The Steam Pig

by James McClure

  “It’s taken you long enough, Philemon. Got your girl-friend in there, have you?”

  Philemon kept his eyes on the brimming milk jug.

  “All right, put it down over there and then go and give the front steps another wipe over. There’s been a dog sniffing about, leaving dust marks.”

  “Yes, my boss. The policeman he wants to talk to his master.”

  “I say, old boy—don’t go, have your tea first. I’m sorry I snapped like that, you just touched on rather a sore point.”

  “I’ll come back,” Kramer said.

  He returned in less than a minute.

  “Any luck?”

  “None at all.”

  And Kramer’s face showed it.

  “I’m just letting it stew a bit. Old Philemon never bothers to warm the pot first. Any more questions?”

  “I can’t think of any, Mr Byers. Can you? Did anything unusual happen at all on Tuesday?”

  “Hmmm. Why, it did, come to think of it.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing you chappies want to know about. Milk?”

  “Ta.”

  “Oops, not ready yet. We’ll give it another minute.”

  Claustrophobia had never been one of Kramer’s problems but now he began to exhibit signs of susceptibility. He disregarded the no smoking sign and lit a Lucky.

  “Now where had we got to? Oh, yes. Seeing as we’ve got a moment or two, I may as well tell you. Quite the nicest thing happened; the chairman of the Parks Committee, no less, paid a call on me. He is nominally in charge of us, you see, and we are, in turn, responsible to him. Yet despite this I’ve never known a chairman before take the slightest notice of us personally. Milk, you said?”

  Kramer poured his own.

  “Some of these councillors have no right to be in office, if you ask me. They give you a job and expect you to get on with it. The only time you hear from them is when things go wrong. But Councillor Trenshaw not only called on me in my office, he also asked to see over the whole establishment. It was the end of the afternoon so I was happy to oblige him.”

  “Why did he decide to come at that time? Did he know your hours?”

  Kramer felt he had to say something.

  “That was the most heartening aspect of it all, Lieutenant. He had been a mourner at the last funeral of this day but, as he said, he’d not let that make him forget the backroom boys.”

  Councillor Trenshaw sounded a bit of a ghoul. Kramer’s interest picked up.

  “And you showed him all over the place, you said? What about his dead friend?”

  “More of a family acquaintance, I gathered.”

  “Still, it seems a funny moment to pick. Do you mean he was there when the oven was going?”

  “Of course.”

  “Christ.”

  “Good heavens! I see what you’re getting at, old boy. They were still taking the handles off in the preparation room when we went through to the incinerator. It was the girl who was being done—or so we thought at the time. We even discussed her case.”

  “Really?”

  “Councillor Trenshaw was very interested in her. He had arrived early for his friend’s funeral, which was immediately after hers, and had noticed how sad it was there were no people or flowers. That’s why he asked me who it was.”

  “You gave her name?”

  “Well, that’s all I knew—wasn’t it? And I told him her age because Farthing had mentioned it to me in passing.”

  “I see. Well, it takes all kinds. I don’t think I’d have stayed around in that room. Too morbid for me.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that with your job. Councillor Trenshaw wasn’t the least troubled. Why, he waited there to see the procedure when we opened the doors again. It gave me an excellent opportunity to press for some more up-to-date equipment.”

  “You could say then, Mr Byers—and don’t get me wrong—that Councillor Trenshaw enjoyed his visit?”

  “I would rather say that he seemed very satisfied with everything he saw. He congratulated us all.”

  Mr Byers glanced up at the clock.

  “I must be mad. Here am I, gabbling away about nothing, and I’ve got the new tapes to put on. You must excuse me.”

  Suddenly there were a lot of questions that Kramer wanted to ask. Far more than he knew would be prudent. So he left.

  And all the way back to town he remained silent.

  Zondi was changing down for the turn into De Wet Street towards the office when Kramer ordered him to carry straight on. He did so without question. He understood.

