The Steam Pig

by James McClure

  “That’s right, sir. The brother has a record, not a big one but a record.”

  “The important thing is that it’s a criminal record. This gives us the bridge between the girl and the sort of trash who might associate with a spoke man.”

  “I agree, sir. And I’m pretty sure that he and his sister were mixed up in something together. She hasn’t much in her Post Office book but then we know she wasn’t shy to change her name when it suited her.”

  “Ah, those contact lenses—a funny business that. I don’t quite see it myself.”

  “We’ve only got theories so far. Sergeant Van Niekerk did some research on the notes of the case and came up with something based on what the eye specialist said about contacts.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Well, she had had these lenses for three weeks but nobody saw her wearing them until after she was killed. Why wear them at all and at night? Because the specialist said that anyone using these things for the first time had to do it in easy stages, get used to them. We think she was practising after dark.”

  “When was she going to wear them then?”

  “She had made her move to Trekkersburg. Why not another somewhere else? Another new life?”

  “I like that. If she and her brother were in trouble, they might try to run for it. The others just got to her first.”

  “Yes, sir, along those lines.”

  Kramer had to admit his admiration for the way Colonel Du Plessis had grasped the problem. He was a strange one.

  “If the contacts were her big secret, Trompie, do you think she would have answered the door in them? Stop! I know what you’re going to say—yes, she would, if she was expecting someone.”

  “Her brother.”

  “But it wasn’t. It was the killer.”

  “Van Niekerk had an answer to that one, too. Trudeau said that this kind with painted irises worked best in bright daylight on account of the pupil being made small. Farthing swears that there was only one light burning in the flat and it was in her room.

  “Now supposing she was in bed waiting for whoever it was—her brother. She hears a knock. She gets up just in her nightie, goes through to the other room and opens the door a little way. The light is shining from behind her and with those pupils she wouldn’t be able to see a thing out there. She hears a voice she thinks she knows. She leaves the door and goes back to get into bed because it’s cold—and it was cold on Sunday night.”

  “I’ve got the picture,” the Colonel interrupted. “Your eyes or my eyes would open wide but hers couldn’t. The opposite of the dazzle. Yes, but all this wouldn’t work if she wasn’t expecting a caller. If it was her brother, why didn’t he pitch up?”

  “He could have been afraid to. He could have known things had gone wrong.”

  “Another presumption—how would they know about his call in the first place?”

  “They could have arranged it and told both of them beforehand. Or only the one.”

  “The girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Much simpler—that could be the way things happened. They tell her the brother’s coming at, say, eleven. She hears the knock, opens the door and goes back to bed. They get her. Fine.”

  “They could have done it the hard way, too, once that door was open.”

  “True, too. But we keep saying ‘they’. Who are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know, sir. A gang.”

  “There are not many left who go to this sort of trouble, Trompie man. They could have got her much easier with a car.”

  “She didn’t go out much.”

  “Ach, man, you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, sir. What about a gang playing for high stakes?”

  “Like the one Shoe Shoe dreamed up? I think that’s a lot of bloody rubbish.”

  “According to Mkize’s statement it was not rubbish that made him kill Shoe Shoe.”

  “That will be the day Shoe Shoe knows something about his VIPs that gets him the chop. I can’t accept that. The Steam Pig … Huh! If you ask me, it’s a lot of steam pudding.”

  After an obligatory laugh, Kramer said: “But we are agreed then, sir, that this fellow Lenny could probably give us answers to a lot of questions—including that one?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Then I have your permission to go down to Durban with Zondi and see if we can find him?”

  All along the Colonel had displayed a slight anxiety despite Kramer’s unusual affability—or perhaps because of it. He was like a man expecting to have to pay for his fun. Now he knew the price.

  “I’m surprised you bothered to ask me, Lieutenant,” he replied heavily.

  “Port Natal Division doesn’t welcome intervention from our side, sir. It could lead to trouble.”

