The Steam Pig (11 page)

“Never medically?”

“Well, we do have a version of this type of thing for certain conditions involving hypersensitivity, but these aren't them.”

“I see, sir. Where would someone get a pair like this?”

“Overseas, I should think. The States, Germany—possibly London. Did she travel much?”

“Not in the Republic?”

“No demand I've ever heard of before. It would be possible to send the prescription over, I suppose.”

“This would have to be done by an eye specialist like yourself?”

“Oh, no. Any proficient optician can take a cast of the eyeball—a little local anaesthetic and there's nothing to it.”

“In Trekkersburg?”

“Quite possibly. Yes, I don't see why not.”

“Any names spring to mind, sir?”

The specialist became wary—professional ethics and all that. “Sorry, Lieutenant, not one, I'm afraid.”

“Can you tell me any more about these then?”

“Hmmmm. Handpainted of course—you can see how it's done, just leaving the pupil area translucent. The pupil's quite small, actually, showing it was made for use in bright sunlight. That's the trouble with these things, doesn't allow the wearer's eyes to adapt to conditions. You'd need a hole about four units larger in poor light.”

“Like a cat's eyes get bigger?”

“That sort of thing, Lieutenant.”

“And what would they cost—a lot?”

“Around fifty guineas. Perhaps fractionally more, what with postage and so on.”

“Nothing else?”

“What more can I say? If it wasn't for the painted iris they would be the same as any other contact. They have their advantages and disadvantages. Some people take to them, some don't.”

“Oh?”

“I mean some eyes get so irritated, the things have to be discarded. While with others, after a little practice, they can be worn for up to eight hours a day—even longer.”

“Very interesting.”

“Oh, yes, practice is most important. Everyone has tears streaming down their face to begin with. The old eye thinks it has a foreign body to dislodge. Some learn, others don't.”

He was beginning to repeat himself—and this was what Kramer had hoped for: some sign he had come off guard again.

“No doubt science will find a way round it sooner or later, sir. Just one other thing: have you a patient called Theresa le Roux?”

He lobbed the name carelessly across. Mr Trudeau met it with a smashing backhander.

“Don't try that sort of trick with me, Kramer. There's a good fellow.”

“Have you?”

“No.”

“You're very certain.”

“Yes.”

“Le Roux's not an uncommon name—you must have a lot of patients on your books.”

“Hardly rare, as you point out. It was my mother's maiden name, I have always been particularly sensitive to it.”

“So I see,” Kramer said, thanked him, and left through the french windows.

Zondi had gone to sleep in the car.

First things first. There was an old wog saying that it was better to fill your belly with the meat of a bushpig before seeking out the buck whose droppings were dry. They would start by running Gershwin Mkize to ground.

Kramer had rejected Zondi's suggestion that they radio headquarters and initiate the search right away. He wanted to see to it himself—that way it would be done properly, or, more exactly, his way. Give the Colonel half a chance and the Republic would be roadblocks from Skeleton Coast to Maputoland. He had a somewhat more subtle plan in mind. Of course he had lost an hour but that could not matter much.

Anyway, they were already back at the central police station and making for the charge office to get the name of the duty officer.

They went in on the white side and the place seemed deserted. So Kramer looked around the high partition plastered with Wanted notices and bilharzia warnings and found Sergeant Grobbelaar leaning on the non-white counter, reading a newspaper. He ignored their arrival and went on sucking his pencil over the children's crossword.

“Bloody English,” he said suddenly, scoring the puzzle across. Every time he patted the blond crown of his crew-cut head like that, Kramer expected it to bounce like a tennis ball. He wished it would. He hated the slob's guts.

“Busy, Grobbelaar?”

“Always. How's it, Friday?”

Zondi looked away.

“Not so busy you can't listen to serials on Springbok, hey?”

The transistor set was poorly concealed between the files above the fireplace.

“What do you want, man?”

