The Caterpillar Cop

11

If there was one thing that bored the pants off Kramer, it was a fire story. He picked up the evening newspaper, noticed BLAZE in the main headline, and dropped the whole shebang into the wastepaper basket.

Then he continued to pace the office, varying his stride only when he turned or had to step over Zondi’s outstretched legs.

On his desk lay the three pieces of tracing paper with their enigmatic inscriptions uppermost. All around them were crumpled leaves from the memo pad, each covered in various permutations of the letters. Three hours’ work had proved nothing more than the fact Pembrook was correct in his assumption that a code, rather than a cipher, had been used. A cipher required that each character of the alphabet be given a substitute symbol-even another letter would do; but Kramer had been able to find only twelve different letters anyway and you could not make up words from such a limited number.

“What I am wondering about,” said Zondi eventually, “is why Boetie was thinking in English when he wrote this thing.”

He pointed to a c in the bottom line of one sheet he had copied down. There was no such letter in Afrikaans.

“Yes, I noticed that, too, man. But I suppose it’s all part of making up a secret message-if you can do it in another language as well, so much the better.”

“And another matter, boss-who was he writing these messages to?”

“Himself, I’d say. Case notes. Information he had picked up but didn’t want known until he was certain. Kids like writing things down-I remember a bloke at school who used to make huge lists of birds he had seen, even though he remembered every last one.”

Zondi went over to the desk and examined the original.

“Did Boss Pembrook find anything hard in his room to write on?”

“Bugger all.”

“Boetie could have used this toffee tin lid.”

“I’ve tried that-it isn’t as smooth as it looks. Pencil picks up tiny bumps.”

Sighing, Kramer wandered over to the window. Suddenly he stiffened.

“Bring me a spare bit of tracing paper and a pencil,” he said.

They were in his hands in seconds. He pressed the paper against the pane and wrote. The effect was identical.

“As smooth as glass.” Kramer smiled. “He did it on his window because the light coming through made it even easier to trace.”

“But this paper is quite thin, boss.”

“Perhaps whatever he was tracing wasn’t too distinct, then. Come on, man, what could they have been? What is about that size and shape?”

No good-they had been through everything they could think of.

“What would this code thing have on it?” Zondi asked. “Just words?”

“I expect so.”

“Then wouldn’t it be just as hard to understand as these things-and mean, by itself, nothing at all?”

“Like a dictionary?”

“Yes, boss, you cannot find secrets in those books. They are quite safe.”

“So?”

“Why should he hide the code if he has hidden the message?”

“Christ, that’s a notion!”

“Thank you, boss.”

Kramer sat down and ate his pie, which had gone cold.

“Know something, Zondi? He could even have had the code on him for all that it mattered-I mean when he got the chop.”

“You said there was just rubbish in his pockets.”

“Let’s have another look, though. I’ve got the stuff here in my drawer.”

Kramer cleared a space before emptying the plastic bag. The penknife clattered out first, followed by the rubber eraser, which bounced away under the furniture. The khaki handkerchief was next and in its slipstream fluttered the three bubble gum wrappers.

“Big deal,” said Kramer.

Zondi retrieved the eraser and, after looking at it closely, put it back in the bag.

Kramer absently smoothed out one of the wrappers.

“Boss!” exclaimed Zondi.

But Kramer had already seen it was the same size and shape.

“Chewsy Super Bubble Gum,” he read out in English before turning over the wrapper. It was deep blue on the inside. There was also a joke printed on it in black.

He slipped one of the squares of tracing paper over it.

“Can’t see a bloody thing,” he grunted. “Let’s try the window.”

There the low sun made the sandwich of paper translucent enough to show the letters at least were the same height, and set across the same width. No sense could be made of them, however.

“There are a lot of c’s in that joke, boss, and one near the end like this other tracing here.”

Kramer substituted it for the first tracing, and held it against the glass.

Still no luck.

The third tracing was matched up.

“We’ve got it, man! Look!”

Zondi took a little longer to grasp what Boetie had done. And then he realized that all the letters in pencil were random and irrelevant-with the exception of a very few that coincided exactly with the initial letter of a printed word in the joke underneath.

What he saw was, in effect, this: A bad-tempered cobbler was sitting working on a shoe one day when a little boy pointed to some leather and asked him: “What’s that?” The cobbler snapped: “Hide! Hide! The cow’s outside!” “I’m not afraid of a cow,” the little boy laughed.

Chewsy Chuckle No. 113

“Write this down quickly,” Kramer said. “B-s-o-h-c-b. Hell, that doesn’t spell anything! Here we go again.”

Zondi peered over his shoulder.

