“But—”
“All this is beside the point, Pembrook.”
“You misunderstood, sir. I was going to apply what you told me earlier and suggest we take a look at this bloke Glen. He was there when Boetie spoke to Caroline; you never know what his reaction might have been. We seem to have overlooked him all down the line—not that he struck me as important before.”
Kramer had his notebook out and open before Pembrook finished speaking.
“Glen Humphries, of 24 Leafield Road, Greenside,” he read out. “Articled clerk with the law firm of Henderson and Blackwell. Shall we go?”
“Where, sir?”
“To the secretary, of course—find out first if this bugger also belongs to the club. Get some background. Better come along, too, Zondi, in case we want a check with the caddies again.”
Still Zondi said nothing.
“Wake up, kaffir! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I was listening to all the noise from the car, boss. Never have I heard so many messages.”
“You don’t say. If it’s worrying you, go over and see what’s happening.”
Without further delay, Kramer made for the clubhouse with Pembrook marching smugly by his side.
Zondi shrugged.
The inquiry was over. Constable Hendriks, somewhat dazed, had been allowed to sit down.
Colonel Muller stood up and stalked out. He entered the control room just as the call to Kramer’s car was acknowledged.
“Give,” he ordered, grabbing the microphone away from the chief operator. “Receiving you, Zondi. Where is the lieutenant?”
Zondi’s voice replied from the speaker on the wall: “He is not here, Colonel; he is very busy.”
The Colonel kept his thumb off the speak button while uttering an imperative unfit for broadcasting. As guest of honor at the Rotary luncheon, he could hardly afford to be any later.
“Then take this down very carefully, Zondi,” he said, “and give the message to the lieutenant as soon as you can.”
“Sir!”
“It concerns a dead dog,” the Colonel began.
And frowned as the chief operator, strangely overcome by mirth, blew a mouthful of tea through his nose like an elephant.
In a state of acute distress, the secretary left Kramer and Pembrook to themselves in the office.
“Fits, sir, doesn’t it?” Pembrook said gleefully. “Glen was here in the morning as well as the afternoon—with Jarvis the nearest we got was that he had played a round on the pitch- and-putt the night before. Must say, these articled clerks do all right, don’t they? Tuesday’s a working day for most people.”
“They get time off to go to lectures,” Kramer replied, resting his foot on the old-fashioned safe. “Wait until we see him before jumping to any more conclusions. He could be on holiday, for all we know.”
Pembrook continued to pace about, leaving his fingerprints on the vast array of silver cups and his ash all over the carpet.
“Oh, come on, sir! If you hadn’t got the same feeling about this that I had, you wouldn’t have asked the secretary so few questions.”
“He said Glen was just out there in the car, so why should I?”
“Can I go and get him, sir? I mean, he might try and—”
“Sit down!” barked Kramer. “If my foot wasn’t so sore, I’d give you a good kick up the arse. How many times have I told you we have to go carefully in this sort of case? This isn’t one you’re going to solve with rough stuff. Any violence and we’ve made a mistake and that’s us finished. We play it cool all the way.”
From inside the winged chair Pembrook was heard to mutter, “It all bloody well fits.”
“What does? We’ve heard Glen was here and that he’s a fiery-tempered, spoiled little bastard who once clobbered a caddy for whistling. Huh! I bet you I could find ten others like him in this place any night of the week.”
“Then there was Caroline’s attempt to keep you from interviewing him, which—”
“Say no more, Pembrook. I’m noticing quite a lot myself now but from here on we work strictly with facts. Fact one: Where was Glen on the night in question? Let him tell us that.”
The door opened and Glen Humphries, a very frightened-looking little bastard, was led in.
Zondi was caught napping, stretched out full length on the back seat and snoring softly. Not that anyone gave a damn what he was doing, but the double slam of the doors brought him round quicker than a kick. And the Chev’s almost instantaneous takeoff had him startled into an apology.
