“But-”
“Which would be a pity if this affair has only a slight connection with the Detective Club. And it would be more than a pity if it had nothing to do with it. Remember, the English-speaking press has its spies everywhere, too-they would make a meal of a morsel if they got the chance.”
“What about the trial, sir?”
“Ah, thinking well ahead, I see. Well, I’ll expect you to have enough evidence by that time to make your preliminary inquiries irrelevant.”
“How do I go about it, then?”
“Keep it in the family. Ask the local sergeant a few casual questions.”
“And what do we tell the papers meantime?”
“That there’s a madman on the prowl. It’s still the truth, to my way of thinking.”
There was a tautness in Kramer’s face that the Colonel could not help noticing.
“ Ach, I know I’m probably making your job harder this way, Lieutenant, but I must be fair. Every time one of my men does something that’s not in the book, I try to see the whole force doesn’t take the blame in the eye of the public. Am I right?”
“Yes, sir. We appreciate it.”
“Good. Now you just get going again and keep me in touch. Need any extra help?”
“Sergeant Zondi and me are doing all right so far.”
“I bet.”
Boetie Swanepoel was indeed a familiar name to the station commander, who had just returned from a fishing weekend to start his two-to-ten shift behind the counter in the township’s charge office.
“That little bastard,” he snarled. “He threatened me. The bloody cheek of it!”
“When was this?”
“Why?”
“I’m just asking.”
“There must be a reason.”
“He’s in dead trouble.”
“You’ve made my day. It was back last month when I took over this place-got transferred down from Vryheid. First night he comes in here with his mates and says he wants to go out on the vans. Shows me a bit of paper and says he’s a detective! I didn’t bother to read it. I just told him that this wasn’t kids’ work, thanks very much.”
“You threw him out?”
“Well, it isn’t kids’ work, is it? It’s bloody dangerous when a kaffir gets filled up on white lightning!”
“I’d have done the same.”
“Of course you would. You know what? He comes back in here again and says Wolhuter-that’s the sergeant before me-let him go on raids, even. And then he says that if I don’t let him ‘cooperate’ I’ll be surprised what happens.”
“Jesus!”
“I nearly knocked his bloody block off, I can tell you.”
“See him again?”
“No, nor his mates neither.”
“Look, Sarge, it might be useful if you can tell me when this was.”
“November the first, the day I started. Then two days later.”
“And was a kid called Hennie Vermaak with him?”
“Buggered if I know.”
“Ah, well, that’s how life goes,” said Kramer, turning at a sound and seeing a housewife enter, dragging a small Bantu boy by the arm. “Looks like business is hotting up. See you.”
“This little swine has been at my orange trees,” the housewife declared. “I want to-”
“Just a minute,” the sergeant interrupted.
“I can’t stay, man.”
“But you didn’t say what sort of trouble the Swanepoel boy was in.”
“Oh, somebody knocked his block off.”
“Hey?”
“Murdered him,” Kramer mouthed from the door, and then added aloud, “Not in front of a lady.”
People often ask policemen what it is like to go around breaking the news of sudden death. It can be a lot of laughs.
Japie Vermaak was also an engine driver, a somewhat more prosperous one than Boetie’s father because he was in command of an electric unit. This in turn meant that the car in his garage was American rather than English and twice the size. But that was not what he was pointing to.
“There’s Hennie,” he said. “You can just see his feet. Been in there from when his ma gave him a bath, she tells me. Now don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”
“He’s upset!” his wife said.
“Naturally,” soothed Kramer. “I’m sorry-”
“No, man, it was best he should know. Maybe it’ll stop him going off without telling his ma or me what the game is.”
Mrs. Vermaak clucked. She made a good hen to his rooster, what with her small, bustling body and his slow strut and red hair. Sad they had managed only the one egg.
“Besides,” Mr. Vermaak continued, “it was rather you than me who had to tell him. He and Boetie were big pals-that was half the trouble.”
“What was?”
“Them charging about at night God knows where. I’m working then, you see, and it was a worry for the wife.”
“Has this been going on long?”
“What do you say, Lettie?”
“Not recently it hasn’t, but it was very bad at one time.”
“Whilst he was in the Detective Club?”
“Oh, no, that was only Fridays.”
“I see.”
“Suppose he’s been spoilt a bit,” Mr. Vermaak admitted. “Always difficult when they’re on their own. They need company their own age.”
“He seemed a very nice, well brought-up boy to me, sir. Sure I can talk to him again so soon?”
“Man, it’s our duty, isn’t it, Lieutenant?”
“I’m not so…” began Mrs. Vermaak.
But Kramer was already striding down the drive toward the garage.
The Security Branch offices lay out of earshot at the rear of the stone-faced CID building. The Murder Squad occupied the rest of the first floor, apart from a small section for Housebreaking, with most of its barred windows overlooking the street and the raw material passing by.
There was a window and a pair of men to each room; a system sound enough in theory, as they were assigned opposing shifts, but one at best congenial in practice. Which was why Kramer had pinned his name to the door of one of the interrogation rooms and called it his own.