“But if you read the whole word each time, it does make some kind of sense, boss. Bad-sitting-on-him-cow-boy.”

“Cowboy! One word, I bet you. The bad man was sitting on him-of course, on the American. You see, cowboy is the nearest he could-”

“Then why not underline this word and make it clearer by saying ‘the cowboy’?”

“True. It does seem to break there. What can he mean?”

“Like you said, he just writes down notes for himself, he doesn’t need the pieces in between.”

“Uhuh. Let’s try another and see if it works the same way first. I’ll have the other one with a c near the end and that tracing over there.” A very fat old man standing in the gutter was asked by a cheeky Girl Guide what he was doing there. “Would it be possible to see me across the busy street?” he said with a sigh. She grinned at him and replied: “I could see you a mile off, mister!” Chewsy Chuckle No. 57

“It bloody does work! Was-girl-doing-it-with-him? You can bet your socks she was, Boetie my lad. Hurry and get this all down.” A judge to the prisoner in the dock: “So we meet again. Aren’t you ashamed to be seen in court so often? I would be.” The old lag replied: “What’s good enough for you, m’lud, is good enough for me!” Chewsy Chuckle No. 317

Zondi added it to the other two on his slip of paper and handed it over.

“You made a mistake in this last one when I read it out. No, maybe you’re right after all-I’m certain Boetie meant that. One of the first things I learned about English was there were many words that sounded the same but were spelled different. It’s so stupid it sticks in your mind. Here he’s found a use for it.”

The slip read: “Bad sitting on him. Cowboy/Was girl doing it with him/To meet in wood good for me.”

Kramer was elated. He slapped Zondi on the shoulder and they each nearly broke a bone.

“See? This last one? He thought he would have it all wrapped up after this meeting in the wood.”

“A good time to kill him, boss?”

“You’re so right. What a fluke we did them in their correct sequence, although it wouldn’t have taken much effort to sort out anyway.”

An uneasiness stirred in Kramer as he said this-flukes were seldom to be trusted.

“Boetie must have worked hard to find good jokes.”

“Ones that would carry his message? Well, obviously he had more than three hundred of the buggers to choose from-and all the rubbish bins at school to find them in.”

“It is a shame.”

“What do you mean?”

“That he did not write these things another way. Have you noticed that not one of these papers has a word that connects the case with the foreign boy?”

“Except for cowboy.”

“But, boss, you said that-”

“ He, Andy, could have been the one doing the sitting.”

“Then why say ‘bad sitting on him’? Surely the man who is bad is the one that does the deed that is evil? I tell you it is not a plain matter at all.”

Zondi was right. The bastard.

Traveling at 400 mph toward the northwest, an agitated air stewardess reached the flight deck of the South African Airways Boeing 727.

“We’re flying as low as we can,” the first officer protested. “Who’ve you got in there that’s making such a fuss? This isn’t the first time we’ve lost a bit of cabin pressure, and never have I heard-”

“A policeman.”

“They’re as tough as bloody nails.”

“Shame, he’s got a bad head cold. Says his ears are giving him hell and he feels dizzy.”

“Look, tell your friend that we’re very sorry, but another two feet down and we’ll be plowed in as fertilizer. Okay?”

“Cure all our troubles,” muttered the navigator, a sour man.

So she returned to Pembrook’s seat beside the starboard wing. He appeared to have fainted.

Argyle Mslope had a bed in the passage at Peacehaven Hospital-the wards were too crowded for critically ill patients. The noise out there did not trouble him, as he was heavily sedated.

And quite unaware he had a visitor. Zondi used the bandaged head for a hatstand and then made himself comfortable in a stray wheelchair.

The blood dripped very slowly from the suspended bottle, about once every four heaves of the great chest beneath the sheet. Whether the tubes up the nose were going in or coming out was a moot point. There was a needle taped to the back of one hand, ready for the next syringe, and a label around the other wrist.

It was good to see Argyle still had both hands.

“Can I help you?” a woman said in brisk, affected English.

Zondi swung round in the wheelchair and there was an African staff nurse surveying him with arms akimbo. She had been trying to bleach her facial skin and it was a sickening color.

“Elizabeth Mbeta! It is a long, long time. When did you come down from Zululand?”

“Zondi?”

“The same, my beauty. Are things going well with you?”

“Can’t you see? I am a staff nurse.”

“But you wanted to be a teacher.”

“They do not pay you in the holidays.”

“True, true.”

“There is not much choice for an educated girl. It was this or work in the prison. Here we have nice rooms-even a tennis court.”

“How do you like it, though?”

She made no reply, pointing instead at Argyle.

