The Song Dog

by James McClure

  “Hold your fire!” he shouted as calmly as he could. “You’re totally cornered in there, you have no escape route, so be sensible, hey? Just chuck your weapon out and—Jesus!”

  Kramer ducked as another muzzle flash lit up the inside of the hut, to be followed by two others; the bullets struck either side of him, stinging his cheeks with fragmented debris. He rolled twice to the left, tugging frantically at the cocking slide, and came up on his elbows again, aware of one thing: if he didn’t manage to return this fire within seconds, then the next muzzle flashes would be from outside the hut—and the bastard would come straight for him. Cornered men were men with few options; cornered kaffirs—who could hang for aggravated burglary, let alone murder—had no options at all: it was kill or be killed, and Short Arse bloody knew it.

  “Your last chance!” Kramer yelled out, wishing to God he knew how to say this in Zulu. “I don’t want to shoot unless I have to!”

  The moon hid its face, plunging everything once more into total darkness, and he took swift advantage of this by again rolling over, changing his position, trying to wrench back the slide, not bothering to take aim, tugging with all his strength on the trigger anyway, knowing it wouldn’t work, getting ready to throw the bloody thing.

  The next bullet seared Kramer’s right shoulder even before he was aware of seeing the muzzle flash, so near and so bright it almost blinded him. Hurling his pistol as hard as he could into the lingering dazzle, he made a bid to leap up, turn, and run, but missed his footing and fell, his left knee hitting his chin so hard that, half concussed, he ended up sprawled groggily, flat on his back, his arms and legs no longer seeming part of him. At which precise instant the wind seemed to catch its breath, for there was sudden silence that lasted just long enough for an abrupt, chesty cough to be heard, followed by the unmistakable hammer click of a double-action revolver cocking itself, perhaps only a yard away.

  “No!” snarled Kramer, trying to heave himself up, his head swimming. “Don’t you bloody dare, you little black—”

  There was a deafening bang, a gasp, someone shouting out an order to “Drop your gun!” in Afrikaans, and the next two muzzle flashes came from behind the hut. They were answered immediately by three more deafening bangs, just before somebody running full pelt tripped over Kramer’s right foot and landed heavily beside him, completing his sense of total confusion.

  “That was—a big help, Lieutenant!” wheezed a voice in the darkness, sounding winded. “I hope—you realize—he’s—got clean away now …”

  “Who the hell?” demanded Kramer, trying to raise himself on an elbow only to flop back, dizzy and nauseous, his eyes impossible to keep open, his jaw feeling broken in a dozen places. “Is that you, Malan?”

  There was a low, rumbling laugh from his rescuer. “No, sir, not Malan. I am—a detective sergeant.”

  “Oh, ja? Stationed where?”

  “At present, sir? Nkosala.”

  “Then what in buggeration are you doing here, man?”

  “That, Lieutenant, is a long story, which can wait for now. How badly are you injured?”

  Kramer, who detested being like this, as helpless as an upturned dung beetle, and with his head still behaving as though he’d just drunk a Cape wine cellar dry, merely grunted.

  “Look, sir, maybe it’s best if I help you into that hut over there and—”

  “No, wait, let’s hear this long story of your first, hey?” insisted Kramer, playing for time, determined to force himself unaided to his feet the moment his sense of balance stopped playing silly buggers. “How did you guess there might be trouble with Short Arse here tonight? Nobody knew—”

  “Short Arse, Lieutenant?”

  “Ach, you know, the coon who was doing all the shooting—alias Elifasi Ndhlovu, the bastard who killed Maaties and the nympho!”

  The detective sergeant laughed the same low, rumbling laugh as before, but this time there was an odd edge to it.

  “Listen, what’s so bloody funny about that, hey?” growled Kramer, willing his eyes open and twisting round to see what sort of expression went with such a laugh.

  He timed this well, because, just as he turned, the moon came out again, lighting up the man’s features.

  Kramer never forgot that moment. It was Short Arse.

  20

  “YOU!” KRAMER SAID, thunderstruck.

  “Me, my boss: Bantu Detective Sergeant Mickey Zondi—the Lieutenant wishes to see my warrant card?”

