The Blood of an Englishman

by James McClure

  “Touchdown?” echoed Du Plooi. “You’ll be lucky if they don’t have to dig us out!”

  “It’ll be fine, you’ll see,” Kramer reassured him.

  They began to lose height, and the huge expanse of Murray Dam spread out across their flight path. Kramer pressed his head against his side window and saw the land end abruptly and the water begin. His stomach hollowed a little and his pulse rate stepped up, just as Bonzo Hookham’s must have done each time he crossed the Channel. The rippled surface below seemed to last for an eternity. Then just as abruptly they were flying over land again, and now there was something hostile and menacing in the deep shadows that filled the gullies, flooded the valleys, and cupped the round mud huts, making them look like pillboxes. The plane began to shake and tremble, buffeted by the flak of thermals coming up off the foothills, and Du Plooi’s ankle squeaked as he compensated on the rudder pedals.

  “Target area coming up,” he said, picking up the line of a wriggling dirt road. “Would you like a look at it before we go in?”

  “Please,” said Kramer.

  A minute later, Du Plooi pointed down at a homestead set back about 200 yards from the road. “Twin Falls Farm—we’ll follow the river now.”

  They were down to about 600 feet above the ground now, and still losing height. Things were coming up very fast, making Kramer anxious he’d not miss any important details when the fishing cottage came into view. The first intimation he had of it was a track leading down from the road into a valley which had been dammed to provide irrigation water for surrounding dry grasslands. Then he saw a small stone dwelling with a thatched roof, so like a model of an English cottage it seemed possible to reach down and pick it up between finger and thumb. There were two cars parked outside the front porch, a large American sedan and an MG sports, and a light was showing from the windows of the main room. Just at the point where this light faded into the night, another light was burning on a little jetty sticking out into the dam. Beside this light, which probably came from a pressure lamp, a man was crouching, while a second man stood over him and held a female figure by the hand. All three glanced up at the plane, then returned their attention to whatever they were doing. And just as they flashed from sight, Kramer saw that the crouching man reflected the lamplight as though he were very wet.

  Du Plooi began muttering to himself again. “That surely can’t be the strip,” he said, nodding to a straggle of orange pinpoints ahead of them. “I’ve seen more candle-power on a birthday cake!”

  “It’s two straight lines though,” remarked Kramer. “What more do you want?”

  It was a lucky landing. As the Cessna came swooping in, the double row of farm laborers, each equipped with a paraffin lantern, suddenly decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and took to their heels, running in every direction.

  Kramer left Robert du Plooi looking pale but proud on the edge of the air strip, being fortified by the farmer’s hip flask, and climbed into the cab of a waiting police Land-Rover with Zondi. The driver of the Land-Rover was a beefy, red-faced sergeant in off-duty shorts, sandals and a blue singlet.

  “Mok Grobbler, sir,” he said, introducing himself with a shake that implied he did quite a lot of milking by hand in his free time. “Is your boy to come too?”

  “Uh huh—I need him to identify the suspect. Shall we go? You can brief me on the way.”

  “There’s not much I can tell you, sir,” grunted Grobbler, starting the Land-Rover with a jerk. “Six men is all I’ve got on tonight, and I’ve got them sort of circled round the cottage on Uncle Pretorius’s place, keeping their heads down as you instructed. The trouble is mainly our walkie-talkie’s on the blink again, and we haven’t got a replacement from you blokes down in Trekkersburg. You don’t know what it’s like being out in the sticks like this; just one damn requisition after another, but nobody ever seems to take any notice.”

  “Well, I had a look at the place a few minutes ago myself,” said Kramer, “and things seem pretty quiet at the moment.” Then he described what he’d seen, chiefly for Zondi’s benefit.

  “Can you tell me exactly what this is all about, sir?” asked Grobbler, in the same aggrieved tone as he used when mentioning requisition forms. “Your youngster Schoeman just said it was a murder job.”

  “No, Sergeant, I can’t,” said Kramer, quite honestly. “If you’d asked me half an hour ago, I might have had a go but from the behavior of these people now, I’m flummoxed. I’ll just have to go in there and find out.”

