The Steam Pig (17 page)

“Of course.”

“But you had some cash even before you went out today, that is what I am not understanding. There has been nobody in this room I know.”

The Pillay baby shut up.

“Wait a minute, that Zondi's been here. Am I right?”

Moosa chose to look diplomatically committal. This got the message across but only to bring a hurtful howl of laughter from Gogol.

“You—for them? That
kaffir
is mad! Now I'll tell him to his face. What do you know about anything out there? Hiding behind your curtains every time Gershwin Mkize puts his foot on the pavement. You only went out today because Gershwin—”

An idea suddenly occurred to Gogol which weakened his knees and settled him apprehensively on the end of the bed. He looked at Moosa as he had never done before.

“Gershwin Mkize,” he said softly.

“Yes?”

“Last night Zondi was here. Next morning … were you the fellow who?”

Moosa's face gave nothing away, least of all the fact that his mind was tripping over itself trying to catch up with Gogol. It dawned on him just as Gogol spoke again.

“No, please to say nothing, Moosa. I have respect for your position.”

His wide eyes showed fear, too, and that was even more gratifying.

Durban had never appealed to Kramer. She was not his kind of city. He liked his women to be big and strong and primitive, yes: but also dignified and clean. Durban was a whore.

A cheap whore who sprawled lush, legs agape at the harbour mouth, beside the warm Indian Ocean which was not a sea but a favour that she sold. And they came in their thousands, these people who craved to pleasure their bodies, hurtling down the long roads from the prim, dry veld of the interior. Some died in their eager haste—shredded by shattered windscreens and buried beneath cairns of transistor radios, beach balls, teddy bears, peppermint packets and hand luggage. But most arrived safely to wander nearly naked in the palm-lined streets and be tempted by garish signs which stood out like face paint against dirty-skinned buildings.

Of course, she had lice; half a million humble parasites who knew nothing wrong in dwelling with her and sharing the take.

And crabs. Like the one they were after.

“Where do we go first, boss?”

“CID Central.”

Zondi gunned the Chev over the intersection on the amber and squealed off left down a side street. He did not like Durban much either, judging from the speed at which he was driving. Or maybe he needed a piss.

Captain Potgeiter was off sick.

“Can I be of help?” his deputy asked.

“Lieutenant Kramer, Trekkersburg CID. I've come for a picture.”

The deputy straightened up from the counter, his smile almost conspiratorial.

“Oh, ja, the Captain's friend. I've had the message. Here they are, old mate—not very recent though.”

Kramer studied the two mug shots—one full face, one profile—which were still tacky from the glazer. Now it was obvious why Lenny Francis had not followed his sister in trying for white: he belonged right on the border line where only an official pen stroke could define his proper position.

“It's an easy face to remember,” the deputy remarked, coming round to look over his shoulder.

That was true. The youth had an unusually long neck with an adam's apple like an ostrich that had swallowed a beer can. Balanced on top of it was a round head, capped in tight curls and dimpled deep in each cheek. The nose was aquiline enough, but the lips too sensuous—they dragged down a little to the left side. The eyes were sinister but this was probably because the lids had been caught in mid-blink by the photographer's flash.

Kramer half-closed his own eyes and saw before him a silhouette almost identical to that in the locket picture. The heavy shade had disguised a great deal.

“He can't have changed much,” Kramer observed, tucking the photographs into his breastpocket. “Bit like a poof pop-star.”

“You could have something there,” the deputy replied. “Just before you came in, one of the Indian staff was saying that Lenny learnt some nasty ways in Doringboom. A tart he knows by the pie-cart once told him that she wasted a whole night on the guy. No joy.”

“Anything else?”

“Nothing. But I made a check with Traffic—I thought I remembered something—and he's facing a reckless charge. I've still got the papers down here.”

“Let's have a look.”

Kramer flipped through the docket. There was nothing remarkable in it—failure to comply with a stop sign, and a collision involving another car but nobody hurt. He noted down the registration number of Lenny's '57 Pontiac and its colour, lime green.

“Ta very much, then. How's the time?”

“Getting on for eight.”

“And how far is it over to his place?”

“Should take you about twenty minutes. I can send someone along with you.”

“No thanks. I've got my boy with me—he knows the town.”

Which would have been news to Zondi, who was making his third awkward reverse out of a narrow cul-de-sac.

“Try the next one,” Kramer said, cursing the Chev's nonfunctional cabin light. He held another match over the street map.

“It's okay, boss, we're here. Vista Road.”

“Carry on to that fire hydrant and then stop.”