“Ach, shut up, will you?” Kramer snarled. “If you want to sleep, sleep. I don’t care.”
Down through the plantation they bumped and skidded.
“That was the last thing I expected,” Pembrook said, making out he was addressing himself.
Kramer fumbled a cigarette into his mouth and accepted Zondi’s light for it without thanks. Probably it was the same two guinea fowl which reached safety only by turning themselves into polka-dotted cannon balls. At the gate a delivery van sidestepped into the ditch. Its Indian driver turned away, with his eyes screwed up, as the Chev plunged on to the dual highway behind him.
They reached the far lane safely.
“Christ,” whispered Pembrook, again to himself.
“Hey?”
“Nothing, sir. Just—”
“Look, Pembrook, don’t play around with me in this mood. Tell me what the trouble is.”
“Well—er—can we be sure that it was really there on the day?”
Kramer had never been asked a more fatuous question. Forgetting all about the routine checks that would doubtless confirm the claim made by Master Glen Humphries, the plaster cast encasing the fractured hand had been signed and dated by a score of inane acquaintances. It was in itself an affidavit, testifying that, for a period extending back at least three weeks, the bearer had been incapable of tying his own shoelaces—let alone strangling someone with a stout wire.
“Pembrook?”
“Sir?”
“If you don’t like the way I drive, you can get out and bloody well walk.”
Dismayed at being found so transparent, Pembrook shrank back, mumbling denials.
“Can I speak?” asked Zondi. “I have a message from the Colonel.”
“That’s all I need!”
“Boss?”
The rage in Kramer was having an effect on him more pronounced than half a bottle of peach brandy before breakfast. He no longer cared what he said or did. It was really quite pleasant, although potentially very dangerous unless he soon found some means of channeling it to advantage.
“Don’t tell me—the killer’s gone prancing in and confessed everything. Was it the Mayor?”
Zondi grinned into the mirror.
And Kramer eased back on the throttle.
“Okay, you tell me,” he said.
“Colonel’s radio message as follows: ‘It concerns dead dog mentioned during inquiry into death of Asiatic juvenile Danny Govender, arrested on suspicion by Housebreaking in Greenside area, Rosebank Road, three nights ago. Was held because story believed to be rubbish made up to cover real purpose there. Anyway, Govender alleged he was investigating the death of a very big dog, a bitch as big as himself, at the weekend.’ ”
“You’re not making this up, kaffir?”
“True’s God!”
“Go on, but I warn you …”
“Then the Colonel says: ‘I took an interest when told Govender alleged dog had been strangled by prowler.’ ”
Zondi paused for dramatic effect and then continued with a passable impersonation.
“‘Housebreaking made no attempt to verify this story at the time, but contacted the licensing department this morning at my request. I consider it more than a coincidence that the biggest dog in the neighborhood was a ridgeback Great Dane cross bitch belonging to Captain P. R. Jarvis. Suggest you now follow my advice, drop farfetched theories, and switch investigation from family to th
e criminal element. One last point: Housebreaking has apparently overlooked the burglar’s success despite number of watchdogs kept. This could indicate we should be looking for a white—even one living in Greenside.’ ”
Something odd happened to Pembrook’s expression. Kramer noticed it at once.
“You look as if you know about this?”
“No, sir! First I’ve heard about it.”
“Then how come the Colonel so obviously knows that the Jarvises have no dog at present?”
“He—he could have got the license people to make a casual inquiry. By phone.”
“Hmmm. Possible, I suppose. Always knows more than you think, that bloke. What do you make of his theory?”
A catch in Kramer’s voice made Pembrook swing round surprised. There was a disturbing smile on the face he examined.
“Pretty farfetched, too,” he said cautiously. “If the prowler was white and didn’t have trouble with dogs, why did he do this one in?”
“Some dogs won’t be friendly with anyone,” Kramer reminded him.
