The Song Dog (16 page)

“Only …” began Terblanche.

“Only what?” said Kramer, changing down to go into the last bend before the long straight leading to Jafini.

“We’re still left with the basic problem, Tromp. Who stole the cook boy’s clothes? Shouldn’t we also be looking for another coon who—”

“Elifasi could have stolen them himself after all,” said Kramer. “The same night he planted the bomb—simple, man.”

“But why would he want to?”

Mabeni stirred, clearing his throat. “My boss?” he said.

“You have an answer for the Lieutenant?” said Kramer. “Good, then speak up, let’s hear it, man!”

“Elifasi maybe need new clothings description, my boss,” he said cautiously. “Maybe last night he run far-far away.”

“Now, there is a thought,” said Kramer, not liking it one bit. “You haven’t seen him today, for instance?”

Mabeni shook his head.

“I thought I had, just for a moment,” admitted Kramer, “outside the Bombay Emporium early this morning, but it turned out to be this ancient kaffir with syphilis. Same type of jacket, same shiny lining.”

“Syph …?” repeated Cassius Mabeni.

Terblanche translated for him, and the Bantu constable gave a short, merry laugh. “Mad-mad, that one,” he said. “He say he is Prime Minister of South Africa two times over.”

“Oh, ja, old Two Times?” said Terblanche, chuckling. “He used to do some odd-job garden work for me, until the day he decided he was going to take out all my roses and return them to this tribal homeland he had set up for them. Can you imagine? Holes left all over the place, and my poor roses struggling to grow, stuck in a pile of broken bricks I had?”

Mabeni laughed, covering his mouth politely with his hand, but Kramer still turned to frown at him. “What the hell’s the matter, kaffir?” he said. “I want you thinking, not playing at silly buggers, hey?”

And if Terblanche, now a bright red, liked to consider himself also rebuked, all well and good, thought Kramer.

Bokkie Maritz was sitting in the brightly lit CID office, slurring into the telephone, watched by a gleeful Sergeant Sarel Suzman, looking a lot less angular and morose for once.

“What’s going on?” Kramer paused to ask him.

“I think Bok’s had too much of his sore-throat mixture,” said Suzman. “You’ve got to watch Doc Mackenzie, hey? He’s a terror for prescribing lots of alcohol in everything—when Lieutenant Terblanche had flu, his cure for it nearly gave him the DTs, hey?”

“Ja, but who’s Bok talking to?”

“The Colonel, Lieutenant.”

“Didn’t I order you to go home?”

“Ja, but—”

“Then go!” hissed Kramer, impatient to strike while the iron was hot.

Suzman went, glowering but obedient, one of nature’s lapdogs.

“Hey, Bok!” Kramer said loudly, advancing on him. “Man, don’t tell me it’s whiskey now! And only half the bottle left? What the hell are you
doing?
First it was gin, then it was—”

“Shorry, hold on jush a sec,” said Maritz to the Colonel, turning round in utter bewilderment.

“Oh, Christ!” said Kramer. “You’re not talking to that same lady again? The one you upset this afternoon with your remarks? For God’s sake,
stop now
, Bok! That kind of call can be traced, man, and this is a police station! Here, give that to me—!”

And he whipped the receiver from Maritz’s hand, before the idiot had time to stop boggling, and said into the mouthpiece: “Hello? Operator, here—sorry, madam, we seem to have a crossed line. Replace your phone on its hook, please!” And he did just that himself, knowing the Colonel would ring back as fast as he could be reconnected.

“Hey, wash you think you’re—” began Maritz.

“Out!” snapped Kramer. “Go and wait in the station commander’s office, where we will find out what you’ve been up to today! And that is an
order
, Sergeant—so
move!
”

“But I—”

“Go, before my boot does the job for you!”

Maritz stumbled to his feet, wide-eyed, looking as though he now believed every canteen story ever told about this lunatic from the Free State, and fled the room, bumping into two desks and a chair on the way. He had just lurched from sight when the phone gave a shrill ring.

“Jafini CID, Kramer speaking …”

“Lieutenant, is that you?”