There were lights burning on the front verandahs of most of the houses but no one about except for a Coloured man across the road tinkering with the side car on his motorcycle. He glanced up for a moment as Kramer and Zondi got out—the latter tugging at the seat of his oversize overalls where they had become caught in the crotch.

“Not a bad area,” Kramer said quietly.

Zondi nodded.

The suburb had, in fact, been white until four years before when it was redesignated under the Group Areas Act. Each bungalow had its own small garden and most had a garage. It would still have passed for a white neighbourhood, if the need for new coats of paint had not been so obvious even in the moonlight. It seemed an odd address for Lenny Francis, but then again it was something like what he had been used to.

“Come on, boy,” Kramer said loudly for the benefit of the kerbside mechanic. “See you hold that torch nice and steady this time.”

Zondi nodded and shambled after him, dragging his shoes which had their shoelaces undone.

The owner of the first house on the even-numbered side of Vista Road responded quickly to the loud knock on his front door.

“Electricity,” Kramer said.

“I've paid my bills.”

“Not bloody interested, I've come to check on a power leak. Where's your meter?”

The householder sullenly admitted them and pointed to the meter board on the hall wall.

“Boy!”

Zondi leapt to it. He flicked on the torch, reached up on tiptoe and shone the light on the main current dial. Kramer noted down a figure.

“This one's okay, let's go.”

Without another word, they left the house and went into the next. And as they worked their way down to No. 14, they became aware that the street was not half as deserted as it had first appeared. Kramer had anticipated this: Lenny might also be peering out between lace curtains, but he was to have no warning of what was really approaching him.

“You think he'll be by his place so early, boss?” Zondi whispered as he closed the gate to No. 12.

“I reckon this is about the time he gets up,” Kramer answered. “The day's just beginning for his kind.”

Zondi shambled up to the front door of No. 14 and tapped it with his torch.

Van Niekerk could not believe the time. It was midnight and the telephone was ringing again.

In his struggle to answer it without leaving his warm cocoon of blankets, the bloody stretcher unstretched and he rolled on to the floor.

He struggled to his feet, making a wild snatch for his pyjama trousers. The night was cold.

It took two syllables to incense him.

“Look here!” he shrieked into the mouthpiece. “If you ring up one more time, coolie, I'm sending a van down for you! Understand? Zondi is not here and there are no bloody pictures for you. Now shut up!”

He slammed the receiver down and stood trembling.

There was a sound of laughter from through in Housebreaking where they were working late.

Kramer was driving now and Zondi was on the back seat. They were cruising downtown Durban, thinking about what they had just learned and wondering what to do next.

The door to No. 14 had been opened by an old man in braces. He said he was Willem Peterson and that his son, who owned the house, was out. The only other resident, a used-car salesman called Lenny Francis, was out, too.

Kramer had pushed him aside and searched the house. It was empty. Zondi had checked the outbuildings and garage. Nothing.

So they had taken a closer look at what Lenny's room had to offer. It was not much. The dresser and wardrobe were filled with jazzy clothing. There was a bulky pile of musclemen magazines and a rusty chest-expander. There were some comics and a paperback on karate. There were no letters or papers of interest.

They had gone back to old Willem, who was waiting as instructed in the front room, and asked him what he knew about the lodger.

Only that he sold cars and went out a lot at night—sometimes not returning until the next day. He did not like this but his son did not mind. He had explained to Willem that salesmen often worked such hours as they could hardly expect men to leave their jobs to buy a car during the day. It was natural for the lodger to be out after hours and on Sundays.

The old man's patent disapproval of Lenny was a great help. By pandering to it, Kramer was able to extract a reasonable account of his movements over the past few days.

Lenny had got back very late on Sunday, the night Tessa had been killed.

On Monday he had remained in his room until about seven in the evening before going out for about three hours.

On Tuesday he had gone out very early, no doubt to break the news of his sister's death to his mother. (How odd that he knew in advance that it would be worth his while to go to the station and buy a copy of the
Gazette.
) Lenny had returned at lunchtime to pick something up. The son had asked for a lift into town but Lenny had said he was going upcountry. He could have been meaning Trekkersburg.

And on Wednesday evening—twenty-four hours before—he had left in his car at about six after spending all day in bed. He had not come back.

“It's a pity this isn't last night,” Kramer remarked.

“Too true, boss.”

Zondi's voice was tired, he had not slept in two days. It was very late and very pointless to track a man down in a strange city.

“Man, if we only knew one place this Lenny goes to,” Kramer sighed, reluctantly turning the Chev around to head for Central CID and the helpful deputy.

“Just a minute, my stomach he says we do,” Zondi replied, leaning forward over the seat. “What about the pie-cart?”

