The Steam Pig (20 page)

Trenshaw expanded Protea Electronics and went to Japan to arrange a hard-bargained contract for transistors. He spent many long days on factory floors and in board rooms. And yet all he told the others about on his return were the nights. The use of sex as a means of persuasion by the lesser Japanese exporter beggared the imagination. When it was used competitively, very little else was left intact.

Trenshaw was a changed man—and so, vicariously, were his companions. The gang had started to grow up again. They began to titillate each other with fantasies about their respective secretaries. War-time issues of
Lilliput
and
Men Only
were discovered in their garages and laughingly passed between them. A
Playboy
magazine somehow evaded the Customs and postal authorities to go the rounds, despite the risk of a fine or imprisonment for possession. Widows and divorcées soon became the brunt of many a subliminal joke.

But these were grown men, not teenagers still curious and a little afraid. They all had wives. They had all bedded a woman calculated to do wonders for them socially. That she had proved disappointing in other respects had, up till then, been part of the price.

A price, that was it. These were cautious men, these city councillors, an affair with all its unpredictable and sordid risks was unthinkable. A straightforward business arrangement was not, when you came to think about it.

Now Durban was a port, an acknowledged place for trade and barter, and an obvious place to begin. Yet, in the final analysis, only a fool would walk in off the street to strike a deal with a stranger. You had to know your woman first. You needed at least one satisfied customer, and you needed to trust him.

Trenshaw met Jackson on what was to have been their final visit. The others were out on the verandah of the Edward, talking themselves into a self-righteous Puritanism as they watched the night's bikini girls return their ogles with full-bodied contempt. Jackson had mistaken Trenshaw for the manager—after all, he was in his best suit. And by the time Trenshaw had convinced him of his mistake, they had reached the bar. Jackson had insisted on making his apology a large one and Trenshaw, who was feeling low, accepted it. Then he insisted on negating Jackson's gesture by buying him a double, too. Jackson said he would have to get it down rather quickly as he was off to a party in a nearby block of flats. It was plain he was afraid he might miss something. Trenshaw was intrigued.

His clumsy probing amused Jackson. Yes, there were going to be girls. Young girls. He did not know their names—names were not ever used at his sort of parties. It was just going to be all clean dirty fun. He was sorry he could not invite Trenshaw to join him. Very sorry, indeed. But you had to be so very careful.

Trenshaw was sorry, too, when he returned to the others and told them what had happened. He had no need to embellish what he had learned. They all recognised the irony that for once their role of civic dignitary would not be voiced as proof of their integrity. It would sound very strange in the ears of a man like Jackson and not worth the risk. He could take it as a measure of what they had at stake—he could also see their position as posing a danger for everyone concerned.

But he had accepted Trenshaw's business card and had made a promise to pop in on him any time he was in Trekkersburg.

Understandably the corporate life of the frolicsome four had gone into a decline on their return home. Sensing something, their wives resorted to a measure of dutiful abandon which ill became their years. This was only embarrassing and thankfully short-lived. Three secretaries were replaced by mature women, a fourth resigned independently in enormous shame to marry at the mouth of a twelve-bore. It was a bad time.

And then one night Trenshaw had appeared at the long bar in the Albert with a curious smile on his face. Jackson had been to see him. Jackson was in town for the one thing that would bring him all those miles from Durban. It had to be special.

That was why he had telephoned them to meet—they were going to hear it from the horse's mouth. Trenshaw had already been to the hall porter to sign Jackson on as a visitor. He would come right through the minute he arrived. They chose a remote corner, creaked down into their cane chairs, and waited.

Jackson never arrived.

He telephoned next day and apologised effusively to Trenshaw. Things had got a little out of hand. It had been too incredible for words and only ten Rand, for God's sake. What had been most impressive, however, were the safeguards. To be quite frank with Trenshaw, sixty minutes was all you were allowed but it left him so—well, he had not been able to face the idea of booze-up on top of it.

Trenshaw was adamant: Jackson had to see him when he called again on Trekkersburg, they would lunch together.

Which they did. And when the others gathered beneath the painting of General Buller, they did not need Jackson to tell them what an hour with Theresa le Roux entailed, music and all. Trenshaw spoke with the tongue of a fallen angel. At the end of it, he declared that Jackson had confessed to having made a check on his background. He had been given the address and an introduction. He was also permitted, after very careful consideration, to allow no more than three others to share his good fortune.

For nobody wanted to kill the golden goose.

But somebody had. And this was not so long after Jackson had dropped the sky on them all, as they played five-up round the Trekkersburg Country Club course, by airily stating he had films and tapes recording acts of unlawful intercourse with a person of another race. He produced a document to prove Theresa was Coloured. Finally, he advised his fellow golfers to use their influence as best they could to see certain contracts for the new Bantu township went to the list of firms he had had typed out.

