have worked through you to—”
“I told-told nobody!” she stammered.
Kramer sighed.
“No, that’s the God’s truth. I swear it!”
“Uh huh? Maybe the judge will believe you. Personally—”
“Just you listen! All right?”
Fear, shock, and gin soon had the facts tumbling out, and Kramer was kept busy rearranging them in chronological order. Erasmus had apparently found her number scrawled in a phone box on the day of the raid, and had asked her if she was willing to perform a “special” for R100 cash. Once inside her flat, he had offered another R100 a day for nothing but the use of her telephone and somewhere to lie up. He had been no trouble. Then on the fourth day he had made a further offer: R200 down and a lump payment of R500 later if she agreed to act as “middle man” in a transaction. All she had to do was relay on any messages she might take from a man called Max, who would be ringing her sometime in the near future. Max was, in fact, helping him to get out of the country, but there were complications caused by the number of black states now surrounding South Africa. This Max had rung her twice, both times to say it would take a little longer, and recently Erasmus had been becoming very restless and nervous. Instead of his weekly call on a Saturday night, he’d been in touch almost every other day. And that’s all there was to it, as Cleo de Leo saw no percentage in moral side issues.
“Max knew he was at Witklip?”
“Tollie said I shouldn’t tell him and he never asked,” she replied, putting her glass down. “How many more times?
Nobody
knew except me; it was meant to be secret. Tollie said Max was a good guy, but the fewer who knew made him safer.”
Kramer stood up and paced about a bit. The trollop was telling the truth, he felt sure of it, and yet this wasn’t making things any easier.
He snapped his fingers and spun round. “Why Witklip? What the hell put that into his head?”
“Oh, it was an old idea one of his friends once had. I can’t remember exactly. When he was in Steenhuis Reformatory and they used to talk after lights out. This bloke had been to it once with his folks, and said the store there didn’t even get a newspaper. Tollie checked while he was here and found it was still such a dump. They used to tease this guy—Robert? Ja, Robert or Roberts; that’s a name I remember. Nothing else, though.”
Then Cleo stiffened.
“You’re right!” said Kramer. “It wasn’t such a bloody secret after all, was it?”
9
S OMEONE HAD LEFT a fresh memo pad on his desk that rainy Thursday morning. Someone else had written the Widow Fourie’s home number on it, underlining the word Urgent five times. The next someone to poke his head into the office was liable to have it bitten off.
Kramer had spent a surprisingly bad night in the austere room he rented as, his landlady insisted on calling him, a paying guest. Presumably, he had slept. If asked to describe his night, however, he would have compared it to a bout of malarial fever, while being cynically aware of how unimaginative that sounded. His impatience to trace the man Robert or Roberts had been a primary cause of his restlessness, and had meant that, at first light of dawn, he had risen, taken a shower, and gone for a long walk. But even on this walk, which had led him down to the muddy sloth of the Umgungundhlovu River, his mind had never freed itself from a garish, sunset glimpse of the girl with honey hair.
“Why not?” he muttered, dialing the Widow’s number. “I heard you wanted me? The kids all right?”
“Term ended yesterday, so you can guess for yourself! How’s the case going?”
“Progressing.”
“I had an idea, Trompie. You know this business of the hangman knowing all the skills? I suddenly remembered mycopy of
The Vontsteen Case
by that young chappie who was clerk of the court at the Palace of Justice. That had some details in it.”
“Nonsense; the law prohibits the
“I told-told nobody!” she stammered.
Kramer sighed.
“No, that’s the God’s truth. I swear it!”
“Uh huh? Maybe the judge will believe you. Personally—”
“Just you listen! All right?”
Fear, shock, and gin soon had the facts tumbling out, and Kramer was kept busy rearranging them in chronological order. Erasmus had apparently found her number scrawled in a phone box on the day of the raid, and had asked her if she was willing to perform a “special” for R100 cash. Once inside her flat, he had offered another R100 a day for nothing but the use of her telephone and somewhere to lie up. He had been no trouble. Then on the fourth day he had made a further offer: R200 down and a lump payment of R500 later if she agreed to act as “middle man” in a transaction. All she had to do was relay on any messages she might take from a man called Max, who would be ringing her sometime in the near future. Max was, in fact, helping him to get out of the country, but there were complications caused by the number of black states now surrounding South Africa. This Max had rung her twice, both times to say it would take a little longer, and recently Erasmus had been becoming very restless and nervous. Instead of his weekly call on a Saturday night, he’d been in touch almost every other day. And that’s all there was to it, as Cleo de Leo saw no percentage in moral side issues.
“Max knew he was at Witklip?”
“Tollie said I shouldn’t tell him and he never asked,” she replied, putting her glass down. “How many more times?
Nobody
knew except me; it was meant to be secret. Tollie said Max was a good guy, but the fewer who knew made him safer.”
Kramer stood up and paced about a bit. The trollop was telling the truth, he felt sure of it, and yet this wasn’t making things any easier.
He snapped his fingers and spun round. “Why Witklip? What the hell put that into his head?”
“Oh, it was an old idea one of his friends once had. I can’t remember exactly. When he was in Steenhuis Reformatory and they used to talk after lights out. This bloke had been to it once with his folks, and said the store there didn’t even get a newspaper. Tollie checked while he was here and found it was still such a dump. They used to tease this guy—Robert? Ja, Robert or Roberts; that’s a name I remember. Nothing else, though.”
Then Cleo stiffened.
“You’re right!” said Kramer. “It wasn’t such a bloody secret after all, was it?”
9
S OMEONE HAD LEFT a fresh memo pad on his desk that rainy Thursday morning. Someone else had written the Widow Fourie’s home number on it, underlining the word Urgent five times. The next someone to poke his head into the office was liable to have it bitten off.
Kramer had spent a surprisingly bad night in the austere room he rented as, his landlady insisted on calling him, a paying guest. Presumably, he had slept. If asked to describe his night, however, he would have compared it to a bout of malarial fever, while being cynically aware of how unimaginative that sounded. His impatience to trace the man Robert or Roberts had been a primary cause of his restlessness, and had meant that, at first light of dawn, he had risen, taken a shower, and gone for a long walk. But even on this walk, which had led him down to the muddy sloth of the Umgungundhlovu River, his mind had never freed itself from a garish, sunset glimpse of the girl with honey hair.
“Why not?” he muttered, dialing the Widow’s number. “I heard you wanted me? The kids all right?”
“Term ended yesterday, so you can guess for yourself! How’s the case going?”
“Progressing.”
“I had an idea, Trompie. You know this business of the hangman knowing all the skills? I suddenly remembered mycopy of
The Vontsteen Case
by that young chappie who was clerk of the court at the Palace of Justice. That had some details in it.”
“Nonsense; the law prohibits the
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