  Presently they arrived at Trekkersburg Bird Sanctuary. Apart from the water fowl on the lake, and a giant tortoise, it was deserted. The thousands of egrets which also lived there commuted to the countryside during the day—returning at dusk to shriek and squabble deafeningly in the trees. This was what brought the crowds; no show, no humans.

  It was quiet.

  The tortoise ignored Zondi. After one hundred and nine years, or so claimed the brass plate bolted to its shell, there was nothing new in the world.

  Zondi dropped a burning cigarette stub in front of its head to see what would happen. Nothing.

  But Kramer had to react to smoke when he sniffed it.

  “Zondi!”

  “I come, boss.”

  The door was already open for him.

  A black Oldsmobile made its way swiftly along De Wet Street. The driver, a tough, red-faced man with oiled grey hair, handled it well—braking neatly out of the flow of traffic and slipping into the parking-prohibited area in front of the main branch of Barclay’s Bank. A freckled youth in shirtsleeves sat chewing beside him.

  Van Niekerk paused to watch them.

  The driver took a careful look around. Then he nodded to the youth and they got out. Both were armed.

  A passing shorthand typist, hurrying back from a hair appointment, heard Van Niekerk’s sigh and half-turned. But his eyes were on the men.

  The driver had tucked his revolver into his waistband and was unlocking the boot of the Oldsmobile. His young companion stood self-consciously over him, the automatic in his hand really far too large to dangle casually by the trigger guard.

  “You’d better look out how you handle that thing,” Van Niekerk reprimanded. “The safety’s off and there could be trouble if it dropped.”

  “Mind your own bloody business,” the driver said, heaving two bulky briefcases out of the car.

  The youth insolently blew a bubble with his gum. It burst and stuck to the embryo ginger moustache.

  Van Niekerk had to laugh.

  “We’d soon change your ways in the Force,” he said mildly, turning his back on an outburst of apologies.

  And then he sighed again.

  Of all days, the Lieutenant had to pick a Friday to send him on a check of the banks. Friday when money was pouring in by the bagful, struggling out by the walletful, and every teller in the town had a queue long enough to buy the Mona Lisa.

  Van Niekerk had been shrewd enough to ask the managers to accompany him to the counters in each case, but even this was not much help. They were harassed, too, and as impatient as their staff in trying to identify a customer from a photograph. Computers had made faces redundant.

  “If only you could let us have an account number,” they repeated.

  “Miss Theresa le Roux?”

  “No.”

  “Miss Phillips?”

  “Not any of our Miss Phillipses.”

  And so a long, tedious, fruitless task had come to an end. The main branch of Barclay’s had not been able to help either.

  Van Niekerk stepped back into the sun.

  “I’m buggered if I know why people use banks,” he muttered to himself. “I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”

  Then he realised there was no reason why the girl should use a bank—she didn’t have a wife like his who enjoyed flashing a cheque book around.

  He walked quickly down to the building society
branch nearest to Barnato Street and went in. There were the usual three or four customers trying to make the tethered pens write.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, miss. CID. Just look at this snap, please.”

  “Not her surely?”

  “Who?”

  “That funny Miss What’s-her-name. Beryl, come over here a minute.”

  There were times whenVan Niekerk felt that his church was quite wrong in what it said about the mini-skirt. The pleasure he experienced was supremely innocent and so, he felt sure, was Beryl.

  “That’s Miss Phillips,” she said firmly. “She always pays in ten-Rand notes. But she took them all out again last week and hasn’t been in since.”

  “Oh, Beryl, you can’t say that without asking Mr Fourie first!”

  “Never mind, I just wanted to know if you knew her,” Van Niekerk soothed. “I’ll see Mr Fourie now, please, but I won’t tell, girls.”

  Beryl smiled and walked very innocently across to fetch Mr Fourie from his office.

