The Steam Pig

by James McClure

  Mr Abbott continued hastily: “I assure you it was advertised in the local papers as is required by Trinity under its policy, but not a soul turned up. And that’s another reason I didn’t expect anything was wrong: elderlies, especially the ones on Trinity’s books, often have no one. That’s why they join.”

  Now came the moment that Kramer had been trying to avoid.

  “Have you got Miss Le Roux’s papers handy?” he asked.

  Mr Abbott pointed to a ledger emblazoned Trinity Records beside the telephone. Kramer began to leaf slowly through it.

  “I see what you mean,” he murmured, “half these old crones have got one foot and a cornplaster in it already.”

  Finally he reached the entry he was after and found it revealed nothing but the name, the policy number, the date and means of disposal, and the coding. He noted down the latter and then unfolded a document which had been tucked into the page.

  It appeared to be the official go-ahead from the local branch of Trinity Burial Society, and there were a few details above a mass of small print about expenditure.

  Name: Le Roux, Theresa

  Date of birth: December 12, 1948

  Race: White

  Address: 223B Barnato Street, Trekkersburg

  Status: Single Occupation: Music teacher

  Next-of-kin: None

  Instructions: Disposal as convenient

  Well, that solved something. Or did it? Even orphans generally have someone to weep over them. And what about the people living at 223A? And—most significantly of all—what about the pupils? A teacher dying posed parents a problem they would be only too eager to smother under a mountain of wreaths. There was the time factor, of course; the Press notice had only run one day—the day of the funeral.

  “No flowers?” Kramer asked.

  “None,” replied Mr Abbott, pausing a moment to think visibly as he refilled his glass.

  Very, very strange. For a single, unguarded moment, Kramer felt intense, almost affectionate, respect for whoever had set up this killing. For once a murderer had attempted to do a proper job. Most never bothered to give their deed any constructive thought—Nkosi had been a good example of this. With them it was a case of deplorable self-control followed by instant action with whatever weapon was handiest. Nkosi had snatched up a cane knife, slashed Gertrude thirty-two times in front of the neighbours, and then stood around wiping the blood from his hands on the seat of his trousers while the police were called. Some did try a little harder. They were usually whites or sophisticated wogs who had gone to mission schools. In either case, he was sure it was a question of reading. Do-gooders, who saw to stocking mission libraries, always seemed to have limitless private sources of second-hand Agatha Christies. This type of murderer felt a social responsibility to adopt the key role in an intricate game of skill—some would call it mischance. They were careful with alibis and fingerprints. They had answers for everything. They often took tremendous pains to eradicate the body. In the final analysis, though, they saw themselves ranged against the police—whether in the open or watching from a thicket of deceit. They knew that the very act of concealing their connection with the murder had incriminated them. They were committed to a battle of wits. Even if they succeeded in setting up a “missing person” situation, they never knew when the bugle might suddenly sound as a pet dog unearthed a delectable but forbidden bone. A perfect murder, however, owed nothing to this outlook. Its perpetrator made no attempt to disassociate himself from his deed—simply because he was totally confident his deed would never be recognised as such. He shed clues without a care because no one would ever seek them. He did not give the police any more thought than they an unfamiliar name in the Gazette’s Deaths column. His way was Nature’s Way. A pedant might insist that some element of risk remained: a husband impregnating his wife could not be certain a mongol would not result. Yet in both cases only the odds were what mattered. And the odds against having a mongol would be considerably lower than those against a doctor doubting his own opinion on the demise of a known cardiac case—and astronomically lower than those against a professional undertaker switching bodies in the heat of some unspeakable passion. Yet the battle had begun.

  “Well, Georgie, I must say you’ve really pulled one out of the hat this time,” Kramer remarked, affable on adrenalin.

  “Thanks,” Mr Abbott muttered. He was well into his third glass and very, very much happier.