Zondi went in ahead of him and opened the blind. The sun straight in his eyes made him sneeze. It was odd, that.
“Time?”
“Half-past five, boss.”
“God, I was a long time at the Vermaaks’ place. That kid wasn’t easy.”
“But you haven’t told me what he said yet.”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
Kramer sat down at his desk. He took a toffee tin from his pocket. He placed it carefully before him.
“ Hau, what’s that?”
“All in good time. Run down to Records and get me a crime summary for last month.”
As soon as Zondi had slouched out, Kramer dialed the Widow Fourie’s home number. There was no reply. He used a finger to depress the telephone’s disengage button and then tried again. Still no reply. He prodded the button automatically. Suddenly an idea occurred that both surprised and pleased him enormously. What a resourceful fellow he was. Leaving the receiver to purr like a cat in his lap, he opened the directory.
This time the response was immediate.
“The headmaster, please… Oh, Mr. Marais?… Yes, they would all be gone by now but I guessed you’d be catching up on paper work left over from this morning… That’s right-Lieutenant Kramer… Terrible, terrible… Naturally… As a matter of fact, you could: I’d like a word with Miss Louw tonight-do you have her home address handy?… Thanks… Flat 36, Aloe Mansions. Fine. Of course I will. Bye now.”
It was always a pleasure to deal with a genuinely busy man when you wanted something in a hurry.
“Nothing big, boss,” said Zondi, reappearing with the summary. “What special do you want?”
“Serious crime while we were away on that job in Zululand.”
“Murders? Five of th
em.”
“Forget the Bantu stuff. Just concentrate on Greenside.”
Zondi looked mildly surprised. The posh suburb of Greenside was seldom of any interest. As Kramer had said often enough, when you had the money, there were other ways than murder, all as effective.
“Only one grievous bodily harm on the first-sorry, Bantu employee on Bantu employee-and eight housebreakings. Hau, this skelm didn’t do badly! Same m.o. each time and nearly a thousand rand in stolen property.”
“Yes, I know about him already. Anything else, though?”
“One firearm recovered and the owner charged as well.”
“Uhuh. When was the last housebreaking?”
“On the fifteenth.”
“Damn.”
Kramer took the paper and stared at it moodily. He had entertained high hopes for what it might contain.
And, inviting Zondi to take a seat opposite him, he began to explain why.
Hennie’s story was that he, Boetie, and five of their classmates had joined the Detective Club back in July. The club encouraged its members to form gangs with colorful names and so they called themselves the Midnight Leopards. Sergeant Wolhuter, who was station commander in Railway Village at the time, had a daughter at the school and had seen copies of the magazine sponsoring the club. He made them welcome and gradually allowed them to do more and more. It had been very exciting.
Then at the beginning of November the station changed command. The new sergeant told them to get lost-and he collected up the equipment that had been loaned. They had all been very upset by this, but Boetie took it worse than anyone. He had two rows with the sergeant and then suggested that everyone’s parents should get together and do something. This backfired when the parents said that with exam time coming, and a good pass needed to get into high school next February, it was probably just as well. Their kids had to get down to some hard swotting. However, Hennie had not told his parents of this and Boetie’s parents were too busy with their church activities to take his entreaties seriously.
The Midnight Leopards became extinct. Or so it seemed until one afternoon when Boetie told Hennie he had a brilliant plan that would have them reinstated with full honors. He had noticed that the Trekkersburg Gazette was publishing story after story about police failure to put an end to the spate of housebreakings in Greenside. There had even been an editorial about it. His idea was for Hennie and himself to begin their own investigation up on the hill. While the burglar might be keeping an eye open for any grownup, he was hardly likely to feel it necessary to hide in a hedge when two boys came round the corner. There was no need to make an arrest, Hennie was assured-just a good description would do. Although, of course, what Boetie hoped for was actually seeing the crook climb in through a window; then they could ring the police and have him caught red-handed. Boy, after that they would be welcomed back, all right.
Hennie finally gave in and the pair of them cycled over to Greenside every evening after doing their homework. They saw nothing but learned that it was a very suspicious neighborhood. Big as it was, there were not that many roads and they had to cover the same route several times on each patrol.
In fact, Hennie had been on the point of announcing his resignation after a week of this when a police van cut them off and two white constables jumped out. They said they had received a complaint that two strange youths kept riding past a bank manager’s house. He wanted to know what the hell it was all about-and so did they.
Boetie did all the talking; humbly, apologetically, and without giving any indication of their true mission. Exactly what he said Hennie could not remember, for it was a very confused story. The constables had been bewildered but impressed, nevertheless, by Boetie’s attitude toward them. Especially after he excused himself for asking if they were not, as he felt sure they were, two members of the police A rugby team that he watched every Saturday. They preferred not to make a reply and stepped aside to hold a whispered conference. All Hennie caught of it was a giggled suggestion that the hunt for the housebreaker was over. And then the constables turned on them with a promise that if ever they were found making nuisances of themselves in Greenside again, steps would be taken.
The two boys had sped off as fast as they could pedal. When they reached Railway Village, Hennie told Boetie that his father was on to him for not doing enough studying for the exams. Anyway, he thought the patrol in Greenside was a silly old idea. He quit.