  And I’m meant to bloody believe this, thought Kramer, trying to reconcile the faultless Afrikaner accent with the kitchen matches poked through each earlobe, or indeed the Walther PPK with the burlap-sack hood and cane knife, but making sense of only the pair of well-fitting tennis shoes, ideal for hard, fast running across the Fynn’s Creek mud flats.

  “Boss, my warrant,” said Zondi, holding out his opened wallet.

  Kramer knocked it aside. “Then who in Christ’s name was that, taking potshots?” he demanded, his senses still reeling from the blow he’d given himself on the chin.

  “No idea, Lieutenant—I did not see the face.”

  “Bastard! Me neither. Oh, shit …”

  A splatter of fat raindrops had swept over them, as a sudden squall came rampaging in off the sea, and Kramer tried to rise, but lost his balance. Before he knew it, he had been hauled up bodily and was being hurried over into the cook boy’s hut, most of his weight being borne by a spare, muscular frame, not all that much shorter than his own, which then quickly and discreetly disengaged itself, leaving him to crash down in a heap on the sagging divan.

  “Now, listen, kaffir!” Kramer began, attempting to get his feet back on the floor.

  “Hau, my boss, give me a minute first, okay?”

  “Like hell, I will! I want to know exactly what is going on around here, and I want to know fast. Have you got that?”

  There was a nod, and Kramer slumped back, disguising his giddiness as nonchalance. It was only after he heard the hut door close and a match being struck that he realized his orders were being totally ignored. Infuriated, he heaved himself up on an elbow.

  “Cigarette, Lieutenant?” asked he who had been Short Arse, handing him both a Texan and the bedside candle to light it from. “Not your brand, I know, but Boss Kritzinger, to judge by the ashtray in his car, thought very highly of it.”

  Kramer heard himself give a surprised laugh. “Christ, man, what sort of kaffir are you?” he asked, touching the Texan to the candle flame.

  “Black, same as all the others, Lieutenant.”

  “But what else?”

  Zondi took off his burlap-sack hood, tossing it into a corner of the hut. “I’m also from Trekkersburg Murder and Robbery, Lieutenant, sir; Bantu section; seconded to work solo undercover in Zululand on the Mslope case.”

  “Never bloody heard of it.”

  “Bantu male Matthew Mslope, Lieutenant, wanted in connection with the murder and rape of three white nuns, one charge of arson, and the illegal possession of firearms. He led a mob that destroyed a mission school in a valley far up in the mountains last Christmas Day, sir.”

  “But why you, hey? And why undercover?”

  “Because all other attempts to find Mslope have failed, Lieutenant. The people must be protecting him. Another problem is the fact Mslope is a raw native, sir, of whom no photographs have ever existed—to track him down you must have someone who knows him well by sight so he can recognize him, even if he has taken the necessary steps to alter his appearance.”

  “And you think you could do that, hey?”

  “Yes, my boss. I am certain of it.”

  “How come? You’ve arrested him in the past?”

  “Mslope has never done any wrong before, Lieutenant. I know him because I was a pupil at that mission school many years ago, the same time as he was. He is my cousin.”

  Kramer raised an eyebrow. “You would send your own cousin to the hangman in Pretoria?”

  “I would prefer to kill M
slope myself, sir,” said Zondi, touching his shoulder holster. “There would be some dignity in such a death, which would greatly benefit the spirits of our ancestors.”

  Giddiness again overtook Kramer, forcing him to lie back, half aware that this clammy coldness he felt was possibly some form of delayed shock. “But what the hell has all that nuns nonsense got to do with this business?” he demanded.

  “Nothing, Lieutenant, except that it brought me down into this district from the mountains three weeks ago in search of Mslope,” replied Zondi. “And tonight I just happened to be passing this way when I—”

  “Don’t give me that bullshit, man. You’ve been treading on my bloody shoelaces from the start! Why was that? You’d better start explaining yourself, hey?”

  Zondi lifted his cigarette to his lips to hide a smile and said, with a shrug: “I was made curious, sir.”

  “Oh, ja? By what?”