  Kramer’s glands had, in fact, started to cause havoc with their secretions. It was like being love-struck; he felt lighter than air, eager and ready for action. All he wanted was to go charging out and get his man. Sick. It was altogether a condition to be profoundly distrusted. So he decided to sit back, talk a little, ponder a little, be nice to Georgie who was not bad for an English-speaking bloke.

  “You see,” he said, “it was a case of all or nothing with the bastard who did it. You can bet your last cent he had a lot at stake. So what does he choose?—the ultimate weapon, a bloody bike spoke. Only, things have gone wrong and it’s like getting caught in your own fall-out. Anyone can shoot a gun, or stab with a knife, but very few can handle a spoke. That narrows it down.”

  “I’d say.”

  “Another thing: what was a white girl doing getting mixed up with kaffir gangster tricks? That’s a good one for you.”

  “It is indeed, marvellous.”

  “Go easy on that stuff, Georgie.”

  “Never fear, old boy, Ma’s gone home to mumsywumsy. Even worse, she is. Still alive only because she doesn’t want me to get my hands on her.”

  Kramer laughed.

  “Tell you what, bring the bugger back here when you get him,” Mr Abbott offered, “I’ll see to him for you.”

  His leer was frightening.

  “Not a chance,” Kramer replied, standing up. “This one’s all mine. He won’t know what hit him.”

  Mr Abbott raised his glass to toast the sentiment.

  “Just you see he doesn’t get to hear of what happened today,” Kramer warned softly. “This gives us a good start as long as we keep it quiet. Understand?”

  “Absolutely, old boy.”

  Mr Abbott’s company had suddenly become tedious. Besides which, Kramer no longer felt rarin’ to go. So he went.

  3

  THERE WAS STILL no one in the Murder Squad offices when he got back, but a ridiculous note had been left in the typewriter. It said that Colonel Du Plessis had an important engagement and should be contacted at Trekkersburg 21111 only if absolutely necessary. That was the Brigadier’s home number. Of course, he was holding a braaivleis to celebrate his dragon daughter’s betrothal to some fair maid of an architect. Ordinarily, this would have invited a stock outburst from Kramer—what a bloody time to go stuffing yourself on barbecued sausage with an eye on the main chance. But, under the circumstances, he could not have wished for anything better. Whether something was “absolutely necessary” or not was entirely a matter of opinion. He could get on with the investigation without interference at least until morning. It was also pleasing to find the others were still out for this meant no pressure to delegate. The case was all his—and Zondi’s, when that idle kaffir bothered to look in.

  He buzzed the duty officer.

  “Kramer here, just back from Abbott’s place. White female Le Roux definitely murdered. Stab wounds. Suspect Bantu intruder.”

  The duty officer’s silence was as loud as a yawn. Good, without lying he had made it sound sufficiently commonplace; after all, dozens of whites surprised burglars, to be fatally surprised in turn.

  “But keep it from the Press, will you, Janie?”

  Captain Janie Koekemoor reassured him of this on the grounds he knew bugger all about it anyway having just come on.

  Perfect. He replaced the receiver.

  Where to begin? There were already quite a number of people to see: Farthing, Dr Matthews, the Trinity agent, and the occupants of 223A Barnato Street. He would arrange for Ma Abbott to make her statem
ent to the local police rather than recall her, it was the least he could do.

  With speed as an essential factor, the party in 223A seemed the best bet. For a start it was likely they were Miss Le Roux’s landlords and that would save a bit of digging about. Kramer knew the properties down that side of Trekkersburg. Since the Act which kept most Bantu out of town overnight, many servants’ quarters had been converted at considerable expense into bachelor flats. This meant 223A would probably have a key handy and he wanted to examine the murder scene as soon as possible.

  Kramer paused only to scribble an offensive note to Zondi. Then he went down the back way to the car park. There was a new batch of used cars on loan from obliging dealers and he chose a beaten-up black Chrysler with three wireless aerials, white-walled tyres, and leopard-skin seats.