“Good evening, Colonel! Hell, it’s nice to hear your voice again—I thought we’d been totally forgotten up here!”

“Hey? Didn’t you get my messages? What the hell is going on, man? Bok’s—”

“Messages, Colonel?” said Kramer.

“Ach, you know! To ring me about Advocate Gillets and his complaint about—”

“News to me, Colonel! What has he got to complain about?”

“So you haven’t been using threatening tactics on his son Lance, then? Only Mr. Gillets alleges—”

“Hell, no, Colonel! Me and Hans pick on a poor kid still in deep shock under the doctor? Ring Mr. Mansfield, the bloke in charge at Madhlala, and he’ll tell you that we only paid a courtesy call, ten minutes at the most. Mansfield in fact thanked us for our discretion, Colonel—honest. You could try reminding him of that and see what he says.”

“You were accompanied by Hans Terblanche, you say?”

“Every minute of the time, sir! We work as a team.”

“You do?” said the Colonel, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “A good, steady fellow, Hans, although Maaties found him a bit slow. But, listen, no more visits without
a call to me first, okay? Advocate Gillets is not a man we want to—”

“Promise, Colonel,” said Kramer. “Otherwise, things are starting to progress nicely, sir, I’m glad to report! The funny thing is, I was just about to phone you. Field Cornet Dorf of the Defence Force was here today, and has given us a few leads we can start working on.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it, hey?” Du Plessis paused and cleared his throat. “Er, Lieutenant …”

“Ja, Colonel?”

“You make it sound as though all is well up at Jafini.”

“So it is, Colonel! Your Press clampdown is working perfectly. Not one reporter in—”

“No, it’s not that, Lieutenant. It’s, er, Bok … Just how are things with him, exactly?”

“Oh,” said Kramer, then switched to speaking far too lightly and airily: “When did you last speak to him, Colonel? He’s just a bit, er—shall we say, feverish?—at the moment. Also been a bit out of sorts, a bit low, that’s all, but I’m sure he’ll soon get over it. He’s been telling you about his bad sore throat presumably?”

There was quite a pause. “You say, Lieutenant, that Bok is, what—a bit low?”

“Er, yes, sir, in a manner of speaking. Perhaps it’s because he’s, er, not used to being so far away from home, sir, and away from his lovely lady wife and all the usual restrictions—I mean, away from the usual routine, sir. Admittedly, I’ve been out all day, so I’m a bit out of touch with—”

“You can’t, er, explain the situation a little more clearly, Lieutenant?”

“Colonel?”

“Listen,” said Du Plessis, “I respect a man for his loyalty, as you well know, Tromp, but perhaps in this instance it might—”

“Look, sir, wouldn’t you like to have a word with Bokkie
himself?” said Kramer. “He’s right here at Maatie’s old desk, playing with his little Scottie dog puzzle and—”

“No, no, that won’t be necessary!” said the Colonel hastily. “Just tell him from me … Look, maybe it’s best since he’s, as you say, feverish, if Bokkie gets a lift back tonight, hey? There’s a Firearms Squad vehicle leaving Nkosala at eight for tomorrow morning’s conference. Then Bok can get that sore throat properly seen to and be in the bosom of his family, which is a man’s proper place when he’s sick.”

“Colonel, sir, you’re one of the best, hey?”

“It won’t leave you too short of men?”

“Hell, no, we’ll manage, Colonel—good night, sir!”

Kramer let the receiver slide from his fingers back into its cradle. Right, he thought, now I have you all to myself—although when, how, or where I’m going to be able to take wicked advantage of this, I don’t bloody know.

He meant, of course, the Widow Fourie.

“Look, I’ve managed to find that old dynamite theft,” said Terblanche, coming into the CID office. “Sorry, are you about to use the phone? Because I—”

“No, just finished!” said Kramer, turning. “The Colonel wants Maritz back, so I’ve just arranged a lift for him. Any chance of the van taking him round to pick up his suitcase?”

“Ja, I’ll fix that in a moment, hey?” said Terblanche, placing a bulging docket on Malan’s desk. “I thought it worthwhile a quick check, in case the dynamite has been stolen from the same place again.”

