The Sunday Hangman (28 page)

“Ever heard,” said Kramer, turning the book over to read the title, “of Albert Pierrepoint?”

“Now, there was an expert!” enthused Strydom. “A man after my own heart! You should read what he says about the Americans and their standard five-foot drop and four-coil cowboy knot.
Twenty-six
minutes one poor bugger had to
strangle. His own lowest time was nine seconds from entering the cell to the snap of the rope. The only annoying thing is that he never goes far enough into the detail.”

“You’ve read his book, then?”

“Ja, I got it from the library some time ago. As a matter of fact, I noticed it was out only yesterday, when I was getting a note on the machine hanging to you on the Telex. That piece from the paper, remember? What were your own reactions to that?”

Kramer’s detachment detached itself. “That wasn’t a cutting sent to you?” he growled. “You might have—”

“In 1926?” Strydom laughed. “What kind of teenager do you think I was? It comes from a collection called
By the Neck
.”

“You didn’t consider, though, that the existence of these books might be relevant?” Kramer said, dismissing his oversight.

“Hey?” There was a pause. “Ach, never. The examples they give are inadequate. Er—have you found someone who has read them?”

“Uh huh. And another book, too, by a barrister called Duff.”

“Duff’s
Handbook?
Man, isn’t that a hoot?”

“It’s meant to be funny?”

“Of course! My favorite part is where he suggests that there should be an exam for—”

“Funny? A lot of bloody nonsense?”

“What would be the point of that?” Strydom said in some bemusement. “If the facts he gives weren’t accurate, then his whole—”

“Almighty God, Doc!”

“—sarcasm would be for nothing.”

Kramer found himself actually speechless. He tried to articulate a home truth, but the sound wouldn’t come.

“Ohhhh,
I
see what’s got your Tampax in a knot,” Strydom said with a chuckle. “You’ve found somebody with Duff
and you think it might be him? Before you make a fool of yourself, Trompie, let me tell you something you must have overlooked.”

“Ja?”

“That’s a bloody
abolitionists’
book, man!”

Kramer gave Zondi the walkie-talkie set and a curt instruction, and went back into the station commander’s office. He slammed the Pierrepoint autobiography down on the desk in front of de Bruin. The fanner turned white.

“Jesus, you silly bugger,” Kramer said cheerfully, sitting down in the chair behind the desk and putting his feet up. “Look what I’ve found in your truck! You shouldn’t have worried these books were banned, because they’re not.”

De Bruin swallowed, and tried to hide his confusion behind a weak smile.

“They’re not?”

“To make sure, I’ve only this minute checked with the man in Trekkersburg. A total misunderstanding all round, although I will make a full apology for my part in it.”

“Well, naturally I wouldn’t.…”

“Good! And I mustn’t forget to return your keys.”

Kramer slid them to the midpoint of the desk. His strategy was crude, but, very roughly, it came down to this: the complete innocent would be only too glad to grab them and get the hell out; the sinner, for want of a better word, would suspect a trick. De Bruin squashed his hat onto the back of his head, and tucked his thumbs behind his braces—as if half of him wanted to go and the other half to stay. Very curious.

The keys remained untouched.

“Is that all, Lieutenant?”

“Definitely.”

“I’m still lost to know quite why my remarks caused this reaction.”

“Prisons Act, Number Eight of 1959.”

“But that—” de Bruin began, as though he knew equally well that the act merely made it an offense to publish false information about prisons.

“Ja?”

“Doesn’t mean a lot to a layman.”

“Ah!” said Kramer. “Then take my advice and don’t concern yourself with such dreary matters. Haven’t you got a party waiting? Hell, I’ve kept you long enough!”

“Trying to get rid of me?” de Bruin joked without much conviction.

Kramer thought he caught a whiff of what was going on then: the man seemed to be acting compulsively, to be forcing himself, not only to prolong the converstion, but to take it into deeper waters as well. More than one self-confession had come his way with this sort of preamble.

“Not before you’ve had your compensation!” he said, bringing his feet down. “Now, I know Frikkie keeps a bottle of the same in here somewhere.”

“Well, I won’t say no,” chuckled de Bruin, sitting again.

Fortunately Luthuli had seen to it that the two tumblers were clean, and the brandies were poured in a trice. That was another thing: for a churchgoer, de Bruin was being fairly intemperate, and his strained look had never left him.

