The Artful Egg

by James McClure

  “Hau!” he heard her exclaim in great surprise.

  “What is it, wife?”

  “Come! Come and see this! Will you be angry with me?”

  Zondi sprang out of bed and went through into the parlour. His suit, sponged and pressed, hung neatly over the back of a chair. On her ironing-board, Miriam had a sheet of blank paper.

  “I found it in your jacket pocket,” she said. “I thought it was for a letter you wanted to write, so I decided to put the iron on it to take out the creases. Then, straight away, there was this writing! Like a magic trick! Like witchcraft.” And she shuddered.

  “Let me see,” said Zondi, reaching her side and looking down.

  Sure enough, what had previously looked like a blank sheet of paper was now covered in pale-brown script under the heading: Highly Secretive Thoughts With Reference Most Untimely Decease Of Late Naomi Stride (Professional Name).

  “Do you know what it means?” asked Miriam, putting her iron back on the stove to heat up again.

  The Widow Fourie brought Kramer breakfast in bath, as she called it. The doughnuts went in the soap-rack, and the ginger beer in the tooth-mug. Then she stood in front of the mirror and dragged a brush through her head of thick blonde hair, tugging hard to get all the knots out. He liked to watch her doing this, as it made her heavy breasts bob gently, almost in slow motion.

  “It’s just as well it’s another hot day already,” she murmured, her hair-clasp held between her teeth. “If it wasn’t, you’d have this mirror all steamed up. I don’t know how you can stand water that a cook could boil eggs in.”

  “So you’ve guessed my little secret, hey?” he said, reaching for the tooth-mug. “But, let me tell you, it’s a lot cheaper and less embarrassing than a vasectomy.”

  The Widow Fourie smiled and glanced back at him. “That last sleep did you good,” she said. “Was it a nightmare that woke you up?”

  “It was you shaking me, my girl, so don’t start trying to establish alibis.”

  “You were already almost on your feet, Trompie. I’ve never seen you so upset. What was the dream about?”

  “Ach, some court or other.”

  “I tried to guess, but all you kept saying was ‘It was the father, the father, not the son!’ And you were crying for your ma.”

  “Ach, rubbish,” said Kramer, and submerged himself.

  The Widow Fourie stepped away from the splash this made, and put her clasp back in her hair. The soap in the water began to sting Kramer’s eyes, so he sat up again, wiped his hand on a towel, and took a doughnut.

  “Ma!” came a voice from the passage.

  “Oh, for a life without kids.…” the Widow Fourie grumbled good-humouredly. “What is it, Piet?”

  “Ma, Uncle Trompie’s office is on the phone!”

  “I’ll go,” she said, unbolting the door. “See you don’t get jam on the sponge again, hey? You made little Suikie think she was starting her first period.”

  Kramer lay back and watched for his toes. They surfaced and stared back at him, the nails as blank-faced as an identity parade. The one he’d stubbed didn’t stand a chance of course, having turned a nasty black. He remembered the nail missing from Naomi Stride’s left foot, and his fists clenched. Like Tess Muldoon had said, for all her faults, a good woman. Tess Muldoon with the biggest spice-rack he’d ever seen. Rosemary.

  “Ach, that was just Mickey,” said the Widow Fourie, coming back into the bathroom with a mouthful of toast. “He must have done one of his impersonations for Piet. How long has he been playing tricks on the telephone? It’s new, isn’t it?”

  “But he never usually rings me here. What’s the message?”

  “He says he’ll be over in fifteen minutes to pick you up, Tromp. He’s got some paper that he says makes all the difference to the Stride affair.”

  “Oh ja? Then you’d better bolt the door again.”

  “For why?”

  “You said my last sleep did me good, hey? Fifteen minutes is just time for another.”

  Nurse Chatterjee removed the gag and began unstrapping Ramjut Pillay. “Good morning, Peerswammy,” he said, “and what a bright beautiful morning it is! Can I take it that all is now forgiven and forgotten?”

  “Forgotten?” said Ramjut Pillay hopefully, still groggy with the effect of an injection in his bottom.