  “By the enormous explosion three nights ago, Lieutenant. Only I was on surveillance at the time, and so I had to wait until morning before I could go along to Jafini police station and see what there was to be overheard in the charge office. I soon—”

  “Why didn’t you just ask them straight out?”

  “Mslope has excited much sympathy, even among those duty-bound to report his whereabouts, Lieutenant, and so I am under strict orders from Captain Bronkhorst not to allow anyone to know that I am a police officer until the time an arrest has been made—or whatever.”

  “Then you’ve made a total balls of things tonight, haven’t you, hey?” said Kramer. “But never mind that for now. What happened when you got to the police station?”

  “I told the Bantu constable on counter duty that I was seeking advice concerning my pass book, sir. He said I must sit and wait because he was very, very busy. So I sat with an old woman whose fowls had been stolen and with a man who had come to report there was a penknife in his back. Slowly, slowly—we sat on that bench many hours—I learned some of the details of these killings and I was made shocked and angry, for Lieutenant Kritzinger had seemed a very good boss, very fair.”

  “Ach, not you, too, hey? One of the best?”

  “I knew they spoke very highly of him in the reserve, Lieutenant. He would come to them quietly and alone, sit many hours and hold a proper ingxoxo, speak with courtesy to the people and in their own language, and explain why he had to do such and such, for it was his duty. Many times, the suspect he was seeking would come forward with his hands held out like this for the cuffs, because the chief had turned to this offender and asked him to show the proper respect. There were times, too, when Boss Kritzinger did not take a man to jail, but he gave him a good beating instead, allowing him to be at work the next day so his family would not suffer. Hau, he could hit hard, the people say! They called him Isipikili, the Nail, because with one blow he could join together a man and a wife who had been fighting!”

  “So this was an old weakness of his?”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant?”

  “Just go on, hey?”

  “There was much talk, Lieutenant. Fortunately, my earnest request for advice was not seen as too urgent, so I was allowed to wait ignored and unattended for many hours, overhearing many things.”

  “Such as?”

  “About how the body of Boss Kritzinger had been found just after four o’clock in the morning, and that it had not been badly mutilated, although that of the white madam had been torn into many pieces. For a while it was wondered whether Boss Gillets had been made into even smaller pieces, then someone said no, he was away, working at the big game reserve. Everyone was much puzzled to know why this thing had been done. Another thing to puzzle them was that it seemed a new CID lieutenant was being sent up from Trekkersburg to take charge of the case. Everyone was greatly surprised, for they had expected Captain Bronkhorst to do this work. One man said maybe Captain Bronkhorst was afraid he would look bad if he failed to catch the person who had made the explosion. But later, Mtetwa, the Bantu sergeant, said no, it was not like that. He had spoken with a former CID colleague in Trekkersburg and had been told that Captain Bronkhorst was busy with a very big investigation, assisting the Security Branch to find a certain Bantu male, Nelson Mandela.”

  “Who?” asked Kramer.

  “Oh, some Xhosa,” said Zondi, with what seemed a very Zulu gesture of dismissal for someone belonging to a lesser tribe. “I seem to remember he is also ANC, once a lawyer.”

  “Oh, ja? Why didn’t the Colonel just tell me that?”

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Ach, never mind,” said Kramer, motioning for him to continue.

  “Then, in the afternoon, Boss Bokkie Maritz arrived at the police station, sir, driving a Trekkersburg Chevrolet, and I was afraid he might see me and say something to identify me to the others, and so—”

  “Which would have been bloody typical!”

  “And so, in great haste, sir, I made off with many questions still unanswered in my head.”

  “Uh-huh, and somehow took yourself into the Bombay Emporium just after I went in there …”

  “I had great need of cigarettes, sir.”

  “So getting a close look at me within minutes of my arrival in Jafini was just a coincidence, hey?”

  “Indubitably, Lieutenant.”

  “Don’t you bloody try lying to me, hey?”

  “Hau, would your most humble servant ever do such a thing, my master?”

  “Damn right you would, kaffir!”

  And they both laughed, as though they had just invented a new kind of joke together.