Kramer held the lock on the wheel until the Chev had completed its 360 degree turn and then he opened it up down West Street. Three blocks further on they saw the lights of the mobile diner where it had been trundled out into the car park.

“Two pies, boss?”

“Two each.”

They drew in with a screech of brakes and killed the lights. A bunch of teenagers in a hot rod beside them raised a small cheer, and two tramps—who had been pestering an elderly couple in a Mercedes—scuttled into the shadows.

But Kramer was aware only of the lime green '57 Pontiac parked near the exit. One front wing was crumpled and the number plates were those registered in the name of Leon Charles Francis.

“I go, boss,” Zondi hissed. And he slipped out of the car.

Kramer watched him in his rearview mirror as he moved swiftly back towards the entrance. He was going to come in again at the other gate and have a look in the Pontiac as he went by. He moved out of sight.

Kramer flashed his lights for service. An old Indian in a filthy waiter's jacket clamped his tray under one arm and advanced like a somnambulist.

As he gave his order, Kramer could see out of the corner of his eye that Zondi had reached the Pontiac and was giving the thumbs-down. Stuff it.

But the waiter was not as dopey as he looked. He was half-way back to the pie-cart when he returned to Kramer's window.

“Sorry to be troubling you, master.”

“What's the matter?”

“You come by this place with a native man in your car, master. That man by the other side.”

“What of it?”

“He is working for you?”

“None of your bloody business.”

“For police, maybe, master?”

So it was not that the man wanted to know whether he should bring half the order on a piece of newspaper.

“CID.”

“That car he belong to Lenny Francis. You look for him?”

“Could be.”

The waiter made his quota of change jingle in a pocket. Kramer gave him some money of his own.

“God bless you, master. Lenny leave that car here last night. He go with many chums in black stationary wagon. Along eight o'clock time.”

“Sammy, you're a bright boy.”

“Chums they come from same place as you, master. Also got Trekkersburg numbering plate.”

Kramer winced. He had overlooked this in their elaborate plans for casing 14 Vista Road. Still, Lenny had not been there to care. And he could stay wherever he was at least until daybreak.

Durban had one virtue. The nights were warm. Kramer and Zondi slept in the car on the beach and were quite comfortable.

 

13

A
HIGH WHINE
came from the print glazer in a corner of Photographic. Prinsloo slouched over and spat on the revolving chrome-plated drum. His saliva jittered into steam.

“Hot enough—we can begin,” he said.

Van Niekerk took a handful of small prints from the sink and handed it over.

“Not too many at once, Willie, I've got to lay them out on this cloth belt and it moves slowly.”

“Going to take a long time?”

“Ja.”

“He wants them by ten.”

“So? Your Lieutenant bloody Kramer is going to learn he can't do everything in a hurry. And next time he'll ask the blokes with the original negative for his prints.”

Van Niekerk took a snack from his left nostril unnoticed.

“Zondi's the one who gets on my wick,” he grumbled. “What's this with him and Kramer?”

Prinsloo shrugged.

“I can let you have them in batches if that's any good,” he said, pulling over the guillotine ready to trim off the excess paper.

“Fine.”

“You can let me have some more now.”

“I slept here last night.”

“Oh, yes? He works you hard, does he?”

“Non-stop. And you should see him this morning, you would think he was up against the clock.”

“His nerves must be shot to hell.”

“Dead jumpy.”

Kramer cleared his throat two feet behind them.

Moosa was almost inconsolable. But Zondi managed it in the end.

“Where should I go, Sergeant?” he asked, accepting the photograph of Lenny.

“You can forget about Trichaard Street, Gershwin's given it a bad name for a while. I've got some people at the market, the station, the beer halls. I don't know—where you like.”

“I see. It's all hands to the wheel.”

“What's that?”

“You're calling in all of us.”

“Sure, you've got it.”

“Then I might take a little stroll over towards the river. I've not seen that part for some time.”

“You won't see much either. It's white now.”

“Oh dear.”

“But go where you like, man. Just keep your eye on the cars—that's the important thing. If you see him in one, get the number and ring in.”

“But will that rude Boer master answer me?”

“I'll be there.”

“And the name? I meant to write it down.”

“Leon Francis—they call him Lenny. He was seen leaving his place in a blue suit. Five foot six.”

“Thank you.”

“So long then.”

Moosa got up to open the door for him.

“One minute, Moosa, another thing. You haven't gone talking big all over the place, have you? Nobody knows?”

“Indeed to goodness, no! Allah forbid.”

But Zondi left still pondering the very different reception he had had from Gogol—and the knowing little wink.

