The Artful Egg (38 page)

He reached for his telephone and dialled Kramer’s number. He lit another of the cigarettes he kept in a drawer for emergencies, and pulled a face at the thin, acrid taste the thing had when compared to his pipe tobacco. He felt very angry with whoever had bought a yellow rose and a greeting card that morning. He wished he knew his identity, because it would definitely cost the swine the price of a new briar. If not a meerschaum.

“Tromp, Tromp, Tromp, answer, dammit!” he said under his breath, for it had been five minutes since he’d last rung the
man’s office, and he could not imagine where Kramer could have got to in that time.

“And am I expected to go on just sitting here?” asked Vicki Stilgoe.

“That’s right, you go on just sitting there,” said Colonel Muller, dialling the duty officer’s number. “But don’t worry, there are no more questions I want to ask you.”

“None at all?”

He glanced at his query sheet.

“Was it your brother who got Mr. Kennedy to waste his time waiting in a Durban hotel on the night of the murder?”

“Yes, we wanted to provide him with a cast-iron alibi so that the police would leave him—
and
me—alone.”

“Why did you pick last Monday night to kill the deceased?”

“It had to be after a weekend, so it would look as though the threatening letter had been posted to arrive on the Monday.”

“But why not the Monday before?”

“Amanda had her birthday.”

“Or the Monday before that?”

“We weren’t ready. Bruce was still scouting the lie of the land.”

“You realise now you left it too late in a sense?”

“It was a mistake we couldn’t have known about.”

“It was why you got caught.”

“No, that was due to a different mistake.”

“What mistake?”

She looked away and gave no answer.

Once again Colonel Muller dialled Kramer’s number, but again had no reply. He decided to give him one minute before there would really be trouble.

“Mrs. Stilgoe, what was your—?”

“Fatal error?”

“If you like.”

“Not realising.…”

“What?”

“That everywhere that Mary went her little lamb was sure to go.”

“You’re talking in riddles, woman!”

“Nursery rhymes, Colonel. Out of the mouth of babes.”

“Now, I warned you!” said Colonel Muller, and turned to the two policewomen sitting quietly in the corner. “Keep a strict eye on her. I’m going down to the Lieutenant’s office again. I can’t imagine what questions he could still find, but he must get the chance if he wants to.”

“Colonel Muller,” said Vicki Stilgoe, showing her first sign of emotion by tightening the grip of her clasped hands, “may
I
ask
you
a question?”

“Make it a quick one, Stilgoe. You heard I’m about to—”

“It was him, wasn’t it?” she said with sudden vehemence, almost spitting the words out. “That little black bastard, Zondi.”

“Who did what?”

“Noticed.”

“Riddles again.”

“Amanda keeping on saying ‘boy,’ which wasn’t very
liberal
at all, was it? Rather spoiled the image I was busily trying to—”

“Ach, I don’t think the average Bantu even notices when—”

“So the first chance he got of getting my daughter alone he started asking her questions about Bruce, about what Bruce thought of Theo—oh, yes, I managed to get that much out of her. But what else did he ask?”

Colonel Muller shrugged. “I have heard nothing of this conversation.”

“Don’t lie to me! That’s what—”

“See she doesn’t leave that chair, all right, girls?”

Colonel Muller closed his door behind him, glanced down at his rose-bush for consolation, and went along the balcony. Kramer’s office was empty. A pair of handcuffs lay on the desk. The electric kettle was boiling itself dry.

Then, taking up Kramer’s memo pad, he stared in bewilderment at what had been scrawled there:

Zondi had his foot down.

“Go,” urged Kramer, “go, man!”

They jumped the red, missed a bus by the thickness of a bus ticket, and straddled the central white line, horn blaring.

“Boss, why are we doing this?” asked Zondi, going through another red light. “What was that phone call you suddenly made to Grant & Boyd-Smith? I was telling Ramjut where to wait and I couldn’t quite hear—”

“A pair of good Afrikaner names.”

Zondi chuckled. “Grant & Boyd-Smith? They are so English that—”

“Exactly, Mickey. Then what was a dyed-in-the-wool Afrikaner woman like Marie Zuidmeyer doing taking her business to them, when the town’s full of solicitor’s firms like Brandsma and Du Plessis, Van der Merwe and Kros? I rang them to ask where they were situated.”

“And?”

“I’ve already told you the address, Chadlington House. Right opposite the
Trekkersburg Gazette
, where half the world’s bloody press is busy using its Telex facilities.”

