The Sunday Hangman (15 page)

“Didn’t you hear the phone?” Anneline said a little crossly, coming in with her knitting. “Gracious me, why’s that man gone green?”

“Er—a small teething trouble, I think. There, that’s fine now. The phone, you say?”

“He’s too flushed; looks like an immigrant.”

“Better?”

“Yellowy, like a Cape Colored.”

“Sorry. Try this.”

“Mmmm. But his tie was
never
so shiny as that. It was the Colonel.”

The servants took their leave then, thanking Strydom for his kindness and the demonstration, and he waved them out impatiently, eager to hear what else his wife had to say.

“What was Hans’s problem this time?”

“You don’t have to ring back; he just thought you’d be interested to know that one of your hanged bodies had been identified.”

“No! Really?”

Anneline paused to hear an item of interest to her, and then went on: “The krantz case—is that right? He says that Sergeant
Marais had an inspiration and got in touch with the prison doctor where someone called Ringo had been kept during remand. This prison doctor remembered noticing two holes in the man’s mouth during the routine checkup, and having put some fillings in so there wouldn’t be any problems during the trial. Oh, a whole lot more, but that is the main gist of it. Can you do something about the sound?”

Strydom did do something—he wasn’t sure quite what—and then sat back on the sofa beside her, very content with the world and, in particular, with the way his day had been spent. As soon as the news was over, he and his huggable old helpmeet would certainly have a great deal to discuss.

The front doorbell rang.

“Oh, good,” said Anneline, elbowing him in the ribs. “That’ll be Hester and her mother from over the road. Go and welcome them in, Chris—this will be the first time they’ve seen it, poor things.”

Kramer returned from Olifantsvlei with a very definite idea of what he was up against; an idea that—as he’d been telling himself in the car—made the mind bloody boggle. It wasn’t so much a murderer they were looking for, but an avenger.

He chanced across Colonel Muller in the vehicle yard of police headquarters, just as the old bugger was sneaking off home after a long day, and they sat on the mounting step of a handy troop carrier for a quick debriefing.

“But I don’t see what you’ve established this afternoon,” the Colonel said, when each had given the other his news. “If the minister at Olifantsvlei claims there must have been folk from the Witklip district at his nagmaal, then surely that doesn’t in itself begin to clinch anything? What about all the other people from all the other places? Any of them could be equally suspect.”

“Sir?” muttered Kramer, replacing the notes on the positive identification of Ringo Roberts in the Colonel’s briefcase—and
blocking an impulse to be distracted by them. “Oh, I just threw that in for good measure. It was the interview before that which clinched it—the one I had with Joep Terblanche, the ex-sergeant who eats his meals with the foreman’s widow.”

“Terblanche couldn’t see a Witklip connection. Haven’t you just told me that?”

“Please, sir, disregard Witklip entirely. In Terblanche’s mind, Rossouw had committed a capital offense—murder.”

“Ja, I understand that. Quite natural.”

“Then take the three hangings we know something about. Rossouw was, to all intents and purposes, a murderer—agreed? But weren’t Ringo and Tollie
also
involved in capital offenses?”

“Er—in a manner of speaking.”

This hesitancy really annoyed Kramer and goaded him into sarcasm. “It may be a fact that only one white rapist gets hanged for every hundred bloody ntombi shaggers,” he said, “but you’re not denying that even attempted robbery can, strictly speaking, get you the noose?”

The Colonel frowned. “Now you’ve lost me, man. Tollie’s wasn’t just attempted; it was a case of armed—and he took a shot at you! That wasn’t what I was getting at, but you just carry on. My dinner likes to get cold.”

“Then—”

“And what’s rape got to do with it?”

“It could,” replied Kramer, improvising swiftly, and rather wishing he’d left all this till the morning, “it could be the capital crime for which the tramp was executed.”

“Hey?”

“The same could apply to the witch doctor. There are nine different headings we can choose from, but those political ones seem a bit far out.”

“Unless,” said the Colonel dryly, “he had been putting evil spells on the government dipping inspector. I’m beginning to see where you’re going, and I must caution you not to slip into a trap.”

“Which is?”

“Coming back from Terblanche and using the word
executed
. So far, you and me have successfully avoided thinking about all this like some trashy newspaper, and that is the proper professional attitude. Stick to the correct terms, please.”