“Good thinking,” said Kramer, moving to look over his shoulder. “Who investigated?”

Terblanche pointed to the name at the foot of the list of exhibits:
J. J. Mitchell
. “Joe did, but in the end, he didn’t have much luck—Joe was Malan’s predecessor here, before he went on to higher things. All two dozen sticks of dynamite were
recovered, as you can see from this list, but nobody was arrested and the case still lies open. Now, where was it that this happened exactly …? It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Kramer plucked a yellow form from the mess of papers. “Shaka’s Halt,” he said.

“Ach, of course! A nothing sort of place way up, you know, near the mountains. Sort of a quarry, where they get gravel for roads.”

“You’re right,” said Kramer, studying the form. “There’s the name of the contractor here, Barney Sherwood, Umfolosi Quarry Company—and a phone number. I’m going to try him …”

The dialing tone lasted for barely two rings. Sherwood thought at first that the police were calling to tell him that the case had at last been solved, then became irritable when he realized they hadn’t. He said that
nothing
further had been taken from his explosives store, thank you, and pointed out that this was undoubtedly
just as well
, considering how totally incompetent the police had proved themselves to be. Furthermore, he wanted to lodge a complaint about the police seizure of a man’s lawful property, leaving him seriously out of pocket.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, sir,” said Kramer. “And I don’t
want
to know. Just see you go and check your store once more, right now, and ring us back by half past eight, confirming it is secure, or there’ll be trouble, hey? I’m the world expert on examining gravel lorries for serious infringements of roadworthiness regulations.”

“That’ll put him in a panic!” said Terblanche, as the receiver clattered down.

“Never failed yet with one of those bastards,” said Kramer. “You’ll see, he’ll ring again by eight-fifteen at the latest.”

The contractor rang at eight, just as Maritz, looking most
bemused, made his maudlin farewell and departed in the company of three very silent Firearms Squad officers, temporarily stationed at Nkosala.

“Well?” said Terblanche, turning his attention back to Kramer. “Any luck at Shaka’s Halt?”

Kramer shrugged. “Nice idea of yours, Hans, but a big fat zero, the man says—all his dynamite is accounted for. Best we put that dynamite docket away and stop buggering about, hey? Our job tonight is to catch Short Arse. Nothing else must get in the way of that
—nothing
.”

“Ja, but how, Tromp? Where do we begin?”

“We could try a ride around, see if—”

“But what if he spots us doing that, and—”

“True. Ach, we’ll just have to sit down and do some hard thinking first, see if we can’t come up with a better plan.”

T
HE
W
IDOW
F
OURIE
came out of the kitchen, carrying a glass of water, just as Kramer opened her front door at a quarter after midnight, doing his best to make not a sound.

“Hello,” she said. “You’re up late …”

“And you.”

“Ach, no. I was fast asleep until a minute ago—little Piet woke up, wanting a drink.”

“I could bloody do with one,” muttered Kramer, before adding: “Good night, hey?”

“Top shelf, pantry,” she said. “Behind where the box of birthday-cake candles is kept.”

Kramer watched her go down the corridor. She looked tired, but walked with none of the unsteadiness normally associated with someone just roused from slumber, which intrigued him.

Then he found, behind the box of birthday-cake candles, a large, untouched bottle of Oude Meester brandy, its seal still intact. There was a holly-leaf label attached to the neck of the bottle which read:
To my beloved Pik, Happy Christmas! XXX
.

Kramer poured a good measure into a tumbler and sat down at the kitchen table, propping his feet up. He saw no harm in drinking a dead man’s booze. He had read somewhere that people did this to Napoleon’s brandy all the time—and then boasted to their friends about it.

“So you found the bottle okay,” said the Widow Fourie, returning to the kitchen with an empty glass.

“Like some?”

“No, not for me, thanks.”

“Have just a drop,” he insisted. “One tiny drop! It’ll help you get straight back to sleep again.” And he looked her in the eye.

“No, honest,” she said, turning quickly away.

“Suit yourself!”

“You sound upset,” she said, rinsing the glass in the sink. “Why’s that?”