  A lone egret flapped slowly overhead. They watched it bank, identify a particular nest, and come in with its flaps down hard.

  “Must have got the sack,” Kramer murmured.

  Zondi frowned.

  “Forget it, man. Just tell me what you’re thinking now about what I said.”

  “Hau, it can mean big, big, trouble.”

  “And even bigger trouble if we’re wrong, Zondi. That’s the bugger of it. One mistake and it’ll be the Brigadier for us this time. And the bloody chop.”

  “Maybe it is best that this time you talk with Colonel Dupe.”

  “It’d give him a miscarriage.”

  “You whites,” Zondi shook his head. “Why is it when a man becomes a big boss like with the council you think he can do no wrong? With my people we make our chiefs by the blood, this way we do not get the skelms telling us what to do. No man does all this work for nothing, like you say this boss Trenshaw does.”

  “It’s called democracy, man. They don’t do it for nothing though, many of them like to help.”

  “By telling other persons what to do?”

  “All right then, they’re after the power it gives them.”

  “You can like that thing too much, boss.”

  “True.”

  “There have been other gangs with a white boss, like the one robbing the stores in Zululand.”

  “Joey Allen’s mob? But he was white rubbish, not a bloody city councillor.”

  “That’s why they catch him so easy, I think. Could be this boss Trenshaw is a clever one. He is white—he knows the white people must respect him.”

  “OK, man, OK. So what do I tell the Colonel?”

  “He knows what Shoe Shoe’s telling Gershwin about the bosses.”

  “He doesn’t believe it.”

  “Tell him the other thing then.”

  “Fine, I just walk into his office and say I’ve linked Councillor Trenshaw with the murdered girl. How? Oh, easy, sir. You see he did a strange thing. Right after going to a friend’s funeral he went round the back and saw what he thought was the girl in question being burned up to nothing. He waited until she was nothing, sir, and then said how pleased he was with how things were going.”

  “You’re talking a silly way, boss.”

  Kramer shared out the remainder of the meal they had bought in Durban at the pie-cart. Zondi took his portion gratefully.

  “Let me try again, then. I’ll say I have reason to believe that Councillor Trenshaw was seen and heard acting suspiciously at the crematorium on Tuesday this week. Asked to give an explanation for this allegation, I will state that whatever a man’s sense of responsibility, there is a time and a place. I will point out that this girl’s funeral was advertised in the Press that morning and that, according to information received from the superintendent of the crematorium, the aforesaid Councillor Trenshaw did not admit to a close relationship with the deceased party involved in the funeral which followed.”

  He paused to take a bite from his fragment of pie.

  “I will then add that, in my opinion, Councillor Trenshaw displayed an unnatural interest in the workings of the establishment—and an unnatural interest in the incineration of a body, believed to be that of the girl in the funeral advertisement.

  “I will state that his interest went beyond the casual interest of a normal person observing such proceedings in that he insisted on staying until the body was totally destroyed.

  “And at this point I will ask permission to introduce a hypothesis which may shed some light on the matter.”

  Zondi snorted, showering crust flakes all over his suit.

  “What’s the matter? Do I sound like Sam Safrinsky?”

  “Supreme court, boss! Not just Jewboy lawyer.”

  “Thanks. Do you know what a hypothesis is?”

  “Very dirty talk that, boss.”

  The laughter did a lot for both of them.

  “Listen and learn then, kaffir. My hypothesis is that Councillor Trenshaw is taking part in some illegal enterprise of a nature so serious that it involves the liquidation of certain of its members when they prove difficult or of no further use. Furthermore, I suggest that a man of Councillor Trenshaw’s education and intelligence could well be the head of this enterprise. This is improbable but not, with respect, impossible.

  “And on this basis, I suggest that Councillor Trenshaw went to the crematorium with the express purpose of reassuring himself that certain evidence had been satisfactorily destroyed—to use his own words.