“Cheers,” Kramer said.

“All the best.”

The brandy became a momentary preoccupation.

“So you must be an abolitionist, Mr. de Bruin? It explains why you’re so chock-full of information.”

“In a way, I suppose I am. I’ve got an interest, certainly.”

“Uh huh.”

“I—er—knew someone involved once.”

“You don’t say?”

“A youngster.”

“In this district?”

“On the coast. Durban, as a matter of fact. Or, more exactly, I knew his mother—lodged with her during the war, while I was working at the post office. Tragic. It was terrible what it did to her.”

“Uh huh?”

De Bruin stalled, sipping at his drink. His eyes had changed: the hardness had gone—now they were wary and expectant. Kramer, who had been under the impression he’d been holding the rod, realized abruptly that he was, in fact, the tin fish. The man was trying for a rise out of him.

“Of course, Mr. de Bruin, in my job you can’t afford to consider that side of it too much. It’s true as well that the people we get to know best are the victims, and we see how little mercy went into their big step into the hereafter.”

“I can appreciate that, Lieutenant,” replied de Bruin, relaxing before his eyes.

The transformation was striking; in a couple of blinks, the farmer was all Ferreira had described him as being: an easygoing-looking man, with a kindly mouth and the air of a peacemaker. De Bruin downed the rest of his drink, stood up, and held out his hand. “Must be getting back, as you said. At least you know where to come now if you’re wanting to speak to the local expert on hanging, hey?”

“Is that what Piet Ferreira told you?” Kramer asked softly.

The hand trembled.

“Is that why you hid those books in your car?”

“You’ve—you’ve only just said there was no law against having them!” de Bruin blustered.

“True. But there are other laws concerning what you
do
with them, sir.”

“Do with them? I’d lent them to somebody.”

“In Witklip?”

“Brandspruit. I picked them up last night—”

“And wrapped them in this morning’s newspaper?”

Kramer wasn’t sure at all what was going on, but knew that he’d turned the game in his favor, and that—very soon—he’d have all the answers.

“It’s no good.” De Bruin sighed wearily, letting the hand drop and his shoulders slump. “I’m not cut out for this sort of thing.”

“You lie very badly.”

“I didn’t exactly come prepared, Lieutenant.”

“I can see that. I can also see that you’re a man who isn’t accustomed to trying to pervert the course of justice.”

“I’m not trying to do that! God forbid!”

“This time, a full explanation?”

De Bruin nodded, returning once again to his chair.

A cockroach scuttled behind the dagga sacks. The night closed in tight, squeezing all that mattered into that small circle of yellow light. The horse clip-clopped in its stable.

“Where do I begin?” de Bruin began, “I’m in such a muddle—I didn’t sleep for worrying over which course would be right to take.”

Kramer gave him another double tot. It went ignored.

“Yesterday evening I called to see Piet Ferreira to finalize tonight’s arrangements—I’m chairman of the party committee. He took me into his office and behaved so strangely, asking the most peculiar questions, that I tackled him—pretty hard, I’m afraid. One way or another, I found out that you were in Witklip looking for a man who knew about hanging, and that you’d decided it must be me.”

“Just keep talking,” Kramer encouraged him, leaning back with his fingers laced behind his head.

“Probably things would have worked out very differently if he hadn’t also told me who you worked for. I really don’t know. But as soon as Piet said Security, I realized someone might be caused a lot of unnecessary distress.”

As soon as de Bruin said that, Kramer’s stomach fell through a trap on a very long drop.

“Because,” the farmer went on, “whatever his other failings, nobody on earth could accuse Gysbert Swanepoel of any form of disloyalty to his country. I was going to say just ‘a friend,’ but I have to trust you, and give you the reasons behind the foolish things I’ve done today. At first, when I got home and talked things over with the wife, we decided to let you get on with it. Gysbert has never spoken about his obsession to anyone else, and there seemed little chance of him becoming involved. Then Piet rang me and said there would be a search of my farm—he still sounded very scared of me, which neither of us could understand—and that started me worrying. There was always the chance, you see, that you’d try other farms if you found nothing on mine. Lettie—my wife—suggested Piet’s story sounded too incredible to be true, so we compromised. Did you go to my place today, by the way?”