Boetie had called him a sissy. Boetie had said he was no longer his friend. Boetie had ignored him at school for a whole fortnight. And then he had come round the day before to go shooting.
This was a surprise, Hennie had conceded. He just had to accept the fact that Boetie wanted to be friends once more. They had had a very good afternoon. Boetie had not said anything out of the ordinary.
This was his story until Kramer discovered what had drawn the boy to the garage in the first place.
Hennie had been sitting with his back against the far wall, resting his head on his hands on the bumper of his father’s car. Later, while he was talking, Kramer had noticed first a black smudge on Hennie’s cheek and then black marks on the palms of his hands. He looked around and saw a crude brush on a long piece of thick wire, such as was commonly used for sweeping the chimney of a slow-combustion stove. It was soot Hennie had on him.
And there was more soot on the wall just beside the huge old wardrobe converted for storing car tools. Kramer had pressed his head against the wall and looked behind the wardrobe to see a toffee tin, bound carefully with an excess of insulation tape, hidden behind it in the corner.
Two simple assumptions later and Hennie confessed to having been bent on removing it when disturbed. He also divulged what else had transpired the afternoon before.
When they returned from shooting, Boetie told Hennie that he had carried straight on with his investigations up in Greenside-and had seen something that would shake the police solid if he was right about it. There was one more thing he had to do first, though, and he was going to check up on it that night.
“ Hau! What thing?” Zondi demanded, breaking his absorbed silence.
“That’s the bugger of it, man, we don’t know,” Kramer replied. “We’re dealing with kids, remember. They go in for secrets and all that crap in a big way. Hennie didn’t press him. You could almost say that would be bad manners. It was the same again when Boetie asked him to hide this for a while.”
Kramer tapped the tin.
“You’ve opened it, boss?”
“ Ach, yes. Hennie looked like he thought a bloody mamba was going to jump out. If I hadn’t got there when I did he would have chucked it in the fire. That’s why he was so scared, you see-there was a connection and what made it worse was that he couldn’t understand it!”
“But if-”
“Look for yourself, man.”
Zondi drew the toffee tin towards him and carefully prised off the lid. Inside it were four items: a membership card of the Detective Club made out to Boetie Swanepoel and three small squares of tissue paper.
Zondi took one. It was covered in closely packed lines of letters. There were no spaces between them-and no recognizable words in any of the three languages he spoke.
“They’re all much the same,” Kramer said.
“I have never seen such a thing. More children’s rubbish?”
“It’s called a coded message, you ignorant bloody kaffir, ” Kramer said kindly. “At least, I think it is.”
Bonita had remarked her brother loved puzzles.
Danny Govender became the Masked Avenger by the simple expedient of hitching the collar of his T-shirt up over his nose. Then, with a borrowed death ray clamped up to the front of his bicycle, he swooped.
Out of the yard behind his family’s tin shack, down the footpath strewn with broken glass and other fiendish obstacles, and along a tarred road mined by deep potholes that led eventually into Trichaard Street.
To the people thronging the thoroughfare it was ju
st that-a street. At the very most, their street, because all the faces were dark. There was nothing else particularly remarkable about it. Neon can cost up to forty rand a foot so it lasted for only about thirty shop fronts, both sides, before the final flourishes in pink and blue. From there on down to the municipal beer hall, the less affluent Indian traders settled for big letters on bright backgrounds and plenty of wattage. All of them, however, had domestic neon strips flickering over the fruit, clothing, suitcases, and blankets stacked on the dusty pavements; this kind of light made the eyes dance and the color of their goods twice as vivid-a most important factor when you had customers who favored tartan suits and oranges with blood groups. It was a street: busy, crowded, friendly.
Danny saw it differently because he was twelve.
When he arrived at the top end, he assessed the situation carefully. Outside the beer hall, in the shadow of a sign that read BANTU LIQUOR OUTLET, his friend who delivered the Sunday papers was waiting. But that was half a mile away and between them Evil in all its most dreadful forms lurked ready to pounce. For, as any literate person knew, the prime function of Evil was to deal severely with any champion of righteousness who happened to pedal by.
The Masked Avenger remained calm. He was chewing on a wad of bubble gum that turned him invisible for short lengths of time. It was just the thing for getting through the Gauntlet of Death unharmed.
When the traffic light shone green he would be ready.
Green.
As the bicycle rattled and bounced down Trichaard Street, its rider noted with satisfaction that everyone looked right through him.
And then, with a quick tug, he became the mild-mannered newspaper boy Danny Govender again before Rampaul Pillay could discover his proud secret.
“Where have you been all day, Rampaul, man? I look for you every place.”
“Harvey Street Clinic.”
“What you doing by that side?”
“Privates.”
Danny stared rudely at Rampaul’s flies, wishing he could cheat and use his X-ray vision.
“Privates,” repeated Rampaul. “I am not telling you.”
“Then you are not my chum anymore.”
Rampaul thought about this.
“Okay,” he said. “I falling off my bike and hurt my knee.”
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