  “Quite so,” said Nurse Chatterjee. “Even your curious reference to one Ramjut Pillay.”

  “Oh, good, good. He’s a most terrible fellow, that.”

  “So you know him?”

  Something warned Ramjut Pillay that somehow he was discussing matters he had resolved to ignore, but his feeling of euphoria, induced no doubt by a very clear conscience, made him say: “Oh, only very slightly in passing.”

  “A big fellow, strongly built, tall, aged thirty-one?”

  “True, very true.”

  “And a postman?”

  “He—” Ramjut Pillay stopped.

  “Why won’t you confirm or deny? What are you hiding?”

  “It is indeed a bright and beautiful morning, Nurse Chatterjee. It reminds me of a morning when my uppermost—”

  “Then perhaps the police had better see you after all,” said Nurse Chatterjee. “I have already told the doctor there would be no need, but maybe you have inside information and can assist them in their endeavours.”

  Information did not come more inside, reflected another, truly transcendental side to Ramjut Pillay.

  Zondi stopped the car a kilometre back down the road from the home of the Widow Fourie and handed Kramer the sheet of paper that Miriam had ironed for him. “This I found in the Indian postman’s room out at Gladstoneville, boss.”

  “Let’s have a read, then.”

  “Lieutenant, maybe I should explain—”

  “It’s bloody funny ink, hey? What is it? Blood, watered-down?”

  “Lemon juice, but none of that matters, boss—just look at what he says.”

  So Kramer ran an eye over it:

  Highly Secretive Thoughts With Reference Most Untimely

  Decease Of Late Naomi Stride (Professional Name)

  _____________________

  1) Murderous blow struck from left side

  2) Murderer ignorant fellow

  3) No warning received of calamity to come

  4) Deceased of Jewish persuadings

  5)

  Kramer frowned. “What can you see that I can’t see, Mickey? This looks to me to be complete rubbish. Or, at least, it’s only what he saw with his own eyes, read about, or sucked out of his thumb.”

  “The Lieutenant is quite correct, it is rubbish,” said Zondi. “But when I read it I was reminded there was something we have not looked at too closely that could greatly simplify the case.” And he pointed to the heading on the sheet of paper.

  “I still don’t get it.…”

  “The words ‘most untimely,’ boss.”

  “And so?”

  “The phrase in English, boss, means ‘before her time.’ ”

  “Ja, I know that—and it’s true. She was still quite a young woman.”

  “That is what I thought when first I read it, Lieutenant,” Zondi went on. “Then while I was looking at it again, in case I had missed something, I was helped by those words to remember that, in another sense, Mrs. Stride had died after her time.”

  “Kaffir, you’re going to have to explain it better, hey?”

  “I mean she died after her time here in South Africa, after when she should have left to go to England.”

  Kramer took out his Lucky Strikes. “Christ, I’m beginning to see what you’re getting at. The question you’re really asking is, who knew she was still around?”

  Zondi nodded and accepted a light.

  “As a matter of fact, Mickey, I put that to Theo Kennedy on the first day, but ever since then, with so many theories and clues to follow up, I’d completely forgotten this angle.”

  “Maybe somebody hoped we would, boss. Mayb
e that is why there are so many clues.”

  “Ach, no,” said Kramer, shaking his head. “There’s not been that many really, and why it got forgotten mainly was because …” He thumped a fist on the dashboard. “Jesus Christ, it’s been our whole approach! Right from the bloody start, we’ve been doing nothing but look for the motive. Why, we kept saying, why kill this nice lady? That’s where it began, with Jones’s bullshit theory about her being killed for her money. We find the sword and the Hamlet link-up, and we’re still saying, why? I get the idea about Liz Geldenhuys, and this time I think I know why, but not even then do I ask myself the truly practical question, how? I must be going out of my—”

  “You asked yourself ‘how’ with Mrs. Zuidmeyer, boss,” Zondi pointed out, starting the car.