  “Like last time? You think I don’t know that? Captain Potgeiter said he never wanted you there again. Those are big-city Press boys they’ve got down there—they’re not so easy to tame.”

  “I was thinking of administrative troubles, actually. You know how the Brigadier is about protocol.”

  “I’m sure you were.”

  “It’s the truth, sir. No need for any rough stuff on this trip—we’ll just pick him up and bring him back.”

  “And if Captain Potgeiter sees you? What then?”

  “I’ll tell him you’ve fixed it up at the top. He can’t argue with your rank.”

  “If it’s all so simple, why not let Potgeiter do it for you?”

  “I thought it would look better in your report if it all came from this division, sir.”

  The Colonel blinked balefully at him from the ropes. One day he would win.

  “I’ll see about it, Lieutenant. In the meantime, is there anything you can give me to show the Brigadier?”

  “I don’t think so. It might not be wise—so much is still up in the air. But you’ve helped me a lot with it. Thanks.”

  “Don’t be too cocky. What if you can’t find this Lenny?”

  “Then I’ll pick up a photo of him and start looking elsewhere. Here, for example.”

  “And if you still don’t find him?”

  “We’ll know that there’s a pretty good chance he’s gone the way of his sister. Better than nothing.”

  “Hmmm, tell you what,” the Colonel said, holding his paper-knife by the tip, “you wrap this case up by tomorrow night or I’m going to put the whole squad on it. You seem to have overlooked the fact that my Press statement, which you made so much fuss about, has been the biggest help to you so far. Without it there would have been no old woman and no brother.”

  It was a draw.

  Van Niekerk was waiting for Kramer with a sheet of Telex in his hand. He was surprised when it was ignored, and perturbed by the expression that went with the snub.

  “Trouble, sir?” he asked.

  “What’s Durban got to say?”

  “A bit more than we know already. Leon Charles Francis got a year in Doringboom Reformatory for theft—while he was there he received a total of fourteen strokes with the heavy cane.”

  “Give here.”

  “Six for committing an indecent act and eight for serious assault.”

  “I said give here!”

  Kramer snatched the paper away and glared at it. The next paragraph read:

  “HELD ON SUSPICION THREE OCCASIONS SINCE RELEASE. ASSAULTS, TWO GBH. INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE. PROBABLE CONNECTION WITH SOME GANG. LIVES IT UP.”

  And that was all.

  “This the best they could do?”

  “Well, he’s not what you might call big stuff, sir. Even Trekkersburg has more of them than we can keep tabs on.”

  “I suppose so. But this ‘insufficient evidence’ bit shows he’s good at his work.”

  “Oh, yes. I wasn’t saying he doesn’t sound a really bad bugger.”

  “Well, we know who we mustn’t show this to,” Kramer said, nodding in the direction of Room 18.

  “Oh, she was asking for you. Wondering if she can go h
ome now.”

  “Not until we get sonny boy. He warned her to keep away from here so there’s no telling what he might do now.”

  “What’s the plan then, sir? Take her to the cells?”

  “I know a place, leave it to me. By the way, how are you fixed for tonight?”

  “Want me to come down to Durban?”

  “Actually I need a bloke here in case anyone phones in. You never know.”

  Van Niekerk adjusted his tie and outlook. He cleared his throat.

  “Fine, sir. I’ll just ring the wife.”

  “You do that. When Khumalo comes on, tell him to bring up the stretcher from the library—or you can have a spare bed from the barracks if you prefer.”

  “I’ll be all right, sir. Probably have the best sleep in weeks without the kids.”

  Kramer wondered about that.

  The cottage stood on the fringe of the sewage farm, surrounded by the most verdant vegetation Trekkersburg had to offer outside the Botanical Gardens. Six blue gum trees teetered behind it and strips of pink bark lay strewn on its rusty corrugated iron roof. The setting sun put a blush on the whitewashed walls, glinted off the windows which had glass, and gave the children in the clearing their own leaping shadows to chase.