Kramer was waiting for him in the Chev at the corner.

“Get in, man, we haven't got all day. I want you for a job.”

They drove off.

“Moosa's talked.”

“Let him. It's a good idea to let them think we have to use Moosa.”

“We'll still pay him, boss?”

“Why not? People may tell him things, revenge or some crap like that. Make it piece rates.”

“I'm sorry, boss.”

“I tell you Moosa was a good idea. But didn't you pick up anything from the others?”

“Nothing.”

“Or weren't they saying?”

“They are very worried about something, but I do not think they have ever seen this Lenny before.”

“Man, this is strange, Zondi. It was the same with mine. They would tell me if they knew—even just for protection.”

“Quite so, boss. A bad spirit is hiding here; it is like when the birds in the bush go quiet and yet there has been no sound.”

“Of course, I don't think Lenny operated in Trekkersburg and we didn't give them the link-up. So that leaves us with trying the pie-cart trick again. Remember his mother said that she had asked him to put flowers for her at the crematorium?”

“Mr Abbott he said no flowers.”

“That was only while he was there, man. Lenny could have come by later.”

Zondi put a Lucky in Kramer's mouth and lit it. He took one for himself.

“So that is why we go this road?”

“Yes, I want you to have a word with the boys there. The ones who work in the garden.
Ach,
what's the matter, man?”

“That fellow would not put flowers for his mother—he's a bad one.”

“It would be hard for him not to do it if she asked him.”

“But I thought he was frightened to come here?”

“You've got to be careful, Zondi, you're mixing up what we think with what we know.”

“But boss—”

Kramer thumped the steering wheel with his fist.

“Listen,
kaffir,
” he bellowed. “We've got nothing on this case worth a pot full of snot and we've got until tonight to get somewhere or I'm in trouble. You too.”

Zondi immersed himself in his fingernails until they arrived at the crematorium.

“Wait,” Kramer said, and went into the building.

He found the white-coated superintendent coming out of his office.

“Good morning, I'm Mr Byers, can I help you?”

“CID, Mr Byers. Can my boy ask yours some questions?”

“He's not going to upset them, is he? They're hard enough to get out here on the hill.”

“No, the inquiry has nothing to do with them.”

“Go ahead then. I was just going to ask where the tea had got to—would you like some while he's busy?”

Kramer hesitated. He was still angry, but angry now at himself.

“Ta, I'd like some. I'm Lieutenant Kramer, by the way.”

“Ah! Just the chap I want to see, I'm told. But you go and get rid of the boy first.”

Kramer went over to the big plate-glass doors and beckoned Zondi over.

“Round the back here, there's a bloke making tea. Chat him up for a start.”

He winked. Zondi smiled back.

“Then trot over to that place with the wall around it. There's a garden inside with name-plates and flowers in the middle. Look them over and talk to whoever works there. The boss wants to speak to me.”

“Thanks boss.”

Kramer went into the office. Byers was taking a cardboard box out of a cupboard.

“There you are, Lieutenant. The tea's coming—so's Christmas. Now what do we do about this?”

The box was much lighter than Kramer had expected. He shook it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The old dear that Georgie Abbott sent us by mistake.”

“Hell, I'd forgotten about her. Can't you—er?”

“Sprinkle her about a bit? Oh, a little more wouldn't hurt, but I'm afraid I must abide by the old by-laws. No papers, no last resting place here.”

“Then I suppose I'd better take it back with me meantime.”

“Good chap. Just sign this receipt, would you? Thanks.”

“Now I'm here, Mr Byers, perhaps I could ask you a few questions?”

“Certainly, delighted. But first I must ask you to come with me through to the control room. I've Maxwell & Flynn arriving any minute now. Friday is our busy day.”

Kramer followed him across.

“Please just go ahead, I'm going to fiddle about a bit but I can listen,” Byers said, closing the door.

Kramer sat down. He tapped the box in his lap.

“You know then, Mr Byers, that this lady was not intended for you. We're interested in the one that was.”

“Naturally.”

“Mr Abbott has given us a statement in which he said that there was nobody attending this funeral and no flowers.”

“Well, he got that right anyway.”

“How would you know?”

“You've been here for a funeral, I suppose? You will then have noticed the officiating clergy presses a floor switch at the appropriate moment. That lights this up and I know when to start the music and get it rolling. Right?”

Kramer nodded. He had not asked for a detailed lecture but he should have realised the control panel had the look of a fancy toy about it.

“Now what if that bulb in there should go? There would be no red flash for me and what could happen then?”

“You'd hear the slow clapping begin.”