“But, Colonel,
is it
murder to kill a murderer?”

“Hey? If you’re speaking about doing it in cold blood, as part of a premeditated act and not where innocent lives are in any immediate danger, then obviously the crime is one of—”

“When you use a noose on a rope?”

During the clap of silence that followed, Kramer took out his Lucky Strikes, lit one, and flicked his match at the yard cat.

“The state,” began Colonel Muller, then seemed to lose the thread of what he was about to say.

“Is the embodiment of the people,” Kramer continued for him, “each being required to act in its interests. But let’s keep it simple.”

The Colonel humphed. “By all means, Tromp! By all means! What you’re going to say to me now is that this hangman bloke is just doing our job for us. And who are we to complain when he does it so nicely?”

“Not us, sir—the state.”

“My apologies.”

“I’d not actually taken it that far, though,” said Kramer. “I was looking at it in very practical terms, and just trying to see why he ever thought this was necessary. Never mind for the moment how he learned the tricks of his trade, or where he’s got his gallows; that can all come later.”

“Certainly! Who’s in a rush?”

“In each of the cases we know something about,” Kramer persisted, wanting himself to hear how it sounded, “the law—or the state—was not in a position to exact its due penalty. Rossouw’s is a prime example of the spirit of the law being defeated by the letter.”

“Hmmm. And what about the two cases we’ve nothing on? Do we conveniently overlook them meantime?”

“Hell, no! They give us all the more reason to believe that the state couldn’t act—simply because, ipso facto, it has remained in ignorance of the offenses committed!”

“Aha,” said the Colonel, bending to tickle the yard cat under her chin. “How are things with you, Ilahle, my girlie?”

“Look, sir—how many times have you known for an absolute fact that some bugger is guilty, only you haven’t been able to produce one bit of evidence to prove it?”

“Hoo!”

Evidently, the point Kramer was making had at last been handsomely conceded, and he sat back to await a more intelligent response, picking up the yard cat’s kitten as he did so. This was presumably Little Ilahle, as it too looked like a shiny lump of coal. They rubbed noses.

“I fully appreciate,” grunted Colonel Muller, “the importance of trying to form some idea of what’s going on, but you’re forcing things to fit. Do you see what I mean?”

By puffing air out of alternate corners of his mouth, Kramer—who otherwise felt undeflatable—made the kitten blink and shake its head.

“Ach, no, Tromp! I’m being serious, man! In what way would the state have been thwarted if this bloke of yours had reported Tollie’s whereabouts to us? We’d have nailed the bastard without any further assistance—correct?”

“But that’s presuming my ‘bloke’ did him for the bank job. Like I said yesterday, when we found the money, it might have been some other aspect of his past catching up. Christ, we’d had him in on suspicion often enough! Remember that unsolved shooting at the Wartburg garage?”

For a while, only the yard cat said anything. Then Kramer, who had talked his way into a clarity of thought, found himself becoming impatient with the Colonel’s apparent failure
to grasp the situation. It wasn’t as if much imagination was required: the gallows provided, as it were, a ready-made and familiar framework of logic into which, sooner or later, everything must surely fit. You could no more dismiss the inherent premise of crime and punishment than you could try and call the bloody thing a weapon; it just wouldn’t work.

“I was wondering,” murmured Colonel Muller, “why Ringo had turned state evidence.”

“Hey?”

“When those two first appeared for remand, they stood every chance of acquittal: the prosecution’s case had holes in it a mile wide. I thought Ringo must have changed his mind in order to pass the buck on to Vasari, just on the off chance that things went wrong, but that doesn’t make sense anymore—not since I’ve read through the docket you brought up from Durban. That’s the trouble with these petty cases that are over quick—the newspapers don’t give you enough details. Did you yourself follow it at the time?”

“Only headlines and the first couple of paragraphs. Prins says Ringo was putty soft, so maybe his conscience pricked him.”

“In my book, conscience begins at home,” said the Colonel with a vague smile, fully aware he was being got at. “They were old friends, him and Vasari, and they’d always pleaded the same way together before. Huh! Here, let me have that fine little fellow.”

The kitten was passed over and its mother climbed into the Colonel’s lap. A huddle of manacled prisoners, being escorted across the yard by Security Branch plainclothesmen, looked at them curiously.

“Well, Colonel?”