  Mrs Francis peered at the couple waiting in the doorway to discover what brought a big flashy car their way down the rough track. You could tell she liked the look of them.

  Then the man recognised Kramer up front in the passenger’s seat and came running out.

  “What a pleasure, Mr Kramer,” he said, opening the door for him.

  “How’s it, Johannes?”

  “Fine! Mary’s here to greet you, too, and the kids!”

  Aware of Zondi’s gaze, Kramer attempted a bluff manner but gave in to the children’s teasing. One of their little friends edged his way into the circle to see what manner of white man could cause such excitement.

  “Just a minute, I’ve got a visitor for you,” Kramer protested, and he let Mrs Francis out.

  The atmosphere changed instantly.

  “What does she want here?” Johannes demanded. “She’s from a church? Sorry, we don’t want your charity, madam.”

  Mrs Francis’s sudden smile threw him.

  “Can’t you recognise your own kind yet?” Kramer chided. “This is Mrs Francis who has come up from Claremont for a few days. I want you to look after her.”

  “Of course,” Mary said, pushing her husband aside and taking Mrs Francis by the hand. “Come along with me. We’ll both have some tea before it’s time for the children to come in.”

  Without a backward glance, Mrs Francis went. And so did the children.

  “No luggage?” Johannes asked thoughtfully.

  “None. She came up on the bus to find out about a relative. Maybe she’ll tell you about it later.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “How are things then, Johannes? How’s Katrina?”

  “The same.”

  “Uhuh.”

  “But she likes it better in the hospital now. They give her work to do—she makes baskets for dirty washing.”

  “That’s good.”

  “You understand my sister, Mr Kramer. Now don’t you worry about this lady you brought. She’ll be safe and sound with us till you want her.”

  “Don’t throw her out before Sunday, anyway,” Kramer grinned. “Bye for now.”

  Zondi started up and drove off as Kramer’s door slammed shut.

  “What was that talk about old Katrina, boss? Have they cured her of killing her babies yet?”

  “Hell, no. It’s just that she hasn’t been raped lately. You black buggers are slacking.”

  Infanticide and rape, both capital offences, were very much on Moosa’s mind as he waited in his room for Zondi to appear with his next assignment. If the Pillay baby on the other side of the wall did not shut up, he would go round and strangle it. And while he was there, with the voluptuous Mrs Pillay presumably in a dead faint, he would make a night of it.

  Gogol banged open the door and confronted him, his fez wildly askew.

  “Moosa!”

  The Fiend of Trichaard Street cowered against the wall.

  “Moosa, you just telling me what damn tricks you are up to! Five Coca Colas and a Pepsi?”

  Moosa opened one eye.

  “Now don’t you try denying it, man. That’s three people in the shop tonight telling me that you have been sitting in Sammy’s Tea-lounge all afternoon drinking Cokes. With whose money, I ask? Whose money? My money!”

  “It wasn’t your money.”

  Gogol caught his fez as it fell.

  “Wasn’t mine?” he said and giggled nastily. “I tell you that every cent you have in your pocket from now until the day you die is my money.”

  “It was expenses, not money.”

  “You can call it what you like. I want it, so hand over.”

  “Just where do you think I got money from?”

  “Why should I care?”

  But that stopped Gogol. It made him ponder.

  “You spoke about business,” he said at last. “Can it be you have something lined up?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you had some cash even before you went out today, that is what I am not understanding. There has been nobody in this room I know.”

  The Pillay baby shut up.

  “Wait a minute, that Zondi’s been here. Am I right?”

  Moosa chose to look diplomatically committal. This got the message across but only to bring a hurtful howl of laughter from Gogol.

  “You—for them? That kaffir is mad! Now I’ll tell him to his face. What do you know about anything out there? Hiding behind your curtains every time Gershwin Mkize puts his foot on the pavement. You only went out today because Gershwin—”

  An idea suddenly occurred to Gogol which weakened his knees and settled him apprehensively on the end of the bed. He looked at Moosa as he had never done before.