“Even then, the more unfriendly they are, the harder to get near their throats. Ach, I can see what the Colonel is getting at, all these factors strung together—dog strangled, Boetie strangled, prowler surprised a white burglar, a white murderer, coincidences—but it doesn’t hold together when you think about it. For a start, we know now what the Colonel doesn’t know—and that is what Boetie saw at the swimming bath. It wasn’t the prowler that time and Boetie was at home when the dog was killed. Makes your head spin.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Kramer replied. “Like you say, the Colonel’s got it all wrong. He’s been sitting at the inquiry with his mind on other things, just slinging together a few ideas. But it’s all there.”
“Hey? I can’t see anything to work on.”
The Chev slipped off the highway down a byroad. Half a mile later it was in Greenside.
“I’ve got you, boss!” Zondi exclaimed as they turned in to 10 Rosebank Road.
Which left Pembrook very indignant indeed, so indignant he rounded on the other passenger.
“Come on,” he snapped, “you tell me what I’m too thick to get from all this!”
“Hau! But you are not stupid, Boss Pembrook. You said this thing yourself: that it is hard to get near the neck of a bad dog.”
“Unless,” Kramer intervened, “it’s your own dog—and it’s probably expecting you to put its collar on.”
“Not back to Jarvis again!”
“Why not? Doesn’t this give us our other body? One as big as a juvenile?”
The Trekkersburg Rotarians never got to hear the Colonel’s speech on the primary role of the police force as guardians of the security of the Republic, although they came very close to doing so.
The empty dishes had been whisked away, the cigars brought round, and the coffee served; he was about to stand up, curiously niggled by a feeling that he had not got that hunch of his about the dog quite right, when the hotel’s manager rushed in.
“I’m sorry but you’re wanted urgently at police headquarters,” he said.
“What on earth for?”
“Somebody’s running amuck there with a gun. Two shot already!”
“Nonsense!”
“That’s what the sergeant on the phone said. They’ve got him cornered in the billiard room.”
The Colonel’s second hunch of the day was fully substantiated: Constable Hendriks had cracked.
A bumblebee in the hollyhock beside the great wooden door fizzed no louder than the fuse to a bomb, and yet Kramer heard it. All of Greenside lay hushed; the beginning of a drowsy afternoon in a suburb so civilized that everyone rested indoors until the heat wore off and servants could serve tea.
But, for now, the heat was on. Kramer could feel it there in his belly, too, burning like peach brandy.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, making a crude, brutal gesture with his hands.
Zondi gave a growl of approval.
“Surely you don’t mean that?” Pembrook asked.
“Nice and quick, boss,” Zondi said, smiling.
“Think I’m mad?”
“Then what …?” faltered the apprehensive Pembrook.
“There is more than one way of skinning a cat, son. Watch and you’ll find out. Know your job?”
“Keep the women away and try to get a statement from Mrs. Jarvis.”
“And you, Zondi?”
“Find the garden boy.”
Kramer knocked hard, once.
The maid opened up so promptly she gave herself away. Those diamond-shaped panes of glass had blobs in their centers like the lenses in peepholes.
Zondi questioned her. Captain Jarvis was in his study. Mrs. Jarvis was in her sewing room. Caroline was still in bed.
“Forget the daughter, then,” Kramer said to Pembrook. “I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Zondi, get this woman to take you to the garden boy.”
He led Pembrook in by the arm, unaware that his grip accounted for the brawny youth’s sudden pallor.
“For Christ’s sake don’t go soft on me,” he hissed.
“I’m okay, sir.”
“Sewing room’s on the landing. Keep it quiet as you can or Caroline’ll only complicate things. Now move!”
Kramer watched him start up the stairs, then he began opening every door in the passage, other than that leading to the drawing room, which he remembered was first on the right.
Third time lucky—Jarvis rose in surprise from behind his desk.
“Please don’t get up, sir. Just a few questions.”
“Really, this is getting beyond a joke!”
All the same, Jarvis lowered himself back into the chair. Maybe his legs had weakened.