“We did.”

“Had she left everything so you’d not break—”

“She had,” Kramer admitted. “Your compromise was?”

“To wait until Gysbert had left for the hotel this afternoon, and to remove his three precious books.”

“It would only have been a matter of time before—”

“I see that now, Lieutenant. I can see that nothing could really have stopped you reaching him, but I felt—I felt it was a chance worth taking. Then, of course, I had to spoil everything by choking Willie off in the bar.”

“Uh huh; why did you do that?”

“I
had
to. I had to say something before Gysbert went off the rails—you’ve no idea how much that kind of talk upsets him. It was the worst dilemma I’ve ever been in, God knows! And—huh—I thought I’d pulled it off, too.”

De Bruin sipped a little of his brandy. The cockroach still scuttled; the horse had possibly dozed off. Except for that one
scratching noise, like the first grooves on an old record, the night was deathly quiet.

“Now I have to explain why I did this, and I only hope you’ll see some excuse for me. Gysbert and I have always been friends, dating right back to junior school. I was one of the quiet boys, and he was even quieter. This gave us something in common, understand? So when the war broke out, and we were wanted to help out with essential services in Durban, it was natural we should go together. We found a room to share in the house of a young Italian lady, whose husband had been interned. There were quite a few other lads there—from other parts, of course—and the atmosphere was very friendly. But Gysbert couldn’t adjust to city life. The girls made him even more shy than the ones back here, and he dodged getting in a crowd whenever he could. As far as I was concerned, having so many new people to meet was a pure pleasure, and I changed quite a lot. This meant poor old Gysbert got left on his own with his books a lot of the time—he’d always been a big reader, and the public library was the one place he would go to. The lady seemed to understand him and his reasons for being the way he was, and often invited him into her parlor. Actually, we were entitled to the use of it, but you know what I mean. We all loved that lady—she was like a big sister to us all, but I think Gysbert loved her like a mother, his own having never much liked him. One night, I remember, he came up to bed and he’d been crying; you could see how red his eyes were, and I’m sure she had comforted him, because he talked to me for a long while about how wonderful she was. I was in bed with the flu. Ja, that was it. Then the end of the war came and, one by one, we started packing up. I only had to give a week’s notice, but Gysbert’s was a month. Something like that. Well, he came home, and got on with his job on the farm. His parents died—very close to each other—and he was left with no one. I admit I was the one who put the idea of marrying Annie Louw into
his mind. With some men, especially Gysbert’s sort, a widow can be ideal. But, man, he was so formal! Did his courting the old style, going round to her place and sitting at the table until the little candle he’d brought had burned down. Annie used to whisper to me on Sunday and say she wished she could put some saltpeter in it! They hit it off better than anyone had expected, and little Suzanne was born. Then came the first of the tragedies, when Annie died—must’ve got TB from one of the natives. We’ll never know. Gysbert went into a terrible depression.”

The cockroach stopped moving.

“Then, out of the blue, when Lettie and I were despairing, this lady arrived at the hotel to spend a long weekend, bringing her son along. She also had with her her husband and her brother. She and Gysbert had a long talk together in the first afternoon, and that did him all the good in the world. You know, I’ve often wondered if he’d written to her, asking for her help. Anyway, had she only told us they were coming, I wouldn’t have had to give old man Ferreira such a blasting. He didn’t—ach, it doesn’t matter. Years went by without us hearing from the family again, then all of a sudden, one Sunday when Gysbert and me were picking up the paper after church, there they were again—and in terrible trouble. Ja, the youngster I was telling you about.”

“What had he done?”

“The allegation was murder. He had just been brought up in the regional court to be sent for trial. Gysbert wanted to go rushing down there, then he decided this would be taking too much on himself. Finally, what he did was to offer to pay for the best defense in Natal, and I loaned him the money—all paid back now. But things went wrong and the boy was sent up to Pretoria. An appeal was useless, and there was nothing left but prayer. I used to go over to Swartboom three or four times a week with my Bible. That’s when his obsession began:
he told me he had to know what kind of death the boy would suffer, whether it would be merciful and quick. He dwelled on this so much he started taking trips to bars which prison warders frequented—or rather, he’d do this when delivering his venison to order. We get a call, you see, if they’re going to have a special menu or whatever, and we shoot—”