As soon as they had seen the names, they knew that Jackson was a man of infinite resource. He could not only search for and find the corruptible, he could also foresee the outraged reaction of the incorruptible being coerced into awarding major contracts to the wrong people. All he asked was that the lesser jobs be passed to a specific group of the multitude of small companies competing for them. There was going to be such a squabble among them anyway, like urchins tossed a handful of pennies, that no one would take much notice of who were the victors. The total sum divided would not amount to much, but if it all went into a single pocket, the figures would move into the millions. The work itself could be sub-contracted out.

It was a masterpiece, providing the four elected members of the council could swing it the right way. Even if they could not, it had not been a vast investment, no considerable loss—except to themselves, and there would be other times. The lasting qualities of film and tape were almost unlimited.

And it was no use being silly and committing suicide. They had their families to think of. Once the contracts were signed, the tapes, the films and the girl would be destroyed. It was well known that a tape or a film, being a copy, could be copied. A co-accused—or at the very least, State witness—could not. By destroying Miss Le Roux, it was proof positive that no copies of the records would remain, as it would be incriminatory evidence.

And, after all, gentlemen, she was only a Coloured. It was not quite the same thing as killing a white. Look how she deceived you, shamed you, humiliated you in the name of eroticism yet really because she hated you for something you could not help—being white.

Desperation gives an edge to men's minds, a ring to their voices, a ruthlessness to their actions, which can be mistaken for conviction. The other members of the Bantu Affairs Committee were only too pleased to have some of the more petty decisions taken for them.

As promised, the girl died in a manner unspecified but sworn to be undetectable. Her funeral notice on Tuesday, the day of the signing, was premature but, as Jackson pointed out on the telephone that morning, an act of good faith made possible by the full council's approval of the committee's recommendations the Friday before.

Trenshaw had still not been able to believe it. He had borne the brunt of what had happened. The others had blamed him entirely, most unfairly. Especially after Jackson admitted that the orgy in that beachfront flat down in Durban had never taken place. They were infuriated to learn, too, that Trenshaw's overwhelming anxiety to see the matter safely to its conclusion had compelled him to claim an acquaintance with some old fool of a captain who was cremated on Wednesday afternoon.

They had stopped talking.

 

16

C
ONFESSION DID A
lot for the soul but little for the prosecution. It could not proceed without evidence and there was none. Everything had been arranged too thoughtfully for that. All Kramer could offer the court so far was an earful of hearsay. There had to be a link.

“I want Jackson.”

Trenshaw smiled. In the short lull he had been thinking.

“I suppose you must do.”

“But you don't?”

Trenshaw looked across at his companions. Ferguson had been apparently taken ill suddenly and the other two were adjusting his clothing in an attempt to lessen the lividity of his face. They were totally preoccupied.

“Speaking for myself this time, no.”

“Why's that? You don't want to be the only ones who get it.”

“Ah. Get what?”

So this was the obverse side to Trenshaw, this was the electronics manufacturer who had set the company geishas such a formidable task. All he ever needed was a chance to clear his head.

“You know.”

“Don't you find, officer, that speaking to someone about your problems is often such a help? There they are, all bottled up inside you, and nothing seems to go right. So you spread them out—”

“What's all this bull about, Trenshaw?”

“Perspective. That, together with the little law I know, tells me you're on rather shaky ground. You see, all you've heard from us is something we could quite easily forget by tomorrow. And then again, we did take all those precautions—that wonderful little tape of the music lesson, for example.”

“Tape? There are other tapes, and the films.”

“But Jackson has them. While I could once see them reaching you in an anonymous parcel, I don't think he would consider such a move prudent at this stage.”

“Who would tell him? How would he know about this?”

“Jackson is not alone in this world, officer. He made that quite clear.”

“Where is he?”

“I haven't the faintest.”

“You're not going to help me?”

“Sorry. It's a bit much to ask.”

“Then you're making one hell of a mistake, man, let me tell you that.”

Trenshaw raised a black caterpillar eyebrow. He was surprised by the way Kramer spoke, lightly and almost with regret.

“I can't see it.”

“Well, the fact is we've got you and your mates already,” Kramer said softly. “Certain tapes and film material came into our possession this afternoon. Your face—your voice with Greensleeves playing in the background. What do you think gave me the idea of coming here in the first place?”

“Jesus Christ! But Jackson—”

“Is not alone in this world, as you said yourself only a moment ago.”

Down he went. Practically fracturing his spine in an uncontrolled descent on to the carved teak chair. The groan was a trifle theatrical.