  “The truth is, Lieutenant,” said Zondi, dragging out Moses’ tin trunk to sit on, “I thought I recognized the boss from somewhere, and wanted to double-check on this.”

  “And?”

  Zondi shrugged. “I still wasn’t sure, boss. I just knew I had this strange feeling that the Lieutenant and me—”

  “Ja, ja, ja,” interrupted Kramer. “How come the next time I saw you, you were sneaking along the Nkosala road, heading for Fynn’s Creek?”

  “Sneaking, Lieutenant?”

  “Ach, you know what I mean! Or are you going to deny taking a bloody big dive into the cane to avoid me?”

  Zondi smiled. “I took a shortcut to the sea, that is true, boss.”

  “But why?”

  “I wanted to speak with Moses Khumalo, Lieutenant.”

  “For what reason?”

  “Something had begun to interest me greatly, boss. Something that did not make sense at all.”

  “Oh, ja? Explain.”

  “After you left the trading store, boss, I wanted to find out more, for such is my nature, and so I went to Mama Dumela’s shebeen, down in the shantytown. I had begun to wonder whether Moses Khumalo had not returned to Fynn’s Creek much sooner that I remembered, and so might possibly have seen something that—”

  “So you had been drinking with him the previous night?”

  “Not exactly with him, Lieutenant, but in the same room, correct. I was seated at another table with different menfolk. Mama Dumela pours her illicit liquor very freely and so naturally her customers talk very freely, making it a good place for finding out many useful secrets.”

  “Any bloody excuse, hey?”

  Zondi smiled. “When I returned to Mama Dumela’s, boss, many people were already gathered there, to speak with much excitement about the killing of the whites at Fynn’s Creek, and to mourn the passing of Boss Kritzinger. In the center was the old woman from the police station whose fowls had been stolen, retelling all that she had heard. Mama Dumela said that plainly these killings had been born of such great evil that even the crocodiles had been too afraid to come back out of the water.”

  “You’ve lost me, man …”

  “What Mama meant was, Lieutenant, why had the bodies not both been eaten up during those four hours it took to find them?”

  “Shit, she’s right!” exclaimed Kramer, suddenly seeing again, in his mind’s eye, Dingaan the iguana snappi
ng up the morsels of bacon fat thrown to him every morning by little Piet Fourie. “Christ, I’ve kept being nagged by the feeling I was overlooking something! Those crocs zoom back pretty quick!”

  “Maybe not always, Lieutenant,” said Zondi. “It is hard to know how a creature like that will behave. Such a big explosion could have frightened them very, very much, making them hide in the water and—”

  “Ja, but it’s a good point nonetheless. I wonder why nobody else has come up with it?”

  Zondi said nothing, but concentrated instead on stubbing out his Texan on the sole of his tennis shoe.

  “Here,” said Kramer, producing his pack of Luckys and shaking the dune sand from it.

  They both lit up again. “What else did you learn at the shebeen?” asked Kramer.

  “Nothing, boss—not even the approximate time Moses the cook boy had left to go back to Fynn’s Creek. Nobody could remember. And so I decided to make up some excuse to come here to the beach, and that’s when the Lieutenant saw me.”

  “Bloody caught you in the act, you mean!”

  “Right!” said Zondi, chuckling. “Hau, you came up very suddenly, Lieutenant!”

  “And did you find out why the crocs hadn’t had their midnight feast?”

  Zondi shook his head. “No, Lieutenant, that was to remain a big mystery. I still have not solved it.”

  “But what did you make of all that stuff you got Moses to tell you about Sergeant Kritzinger’s visit?”

  “The Lieutenant knows I—? Hau, I had not expected anyone to take such an interest in a raw kaffir like Khumalo!”

  “Ja, your second big mistake. But I still want to know what conclusions you drew, man …”

  “It seemed Boss Kritzinger’s words had gladdened the young madam’s heart in some way, but I was not sure how, boss. Is there any investigation Boss Kritzinger could have been conducting that involved the interests of the young madam?”

  “Christ, is that the best you can do? No other ideas?”

  Zondi shrugged. “I suppose Boss Kritzinger could also have brought her news of a visit from her lover that night—something of the sort to greatly excite her.”