The Sunday Hangman

by James McClure

  Kramer changed the receiver over to his other ear, and took the cigarette Zondi was offering him.

  “They couldn’t have sold some property, Mrs. Roberts?”

  “What property? They were renting, the same as us. Mind you, they always found enough for all those trips up to Pretoria, but they didn’t think to save anything for later. Typical! The funeral was a disgrace.”

  “Oh, ja? You went?”

  “Hardly! Mrs. Kleint did—she’s ever so religious—and she swears she’s never seen anything cheaper or plainer. Isn’t that awful? You’d have thought they would care more about what they did with their own flesh and blood. I know my Peterkins won’t even dream of skimping on my arrangements, bless him, when the time comes!”

  “You’re damn right, lady,” said Kramer, then found an excuse to ring off. “Jesus.…”

  Zondi shifted uncomfortably under his blank stare.

  “I’ve just learned something, old son.”

  “Boss?”

  “It’s the ones with the empty eyes who do the bloody sucking, not the other way round.”

  Then Kramer listlessly repeated what else he’d learned, before wandering off along the balcony to the lavatories, fully intending to stay there until the world was a better place. But he was recalled almost immediately by the promise of some comic relief.

  “Witklip on the line,” said Zondi, handing him the receiver.

  “Get the dictation set on,” Kramer whispered, and waited until he was plugged in. “Hello, Frikkie? What is it, man?”

  “Sorry to trouble you, Lieutenant, but you did say if I had any information I should—”

  “Hold it! I’ll put this on scramble.”

  Kramer clattered a pencil in his mouthpiece, gave the dial a slight twist, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Zondi gag himself.

  “All clear. You can speak freely now, my friend.”

  “Well, sir”—Jonkers began faltering—“I don’t know if this means anything to you, but I think I know why Tommy chose to come here.”

  “Uh huh?”

  “I’ve heard, shall we say, that he once had a friend who stayed here with a rich uncle. A long time ago, but it’d made an impression—such an impression that Tommy had always wanted to see it for himself. I think that’s right. He also used to boast he was a really bad boy when he was younger. Errol Flynn the Second, he described himself as. Not in the criminal sense of bad; just a bit wild—five or six girls chasing him all the time. Is that what you want?”

  “What do you mean, you’ve ‘heard, shall we say’? What’s your source?”

  “Well—er—”

  “Security must—”

  “Yirra, I’m not arguing, hey?” said Jonkers hastily, lapsing into a long, sweaty pause which ended in compulsive fluency. “He apparently made this statement to one of the farmers at the hotel bar, Lieutenant. Everyone was talking away about him last night, wondering where he was, and fortunately I caught the words, but owing to a coon waiter getting in the way, I’m sorry to say my view was obscured. I thought it best, in the light of the warning you gave us, not to draw too much attention by asking for the person’s name who made this report, and I’m sure you’ll feel I acted correctly under the circumstances.”

  What a bloody dreadful prevaricator he was. Even Erasmus, with his pathological need to lie his arse off, would never have tried that level of crap on a grown man, let alone a Witklip mealie strangler. At the very least, he would have required a half-witted woman and a degree of cozy intimacy before letting loose that little lot—two things that, everyone seemed to agree, Witklip had denied him. Then Kramer had a sudden, diabolical inspiration.

  “On another matter entirely, Frikkie,” he said matily, “your lady wife does haircuts—am I right?”

  If pink sound were a possibility, that was all that came down the line for nearly half a minute.

  Kramer did his chuckle. “No need to fear the Commies when we’re around, hey? Tell her I might be calling soon for one of her creations. And, Frikkie, thanks for the other stuff, man; it has cleared up one small point very nicely. Bye now.”

  He replaced the receiver, opened the Erasmus docket, and put a tick beside the note about hair clippings being found in the deceased’s ears. Then he looked up to see that Zondi had missed the joke.

  “Can’t you see? He chucks in all this bulldust about Errol Flynn and that, which is some gossip his wife told him, hoping to make himself sound like a big agent, and gets caught up in his own—I give up. The only thing that makes you kaffirs laugh is a Rhodesian.”