Some of the blokes in uniform were like this. They resented the CID so strongly that it was as if they believed all that pulp in their lockers about randy blondes and racing cars. They overlooked the long hours which made a two-to-ten shift sound like a sinecure for pensioners. And they overlooked the fact that most of them had attempted to join the CID, only to fail on probation. Sergeant Grobbelaar was a case in point. He had panicked when a manacled suspect had tried to escape from the interview room. The bullet had put him back into blue.

“The duty officer—who is it tonight?”

“Captain Johns.”

“Then ring him.”

“He won't like this, he's got a cold and he's still staying in the Buttery. He was going to bed early.”

“Ring him. Now.”

The idea amused Kramer not a little. The Buttery was a private hotel over a restaurant right in the centre of town; it took commercial travellers and served business lunches, but its main income came from a twitter of decrepit widows who sat until all hours in the lobby watching life go by and waiting for the worms. They would get one hell of a kick out of Captain Johns shambling to the guests' telephone box in his raincoat, hiding his face in a handful of tissues.

Grobbelaar turned from the phone: “It's engaged.”

“Then hold on.”

Kramer spun the newspaper round. It was the
Daily Post,
once the Colonists' weekly source of Government news and now an evening rag not worth putting in the cat's sand-box. He checked the headlines carefully. Good, the Colonel had resisted temptation. Not a line about the case. He glanced over the inside pages, stopping at the sports section. Then he thought of the Stop Press on the back. He flipped the
Post
over and grinned.

Zondi moved to his side.

“Look at that, man!”

Zondi looked and saw a small item which read:

MARKET RIOT

Fifteen non-whites arrested in Trekkersburg market at noon following fracas. Policeman injured.

“You can try yourself,” growled Grobbelaar, dropping the receiver with a clatter. He was plainly annoyed at being excluded from the merriment.

“Give me the OB,” Kramer said.

Grobbelaar made no move towards the Occurrence Book, which lay on the table with the typewriter.

“What you want to know?”

“This business in the market—did you see who they got?”

“
Ach,
no, a lot of
kaffir
s. Khumalo booked them.”

“Where's he?”

“Khumalo!” Grobbelaar yelled.

The door to the verandah opened and Bantu Constable Khumalo put his head in.

“Yes, my Sergeant?”

“Come, CID wants to speak to you.”

“Suh, I have got five prisoners for the train out here.”

Kramer held up his hand.

“Just tell me, Khumalo, who did you book from the market?”

“All rubbish.”

“
Who?
You bloody baboon!”

“Lily Francis, Bop Jafini, Trueman Sithole, Gershwin Mkize, Banana—”

“OB, make it quick this time.”

Grobbelaar could not help himself. The Occurrence Book slammed down in front of Kramer, open at the right place.

“By the bottom here,” Zondi said, “it says the Dodge was taken to the pound.”

Kramer read down to the entry, through the list of names. Then he looked up at Grobbelaar, who was trying to do the same upside down.

“Get me this man Mkize.”

“Khumalo is busy,” Grobbelaar replied. “Get him yourself.”

But he wisely threw the cell keys to Zondi.

Then, after a moment more of Grobbelaar's company, Kramer decided to leave, too. He caught up with Zondi in the long corridor leading to the yard. It was unlit but its gloss-painted walls reflected the orange tungsten glow at the far end like a flare path. Their footfalls locked and echoed off the high ceiling. The headquarters had been built in the days of the old mounted police and the architect had apparently made whimsical allowance for a platoon to gallop through with lances elevated.

The young Bantu constable over on duty outside the cell block greeted them with the heartiness of a secret sleeper. He twisted the master light switch in the wall niche, took the keys and swung open the steel door. Then came the customary pause before stepping in out of the fresh air. Actually Kramer never found the odour within wholly unpleasant; the blend of vomit, urine and carbolic formed a nostalgic reminder of a certain nurse's uniform often used as a pillow.

The three cells on the left had the extra bolts and padlocks which had become mandatory on the doors of political detainees since the Goldberg escape. No sound came from behind them.