“First question: Do you own a firearm?”
“Several.”
“And where are they?”
“The guns are locked away—my revolver’s in my bedroom. What’s all this about? They’re licensed.”
“And your dog—is it licensed?”
“I don’t have one.”
“I see.”
Kramer took out an invoice he had received for a dozen red roses.
“What’s that?” Jarvis asked.
“The counterfoil of a dog license issued in your name by the Trekkersburg Municipality. It’s expired.”
“So I was informed this morning,” Jarvis said coldly. “But as the wretched animal itself expired about a week ago, I don’t see the point of all this. As a matter of fact, I—”
“Yes?”
While awaiting an answer, Kramer wheeled over an easy chair and then commandeered a small table for his foot. He made himself comfortable. And noted that now he was closer to Jarvis, the man reeked of strong drink.
“This is intimidation!” Jarvis declared.
“Asking about a dog license?”
“The hell with that. What are you really? Special Branch?”
“Ach, no, just a bit of an all-rounder.”
Kramer lit a Lucky.
“Well?” challenged Jarvis, bringing a small tumbler out from behind a pile of books.
“Cheers!” said Kramer.
Jesus, it was bizarre. Only a genuine psychopath could have lasted as long in a situation engineered to disorientate a suspect and now having much that effect on Kramer himself. You had to be mad to treat it anything like normal—and to rationalize so fluently, as with the Special Branch remark. On another level, these were the responses of a man entirely confident of his position; nothing would be achieved by trying Boetie’s trick of flushing out fact with a well-aimed fistful of surmise. It would clatter off the cold-blooded bastard like pellets off a croc. The most Kramer could hope for would be a cynical, private admission of guilt, without any indication of where concrete evidence, fit for public judgment, could be found. For that sort of information, the abandon of high passion was required; this in turn meant a change in metabolism, something that would raise the body temperature high enough for
careless talk. Kramer had a plan, based on first reverting Jarvis to basic behavior, that might or might not work. It was worth a try anyway.
“Going to sit there long, Lieutenant?”
“Just giving my foot a rest. I cut it yesterday.”
“Always a nasty business. What on?”
“With a sickle, actually.”
A gleam shone momentarily in Jarvis’s monocled eye. Then he leaned across his desktop.
“Isn’t it time you ran along, Lieutenant? It does seem as though we were just going to waste each other’s afternoon.”
“I’d hoped …”
There were slithering footsteps in the passageway outside.
“Just a minute, Captain Jarvis, I’ve got a small surprise for you before I go.”
Kramer went quickly over to the door, took a large zinc bath from Zondi, and returned with it to the desk. The stench which suddenly filled the room was incredibly awful.
“Good God! What have you there?”
Kramer let the bath fall on the desk with a thump.
Inside it was a shape, a long shape as shiny as a prune, only hairy in parts, and acrawl with a mass of maggots more numerous than the grains in an orphanage rice pudding. A snarl of teeth gleamed at one end.
But it was undoubtedly the smell that made Jarvis spew violently over himself as he turned his head away, ruining the right sleeve of his smoking jacket. Some of his lunch—barely digested—splattered more considerately into the wastepaper bin. If the stuff had its own smell, it was certainly not discernible against such competition.
Kramer switched to autopsy breathing and concentrated on the next phase of the operation. He tipped the bath up a little and shook it. The dead dog released gas bilaterally.
“Oh, my Christ!” gasped Jarvis, doubling up to dry retch.
Meanwhile, Kramer resumed his seat, sick to the stomach with the pain in his foot. He should have foreseen that carrying over the bath would place an agonizing weight on it every other step. But somehow he managed to maintain an air of bright interest in the proceedings.
“Sis, man, you’re disgusting!” he said finally, with a laugh. “Where’s the pride of the regiment now?”
This brought back the color to Jarvis’s puffing cheeks—and then some. His head became engorged with blood until it threatened to seep steaming through the pores. He gave a hoarse shout and lunged.
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