  The road dipped and climbed, edged round steep slopes and dived between deep cuttings, and finally plunged into a long straight section that had a small concertina wire gate halfway down it. Grobbler, who had maintained an aloof, sullen silence for the last five minutes, throttled back.

  “This is the track to the cottage?” said Kramer.

  “This is the one, sir. Do we go in with the headlights off?”

  “No, I want you to park across the gate, blocking the exit.”

  Grobbler did that and killed his engine. “Now, sir?”

  “You’ve got a gun on you?”

  “Of course.” Grobbler took a .38 Smith & Wesson out from under the dashboard. “I’ve also got a Sten in the back. Is this the same case you wanted reports of gunshots? You know how it is, Trekkersburg headquarters never bothers to explain or acknowledge any—”

  “Fine,” said Kramer. “You sit tight here and see nobody gets out this way, okay?”

  “But can’t your—?”

  “Look, Mok, I’m making you the kingpin in all this, hey? Neither of the vehicles at the cottage is a jeep, so this is the only escape route if anything goes wrong. Or would you rather a Bantu from Trekkersburg takes the biggest responsibility?”

  Much mollified, Mok Grobbler climbed out of the Land-Rover, armed himself with the Sten gun as well, and wished Kramer the best of luck.

  “Not long now, boss,” whispered Zondi, as they moved away from the gate down to the cover provided by the plane trees along a little stream. “Soon all will be revealed.…”

  “I hope so, Mickey,” Kramer murmured.

  The curious thing was that the feeling in his bones still said, Hmmmmm.

  Stormtrooper Schoeman drew up alongside the big Chevrolet at Trekkersburg’s small aerodrome, and was surprised to see it was empty. His last little job of the night, after arranging the reception party for Kramer at Dargle, and seeing to it that Colonel Muller was kept in the dark for as long as possible, had been to pick up some lady friend his superior left behind in a vehicle she was unauthorized to drive. Kramer had warned him that she’d declared her intention of waiting out at the aerodrome until the plane returned, but that he was to ignore this and return her to her flat.

  “Ach, she’s probably in the ladies’,” sighed Schoeman, who was in a state of some need himself.

  He got out of his car and walked across to the small brick building where Trekkersburg Air Services was based. It was locked although, for security reasons no doubt, all the lights were on. The outside doors to the lavatories were also locked. Then a stout Zulu nightwatchman, armed with a knobkerrie, came round the corner of the building.

  “Hau! Po-eese?”

  “Police,” confirmed Schoeman, then slipped into Zulu. “I’m looking for the lady who was waiting in that big car. Do you know where she is?”

  “She’s gone, sir,” said the nightwatchman. “She ask me to let her inside to ring some man, and then he come in another car and fetch her.”

  “What? A taxi?”

  “No, sir. Just a car. At least I thought it was a man; his hair was very long and curled like a lady’s.”

  “Strange,” said Schoeman. “How long ago was this?”

  “Half an hour,” replied the night watchman, after consulting the large timepiece on his watch-chain. “The lady put a note in the big car.”

  “Oh, really? Thanks, hey?”

  Schoeman went back to the Chevrolet and saw the note on the steering
wheel. It had been folded several times, and had Tromp written across it. He reached through the open window and took it to glance at, being idly curious to know her name and why she had decided to pack in her vigil. Then Schoeman saw that the note also bore a kiss mark in red lipstick.

  “No, you mustn’t,” he told himself, replacing the note where he’d found it, and then he went back to Boomplaas Street.

  By keeping to the bank of the stream and sometimes even having to wade into it, when dry bracken on either side made a stealthy approach impossible any other way, Kramer and Zondi moved like two shadows through the moonlight. The trunks of the plane trees began to thin out, and ahead of them they could see the glint of the small dam where Archie Bradshaw caught his trout. The pressure lamp had moved from the end of the jetty, and had been left still burning on the doorstep of the cottage. Everything was very quiet.

  “Well, both cars are still here,” whispered Kramer. “I just hope the silence isn’t as ominous as it bloody sounds.”

