jerkin, khaki shorts and leather sandals, squatted nearby, brushing cigarette ends into a small dustpan, and giving him anxious sideward glances. Mbopa was not a man generally reputed to have an interest in horticulture, let alone a gentle, whimsical side to his nature.
Very nearly as broad as he was tall, perpetually scowling and given to deep booms of displeasure, the detective sergeant had been given the name “Gagonk” early on in his police career, and it had suited him so perfectly nobody had ever thought to change it. Not even the purists, who did, however, point out that strictly speaking it should have been “Igogog(o),” the Zulu word for the ubiquitous four-gallon paraffin-can, much in use for fetching water, which has thin, almost square sides that make a “gog-gog” or “gagonk-ish” sort of sound when being carried empty.
The rose trembled in the pink palm of Mbopa’s cupping hand, its stem between his fat fingers. He thrust his broad flat nose up close and sniffed, grimacing appreciatively. Yet his sharp, red-rimmed eyes never left the main entrance, and Zondi, who had chosen to come in through the rear entrance for a change, noticed this.
The prisoner could have spoiled what happened next, but wisely averted his gaze and moved crablike until his back was turned on Zondi’s advancing figure. The soft dust of the courtyard absorbed footsteps without a sound. The Walther PPK automatic left its shoulder holster as silently. Moving swiftly, holding a hand against his left trouser leg to keep his loose change from giving a telltale clink, Zondi closed the gap and then poked his gun muzzle into the small of Mbopa’s broad back.
“Hey-bar-bor!” exclaimed Mbopa, wildly startled, leaping into the air and spinning round with clenched fist raised.
“Good morning, Gagonk,” said Zondi, grinning and putting his gun away.
“Bastard son of a bastard!” snarled Mbopa, the fist still high. “Pox-ridden whore’s whelp conceived on a dung—”
“Don’t do anything stupid, the Colonel’s watching,” Zondi said out of one corner of his mouth.
Mbopa glanced up at the balcony behind him and saw this was true. He brought his clenched fist down and laughedheartily as though he and Zondi were just indulging in a little friendly horseplay.
“It’s OK, he’s gone now,” said Zondi. “But tell me—why were you waiting here to see me as I came in?”
Mbopa cast another wary look behind him.
“The Colonel’s gone—like I told you. Don’t you trust your comrades, Gagonk?”
“I wasn’t waiting to see you!”
“Rubbish,” said Zondi. “You were hoping to have a little chat. Hoping to find out how far me and the Lieutenant had got with our investigations last night.”
“Huh, what you and Spokes—”
“The big question being, where was I myself when you drove past the Carswell house last night?”
“We never came anywhere near the—”
“I’ll tell you,” said Zondi, beckoning him closer. “I was attending to one of our big clues:
The Last Magnolia
…’
“That what?” asked Mbopa.
“
Magnolia
—you know, man, it’s English for a kind of big flower. I thought, from the way you were sniffing away, flowers must be a special subject of yours.”
“Zondi, you—” Mbopa began threateningly.
“Just a minute, Gagonk,” said Colonel Muller, striding towards him from the foot of the stairwell. “What have you done to that rose, hey?”
Zondi gave a polite nod and discreetly withdrew, followed by the prisoner who had probably learned, after a spell in Trekkersburg jail, that Afrikaans spoken in a certain silky tone boded little good.
“I asked you,” Zondi heard Colonel Muller say behind him, “what the hell you’d done to that rose I look at every morning?”
“But, Colonel,” protested Mbopa, “I hardly touched—”
“Open that fist, you heathen monstrosity. Open that fist! There, now tell me what that is.…”
Whistling, Zondi started up the stairs, taking
Very nearly as broad as he was tall, perpetually scowling and given to deep booms of displeasure, the detective sergeant had been given the name “Gagonk” early on in his police career, and it had suited him so perfectly nobody had ever thought to change it. Not even the purists, who did, however, point out that strictly speaking it should have been “Igogog(o),” the Zulu word for the ubiquitous four-gallon paraffin-can, much in use for fetching water, which has thin, almost square sides that make a “gog-gog” or “gagonk-ish” sort of sound when being carried empty.
The rose trembled in the pink palm of Mbopa’s cupping hand, its stem between his fat fingers. He thrust his broad flat nose up close and sniffed, grimacing appreciatively. Yet his sharp, red-rimmed eyes never left the main entrance, and Zondi, who had chosen to come in through the rear entrance for a change, noticed this.
The prisoner could have spoiled what happened next, but wisely averted his gaze and moved crablike until his back was turned on Zondi’s advancing figure. The soft dust of the courtyard absorbed footsteps without a sound. The Walther PPK automatic left its shoulder holster as silently. Moving swiftly, holding a hand against his left trouser leg to keep his loose change from giving a telltale clink, Zondi closed the gap and then poked his gun muzzle into the small of Mbopa’s broad back.
“Hey-bar-bor!” exclaimed Mbopa, wildly startled, leaping into the air and spinning round with clenched fist raised.
“Good morning, Gagonk,” said Zondi, grinning and putting his gun away.
“Bastard son of a bastard!” snarled Mbopa, the fist still high. “Pox-ridden whore’s whelp conceived on a dung—”
“Don’t do anything stupid, the Colonel’s watching,” Zondi said out of one corner of his mouth.
Mbopa glanced up at the balcony behind him and saw this was true. He brought his clenched fist down and laughedheartily as though he and Zondi were just indulging in a little friendly horseplay.
“It’s OK, he’s gone now,” said Zondi. “But tell me—why were you waiting here to see me as I came in?”
Mbopa cast another wary look behind him.
“The Colonel’s gone—like I told you. Don’t you trust your comrades, Gagonk?”
“I wasn’t waiting to see you!”
“Rubbish,” said Zondi. “You were hoping to have a little chat. Hoping to find out how far me and the Lieutenant had got with our investigations last night.”
“Huh, what you and Spokes—”
“The big question being, where was I myself when you drove past the Carswell house last night?”
“We never came anywhere near the—”
“I’ll tell you,” said Zondi, beckoning him closer. “I was attending to one of our big clues:
The Last Magnolia
…’
“That what?” asked Mbopa.
“
Magnolia
—you know, man, it’s English for a kind of big flower. I thought, from the way you were sniffing away, flowers must be a special subject of yours.”
“Zondi, you—” Mbopa began threateningly.
“Just a minute, Gagonk,” said Colonel Muller, striding towards him from the foot of the stairwell. “What have you done to that rose, hey?”
Zondi gave a polite nod and discreetly withdrew, followed by the prisoner who had probably learned, after a spell in Trekkersburg jail, that Afrikaans spoken in a certain silky tone boded little good.
“I asked you,” Zondi heard Colonel Muller say behind him, “what the hell you’d done to that rose I look at every morning?”
“But, Colonel,” protested Mbopa, “I hardly touched—”
“Open that fist, you heathen monstrosity. Open that fist! There, now tell me what that is.…”
Whistling, Zondi started up the stairs, taking
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