That was a mistake.

“I believe in a little levity at times, Lieutenant, but never in respect of the living. This is an important service we provide. It is not as simple as it looks. Timing is vital. And remember, the slightest hitch can cause immense distress to the bereaved who are already suffering enough.”

It took Kramer a moment or two to recover.

“I'm sorry, sir. Go on please.”

“It wasn't anything, really. I was just going to point out to you this peephole gadget I've had installed for just such a contingency. I make a practice of regular inspections and can assure you that at no time did I see anyone present at that funeral besides the clergy and the funeral directors.”

“Is it one of those wide-angle lens things?”

“It is. Rather neat I think.”

Kramer put his eye to it.

“You didn't see anyone hanging about before or afterwards?”

“No. Not that there's really anywhere for them to hang, as you put it.”

There was a tap at the door and a sulky Zulu man entered with a tea tray.

“It's taken you long enough, Philemon. Got your girl-friend in there, have you?”

Philemon kept his eyes on the brimming milk jug.

“All right, put it down over there and then go and give the front steps another wipe over. There's been a dog sniffing about, leaving dust marks.”

“Yes, my boss. The policeman he wants to talk to his master.”

“I say, old boy—don't go, have your tea first. I'm sorry I snapped like that, you just touched on rather a sore point.”

“I'll come back,” Kramer said.

He returned in less than a minute.

“Any luck?”

“None at all.”

And Kramer's face showed it.

“I'm just letting it stew a bit. Old Philemon never bothers to warm the pot first. Any more questions?”

“I can't think of any, Mr Byers. Can you? Did anything unusual happen at all on Tuesday?”

“Hmmm. Why, it did, come to think of it.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing you chappies want to know about. Milk?”

“Ta.”

“Oops, not ready yet. We'll give it another minute.”

Claustrophobia had never been one of Kramer's problems but now he began to exhibit signs of susceptibility. He disregarded the no smoking sign and lit a Lucky.

“Now where had we got to? Oh, yes. Seeing as we've got a moment or two, I may as well tell you. Quite the nicest thing happened; the chairman of the Parks Committee, no less, paid a call on me. He is nominally in charge of us, you see, and we are, in turn, responsible to him. Yet despite this I've never known a chairman before take the slightest notice of us personally. Milk, you said?”

Kramer poured his own.

“Some of these councillors have no right to be in office, if you ask me. They give you a job and expect you to get on with it. The only time you hear from them is when things go wrong. But Councillor Trenshaw not only called on me in my office, he also asked to see over the whole establishment. It was the end of the afternoon so I was happy to oblige him.”

“Why did he decide to come at that time? Did he know your hours?”

Kramer felt he had to say something.

“That was the most heartening aspect of it all, Lieutenant. He had been a mourner at the last funeral of this day but, as he said, he'd not let that make him forget the backroom boys.”

Councillor Trenshaw sounded a bit of a ghoul. Kramer's interest picked up.

“And you showed him all over the place, you said? What about his dead friend?”

“More of a family acquaintance, I gathered.”

“Still, it seems a funny moment to pick. Do you mean he was there when the oven was going?”

“Of course.”

“Christ.”

“Good heavens! I see what you're getting at, old boy. They were still taking the handles off in the preparation room when we went through to the incinerator. It was the girl who was being done—or so we thought at the time. We even discussed her case.”

“Really?”

“Councillor Trenshaw was very interested in her. He had arrived early for his friend's funeral, which was immediately after hers, and had noticed how sad it was there were no people or flowers. That's why he asked me who it was.”

“You gave her name?”

“Well, that's all I knew—wasn't it? And I told him her age because Farthing had mentioned it to me in passing.”

“I see. Well, it takes all kinds. I don't think I'd have stayed around in that room. Too morbid for me.”

“I'm surprised to hear you say that with your job. Councillor Trenshaw wasn't the least troubled. Why, he waited there to see the procedure when we opened the doors again. It gave me an excellent opportunity to press for some more up-to-date equipment.”

“You could say then, Mr Byers—and don't get me wrong—that Councillor Trenshaw enjoyed his visit?”

“I would rather say that he seemed very satisfied with everything he saw. He congratulated us all.”

Mr Byers glanced up at the clock.

“I must be mad. Here am I, gabbling away about nothing, and I've got the new tapes to put on. You must excuse me.”

Suddenly there were a lot of questions that Kramer wanted to ask. Far more than he knew would be prudent. So he left.

And all the way back to town he remained silent.

Zondi was changing down for the turn into De Wet Street towards the office when Kramer ordered him to carry straight on. He did so without question. He understood.