  “I think, boss,” Zondi said solemnly, “that Sergeant Jonkers accidentally told us more than he realized.”

  “And that isn’t funny? I lay you ten rand Mrs. Jonkers hasn’t been to a barbecue for twelve weeks either—never mind what that randy bastard organized with her during the rest of the time. Where’s my jacket?”

  Zondi helped him into it, allowing himself a small, pinched smile at Kramer’s expense.

  “Okay, Mickey,” Kramer challenged, “you tell me what makes kaffirs laugh, then.”

  “I will tell you two words to which we are sensitive.”

  “Watch it! Kill the light; I’ll do the door.”

  Together, and rather slowly, they started along the balcony to the staircase leading down to the hall and the street.

  “Those two words,” said Zondi, stopping on the top step, “were ‘rich uncle.’ ”

  “That was the Tollie Twist that he always—Christ!”

  “Whoa, boss! There are many rich men in this country, and that case is only fifty-fifty—Boss?”

  “Come on, man! It’s not midnight yet,” Kramer called back from the hall, and went out into the dark, clutching at a straw he hoped to make bricks with.

  Kramer found the eminent Mr. Cecil Colgate robed in his less than judicial dressing gown. “I confess that I do prefer,” Colgate rumbled, “to have my failures decently forgotten, and to rest—particularly at this hour of the night—upon my laurels.”

  Kramer made his appreciative smile double as an apology.

  “I certainly won’t offer you coffee, Lieutenant, as you obviously don’t get enough sleep—but I dare say a brandy would do?”

  “Very kind of you, sir.”

  While his host poured the drinks, Kramer took a polite look at the photograph hanging above the study fireplace, and was surprised to see a rugby team with several nonwhite players among it.

  “I was a Dark Blue,” Colgate murmured modestly.

  “Uh huh?”

  “But you’ve intrigued me, old chap, so let’s not become sidetracked. Here, sit.”

  They sat down in a pair of leather-upholstered armchairs and stretched out their feet to the dusty fire logs. The brandy was as smooth as spit: sheer perfection.

  “Cheers,” said Kramer, belatedly remembering his manners.

  “Your health! We were discussing the Vasari case, and you’d just sailed rather close to the wind by implying I’d profited by ill-gotten gains. Criminal slander.”

  “Hell, I’d done that, sir?” replied Kramer, knowing the sly twister of old. “So okay; let me sail all the way and ask you for the truth of the matter.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “But I thought we’d agreed that if I didn’t—”

  “You see, if you wanted to know exactly where that money came from, then I’ll say again I can’t oblige. Can’t, not won’t.”

  “Sir?”

  “But I can tell you something of the background—which I insisted on knowing before I accepted the brief.”

  When Colgate’s chin trebled and his hooded eyes closed to slits beneath the white mustaches he had for eyebrows, there was never any need for anyone to beg him to continue. Kramer merely cocked an ear.

  “Dear me, yes; that brief. As it happened, I’d already turned it down flat, being a trifle chary of the situation, when Mrs. Vasari came alone and unbidden to my chambers to have me repent my decision. By Jove, w
hat a scene that was! I’d never set eyes on the good woman before, of course—had just had a few words with young Willerby, her solicitor, over a game of pills at the club. Didn’t care for the sound of it at all; extremely dubious.”

  “In what way, Mr. Colgate?”

  “Willerby said he’d had a telephone call from an anonymous well-wisher offering to meet, on Vasari’s behalf, the fees of—as he put it—the best at the bar. One does get this sort of thing now and again, especially when a young defendant is involved, and these cranks can be a terrible bore. Willerby tried to knock it on the head by quoting my usual remuneration, and then had to do a spot of humoring when, to his disgust, this individual asked for a week or so in which to arrange payment.”

  “This ‘well-wisher’ stayed anonymous?”

