after a short stop at the coffee machine, he went.
The small block of flats was up near the railway station and seemed a little like an extension of the marshaling yard. Puffing couples in drab coats were forever shunting their shabby trunks and packing cases along its mean balconies, either on their way in or on their way out, for few ever stayed there very long, despite the low rent. The snag was that the pock-necked little runt who owned the place gave nobody more than an hour’s grace to pay up, and this was a deadline many found impossible to meet in a lean week. It never worried Miss Mulder, however, whose delivery time was reputedly under seven squalid minutes.
Kramer raised his knuckles to the door of Number 33 with the expression of a man about to crack a rotten egg.
“Who-zit?” came the challenge from within.
“Vice Squad.”
The welcoming smile soured the instant she recognized him, but by then Kramer had his foot in the doorway and crushing down on her instep. While she blanched, gasped, and hopped about, he opened up properly and went in. The room was its usual shambles, and looked like a flying cosmetics display that’d hit a concrete mountain. The pity of it was that the smell didn’t match.
He kicked ajar the bathroom door. Nothing. No well-known city Rugby players in the kitchenette either.
“Alone at last,” said Kramer, turning to face her. “And how is my pretty tonight?”
Cleo de Leo, as she preferred her clientele to call her, was sitting on the edge of her tumbled bed holding her foot. The black wig was askew, one eyelash had come adrift, and her limbs, which had the shiny pneumatic look of a bus seat, were inelegantly positioned. The crumpled kimono gaped, exposing such gifts as she had to bestow: a sag of breasts as pendulous as two grapefruit in a pair of Christmas stockings, a navel like a novelty pencil sharpener, and a rusty pot-scourer. For lips, under a faint mustache, she had hemmorhoids.
“You stinking pig bastard!”
“Ach, no, be fair,” Kramer protested mildly, “because if you’re what you say you are, then I’m an amateur photographer.”
“You call that a lens?” she sneered, snuffling into a tissue.
“I get results.”
“Oh, really? You must try and show me sometime.”
“Now, if you like.”
She reached for her menthols. “For free? You must be joking! Just because you’re big and pissed doesn’t entitle you to anything.”
“For free,” said Kramer, handing over the mortuary photograph of Tollie Erasmus with a rope around his neck.
It made an impression.
“
No!
”
“We found him yesterday, near Doringboom.”
“But Tollie wouldn’t—”
“He didn’t. He was murdered.”
“Hey?”
Her surprise was so complete that she turned into a human being. The eyes which knew it all suddenly knew nothing, and at the drop of her jaw, the hard little face shattered, showing the soul-sick slack underneath.
Kramer took back the picture and said nothing. He watched her close her gown, drag off her wig, and bring her knees up to hug them. He stood there while she began rocking to and fro, her gaze fixed on the floor. Then he poured her a stiff gin and a straight lime and water for himself.
“You bastard,” she whispered, thanking him with a nod as she lifted the glass.
“Give me a chance next time, Cleo, and things will be different. Who else knew he was at Witklip?”
“Where?”
He straddled a chair opposite her, folding his arms over the back of it. “Don’t be that way,” he coaxed, and then pursuedthe most perverse line possible: “Even if you deny setting up Tollie, I’ve still got you cold as accessory after the fact and harboring a known criminal.”
Cleo’s head jerked. “Setting him …?”
“Ja, his murder. Mind you, I think that one will stick.”
“Me? Are you crazy?”
“Logical, Miss Mulder. We have proof from the post office that he was in contact with you here on 49590, from which it follows that they must
The small block of flats was up near the railway station and seemed a little like an extension of the marshaling yard. Puffing couples in drab coats were forever shunting their shabby trunks and packing cases along its mean balconies, either on their way in or on their way out, for few ever stayed there very long, despite the low rent. The snag was that the pock-necked little runt who owned the place gave nobody more than an hour’s grace to pay up, and this was a deadline many found impossible to meet in a lean week. It never worried Miss Mulder, however, whose delivery time was reputedly under seven squalid minutes.
Kramer raised his knuckles to the door of Number 33 with the expression of a man about to crack a rotten egg.
“Who-zit?” came the challenge from within.
“Vice Squad.”
The welcoming smile soured the instant she recognized him, but by then Kramer had his foot in the doorway and crushing down on her instep. While she blanched, gasped, and hopped about, he opened up properly and went in. The room was its usual shambles, and looked like a flying cosmetics display that’d hit a concrete mountain. The pity of it was that the smell didn’t match.
He kicked ajar the bathroom door. Nothing. No well-known city Rugby players in the kitchenette either.
“Alone at last,” said Kramer, turning to face her. “And how is my pretty tonight?”
Cleo de Leo, as she preferred her clientele to call her, was sitting on the edge of her tumbled bed holding her foot. The black wig was askew, one eyelash had come adrift, and her limbs, which had the shiny pneumatic look of a bus seat, were inelegantly positioned. The crumpled kimono gaped, exposing such gifts as she had to bestow: a sag of breasts as pendulous as two grapefruit in a pair of Christmas stockings, a navel like a novelty pencil sharpener, and a rusty pot-scourer. For lips, under a faint mustache, she had hemmorhoids.
“You stinking pig bastard!”
“Ach, no, be fair,” Kramer protested mildly, “because if you’re what you say you are, then I’m an amateur photographer.”
“You call that a lens?” she sneered, snuffling into a tissue.
“I get results.”
“Oh, really? You must try and show me sometime.”
“Now, if you like.”
She reached for her menthols. “For free? You must be joking! Just because you’re big and pissed doesn’t entitle you to anything.”
“For free,” said Kramer, handing over the mortuary photograph of Tollie Erasmus with a rope around his neck.
It made an impression.
“
No!
”
“We found him yesterday, near Doringboom.”
“But Tollie wouldn’t—”
“He didn’t. He was murdered.”
“Hey?”
Her surprise was so complete that she turned into a human being. The eyes which knew it all suddenly knew nothing, and at the drop of her jaw, the hard little face shattered, showing the soul-sick slack underneath.
Kramer took back the picture and said nothing. He watched her close her gown, drag off her wig, and bring her knees up to hug them. He stood there while she began rocking to and fro, her gaze fixed on the floor. Then he poured her a stiff gin and a straight lime and water for himself.
“You bastard,” she whispered, thanking him with a nod as she lifted the glass.
“Give me a chance next time, Cleo, and things will be different. Who else knew he was at Witklip?”
“Where?”
He straddled a chair opposite her, folding his arms over the back of it. “Don’t be that way,” he coaxed, and then pursuedthe most perverse line possible: “Even if you deny setting up Tollie, I’ve still got you cold as accessory after the fact and harboring a known criminal.”
Cleo’s head jerked. “Setting him …?”
“Ja, his murder. Mind you, I think that one will stick.”
“Me? Are you crazy?”
“Logical, Miss Mulder. We have proof from the post office that he was in contact with you here on 49590, from which it follows that they must
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