put in my notebook. Had some idea that women were after him, hundreds of them, the randy bastard.”

“And him a married man. Talking of that, they tell me downstairs that his woman, Miriam, is here, too.”

“That’s her name, is it? Came about twenty minutes ago and Mtembu said maybe it was right she should see him in the circumstances.”

“She there now?”

“Was when I last saw.”

“Uh huh.”

Kramer crushed the last inch of the cigarette into a kidney bowl, yawned, and sighed.

“Oh, well,” he said wearily, “I suppose I’d better have a look in at him.”

“What for?”

Kramer looked at Scott blankly.

“Hell, I don’t know,” he replied, with a lie and a laugh. “I suppose just to see how much damage there is. Maybe I’ll have to get myself a new boy.”

“On the way out anyway, Tromp. I’ll show you.”

Kramer followed Scott back down the passage almost to the double doors and was taken into a two-bed ward.

There he allowed himself to notice only two things: the fact that Miriam was no longer present, and that Zondi looked unnaturally small under the sheet. It was all he could take.

Then he and Scott went by lift down to the admitting hall.

“Oh, by the way, Tromp, the Colonel wants us blokes at his place for drinks at three.”

“Hey?”

“Honest, I’m not bulling you.”

“But just you and me?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Jesus, wonders will never cease.”

“Now I’d better get back to the hotel or I’ll miss my Christmas dinner. Join me?”

“No, thanks, John, but ta all the same. Let’s say I’ve got a turkey of my own, hey?”

The food remained untouched on its plate, but the Widow Fourie did not press him. She sat opposite drinking Cape wine from a sherry glass.

“Where are the kids?”

“Out. I sent them round to Hettie’s place.”

“Day after tomorrow I’ll get them all something.”

“No need, but they’ll be pleased. Very.”

“I want to.”

The Widow Fourie poured another glass to the brim and pushed it across.

“No, thanks, my girl.”

“You think he’ll die then?”

“Who knows?”

“I’m sorry for Miriam. If he does, she’ll have all those little piccanins to feed.”

“The twins are quite big.”

“Funny she didn’t stay longer at the hospital, Trompie.”

“Think so? Christmas Day? Five kids?”

“Of course. You forget with them, don’t you?”

“Plus the fact she was offered a lift home.”

“You didn’t say that before.”

“Not important. Huh!”

She responded eagerly to his first sign of a lighter mood in over an hour.

“What’s funny, Trompie?”

“This ikbastard Scott. He fixes for a van to take her back to Kwela Village but doesn’t say. I got it off a wog in Admitting. What’s wrong, does he think I’ll say he’s a Kaffir-lover?”

“You men!” She laughed hopefully.

But Kramer had relapsed into introspection. He had already accepted the fact that Bantu Detective Sergeant Michael Zondi was as good as dead, so it was not some suspect sentiment that gnawed at his guts. Gnawed like a rat, nibbled and tore with the tiny teeth of tiny details barely noticed, now forgotten. A rat called intuition, perhaps. But no, intuition was not something tangible with a tail, and a fetid smell about it. For he could swear he had more than once seen this rat out of the corner of an eye, had caught a whiff of it in passing. Of course, a mouse in the guts could feel as bad, when you came to think about it They had little sharp teeth, too. And stank.

He stood up and reached for his jacket.

“Off to the Colonel’s after all?” asked the Widow Fourie.

“Miaow,” replied Kramer.

10

C
OLONEL
D
U
P
LESSIS
lived with his unlovely family in a large bungalow on a small holding two miles west of Trekkersburg along the Tierkop road. There he boasted of maintaining the great agricultural traditions of his pioneer forefathers by employing three Kaffirs to grow flowers for the market. His specialty was delphiniums.

In honor of the day, however, pride of place in his lounge had been given to the top of a dead pine tree painted silver. From its branches hung chocolate dainties wrapped in gold paper.

“Take one,” the Colonel encouraged Kramer. “Go on, man, we don’t mind.”

Kramer minded, for several reasons—among which was the fact the sodding awful things had melted in the heat.

“No, thanks, sir. Never gone for sweet things.”

“Never, Lieutenant?”

This archly merry remark had come from the Colonel’s wife, Popsie, a pinch-faced nympho who looked out on the world from between her fine legs. Alas for poor Popsie, her efforts on behalf of her spouse had finally placed her with him on a pedestal where no sane man, whatever his motive, would dare venture. Which had a moral: bitches in heat should never climb lampposts; some get stranded and miss all the fun.

