The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries (73 page)

The telephone bell in the car rang shrilly. Dimble answered it.

“What’s the trouble?” came Clobber’s voice.

“It’s Heston. He’s slumped over the door of the car. There seems to be a knife in his back.”

“A knife? Hell! He was alive when he left here. He waved to me . . . What should we do?”

“Hang on a second. Brander, are you on the other end? Have you heard this conversation?”

“Yes, Mr Dimble.”

“Okay, Clobber. I’m releasing the brake now. Speed it up a little.”

“Sure.”

The cars moved again.

At the top, Dimble led the rush up the stairs to the driver’s cabin, where Clobber’s white face greeted them. They waited.

The telephone rang.

Clobber stretched out a tentative hand, but Dimble was ahead of him.

“I’ve seen him,” said Brander, queerly. “He’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He’s dead.”

“Now look, Brander, we must make sure nothing is touched. Get on the outside phone to the police right away. And let Piet stand guard over the body until they get here, OK?”

“It might be difficult, Mr Dimble. There are people here already for tickets, so I can’t leave here, and Piet is scared. He’s said so. I’ve locked the door leading to the landing stage-won’t that be enough?”

“No. If anyone there is curious, they can climb round the side of the station to the car, and possibly spoil evidence. Let me speak to Piet.”

“Here he is, Mr Dimble.”

“Hullo, Piet. Now listen – I want you to stand guard on the landing stage and see nobody touches the car until the police arrive.”

“No, Baas. Not me, Baas. Not with a dead body, Baas.”

“Oh, dammit. OK, Let me speak to Mr Brander. Brander? Listen – this is the best plan. Don’t sell any tickets – we won’t be operating today, anyway. We’ll start the cars and stop them halfway so nobody will be able to get near them. In the meantime you telephone the police. Do you get that?”

“Yes, I will telephone the police.”

“And give me a ring the moment they are here.”

“Yes, Mr Dimble.”

The police came. Caledon Square had sent its top murder team. Lieutenant Dirk Joubert was in charge of the party, and with him was his uncle, Rolf le Roux, the “expert on people” as he jocularly styled himself, the inevitable
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protruding through the forest of his beard. Happy Detective-Sergeant Johnson was there, Lugubrious Sergeant Botha, Doc McGregor and several uniformed men. They mounted the steps to the lower station building and found Brander waiting for them.

“Where is the body?” asked Joubert.

Brander pointed out the two tiny cars on their thin threads a thousand feet above. “Will you please speak on the internal phone to Mr Dimble, the engineer in charge, who’s at the upper station?” he asked.

“Get him for me,” said Joubert.

Brander made the connection, and then handed over the phone.

“Mr Dimble? I am Inspector Joubert of the Cape Town C.I.D. I want the cable car with the body to be allowed to come down here. What? No, it’d be better if you people stayed on top of the mountain while we do our preliminary work here. I’ll ring you when we’re ready. Hullo! Just one moment, just bring me up to date on the discovery of the crime-briefly, please. I see. You were going up in the right-hand car, and when you passed the other one at halfway, you saw a knife sticking out of the conductor’s back. His name? Heston . . . yes, I have that. And then? I see. Yes. Yes. And why did you move the car with the body half-way back up the mountain? Mm. No, that’s all right – it was a good idea. Right, better get the body back here now.”

Almost as soon as he put the receiver down, the cable began to whine.

From the landing-stage they watched the approaching car. Even at some distance they could see the slumped figure quite clearly, with the scarlet splash of the knife handle protruding from its back.

“I can tell you one thing right now,” said McGregor. “It’s not a suicide.”

As the car came closer to the landing-stage, Johnson began checking his photographic and fingerprint equipment.

Brander mumbled: “It is the will of the Lord . . .”

He looked almost grateful when Joubert said: “There’s nothing we can do here, Brander. Let’s go into the ticket office. There are one or two questions . . .”

Rolf went with them.

Joubert said: “I’ve had the rough details of the story from Mr Dimble. You were here when the body first came down. Did you examine it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He was dead. I could see that.”

“And did anyone else come near the body? This Coloured, Piet?”

“No, not Piet. He was afraid. He wouldn’t go near the car. He stood at the door until the motors-started, though, in case anyone else wanted to go through.”

“Anyone else? Who else was here?”

“Well, there was a man and two women-passengers – but they left when I wouldn’t sell them tickets.”

Joubert tried a new tack. “This Heston, now. Tell me, Brander, what sort of a man was he? Was there anyone working here who hated him?”

Brander hesitated. “I do not like to talk about him. He is dead now. What does it matter what he was like in life?”

Joubert said: “Answer my question. Is there anyone here who hated him?”

“He was not liked,” said Brander, “but nobody here hated him enough to kill him.”

“No? Someone stuck a knife in his back, all the same. Who could have done it?”

“What does it matter?” said Brander. “He’s dead now. Let him rest in peace.”

The experts had finished. Two constables carried a long basket clumsily down the steps to a waiting ambulance.

“Well, Doc?” asked Joubert.

“One blow,” said McGregor. “A very clean swift blow. No mess. The murderer struck him from behind and above. Either the killer stood on something, or he was a very tall man.”

“Or woman?”

“Maybe. I canna say one way or another.”