  Kramer gave a bitter laugh. “Whoever starts by asking why in a domestic murder? We could all give a million boring reasons. But when it’s a world-famous person we’re out of our depth, hey? Jesus, with Naomi Stride, the answer can’t be boring, we tell ourselves, so the ‘why’ gets all-important—or something.”

  “Or something,” Zondi agreed with a nod. “Where to now, boss?”

  “Right back to bloody Square One, old son.”

  * * *

  Colonel Muller, as co-ordinator in the case, had the call rerouted to him. “Yes, Doctor, we’re still interested in the whereabouts of Ramjut Pillay, very interested.”

  “Well, I hope I’m not wasting your time, but I’ve a patient in my admitting-ward who claims to have some knowledge of him.”

  “He’s an Indian, too?”

  “That’s right. Aged roughly forty, claims to be a parachutist.”

  “Never!” Colonel Muller laughed and had to catch his pipe. “Did he admit himself down the chimney?”

  “I was attempting to give you the details of his case, Colonel,” the doctor said coldly. “Mental illness is hardly a suitable topic for jocose and—”

  “Ach, I’m sorry, hey? But if he’s in that sort of a state I doubt if he’ll be any good to us. Has he given you any information about Pillay?”

  “No more, at this stage, than would indicate he knows him.”

  “H’m. I tell you what I’ll do, if you give me your number and the name, I’ll put that in the file in the meantime.”

  “45300. And it’s: P-E-E-R-S-W-A-M-M-Y L-A-L.”

  “Got it. Many thanks for your help, hey?

  “Bye.…”

  Funny, thought Colonel Muller, that name was not altogether unfamiliar.

  Zondi took the car in behind the zebra-striped Land-Rover, and stopped. The parking-bay beside it was this morning occupied by a grey Ford pick-up. Theo Kennedy was round the front of it, with Amanda seated on his shoulders, talking to a big, loose-limbed man above the sound of a portable radio-cassette player belting out vintage Simon and Garfunkel.

  “Must be Bruce, Amanda’s uncle,” said Kramer, noting the man had the same colour hair and the same chin.

  “But younger, boss?”

  “By a couple of years, maybe,” agreed Kramer, opening his door. “With luck, this won’t take anything like that.”

  “Tromp!” said Kennedy, and Amanda added her greeting, too. “How did it go with Liz? I was just about to phone you. Oh, I’m sorry: Vicki’s brother, Bruce Newbury—Tromp Kramer.”

  “Glad to meet you—but I’d better not shake,” said Bruce Newbury, showing a right hand mucky with grease. “I’ve just been under to check the gearbox seals.”

  “They’re buggered?”

  “Totally. So much for my day off. I was going to go fishing.”

  “Borrow the Land-Rover, like I’ve said,” offered Kennedy.

  “No, you might be needing it, and, anyway, I’ve got to have my transport working; it really bothers me otherwise.”

  “Can Bruce take Amanda?” asked Kramer. “It’s just that—”

  “Bruce’s busy; she can go and talk to Zondi,” said Kennedy, putting her down. “All right, Amanda? There’s a good girl!” And she ran off.

  Kramer followed Kennedy into his flat and into the kitchen.

  “Coffee, Tromp?”

  “Nothing right now, but you go ahead. I didn’t make that follow-up on Liz Geldenhuys.”

  “You didn’t?” said Kennedy, taking down four mugs. “Was that because Vicki and me steered you in a more promising direction, the literary link-ups and that?”

  “No, it was because I realised what a bloody fool I am, man. Whoever did that to your ma had to be someone who knew she’d be still at home on the night of Monday—stroke-Tuesday.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And I’ve never asked you for a list of who they might be.”

  “Phew! But.…”

  “But what, Theo?”

  “Where does one begin? The travel agency knew she’d changed plans, the security people, probably the milkman, and that’s long before you come to her friends. No, wait a moment.…”

  “Ja?” said Kramer, plugging in the electric kettle for him.