  The house at 223A was exactly what he had been expecting: a blankfaced bungalow wearing its mossy roof like a cloth cap pulled low over two verandah windows. It was set only a few yards back from the pavement, to allow plenty of room behind for a sizeable outbuilding.

  A closer examination revealed many small signs of neglect, especially in the paintwork, and unusually heavy burglar guards over every aperture including the door, which was closed. A fortress for aged whites too nervous to have even a handyman prying around—folk who would not readily admit a stranger in the failing twilight. Well, the important thing was not to sneak up but give fair warning and let the Valentino charm do the rest.

  So Kramer banged the gate and clattered the knocker as heartily as a priest. It worked. In less than a minute there was a rattle of chain, two bolts shot back, and the door opened just far enough for a grey-haired bantam of a woman to poke her beak out. The reek of lavender water would have sickened a bee.

  “Yes?” she demanded.

  Work-worn fingers began twisting her necklace as if she meant to throttle herself at the first sign of danger. But then she belonged to a generation that believed in a fate worse than death.

  “CID,” Kramer announced, very civilly. He proffered his identity card. It was snatched away through the bars and the door closed.

  Oh ja, life was made up of waiting for the gaps between the waits. Kramer glanced about him. The verandah was bare, apart from two chairs. One was made of cane, large, easy lines, and piled with enormous cushions with a flower pattern. The other must once have stood beside a Victorian dining table. It hurt just to look at it with its impossibly upright back. Their peculiar juxtaposition suggested something. The distance between them was less than polite society permitted but greater than intimacy required. They were, in fact, just close enough for pulse-taking. So in the cane chair you would find an ailing widow wealthy enough to have a paid companion seated by her side. It was a useful insight and Kramer used it unashamedly as the door opened again.

  “Yes?”

  “Ah, madam, I take it you must be the householder?”

  “Oh, no, sir, that’s Mrs Bezuidenhout. I’m Miss Henry.” And she simpered because it was so nice to know she still had a look of gentility despite what had happened to her hands.

  Kramer kept on smiling respectfully.

  “Then I’d like a word with her, if you please,” he said.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Miss Henry’s defences were down and within seconds the guard door, too, swung wide. Kramer stepped inside.

  “This way, sir.”

  Miss Henry led him into a living-room immediately to the right. She blocked his view of the far side of the room and all he took in was a Persian cat that seemed to be comparing bald patches with the Persian rug on which it lay—both had some form of eczema.

  “Here’s the policeman, dearie,” Miss Henry said, stepping to one side.

  Facing Kramer was President Paul Kruger without his beard. It took a little longer to realise he had grown flat breasts instead.

  “If it’s about my kaffir maid’s poll tax, I don’t want to know,” barked the President.

  Steady. But the likeness was incredible, even to the way Mrs Bezuidenhout leant forward on a silver-tipped stick. She would go a bomb in the next pageant of the Republic’s forefathers, that was for certain. Just strap her in a bit and swap the full-length black dress for a shirt and tailcoat.

  “I’m ninety-two, if that’s what you’re staring at.”

  “No, you reminded me of someone, madam.”

  “Then don’t think you can get round me with that sentimental muck. I’m not your wretched mother, thank God.”

  “Now dear!” Miss Henry pleaded, casting a forgive-us look at Kramer. “This is a very nice young man.”

  “Henry! Mind your place.”

  “Madam, I would like to ask you just—”

  “Sit down and don’t smoke.”

  At least she wasn’t going to set the cat on him. Nasty things, skin diseases. He sat.

  “It’s about Trixie you’ve come.”

  “Who?”

  “Trixie, Theresa, call her what you like. I did. Didn’t go to the funeral, don’t believe in them.”

  And Kramer was going to try and break it to her gently.

  “Why should you say that, madam?”

  “Obvious. Said it from the start. Something fishy about her going like that.”

  “Right from the start, you said it, dearie.”

  “But why, madam?”

  “Because I know who was responsible.”

  “Hey?”