And the best part of it all was that Kramer was more than certain that the audio and visual recordings had never existed. They simply had not been necessary—any more than a real orgy in Durban had been necessary. It just was not Jackson's way of doing things. He always cut his risks to a minimum to achieve the desired result. Having the equipment in the Barnato Street cottage could have caused quite an embarrassment if there had been a blaze and gallant firemen had extracted it together with the reluctant couple—neighbours lived for the night they could dial Emergency. Film had to be processed and with movies this was not a job you could do in the bathroom. Besides which, such evidence could cut both ways and the girl would have taken rather a lot of persuasion. Jackson had been aware all along he would never need to use it. His secret was knowing his man—all down the line from the avaricious Shoe Shoe to the bumbling Dr Matthews. However, Jackson had deviated from his policy of caution in one respect: he had killed the girl. Now this had been most unnecessary—she could only jeopardise her own freedom by a rash act in the name of justice. Something must have gone seriously wrong somewhere. He meant to find out what.

“Look, Fergy's in a desperate way—we must get a doctor!”

Da Silva was tugging at Kramer's elbow. He shook him off.

“Come on, Trenshaw. We've got one of them, we've got you lot—where's Jackson?”

“He—”

“Yes?”

“He was going to meet me.”

“Where?”

“Here, tonight. After the party.”

“Jesus—when?”

Trenshaw tried to focus on his watch. His whole arm was shaking.

“About ten minutes from now.”

“Description?”

“What?”

“Tall? Fat? Clothes?”

“A bow tie. He always wore a bow tie. With spots on.”

Da Silva was making for the Assembly Room doors. Kramer vaulted the table and shoved him back against the wall.

“You bloody brute! That man's dying!”

Kramer parried the blow and hit him. Official cautions took time, so he hit him again.

And then he said one word: “Phone.”

It was Ford who looked up from gazing at his friend Ferguson's protruding tongue to point to the town clerk's podium beside the mayoral seat.

Kramer found the instrument hidden underneath the writing surface on a shelf.

“Switchboard? Call an ambulance, there's a critical heart case in the—just a moment.”

He covered the mouthpiece with his hand.

“I want you all out of this top floor before Jackson gets here. Where can you go?”

“You can't move Fergy in this condition!” protested Da Silva, who was much tougher than he felt to the knuckles. “Besides, he's too heavy.”

“I've seen you in action on film, Fat Boy—you've got the strength. Now, where to?”

Trenshaw stood up shakily.

“Say the gents at the rear of the stage. There's a service lift.”

“Hello, switch? The heart case is in the men's lavatories behind the stage. That's right. Police. So—what's that? Urgent? Are you sure? Please, and put it through on this number.”

Da Silva and Ford already had Ferguson supported between them.

“Better take his feet,” Ford said to Trenshaw.

“I'll open the door first.”

“Not that one, Trenshaw. The side door into the passage. I'll see to the ladies. Just you stay with him until the ambo comes.”

“What then?”

“Hurry, man!”

His call came through.

The general run of conversations conducted on the twenty-eight lines connecting the Trekkersburg City Hall with the telephone exchange were not worth putting down
Women's Own
to listen to. They were polysyllabic marathons about main drainage which could have been curtailed considerably by the appropriate use of four-letter words.

This one, however, warranted plugging in an extra set of headphones for Mavis, the caretaker's wife, who always saw the late shift had a nice hot cup of tea.

“Kramer here.”

“Lieutenant?”

“Make it snappy, Van Niekerk.”

“Hell, how did you know it was me straight off, sir? Having a nice party?”

“I said snappy!”

“Just a minute, sir—the Colonel wants to say something. Oh, it's just he hopes you're not giving the ladies too much—”

“Shut up and get on with it—they said it was urgent.”

“Did they, sir? It wasn't as urgent as all that. I hope I haven't taken you away from something important?”

“Sergeant, I'll give you ten seconds to give me the message or I'll come round and kick your bloody balls off. Now speak!”

“Yes, sir. Well, it's that coolie making trouble, again.”

“What coolie?”

“Zondi's mate—Moosa.”

“So?”

“He rang up three times jabbering all kinds of rubbish about some shirts that were stolen and this bloke Lenny.”

“Where from?”

“The call, sir, or the shirts?”

“Two seconds—”

“I thought you'd like to know, sir. Anyway, I've sent Zondi down to investigate. I got sick of it.”

There was a long pause.

“Sergeant, did I hear right? You get a tip-off regards Lenny and you send Zondi down? By himself?”

“
Ach,
it was real churra talk—maybe it was a tip-off. I don't think so.”

“Did Zondi speak to him?”

“I was detailed to handle the calls, Lieutenant.”

There was a long pause.

Kramer's next seven words whipped off two pairs of headphones and spilt the tea. But the eavesdroppers made miraculous recoveries.

“Yes, Sergeant Van Niekerk, that's exactly what I mean. I'll do it personally.”

“What for?”