  “Oh, absolutely! Willerby was only too happy with the notion that no names would embrace no pack drill, and he was responsible enough to make no mention of this to the family. But the next go-off was that Mr. Vasari received an anonymous call at his place of business a week later. On this occasion, the well-wisher merely gave my name and stated that the money would arrive shortly. And so, by God, it did! Willerby’s secretary found it in a brown paper parcel, left lying on her desk and marked very clearly. He had the family in that morning, as you can imagine, and asked them if they had any way of accounting for this munificent gift. After the first spot of excitement, Mr. Vasari could only suggest with fervor that it was all thanks to the Virgin Mary.”

  Kramer gave an amused snort. “And the scene in your office?”

  Colgate fetched over the brandy bottle to replenish their glasses. “She came walloping in, was fended off by my clerk, then by a junior—and ended up chucking the money about. Better than a grand opera! I had to have her into my room, if only to place the money in the safe, and despite my maidenly protestations, she insisted on pleading her case.”

  “Uh huh? I mean, yes?”

  “Say when. Here’s where I break my professional confidences, I’m afraid.”

  “When.”

  “Bit of background first,” Colgate said, sitting back and warming the brandy between his huge pink hands. “In ’42, Signor Vasari was interned by Smuts, having left Italy four years previously because of an intense dislike of fascism. Often wondered if he was aware that the illustrious Field Marshal, architect of the UN and all that, had once had a native village bombed for not paying its dog tax—but that’s by the by. Off he went with the other Italian chappies, and the little woman was left to fend for herself. Not a bright prospect, when your English is still wonky and your Afrikaans is non est, so she did the only sensible thing: she took in lodgers. Plenty of youngsters were after digs in Durban at the time, having been seconded from the back veld to take over jobs left behind by men in the armed forces, and she experienced no difficulty in soon establishing herself. They got used to spaghetti and she learned to speak Afrikaans; dreadfully lonely, many of those youngsters were, of course, and quite unable to feel at ease among the lower sophisticates of the post office sorting room. On one occasion, when she was sitting in the parlor alone with one of them, she burst into tears over hearing that her home town had been razed by the Yanks—they were listening to the nine o’clock news—and was mortified when her guest, while attempting to comfort her, burst into tears himself. But I seem to be wandering rather from the point, except it is pertinent to understand she had a true mamma mia’s heart. Those young men all loved her, as I heard subsequently from other sources. Now I shall attempt to remove your glazed look by corning to the nub of the matter: Signora Vasari was unmistakably Italian, a comely wench with dark eyes and a gorgeous accent, and this—”

  “Nub?” Kramer said, in his most Afrikaans accent.

  Colgate toasted him with his glass. “Oh, very well, you unromantic son of the earth, I’ll come to it. An Italian POW escaped from the camp at Hay Paddock just before the end of the war and sought sanctuary with her; he’d been in some scrape with a homosexual guard or other—I’m afraid that’s a bit vague now. Rather stupidly, although one can understand her compassion, she took him in. The police were round like a shot, but were so taken with her Afrikaans that their search was most perfunctory. Her lodgers were beginning to drift back to the country again by now, and she managed to keep this chap hidden for several months without detection. On the eve of the internees’ being released, she supplied him with clothing and a little money, and he was able to slip away. Just how he managed after that, she hadn’t any idea—quite a number of POW’s stayed on, so he may have just swapped identities—but years later he popped up again in a letter. He’d done very well for himself and wanted to repay her.”

  “Two and two makes four,” Kramer said, placing his glass on the mantel shelf, “but why the anonymous voice? I don’t follow that, hey?”

  “Then you weren’t listening, as I thought!” Colgate snapped irritably. “Why did Vasari leave Italy? What sort of man had his wife been harboring?”

  “He felt that strong about fascists? This bloke mightn’t—”

  “If you’d met Signor Vasari, you would be left in no doubt that it could well have ended their marriage. He was a man of such stern principle that I’m certain he was really to blame for his son’s delinquency, far too overbearing. Those two daughters they later adopted must be leading a devil of a life among all the temptations of Europe. Ironically, he also loved that boy deeply—perhaps he wished too much of him. It doesn’t take a mathematical mind to see that Anthony Michael was the blessing of their reunion, give or take a few weeks.”