“Boss, that still is not an answer.”

“It bloody is, old son. Can you guess what floor Grant & Boyd-Smith has its offices on?”

“What floor?” repeated Zondi, going through another red and leaving two cars to untangle themselves. “Hau, not the—?”

“You’ve got it,” said Kramer. “And it’s just gone four o’clock, the time Jannie told Zuidmeyer to be there.”

Thirty seconds later, Zondi screamed to a stop across the street from the
Trekkersburg Gazette
, and they jumped out.
The lobby of Chadlington House was empty and the lift stood open.

“Christ, we’re in luck!” said Kramer, as they dashed for the lift before the doors could close. “Hit ten and hope.”

The lift doors took a lifetime to close, but the lift itself was swift. It rose with gathering speed, so that when it stopped at the tenth floor Kramer felt his stomach surge up and come down again. Considering what else his stomach was doing, that was the least of its tricks. With a rubbery sigh, the lift doors parted.

“Rooms 1019 to—”

“To the right, Lieutenant!” said Zondi, getting a head start.

Kramer caught up with him and they pounded down the wide corridor towards a suite of offices with a glass front and the name of the firm,
Grant & Boyd-Smith
, in a discreet shade of gold. There was a grey-haired woman seated behind the reception counter, powdering her nose. She must have been slightly deaf, because when they burst in through the door, she jumped so much that she powdered the left lens of her bifocals.

“Goodness, what on earth—?”

“The Zuidmeyers!” said Kramer. “Quickly, where are they?”

She looked too startled to comprehend.

“The father and son? Four o’clock appointment?”

“Oh, oh, yes, to see Mr. Boyd-Smith. He’s running a little late as usual, I’m afraid, so they’re in the waiting-room. But can I ask you—?”

There was a hoarse shout and then the sound of breaking glass.

Kramer shouldered the waiting-room door almost off its hinges. The first thing he saw was a gaping hole in the window, and through it the neon-rimmed letters that spelled out
Trekkersburg Gazette
along its rooftop. Then as Zondi stepped to his side he became aware of a movement to his left and behind him. Zuidmeyer was crawling backwards on his hands and knees, his eyes staring at the window and his mouth agape.

“Jannie!” he said, noticing Kramer. “Jannie, my boy Jannie!” And he raised a shaking finger to the window.

Faint shrieks and the sound of braking came from down in the street.

“Check, Mickey,” said Kramer.

Zondi crossed to the window, leaned out, turned a little grey and brought his head back in with a shake.

“Jannie, Jannie, Jannie!” sobbed Zuidmeyer, getting himself into the corner and curling into a ball. “Not one word!”

“What in—?”

Kramer turned. A smooth-looking man, grey above the ears, impeccably dressed and manicured, was approaching the doorway. “Mr. Boyd-Smith? Don’t come in here, it’s a police matter. But I’d like to ask you one question.” And he held out his warrant card.

“Y-yes, what is it?”

“Do you hold the will of a Mrs. Marie Louise Zuidmeyer?”

“We don’t handle wills; we’re strictly—”

“Thank you, sir, I will be out to explain in a minute,” said Kramer, and shut the door in his face. “It was a complete set-up, Mickey.”

Zondi nodded and looked out of the window again. “Already there are cameras, boss,” he said. “And a man with a movie one, across there in that window.”

“Jannnnniiie.…” howled Zuidmeyer. “Why? Why? Why?”

“Major, it’s Tromp Kramer. Can you tell me what happened here?”

Zuidmeyer knelt and looked up, his eyes no longer haunted but lit by a terrible light. “Nothing, Nothing! I came in. I.…”

“Go on, sir.”

“I said to the boy: ‘Well, I’m here. What’s all this about?’

He looked at me. He said nothing. He—”

“Don’t stop, Major!”

“The boy looked at me. He said
not one word
. I said: ‘Jannie,
I’m asking you a question!’ Then he smiled. Just smiled! Then he turned and he took three big steps and he—” Zuidmeyer pitched forward on to his face and beat the floor with his fists. “Why? Why, why, why? For the love of God,
why?
”

“It’s a pity you were alone in the room with him, and we have only your word for all this.”

“What?” said Zuidmeyer, staggering to his feet. “What’re you—?”

“As your wife’s inquest will show,” said Kramer, with a glance at Zondi, “your boy had something he wouldn’t want to confess to you, Major Zuidmeyer.”