She yapped on, unheeded by Kramer, as they moved out, with their drinks, to the patio and the swimming pool, where Scott was tightening the cord of a borrowed pair of trunks. Good thinking.

“Hello there, Tromp, old mate. Coming in?”

“Not today.”

“Hell, it’s hot enough for you, isn’t it?” said the Colonel.

“Yes, sir, but I’ve got work to do.”

“What work?”

“My report on the Wallace case. You said you wanted it—”

“Ach, that was yesterday, man! Things were different.”

“How so, sir?”

“Well, the Swart case was still open, for a start. It had me really worried, I can tell you, specially when Sergeant Zondi didn’t report back. I was all nervy last night in the hotel. Don’t you remember?”

Kramer’s recollection was that the Colonel had been anything but.

“Well, old son?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“See what I mean about the lieutenant, Popsie? Dedication. A hard worker—and a hard, hard man.”

“Are you, Lieutenant?” she asked naughtily.

“So you’re satisfied that the Swart case is complete, sir?”

“Naturally! Didn’t Zondi get his man? Of course he did! Makes me ashamed I ever had a worry in my head. But of course you never doubted it for a second. Am I right?”

“Well, sir—”

“As if you would. As if you’d think twice about it. I know how long you’ve worked with that Bantu, Tromp, and I know you trust him. From now on, I do, too.”

Kramer raised his glass and drank slowly. He needed a moment or two to catch up with this astonishing about-face on the part of one of Zondi’s natural enemies. Then he realized such talk came cheap when a man lay dying.

“Even so, sir, I thought we should have more proof than a dead coon.”

“You can carry things too far, Tromp! Shabalala was handcuffed, right? Would Zondi do that to a witness?”

“Depends on how much the witness wanted to give evidence, sir.”

“Rubbish! Anyway, we have what he said to John here.”

But Scott was already running along the springboard. He went up and came down like a champion, entering the water with barely a splash. Then he surfaced and churned rapidly to the far end, where he ducked under and began swimming underwater.

“Not bad,” said Kramer. “Didn’t know our blokes got swimming baths in the desert.”

“Ha! That’ll be the day, Tromp! No, he tells me that they use the one belonging to the diamond company. In there all the time; nothing else to do.”

Which was a plausible answer, but not an explanation for what had actually attracted Kramer’s attention: the fact that Lieutenant John Scott did not have the sort of tan, even for such pink skin, that a desert sun would give.

“But as I was saying, Tromp, our friend John in there is satisfied beyond a reasonable doubt that Zondi got our murderer for us and that’s enough for me. What more can I ask?”

“Sir?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“Sorry, sir. Go on.”

“Ach, in this heat? I’ve had enough. Let me put it this way: both cases are closed, you can forget all about them, and you can go off duty until Colonel Muller gets back. Okay?”

“But—”

“But nothing. My Christmas present to you. Take it—and that’s an order!”

“And what’s Zondi getting, Colonel? A Christmas Box?”

Popsie Du Plessis drew back, startled by the audacity of Kramer’s words, however lightly spoken. That “Box” pun had barbs. She glanced apprehensively at her husband, but he merely closed his eyes and sighed.

“Only God can answer you that.…” he began, found nothing to add, and finished up with his mouth in a pious pout.

Interesting. Remarkable, in fact, for the Colonel had built his reputation almost exclusively upon a terrifying lack of selfcontrol. His normal response to a joke at his expense was bad enough. Add to this the humiliation of his wife being present, and you had the total abandon of manhood outraged. And yet, under severe test conditions, the reading was nil—the Colonel had done nothing. Correction: he had behaved with discretion, and this registered on another dial as Condition Abnormal. Kramer had suspected as much, and taken a calculated risk in verifying it. Now that he had the result of his experiment, however, he was damned if he understood its significance—except that the Colonel was up to something, and that something was so important it made restraint worthwhile.

“Another little drinkie, Lieutenant?” asked his hostess.

“What? No; no, thanks, Mrs. Du Plessis. Ta for the hospitality, and for asking me along, sir. I think I’ll start my little holiday now.”

“Good lad,” said the Colonel, smiling. “Don’t wait. I’ll say good-bye to John for you.”

When Kramer arrived back at the flat, all he wanted was a quiet talk with the Widow Fourie about the Colonel and his guest. But the children were rushing in and out, which made this difficult, to say the least.