  “While she was here last Saturday, I remember laughing—because she wasn’t often sly about things—when she said she’d not let on to more than a handful of friends that she’d postponed her London trip. If they wanted to phone her, they had to use a code and give three rings first. Oh, yes, and that was why she’d let Betty and Ben leave as planned, so they wouldn’t be at the house to answer the door. She said it was a heaven-sent opportunity to work undisturbed, more especially as she’d just broken her ‘jinx’ on the book and wanted to make the most of it. Do you know, I’d almost blanked all that? It was just you asking—”

  “It’s part of shock, man. Don’t you still feel in a bit of a dream world?”

  Kennedy nodded and went on spooning instant coffee into four mugs. “Nothing is very real. But what’s your excuse?”

  “Sorry?”

  “You still haven’t switched the kettle on.”

  They laughed, and Kramer flicked the toggle down. “You’ve just made me realise something else,” he grunted. “I’ve been obsessed a lot with the idea your ma had threats made to her in those blue letters I mentioned. Fine, I could be right, threats had been made, but what I missed is that the blue-letter business must’ve already been sorted out for her to be unafraid to stay alone in the house, no servants and no friends coming round, for even those few days.”

  “In other words, the blue letters were a red herring of your own making?”

  “Uh-huh, and a lot of time has been wasted.”

  Kennedy took the milk from the refrigerator, and stood for a moment, looking out through the window at Vicki Stilgoe and her brother, chatting together as a start was made on repairing the gearbox. But he probably wasn’t seeing them at all; his eyes had a far-away glaze to them. “Unless,” he said softly, “Mum was wrong in thinking the blue-letters thing had been resolved. You know what I mean—some dangerous crank who’d been locked away, but escapes again.”

  “H’m, very unlikely,” said Kramer, finding himself sneaking a look, out of sheer habit, at a rent bill that’d just been opened. Embarrassed, lest Kennedy had noticed this, he added: “Hey, we’ve strayed from the point a bit! We were talking about who’d have known your ma was at home. Can you give me a list of names?”

  “I can try.” Kennedy took down a kitchen jotting-pad and accepted Kramer’s ballpen. He was about to start to write, when he stopped and scratched behind an ear. “There’s something wrong with the logic of this,” he said.

  “Wrong, how?”

  “Very wrong. Give me a minute, and I’ll see if I can pin it down.”

  Amanda played with the radio mike, and squeaked with delight each time Control came through with a message. “Boy,” she said in the intervals of silence, “boy, make it talk—or I’ll tell the missus.”

  “We may not talk on there, Amanda; it is for Lieutenant Kramer only.”

  “The man who sits here?”

  “Yes, that is the Lieutenant.”

  “Mummy
doesn’t like him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Mummy says he’s horrible and shoots people.”

  “He shoots only very very bad people.”

  “Uncle Bruce is bad, but only sometimes. Make it talk!”

  “Soon it will talk again.”

  “Can Uncle T’eo talk to it?”

  “No, Boss Kennedy is not a policeman.”

  “He’s a nice man and Mummy says he’s a nice man, too.”

  “What does Uncle Bruce say?”

  “T’eo is a big softy-pofty!”

  “Control to Lieutenant Kramer.…”

  Zondi took the radio mike. “Bantu D.S. Zondi, receiving for Lieutenant Kramer, over.”

  “Give it to me! Give it, boy!”

  “Control. Message reads: ‘Suspect Peerswammy Lal to be found Garrison Road Hospital, interview immediately, Colonel Muller.’ Over.”

  “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! Uncle Bruce!”

  “Message received, Control. Over and out.”

  “You, what do you think you’re doing, hey?” said the uncle, appearing at Zondi’s open door. Then his eyes switched to the child and he smiled. “Amanda, I’m talking to you. You’re being a nuisance, I can see that, so you’d better go inside to Mummy.”

  “This boy pushed me! Hit him, Uncle Bruce! Hit him!”

  “Amanda, you’re going to get a smack in a minute!”

  “It’s OK, boss. The little girl is—”

  “She’s been acting up all morning, let me tell you. Sorry about this.”

  Zondi watched Amanda dragged away, kicking and screaming as only a truly spoiled child can do, beside herself with fury. Then he realised he still felt chilled by the look in the eyes of Bruce Stilgoe when first he’d reached the car.