Johnson made his report. “No fingerprints on the knife, Dirk. Couple of blurred smears, that’s all. Probably wore gloves.”

Joubert said: “All right. Doc, you go back with the body, and do the P.M. If you come up with anything new, telephone me here . . . Now let’s talk to this Coloured, Piet.”

But Piet knew nothing. He was old and superstition-ridden. He had not even looked at the body. The nearest he had come to it was to stand on guard on the other side of a closed door.

Joubert phoned Dimble. “We’re coming up. What is the signal for starting the car? Two bells – right. I’m not interested in rules about conductors on every trip. We’re coming up without one, and the car at the top must come down completely empty. All right – so it’s irregular. So is murder. I’ll take the responsibility . . . We’ll want to interview you one at a time. Is there a room there we can use? The restaurant? Right. You’ll hear the signal in a couple of minutes.”

Joubert, Rolf le Roux and Johnson. Four uniformed policemen. Going up in the car in which death had come down.

“I don’t think we’ll be long,” said Joubert. “The solution’s on top, obviously.”

Rolf said: “How do you make that out?”

“When the cars reached the middle of the run, Heston already had the knife in his back. He was alone in the cable-car. Therefore he must have been killed before he left the summit. One of the men stationed up there is the chap we’re looking for.”

Rolf looked worried. He said: “I hope you are right.”

“Of course I’m right. It’s the only possible explanation.”

“So you’ll start off by concentrating on the men who were on the mountain when the cars started this morning?”

“No, let them stew in their own juice for a while. This Dimble seems a proper fuss-pot – better get him over first.”

Dimble

“. . . And so I told Brander to see the body was guarded, and when I found Piet was afraid I told him . . .”

“Right, Dimble. We’ve got all that. Now, let me get one thing clear. Apart from Heston, there were two men who stayed overnight at the summit – Clobber, and the Native, Ben?”

“Yes.”

“Did either of these two have anything against Heston?”

“Probably. Heston wasn’t very likable, you know. But I don’t think anyone would murder him.”

Joubert said again: “Someone did. Now look, Dimble – to your knowledge did either Clobber or Ben have anything against Heston?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. They may have. For that matter, we all disliked him. He was always doing something . . . objectionable. Like practical jokes – only there was malice behind them, and he never acted as though he was joking. Never could be sure. Nasty type.”

Rolf asked: “Exactly what sort of objectionable actions do you mean, Mr Dimble?”

“Well, like putting an emetic in my sandwiches when I wasn’t looking. Couldn’t prove it was him, though. And burning Brander’s hand.”

Joubert said: “I noticed his left hand was bandaged. What happened?”

“Heston handed him a length of iron to hold, and his end was all but red-hot.”

“I see. So it would appear that both you and Brander had cause to hate the man?”

“Cause, yes, and I must admit I didn’t like him. But Brander’s different. We were talking about it this morning, and he didn’t seem to bear any grudge. He’s a religious type, you know.”

“So I gathered,” said Joubert, drily.

Dimble went on: “And that reminds me – Skager had it in for Heston too. When I mentioned that if it had been my hand he burnt, I’d have my knife in for him, Skager said that one day someone would . . . Hey! That’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Joubert. “All right, Dimble. Let’s have Skager.”

Skager

A pasty, pimply young man, with a chip on his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Inspector. It’s just an expression. I didn’t like him.”

“So you didn’t like him, and you just used an expression? Doesn’t it strike you as strange that a few minutes later Heston did have a knife in his back?”

“I didn’t think about it.”

“Well, think now, Skager. Why did you hate him?”

“Look, Inspector, I had nothing to do with the murder. How could I have killed him?”

“How do you know how he was killed? I tell you, Skager, I am prepared to arrest any man who attempts to hide his motives . . . Now answer my question?”

A slight pause of defiance, then -

“Well, I don’t suppose it makes any difference. I’ve got a girlfriend. Some time ago, someone rang her up and warned her not to go out with me because I had an incurable disease. It took me weeks before I could convince her it was a lie.”

“And you thought Heston made the phone call?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Maybe because he was always making snide remarks about my pimples. Besides, it’s just the kind of sneaky trick he would get up to.”

“So you hated him, eh, Skager-hated him enough to kill him?”

“Why do you pick on me, Inspector? I know nothing about any murder. Why don’t you speak to Mrs Orvin? At least she recognised the knife . . .”

Mrs Orvin

Mrs Orvin said: “Yes, the knife is mine. My brother-in-law sent it to me from the Congo.”

“What did you use it for?”

“Mainly as an ornament. Occasionally for cutting. It was kept on this shelf under the glass of the counter.”

“So anyone could have taken it while you were in the kitchen?”

“Yes, that’s what must have happened.”

“When did you find it was missing?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“And before that, when did you last notice it?”

“Only a few minutes earlier. I’d been using it to cut some string, and I put it down to attend to something in the kitchen—”

“Was there anyone else in the restaurant at the time?”

“Yes, quite a few people. Four or five tourists and Heston and Clobber.”

“Clobber was here?”

“Yes, having his tea. He sat at the far corner table.”

“And Heston?”

“At first he was on the balcony, but when I came back from the kitchen he was sitting at this table.”

“So when you missed the knife, what did you do?”

“I spoke to Heston . . .”