  “Shall we close in, boss?”

  “Ja, we’ll get ourselves behind that pine tree on the little lawn. I’ll cover you—run!”

  Zondi broke from the rushes at the side of the jetty and made his way safely up the bank and across the grass. Kramer dallied a moment, looking at the mud and puddles on the jetty, and then at the little rowing boat moored to it, before slipping his magnum back into its holster. Crouching low, he followed swiftly in Zondi’s footsteps, and lay still for a minute with his back against the pine trunk, listening.

  “Still so quiet—can you see into the house, Mickey?”

  “No, boss. We are too low here, and the windows of the main room—”

  “Try a quick climb then. You’re the lighter.”

  Zondi handed him his hat, put away his own firearm and stood up slowly. He reached into the branches, got a grip and pulled himself out of sight, making only the faintest of crackles as the smallest twigs snapped off. He was gone for long enough to set Kramer’s heart beating harder and harder. Then there was a shower of pine needles and more twigs, and he dropped silently to the ground again. His expression was most peculiar.

  “I have seen many things, Lieutenant,” he began, shaking his head.

  “Just one at a time will do,” snapped Kramer, only just keeping his voice down. “Come on, Mickey, let’s hear it!”

  “The woman is in the bedroom where a small lamp is burning. She is lying on the bed with her hands and her feet tied to it.”

  “Raped?”

  “No, boss, her dress is down and she looks not so bad, but she has a gag in her mouth.”

  “And the others? How many are there? Just the two?”

  “Just Meerkat and a boss who answers the description of Darren Bradshaw.”

  “And they are where?”

  Zondi shook his head again. “They are in the sitting room, sitting top and bottom of the long eating table. And you know what? In front of each is lying a gun.”

  “Hey?”

  “They’re not talking, just sitting there. Meerkat is smiling, and Boss Darren is looking very frightened.”

  “Christ, it sounds like a bloody duel! Are there any marks on Darren?”

  “No marks I could see, Lieutenant.”

  “Then what is Meerkat up to? Why has he let the kid have a gun? He’d never risk his own skin like that!”

  “Shhh! Not so loud, boss.”

  Kramer looked up into the pine tree to see if there were enough branches to bear his weight. Then he had another idea. “Come, Mickey, if they’re so wrapped up in each other as you say, and if we keep low enough, we can get under the sitting-room windows without them noticing. But before we go, did you see any way we could enter the premises?”

  Zondi’s teeth flashed a quick smile. “The front door is standing open, boss, and the door to the sitting room must be about three paces inside it to the right. Are we going to listen?”

  “Uh huh. See what’s going on, then pick our moment. One last thing, Mickey: I don’t want any dead bodies, hey? These two have a lot of explaining to do before the night is over.”

  “Check,” said Zondi.

  By going down on all fours, and making good use of a long shadow thrown by one of the porch posts with the pressure lamp behind it, they crossed the remaining twenty yards between the pine tree and the cottage. It was something of a shock to hear Meerkat Marais’ voice hissing so close to them.

  “But it can go on all night,” Meerkat was saying. “It won’t though, because your nerve will crack. For one of us, this is his last night on earth, hey? Who will it be? Who will be the faster?”

  “It’s just a joke,” Darren Bradshaw blustered. “The same as me taking your gun was meant to be a joke.”

  “Some joke,” Meerkat observed bleakly.

  “Well, you weren’t in, as I’ve already explained a dozen times over. I had the cash with me then, honest! I was going to pay for it later, give the money to Silver Touch even, but my old man sent me back to Joey’s and—”

  “You stole my gun, little rich boy. You didn’t leave any money in the fridge. You stole that gun which is lying in front of you. You tried to cheat me. That was a big mistake. Nobody does things like that to Meerkat. You ask anyone you like.”

  “I was going to pay you this weekend for it!”

  “You’re lying,” said Meerkat, unmoved.

  Darren Bradshaw began to whine. “Please hear me out, hey? This bloke who wanted a small revolver never came back into the shop. It was my dad’s money I’d taken from the till to pay you, and when he didn’t come back—”

  “I’m not interested in all this,” sighed Meerkat.