  “Furthermore, there is the question of the method used. If we allow this hypothesis to include the death of Bantu male Shoe Shoe, we will note that this was carried out by proxy. It was done badly but did not in any way provide an obvious link to this alleged enterprise. You could say that whoever ordered the killing was satisfied that the victim could not reveal anything specific—from this we deduce the victim had already been interrogated—and that it was much safer to have it done in this way.

  “But then we come to the girl. There need be no scruples in killing her for she is a Coloured and they know her position. But as far as the world is concerned, she is a white. The gang, if I may call it that, takes the precaution of importing an assassin from the Rand. All goes according to plan but Councillor Trenshaw is understandably anxious there will be no hitches. How very natural for him to display such an interest in her final disposal.”

  It was still very quiet beside the lake.

  “You are right, it is no good, boss,” Zondi said after dusting himself down. “This ‘high’ thing you are talking about does not put Tessa with Boss Trenshaw before she gets killed.”

  “I know it doesn’t, Zondi. It’s all bloody bull probably. And we can’t risk our necks on that. I’m not even sure that Byers bloke was telling the exact truth. He could have been building up his story to make it sound even better for him. Look, it’s half past twelve now. Take me up there again quickly and then we’ll get back to see what Sergeant Van Niekerk has found out.”

  14

  THE DOOR OPENED cautiously. The Colonel put his head around it and beamed when he saw Van Niekerk was alone in the office.

  “Ah, Sergeant, it is good to find a man who likes his work.”

  Van Niekerk shot to his feet.

  “Good morning—I mean good afternoon, sir.”

  “I’m not disturbing you am I?”

  “No, sir. I was just bringing the crime sheet up to date.”

  “Very good. Do you mind if I see it? This is excellent. So clear. I must try and introduce this method to other members of the squad.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And what were you writing on it?”

  “That entry there, sir, in green. I’ve just been doing a check on Miss Phil—er, Miss Le Roux’s finances. I found that she had over two hundred Rand in a building society under a false name.”

  “Had? In what sense?”

  “She took it all out last
week.”

  “That’s good. It ties in with Lieutenant Kramer’s theory that she was about to leave us when it happened. But where is he now?”

  “Out with Zondi—they’ve been gone all morning.”

  “Hmmm. No idea where, I suppose?”

  “Round the informers. He also said they might call at the crematorium.”

  The Colonel bent over the crime sheet.

  “What happened in Durban to make him want to go there? I see they didn’t get this Lenny bloke after all.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I won’t ask any more questions until I see him tonight,” the Colonel chuckled.

  “Tonight, sir?”

  “Hasn’t he told you? About my little plan? That’s the Lieutenant for you.”

  And the Colonel was gone, leaving Van Niekerk looking very vexed indeed.

  There were a number of vehicles in the car park near the entrance to the crematorium building but no sign of a hearse anywhere.

  “What’s going on?” Kramer muttered as Zondi backed the Chev up beside them. “Must be it’s all over and they’re just coming out. The undertaker’s boys have already burnt it home for lunch.”

  He looked at his watch. It was almost one o’clock.

  Then Zondi switched off the engine and they could hear the sound of organ music dimly through the thick stone walls of the chapel. There was a rapid fade on the last verse and Kramer smiled.

  “Mr Byers is in a hurry for his lunch, too,” he said.

  They waited for the mourners to emerge. Nothing happened. Then the organ started up again.

  “This priest’s got a lot to say for himself, hey Zondi?”

  “It is their way, boss.”

  When next the music stopped and again nobody came out, Kramer had had enough.

  “We’ll be here all day waiting for this lot,” he said. “Look, I’m going inside to see Byers in his control room. We haven’t the time to mess around.”

  He strode rapidly over to the entrance, pushed through the doors and headed for the small door at the far end of the hallway. But on his way down he paused for a quick glance through the windows of the chapel door.

  It was empty.

  “Back again so soon, old boy? Did you leave something?”