The yard cat’s proud purring was like a row of dots.

“Well, Tromp, you just carry on, man. Let’s see where this theory of yours gets us. Personally, I find this case one big mess of assumption, presumption, names that link, names that don’t,
and a bit of a nightmare into the bargain. But what else can one do? Blast away with your shotgun at anything that moves and you’re bound to hit something, I suppose.”

“Thanks, sir. It’s certainly reached that stage now.”

Colonel Muller yawned. “Only wish we’d managed one positive achievement today, that’s all.”

“Ach, we have,” replied Kramer, giving mother and son a last chuck under the chin. “I’d best go and give Ma Roberts a bell.”

B
UT WHEN
K
RAMER
heard that the parrot had taken ill, he hadn’t the stomach to add to Mrs. Roberts’s troubles. So instead he asked her whether she knew why her son had turned state evidence. It was the first thing that entered his head.

“So many people have asked that,” Mrs. Roberts replied in a voice twittering with revived indignation, “and it really isn’t at all fair. Especially as Tony made him do it, made him do what he’d never have done otherwise, the loyal little mite. If it hadn’t been for that kind Sergeant Prins, the Lord knows where he might have ended up! And to think that Tony could try a trick like that on his friend—that came as a terrible, terrible shock to us.”

Kramer winked at Zondi, who had just walked in with some photographs, and then tried to extract some sense from that bewildering outburst.

“Tony? You’re saying Tony Vasari—”

“Where they got the money from we’ll never know, of course.” Mrs. Roberts steamed straight on. “I mean, they lived only around the corner from here, in some flats not nearly as nice, and his father wore the greasiest overalls you’ve ever seen.”

“So where did it all come from? I certainly couldn’t tell you. Not from their pockets, you can be sure, because when it came to sending them back where they belonged, that was only possible through the generosity of others—or so I was told.”

Kramer gave a bemused grunt, and found it instantly mistaken for one of disapproval.

“Not that you must think for one moment there were any sour grapes on our part, Lieutenant Kramer—well, certainly not to begin with. In fact, when we heard Tony was getting Mr. Colgate, our feelings were quite the reverse. It wasn’t until Sergeant Prins—”

“Cecil Colgate?” Kramer interrupted to ask, realizing just how little notice he’d taken of the case at the time. “Do you mean Vasari was represented by the advocate himself? Or by the son who’s just started?”

“
The
Mr. Colgate.”

“Hell.”

“Now you see what I meant about the money! Of course, I was a proper dunce about these matters then, and thought that anything which helped Tony was bound to help Peterkins as well; I just wouldn’t have suspected for one moment what was really going on. Then, thank goodness, Sergeant Prins came of his own accord to explain it all. What an eye-opener that was!”

“Uh huh?”

“Surely you don’t need me—”

“Please, I’m interested.”

Zondi slipped him a note to say Jonkers had rung, and would be ringing again soon.

“Well,” said Mrs. Roberts, “when you have two people accused of something, Sergeant Prins said, and they both come up in court together, then it isn’t just the prosecutor who comes after them with his long knife. Oh, no; each person has to watch out for the other one’s lawyer, who’ll try to push the blame on him as quick as a flash, especially if they’re being paid lots to do it! And all my Peterkins had was the free lawyer, who wouldn’t be free if he was much good. Do you see?”

Kramer saw, all right. Prins had offered Ringo the immunity of turning state evidence as his only hope of escaping the rope. The irony being that Colgate would never have risked attacking Ringo if he’d stayed in the dock; he would have simply secured an acquittal for both accused by using his cross-examination to corroborate Vasari’s evidence. As tricks went, this one ranked dirtier than pricking holes in condoms, especially as it’d had the opposite effect.

“Hello—are you still there, Lieutenant?”

“Still here, ma’am.”

“Then you do understand, don’t you? Tony Vasari was only thinking of himself. Trust an Italian! Sergeant Prins said they were often very funny people, and not just because they’re Catholics. Very cowardly, I believe, and Mr. Kleint, who lives below and fought against them up north, says they aren’t clean either, not in their personal habits. Was Peter expected to stick his neck out for one of these? ‘Heavens,’ I said to Sergeant Prins, such a fair-minded man, ‘I must talk to my son immediately.’ And before I knew it, he’d got me special permission to go to the prison right then and there. Peterkins was horrified.”