  “Gershwin Mkize,” he said softly.

  “Yes?”

  “Last night Zondi was here. Next morning … were you the fellow who?”

  Moosa’s face gave nothing away, least of all the fact that his mind was tripping over itself trying to catch up with Gogol. It dawned on him just as Gogol spoke again.

  “No, please to say nothing, Moosa. I have respect for your position.”

  His wide eyes showed fear, too, and that was even more gratifying.

  Durban had never appealed to Kramer. She was not his kind of city. He liked his women to be big and strong and primitive, yes: but also dignified and clean. Durban was a whore.

  A cheap whore who sprawled lush, legs agape at the harbour mouth, beside the warm Indian Ocean which was not a sea but a favour that she sold. And they came in their thousands, these people who craved to pleasure their bodies, hurtling down the long roads from the prim, dry veld of the interior. Some died in their eager haste—shredded by shattered windscreens and buried beneath cairns of transistor radios, beach balls, teddy bears, peppermint packets and hand luggage. But most arrived safely to wander nearly naked in the palm-lined streets and be tempted by garish signs which stood out like face paint against dirty-skinned buildings.

  Of course, she had lice; half a million humble parasites who knew nothing wrong in dwelling with her and sharing the take.

  And crabs. Like the one they were after.

  “Where do we go first, boss?”

  “CID Central.”

  Zondi gunned the Chev over the intersection on the amber and squealed off left down a side street. He did not like Durban much either, judging from the speed at which he was driving. Or maybe he needed a piss.

  Captain Potgeiter was off sick.

  “Can I be of help?” his deputy asked.

  “Lieutenant Kramer, Trekkersburg CID. I’ve come for a picture.”

  The deputy straightened up from the counter, his smile almost conspiratorial.

  “Oh, ja, the Captain’s friend.
I’ve had the message. Here they are, old mate—not very recent though.”

  Kramer studied the two mug shots—one full face, one profile—which were still tacky from the glazer. Now it was obvious why Lenny Francis had not followed his sister in trying for white: he belonged right on the border line where only an official pen stroke could define his proper position.

  “It’s an easy face to remember,” the deputy remarked, coming round to look over his shoulder.

  That was true. The youth had an unusually long neck with an adam’s apple like an ostrich that had swallowed a beer can. Balanced on top of it was a round head, capped in tight curls and dimpled deep in each cheek. The nose was aquiline enough, but the lips too sensuous—they dragged down a little to the left side. The eyes were sinister but this was probably because the lids had been caught in mid-blink by the photographer’s flash.

  Kramer half-closed his own eyes and saw before him a silhouette almost identical to that in the locket picture. The heavy shade had disguised a great deal.

  “He can’t have changed much,” Kramer observed, tucking the photographs into his breastpocket. “Bit like a poof pop-star.”

  “You could have something there,” the deputy replied. “Just before you came in, one of the Indian staff was saying that Lenny learnt some nasty ways in Doringboom. A tart he knows by the pie-cart once told him that she wasted a whole night on the guy. No joy.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing. But I made a check with Traffic—I thought I remembered something—and he’s facing a reckless charge. I’ve still got the papers down here.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Kramer flipped through the docket. There was nothing remarkable in it—failure to comply with a stop sign, and a collision involving another car but nobody hurt. He noted down the registration number of Lenny’s ’57 Pontiac and its colour, lime green.

  “Ta very much, then. How’s the time?”

  “Getting on for eight.”

  “And how far is it over to his place?”

  “Should take you about twenty minutes. I can send someone along with you.”

  “No thanks. I’ve got my boy with me—he knows the town.”

  Which would have been news to Zondi, who was making his third awkward reverse out of a narrow cul-de-sac.

  “Try the next one,” Kramer said, cursing the Chev’s nonfunctional cabin light. He held another match over the street map.