wit.
“You’re not still moaning about what Trompie said,” grumbled his wife, Anneline, as she came in from watching the neighbors’ television set. “It was lovely, Chris; you really missed out. And do you remember
The World at War
you saw last week? Well, tonight Maria’s husband told us that those Nazi concentration camps were all faked by the Jews afterwards.”
“Rubbish,” said Strydom, who was still wrapped up in his own problems of conscience.
“I told him you’d say that, and he lent me this clipping from the Jo’burg
Star
. It’s a letter from a Mr. G. Rico, who states that the figures were grossly exaggerated. ‘Furthermore, any such casualties as did exist were not victims of any premeditated act.’ So what do you say now, before I have to give this back?”
“The chances of the drop being a fluke are a million to one,” began Strydom, then realized that these odds were greatly exaggerated.
“Ach, you’re impossible, Chris! You mustn’t let Trompie prey on your mind like this—and if it isn’t him, it’s that damned boy of his with the leg.”
“I’ve got to make certain, Anneline. I could be wasting everybody’s time.”
“Like mine, for instance?”
“Sorry, my poppie,” he soothed, getting up to hug her plump warmth. “I’ll leave this till tomorrow, when I can get at some old P.M. reports and study the incidence.”
“Tomorrow night the TV’s in Afrikaans,” she said, keeping hold of his hand, and they went automatically through to the kitchen for their coffee. “They’ve invited us again, so can you come over?”
“What’s on?”
“An Australian baritone singing translations from real Italian opera. I’m going.”
That, thought Strydom, was exactly what the old Minister of Posts and Telegraphs had warned about when describing television as the Devil’s instrument. Not once that week had they sat down together as man and wife and talked over his more interesting cases.
Zondi had hitched a lift home in a patrol van by the time Colonel Muller and the bank officials had released Kramer from their small private celebration. There was a note to this effect propped against the water carafe in their office.
Kramer looked at his watch and was disappointed to find that he could still focus: ten minutes to midnight. The whole object of drinking so much bad wine had been to take the edge off his sensibilities; in a deep and disturbing way, he was stillfeeling the tantalizing impact of that encounter. This was, of course, ridiculous.
He sat down at his desk and put a hand on the telephone. As it happened, he had a perfect right to ring Ferreira and ask him what the hell he’d meant by saying there were no women about—a statement which had been clearly contradicted. Arseholes to the fact it was the middle of the night: this was a murder investigation! And the girl could have been a casual visitor.
The telephone rang under his hand and startled him.
“Can I speak to Lieutenant Kramer?” asked someone who spoke slowly and distinctly. “Or perhaps leave a message for him?”
Kramer frowned; he knew that voice, a very recent addition to his collection. Then it clicked: he was being addressed by the chief telephonist at Brandspruit exchange, who had ears that stuck out at right angles until he slipped on his headset.
“Speaking,” he said, grabbing up a ballpoint. “You’ve got something for me?”
“We’ve been through every log going back until the date you gave us, Lieutenant.”
“Uh huh?”
“It would appear that the caller invariably asked for the same number—and it’s a Trekkersburg one, too, you may be glad to hear.”
“Shoot, man.”
“Trekkersburg 49590. The subscriber’s name is Miss Petronella Mulder, of 33 Palm Grove Mansions.”
“Never!”
“So you know the lady, I gather?”
“Ach, anybody can,” replied Kramer, “providing you fork out ten rand and don’t mind injections. Thanks a lot, hey? I must be going.”
And,
“You’re not still moaning about what Trompie said,” grumbled his wife, Anneline, as she came in from watching the neighbors’ television set. “It was lovely, Chris; you really missed out. And do you remember
The World at War
you saw last week? Well, tonight Maria’s husband told us that those Nazi concentration camps were all faked by the Jews afterwards.”
“Rubbish,” said Strydom, who was still wrapped up in his own problems of conscience.
“I told him you’d say that, and he lent me this clipping from the Jo’burg
Star
. It’s a letter from a Mr. G. Rico, who states that the figures were grossly exaggerated. ‘Furthermore, any such casualties as did exist were not victims of any premeditated act.’ So what do you say now, before I have to give this back?”
“The chances of the drop being a fluke are a million to one,” began Strydom, then realized that these odds were greatly exaggerated.
“Ach, you’re impossible, Chris! You mustn’t let Trompie prey on your mind like this—and if it isn’t him, it’s that damned boy of his with the leg.”
“I’ve got to make certain, Anneline. I could be wasting everybody’s time.”
“Like mine, for instance?”
“Sorry, my poppie,” he soothed, getting up to hug her plump warmth. “I’ll leave this till tomorrow, when I can get at some old P.M. reports and study the incidence.”
“Tomorrow night the TV’s in Afrikaans,” she said, keeping hold of his hand, and they went automatically through to the kitchen for their coffee. “They’ve invited us again, so can you come over?”
“What’s on?”
“An Australian baritone singing translations from real Italian opera. I’m going.”
That, thought Strydom, was exactly what the old Minister of Posts and Telegraphs had warned about when describing television as the Devil’s instrument. Not once that week had they sat down together as man and wife and talked over his more interesting cases.
Zondi had hitched a lift home in a patrol van by the time Colonel Muller and the bank officials had released Kramer from their small private celebration. There was a note to this effect propped against the water carafe in their office.
Kramer looked at his watch and was disappointed to find that he could still focus: ten minutes to midnight. The whole object of drinking so much bad wine had been to take the edge off his sensibilities; in a deep and disturbing way, he was stillfeeling the tantalizing impact of that encounter. This was, of course, ridiculous.
He sat down at his desk and put a hand on the telephone. As it happened, he had a perfect right to ring Ferreira and ask him what the hell he’d meant by saying there were no women about—a statement which had been clearly contradicted. Arseholes to the fact it was the middle of the night: this was a murder investigation! And the girl could have been a casual visitor.
The telephone rang under his hand and startled him.
“Can I speak to Lieutenant Kramer?” asked someone who spoke slowly and distinctly. “Or perhaps leave a message for him?”
Kramer frowned; he knew that voice, a very recent addition to his collection. Then it clicked: he was being addressed by the chief telephonist at Brandspruit exchange, who had ears that stuck out at right angles until he slipped on his headset.
“Speaking,” he said, grabbing up a ballpoint. “You’ve got something for me?”
“We’ve been through every log going back until the date you gave us, Lieutenant.”
“Uh huh?”
“It would appear that the caller invariably asked for the same number—and it’s a Trekkersburg one, too, you may be glad to hear.”
“Shoot, man.”
“Trekkersburg 49590. The subscriber’s name is Miss Petronella Mulder, of 33 Palm Grove Mansions.”
“Never!”
“So you know the lady, I gather?”
“Ach, anybody can,” replied Kramer, “providing you fork out ten rand and don’t mind injections. Thanks a lot, hey? I must be going.”
And,
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