  “So the father never—”

  “God knows, I did the best I could!” Anger uncurled in Colgate’s deep voice, and he rose, standing with his back to the cold fireplace. “I’ll never understand what possessed Roberts! I’d only just agreed to take him under my wing with Vasari—who insisted I should do so—when I found out we were too late. That wasn’t a murder until that damned little renegade started lying!”

  Kramer waited and then said, “So the father never got to hear about this man? She kept it to herself?”

  “Wouldn’t you have done? Sorry about that—er—little outburst.”

  “And she never actually saw him again?”

  “As a matter of fact, I think she did. Yes, took the family to see him without the old man being any the wiser—which is how this chappie knew about the son, one presumes.”

  “It was also in the papers. Did she tell you his name?”

  “For my part,” Colgate answered him, frosting slightly, “I was satisfied that the ‘well-wisher’ had a most admirable reason for not intruding, and saw no reason to press the matter. The poor woman was distressed enough by having to entrust her secret to me—it ultimately destroyed her, you know. Ghastly business. And furthermore, I’d like to remind you, I was being paid in cash.”

  Colgate always slipped them in at the end, using laughter like some kind of antacid.

  Without letting his smile fade, Kramer pressed harder. “No idea of his occupation?”

  “None. Came originally from farming stock; that’s the best I can do, but that’s true of so many Italians. Your questions are beginning to interest—”

  “Did she say—imply, even—when this get-together took place?”

  “A ‘chance’ encounter on the beach seems most likely, wouldn’t you say?”

  “What about at Witklip?” suggested Kramer.

  And saw Mr. Cecil Colgate, S.C., M.A. (Cantab), slap, a hand to his forehead in a courtroom gesture of sudden, very decided comprehension.

  “Witklip was where Vasari wanted to be buried, old son,” Kramer disclosed some thirty minutes later.

  The Chevrolet was wending its own way to Kwela Village; he and Zondi had just lit their last cigarettes of the day, and the smoke was tasting stale and unpleasant.

  “Hau, boss! Everything goes click.”

  “A lot does—or seems to,” said Kramer, “but we shouldn’t try to generalize. Keeping what I’ve found out jus
t to Ringo, let me fill you in on the rest of what old Colgate had to say first.”

  “Yebo?”

  “Witklip came up in conversation just the once, directly after sentence of death had been passed. Colgate had gone down to the cell to shake hands and say an appeal would be useless. The kid took it calmly, like they often do, and Colgate asked him if there was any request he’d like to make. Vasari wanted to know if it would be possible for his burial to be at Witklip.”

  Zondi clucked his tongue.

  “Ja, it put him in a hell of a position. He hadn’t any means of knowing whether the Commissioner of Prisons would be giving the body back, nor did he know what sort of funeral might be permitted. He asked if there was some special reason, not having ever heard of the place himself. Not really, Vasari said; it was just a place he’d always liked. A long time before, when he was still a kid, he and his folks had stayed there with an uncle over a long weekend. He’d gone horseback riding and swimming, and there’d been a party at the farm one night. But best of all he’d liked walking in the veld and being so far away from people. The only other time he had been in the country was at Steenhuis Reformatory, and being there had made him talk about Witklip until his pals teased him. In the end, if anything went wrong for one of them, the catch phrase was: ‘Ach, it’ll be okay when we get to Witklip—hey, Vasari?’ He talked a lot in the cell, making jokes like that, but Colgate could see it meant something to him. Then they took him away to catch the train.”

  “No church there, boss.”

  “Aikona—no bloody graveyard either. Colgate found that much out and never mentioned it to anyone.”

  The rutted dirt of Kwela Village juddered beneath them, breaking off the long ash on Zondi’s Lucky. He took a hand off the wheel to dust himself off and stub out the rest. Then he gave a long, low whistle and said: “Are you thinking what I am thinking, boss? About this uncle?”

  “Could be. He’s a bloke who must definitely have felt very bitter over what happened.”

  “Had he not provided money for Advocate Colgate, then—”