  “But I’ve got you the gun again! It’s just as good as when I took it—it’s never been used!”

  “I believe you, Darren.”

  “You do?”

  “But that doesn’t change things,” Meerkat went on. “You must still be punished for what you have done.”

  “Be fair! Let’s stop this crazy—”

  “But I am being fair,” said Meerkat. “I’m offering you a sporting chance, Mister Bradshaw. I’ve promised I won’t go for my gun until you do, and then let the best man win. Isn’t that what you were taught at that posh school of yours?”

  Kramer nudged Zondi. He had been right, it was some sort of duel after all—although he’d never seriously considered the idea for a second. It didn’t fit in with Meerkat’s strong sense of self-preservation. Zondi raised his eyebrows, indicating that he was equally perplexed by the bizarre confrontation.

  “Listen,” said Darren Bradshaw, hoarsely, “I don’t want to hurt you—I don’t want to try to hurt you! Isn’t that obvious? You can’t really want to hurt me either, not over a thing like this. Why don’t we—?”

  “No, I don’t want to hurt you, Darren. I want to kill you.”

  “But—but why, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I hate you,” said Meerkat Marais.

  Kramer shuddered involuntarily and the hairs at the back of his neck rose. Meerkat’s voice had sunk very low, it was purring and soft, and conveyed far more than even the terrible words he uttered. The psychopath was in the grip of a compulsion, and what made it worse was the hint of grim amusement, as though he was enjoying a private joke which had still to reach its punchline.

  There was despair in Darren Bradshaw’s voice when he began talking again, trying for the conciliatory tones of sweet reason. “You’re obviously very angry with me, and you’ve got every right to be, Mr. Marais—you feel I’ve made a fool of you. But don’t let that anger run away with you. If you kill me, then Sonja will be able to tell the police—”

  “You must really think I’m a fool,” said Meerkat, almost inaudibly. “If I win then I’m going to shoot Sonja, put my pistol in your hand and make it look like a double suicide.”

  “What?”

  “I tell you, Darren, this is for keeps hey? But to make it easier for you I’ll put my hands on my knees. That way you’ll stand a
better chance of grabbing and aiming before I do.”

  Kramer motioned Zondi to take up a position where he could train his Walther PPK on Marais. Zondi gestured back, concerned that he would not be able to see Darren Bradshaw from that angle. That was all right, explained Kramer, with a zigzag movement of his hand, because he would be coming through the passage door behind Marais, and he’d have the youngster in full view.

  “When?” mouthed Zondi.

  Kramer tapped an ear, and mimed turning a door knob. Then he gave Zondi a light touch on the arm and made for the porch.

  From inside the room, Meerkat’s voice could just be heard saying. “I’m tired of waiting, little rich boy. I’m going to start counting up to ten.”

  He had reached three when Kramer, tugging his magnum from its holster, twisted the door knob and stepped suddenly into the room. Zondi came into sight at almost the same instant, with his pistol pointing at Meerkat’s head.

  “Freeze!” barked Kramer. “Police! Don’t try anything!”

  Meerkat froze, but Darren Bradshaw made a move to grab up the .32 revolver lying in front of him.

  “Hold it, Darren—or you’re dead, hey?”

  The hand remained poised an inch above the weapon.

  “You first, Meerkat,” said Kramer. “Bunch your fist and knock that gun off the table. Zondi’s got you covered from the window.”

  “I can’t see anyone.”

  “Do it!”

  Meerkat’s narrow shoulders shrugged in contemptuous indifference. He clenched his fist and sent the pistol clattering under a sideboard.

  “Now you do the same,” Kramer ordered.

  Darren Bradshaw looked back at him, white-faced and panic-stricken, gulping hard.

  “There’s only you here,” said Meerkat.

  “Shut up! Come on, Darren—take it easy now.”

  “Get him, Darren!” shouted Meerkat.

  Kramer pulled his trigger as Darren Bradshaw snatched up the .32 Smith & Wesson. It went click.

  He pulled it again as the muzzle of the .32 Smith & Wesson leveled with his chest. It went click.