Across the way were three others reserved for whites. The constable stopped at the second of these and grinned, poking his thumb at the inspection flap. Kramer pushed it aside and looked in.

A dishevelled man of around forty was sprawled on his coir mattress on the floor, moaning and cursing drunkenly. His belt had been confiscated and his trousers were down to his grazed knees.

“Black whore,” the prisoner pronounced with startling clarity.

The constable giggled, his eyes searching for approval. Presumably Grobbelaar had spent a hilarious half hour there earlier on.

“Love you, black whore, I love you,” sobbed the fool, rolling over to muffle his agony in the soiled ticking.

“Him contradict Immorality Act,” the constable needlessly explained. And he laughed elaborately the way Grobbelaar did, heaving his shoulders as if to dislodge an errant coathanger.

Kramer's fists bunched. So Zondi performed a sly act of charity by grinding his heel into one polished toecap.

The prisoner was being sick. Kramer looked back in at him. He knew the man from somewhere. That was it: the railway ticket office. He was the clerk who never had to look things up. The one who always said he wished he were going with you and sounded good company. No more of that now for the rest of his life. No one would want to be seen with him ever again, certainly not in a public place like a buffet car. Fifty to one it had not been a prostitute either, more probably another of the big, fat ample ones with gentle faces all mothers were meant to have. If he was a bachelor it might not be so bad. He could have the money for top counsel and get off lightly. But even if the case was withdrawn after a remand in the morning, it would have smashed him for good. Stupid bastard.

“Gershwin Mkize,” Kramer said, letting the flap drop.

This surprised the constable. He dithered a moment before taking the cork off the tip of his spear and leading the way round the corner to the general non-white cell.

There were sounds of stirring within and the constable shouted that everyone should lie down and keep still. Then he undid the lock silently and stepped back. With a practised ease he used his spear to lift the latch as he jumped forward, kicking the door open.

There were over thirty prisoners in the cell and about half of them were sitting up blinking blearily in the light. One old lag, thinking it was morning, had already rolled up his grass mat. A slobbering snore was the only sound.

The constable stepped aside, pointing. His gesture was hardly necessary. Gershwin, the stooge and the driver, all in their yellow suits, stood out against the far wall like three traffic signs against a grey sky.

Kramer noticed several things immediately: that they were only feigning sleep, that Gershwin reclined on five mats while four youngsters nearby lay on the bare concrete, and the stooge and the driver, both bloodstained, had decided three extra mats befitted their station.

“Clear them,” Kramer ordered, nodding at the prisoners who lay between him and Gershwin.

Zondi motioned the constable to stand by the door with his spear and then dragged the intervening forms to one side. Small as he was, he had the strength of a stevedore—or perhaps it was just a knack.

Kramer stopped a foot from the pile of mats.

“Gershwin.”

The stooge fluttered an eye.

“Gershwin Mkize.”

There was a murmur of excitement among the other prisoners. The constable stamped for silence.

“It's time to go, Gershwin.”

This brought the driver scrambling to his feet. Kramer elbowed him sharply, deep in the belly.

“Where to?” inquired Gershwin, as his henchman sank gasping beside him.

The stooge screwed his eyes up tight as if he dreamt of impalement.

“Ah, never you mind,” Kramer replied quietly.

“No, thank you, boss.”

“Hey?”

“I've got Number One Jewboy lawyer. He say Gershwin—”

“Sam Safrinsky? You're going to need an advocate for the Supreme Court, not a solicitor.”

“Supreme? For a little trouble like this one? Mr Safrinsky he say I've got a good alibi, I just coming down by market side to look for Dodge and …”

Gershwin had noticed Zondi's expression. So had some others and they had turned away.

“So Sam says it's all right,” said Kramer. “But does Sam know also about Shoe Shoe?”

Gershwin's lip curled. He stared back at Kramer without blinking. Then he looked down at what Zondi dropped on his knees. It was a head of red
kaffir
corn.

“There's more,” Kramer said. “And it's stuck under the Dodge that the traffic cops are keeping nice and safe for us.”