  “Yes, that old fool Dr Matthews. I wouldn’t let him near a sick ox.”

  Kramer winced. A rookie would not have fallen for that one. And here it came, hell hath no fury like a jilted hypochondriac. He had to act fast—shock tactics.

  “Miss Le Roux was murdered.”

  Miss Henry made a passable attempt at having the vapours. It was all coming back to her now, the way a lady should act, but mainly from novels written before her time.

  “Vegetarian,” Mrs Bezuidenhout sneered. “She is one, you know—part of her religion, God help us. Was that true what you said? Murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that.” It was all coming back to Kramer now, too.

  “Well then, Matthews was a fool not to have noticed it. He signed the certificate.”

  This seemed to be her final word.

  “I would appreciate any help you could give us.”

  “Of course,” whispered Miss Henry, reviving swiftly and graciously. “We do so want to help, don’t we, dearie?”

  Mrs Bezuidenhout scowled but looked interested.

  “Then just tell me what you know about Miss Le Roux—anything that comes into your heads.”

  It was like overcoming the professional reserve of two eminent behaviourists and having them expound freely on their pet subject. There seemed to be nothing they did not know about Miss Le Roux’s eating habits, sleeping habits, washing habits and—as Miss Henry phrased it—habit habits. Between them they must have spent months on close observation, apparently using their kitchen as a hide with its view across the lawn to the flat.

  In the end though, when the last trivial point had been made, there was not much. The trouble was it had been so largely a matter of noses pressed against glass. As with animal behaviourism, a lack of actual communication had led to somewhat superficial findings.

  For Miss Le Roux had kept herself very much to herself during her two years as an ideal tenant. Which was odd in a young girl perhaps, but then truly artistic people—as opposed to the rubbish at the university—were so often the retiring sort. It was something for others to respect. The trouble was there was not enough respect left in the world.

  The only time any conversation occurred was when Miss Le Roux appeared promptly on the first of every month to pay her rent. She would hand over the cash in a pretty pink envelope, refuse to be coaxed in off the verandah, and make exceedingly small talk while her receipt was prepared. Now and then she would ask anxiously if her pupils were not making too much noise;
a recent boom in electronic organs imported from Japan had encouraged her to take on some adults for evening classes in sight-reading. No, of course not, dear, we’re a little bit deaf as it is. And that was all.

  So they had no idea where she came from and no idea of where she went on the rare occasions she ventured out, but they did have an idea there was some terrible tragedy hidden deep in her past.

  This was getting him nowhere.

  “Just a minute, ladies,” Kramer interrupted, “let’s just stick to the facts, shall we? You say that Miss Le Roux answered an advert in the Gazette for this place. She had no references but you took her on because she seemed a polite girl.”

  “Right,” growled Mrs Bezuidenhout, peeved at being cut short.

  “Okay, so she got up at eight. She did all her own housework. Her first pupils came after school, so if she went out at all it was in the morning. She took lessons until six-thirty and occasionally after supper which was at seven. Lights out at eleven. You say she never had friends in, but how can you be sure that those who came at night were always pupils?”

  “Because for a start they weren’t her type. All fortyish, smooth Johnnies, the sort who would buy themselves silly toys they wouldn’t know how to work. Besides, they always had music cases with them—see?”

  Miss Henry made a permission-to-speak sound. Kramer nodded encouragement.

  “We could hear, too, of course,” she said, “we could hear them doing their scales and making such a mess of it. Same mistakes again and again.”

  “She fancies she has an ear for music,” Mrs Bezuidenhout sniffed. “Deafer than I am, too.”

  “Did you recognise any of them?”

  “We’ve already told you that Miss Le Roux had her own entrance from the lane. Never got more than a glimpse as she opened her door, and that was from the back.”

  No matter, Miss Le Roux would have kept records for tax purposes. He would get around to them later. Then a thought struck him.

  “Did she have any around the night before she—?”

  “Not been one for weeks, actually,” Miss Henry said.