Snake by James McClure

Stevenson seems—”
    “Marais! Just do it, hey? Get Gardiner here, too. I’ll take the bugger back on foot and have him locked up for the night. If you want me, use the radio. Okay?”
    “Peacevale again, sir?”
    “You never know,” answered Kramer, and he went down the passage into the office.
    Stevenson looked different.
    “Been on the phone, have you?” Kramer asked lightly. “Been giving your lawyer a bell? Who is he?”
    “Ben Gold—”
    “Ben? Hell, it’ll be good to hear from an old mate again. But meantime, let’s go and see if we have got a nice cell for you.”
    Stevenson took a little time finding his feet. While this was going on, Kramer noticed a bottle on top of the safe, and that there was only one used tumbler beside it.
    Every lie had to start with a truth somewhere, he mused on the way out.
    “That’s as much as I can ascertain from the outside,” said Bose, glancing up from the viper he was painting. “Have you made your mind up yet?”
    Strydom dithered, and then closed the door behind him.
    “So it wasn’t necessarily my boy? She could have done it herself? Are you sure?”
    “The possibility must exist. Although it would have had to be coincidental with her own demise.”
    “Ja, ja—otherwise she could have freed herself.”
    “May I?” Bose asked deferentially, as one expert does to another before straying into his field.
    “Please.”
    “The reptile could, of course, have been used to cover the—if I may make so bold—the work or rather marks left by another lethal agent. Hmmmm?”
    “Manual, you mean? That’s where I’ve just been—to the mortuary to check.”
    “I see; so that’s out of the question. You must pardon my being so fanciful; it’s the books my wife reads.”
    “Agatha Christie?” Strydom asked with interest. “Or Dick Francis?”
    “Edward McBain. An American gentleman, I fear. But your decision?”
    Strydom dithered again, agonizingly. By rights, he should not be fooling around with an exhibit before the inquest, and it should be safe under lock and key. But then the paper he had planned was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to really impress his colleagues in forensic medicine—colleagues who had, although not perfect themselves, much enjoyed one or two small errors of his in the past. While an actual, life-size model of the python would certainly be the talk of the week.
    “So,” he said, “it comes down to a coincidence, ja?”
    “Nothing more sinister than that,” Bose said, with one of his slow smiles.
    “But do you—”
    “Academic, purely academic interest. The real problem being, if you want it done in a hurry before anyone notices, we’d better make a start. The mold should be allowed to dry for at least a night. I’ll pop in a wee bit of salt and speed it up, of course.”
    “Okay, so we take a chance,” Strydom said, getting to the door before adding, “I’m very grateful, hey? If ever you want a special favor done, you know where to come.”
    The whisper was that Chainpuller Mabatso was running a ruthless protection racket. But Zondi had tired of whispers. Now he wanted to hear the rest loud and clear from one of the victims. So he pointed his gun, cocked it, and threatened to put a second hole through about two hundred pop songs.
    Beebop Williams, sitting around the back of his record bar with his shoelaces tied together, found his voice.
    “Must have been two hours after I opened up again,” he disclosed earnestly, “when I noticed this cat picking over the latest, but never once did he seek a request. Quite a few folk drove over after the shooting, just to look around—you know, the fat cats from over the top side?”
    He meant the black merchants rich enough to have managers run their businesses.
    “So I was attending to their needs, and my boy Jerry was helping me out, because when they get excited they don’t mind spending money, and so it went for quite a time. Then this guy comes over and says he’s got a