“Because you've not only probably buggered up this entire investigation, you've also sent—”

“Yes?”

A receiver was replaced.

“Sir?”

What a pity, a moment's pretended prudery had made them miss what had obviously been the best bit.

Kramer walked slowly around the table to the double doors leading back into the Assembly Room. He listened for the sound of women's voices from the other side and heard nothing. But then the doors were specially made to prevent civic secrets leaking out, and like everything else, it worked both ways.

He turned suddenly right and headed for the side door into the passage: the hell with Jackson. He turned about: the hell with Zondi.

As Kramer slipped out of the council chamber into the Assembly Room, immediately closing the door behind him, he realised that councillors' wives had a rough deal. And that they grew very used to being left high and dry without explanation and only their delinquent servants to talk about.

The hen party broke up with a great clucking of mild recrimination.

“Whatever have you boys been doing in there?” Mrs Trenshaw chided. “Did you sneak dear Phyllis van Reenen in there without our knowing?”

So they were not altogether as stupid as they seemed to their husbands.

“Sorry, not tonight, ladies.”

It helped to get them laughing. Paved the way, so to speak.

“I'm afraid something very important has cropped up,” Kramer said. “None of your hubbies had the courage to ask you so they sent me: do you think you could all make your own way home? They said take the cars.”

“I should hope so!” snorted a peroxided shrew with long nails who was strangling her silver fox. And her companions echoed the lack of sentiment.

Kramer smiled charmingly as they walked to the exit—he had one minute to go.

Then Mrs Trenshaw swung round.

“Oh, you might tell my husband,” she said, “that there was a man looking for him a little while ago. We told him where you were but he just took a peep through that big keyhole and said it looked a long business and he couldn't wait.”

“What man?”

Kramer stepped forward.

“Pardon? Oh, he didn't give his name. Said it wasn't important.”

“I
still
say bow ties suit some men,” the shrew added firmly, as if having the final word in an argument.

Then she and the other women gasped, for they had never seen a man move so fast.

Van Niekerk was right, the Salvation Army Men's Hostel had seemed a most unlikely place to find Lenny. It was almost enough to convince you that Moosa had run amok. But as Kramer pressed his foot to the floorboards, it all suddenly made very good sense. The sort of sense that Jackson had displayed on other occasions.

Going back to what the waiter at the pie-cart had said, Lenny had been picked up by several men in a Trekkersburg car. Point Two: he had not been back to his flat since then. Conclusion: Lenny was staying in Trekkersburg. If he had moved into any non-white area, however, the presence of a stranger would have been noted, and particularly so by police informers. The alternative was a white area, and that would also have attracted attention anywhere but in the hostel. Ensign Roberts was always pointedly indifferent as to where a man came from or why. Nor would his suspicions be aroused by a man claiming the rights of a white while looking very much on the borderline: an accident of pigmentation was a common reason for men taking to the road rather than spend lives producing written evidence of their statutory status.

The hostel was, in fact, the ideal place for Lenny to lie low within Jackson's call.

And this meant that Zondi could now be in far greater peril than it appeared when the call from headquarters came through beside the mayoral seat. That area of the chamber had been right opposite the keyhole. If the mysterious Jackson had known a policeman when he saw one, or conceivably recognised Kramer, then he would have immediately set about destroying whatever evidence there was. This just might include Lenny Francis—and Zondi would doubtless try to prevent that happening.

Unlike Jackson, he would be all alone in the world at the time.

The hostel was around the next corner to the right, coming up fast.

Moosa had the shakes. And a suspicion that he had wet himself, ever so slightly. But Moosa was not afraid.

He had never felt such curious excitement; it tickled its way right down him, even into his loins. His eyes felt fat with their looking. It was simply that to maintain his watch on the hostel he had been forced to stand on his toes for well over an hour, enough to give any mature man of sedentary habits quivering muscles. Singh had been adamant about putting up his steel window guards after nightfall as he always did to protect his property. He offered Moosa a box but it had proved too high and exposed too much of the watcher. So Moosa had no choice but to put a cruel strain on his legs and back.

Despite the discomfort, he had left his post only four times and then to make brief telephone calls. As it was, he missed the arrival of a big black car with dirty number-plates that now stood parked right outside the hostel gates.

At first Moosa had mistaken the white man seated over on the far side in the passenger seat for Zondi's boss. The trouble was he kept his back turned as he stared into the yard. But the lights of a passing bus had shown he had dark hair after all. Obviously he was waiting for the driver to return from calling on Ensign Roberts. Well, he would have to be very patient. This was the hour during which Bible reading took place and Ensign Roberts permitted no interruptions—nor would he allow anyone who had supper in the hostel to leave until it was over. Moosa wondered if it was significant that he had not seen Leon Francis leave the rehabilitation dormitory when the meal bell rang.