“He is strong, that one.”

“He’ll be all right?”

“If he…”

“Yes?”

A shrug, that was all.

If she had been any less of a bitch, she might have thought of something comforting to say in Zulu.

Lisbet had not, as she pretended, just finished preparing her own supper when Kramer arrived. The whole flat was filled with the smell of food that had been in the warming oven overlong. However, it still smelled extremely good, and the demijohn of Cape wine on the table looked even better.

“Was the letter any good to you?” she asked, heaping his plate with mutton curry. “I was so excited at the time, but afterwards I wondered why.”

“Call it feminine intuition,” he replied gallantly.

“What did you learn, then?”

By the time the last banana fritter disappeared and the coffee was poured, he had brought her up to date on the investigation.

“Mind if I say something, Trompie?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then I don’t think your explanation of why Boetie left the coded papers with Hennie is very convincing.”

“You have a better one?”

“Maybe, although it’s along the same lines. I think he was going to show off with them when it was all over; give Hennie and the others the wrappers and let them see for themselves what a smart guy he was. You hear it every day in the classroom, especially on Mondays. Someone says he spent the weekend hunting buck with a rifle and all the rest say, ‘ Ach, we don’t believe that! ’ There would naturally be a gap before the papers say anything and that’s when he’d have shown them.”

Kramer half-closed his eyes.

“You sound as if you’ve gone off Boetie a bit.”

“Well, am I right?”

“Nearer the truth than myself? Probably. This is all guesswork. But what is it about Boetie that’s changed your attitude?”

“I was looking through his compositions today. He was very self-assured, you know, and almost frighteningly correct in his outlook. You should see the one he did on his beach holiday-a long complaint about litter and girls indecently dressed. He even quoted the regulation they have in the Free State for keeping sunbathers at least eighteen inches apart around swimming baths.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. All in favor of it. And then he-”

“What?”

“Had the cheek to do this-to carry on his own investigation. That card the club issued him with stressed cooperation with the police, but he didn’t seem to take too much notice of that.”

“Everyone twists the law a little at times.”

“But he had no right to! He was a child.”

“Quite right. Boetie was a bad boy but you can’t blame him altogether. He was provoked by the station commander.”

“The last time you were almost defending the man!”

How galling it was to discover that even Lisbet argued like a woman.

“Well, that’s the sergeant off the hook now-nobody to write in with his name, rank, and number.”

Lisbet smiled wryly.

“Jan has already seen to that. In fact, they all spent their free period composing flowery tributes for the letter section.”

“Christ! The Colonel doesn’t want the club to become involved in this stupid incident.”

“Don’t worry. I offered to post them all in one big envelope-it’s behind you on the telephone table.”

“That’s my girl!”

“Oh, thank you, Lieutenant, I thought you would never say it. More coffee?”

It was virtually impossible to gauge how jocular that remark had been intended to sound. Kramer recognized its potential in terms of the elusive signals exchanged by the more modest mammals during mating season, but decided to dwell on work a little longer until he was certain of pleasure.

“How about taking a look at what Boetie actually said in the coded message?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

He slid the slip over and brought back his refilled cup on the return trip. The light from the two red candles gave her a glow that warmed his eyes. And, to be entirely honest, his heart.

For he had suddenly grasped she was the genuine article: the haystack girl for whom he had searched much of his life. Right from when he was ten and saw the archetype on a calendar in a garage workshop; a cheerful, tomboyish, smooth-limbed girl sprawled smiling an invitation to an energetic game. Part of his response had been envy-there was not enough grass on his father’s farm to make even a small pile for jumping on-and part the curious precognition of a child who sees a Cadillac and declares it will ride in one someday. As he had grown older, however, compromise had smudged the image, like the greasy thumbs of the mechanics tearing off the months. The years. The long trail of discarded nylon trivialities leading only to the fear she would never appear in her checked shirt, freckles, and blue jeans.

Lisbet had freckles and wore blue jeans to relax in. Her blouse might be plain pink but the tablecloth was a bright red- and-white gingham.

Christ, she was frowning.

“What’s up?” Kramer asked anxiously.

“You told me there was nothing in these to connect the cases. Personally, I don’t see how Boetie could have made it any clearer than this, using the joke.”

“Show me!”

She turned the slip around his way.

“The word before ‘sitting on him,’ Trompie-that’s ‘bath,’ isn’t it?”

Of course it was-in Afrikaans.

“Damn that bloody fool Zondi! It was his idea all this was in English and we never thought of it any other way. He said so even before we got the code.”

“What gave him the idea, though?”

“The c ’s.”

“But that’s clever, you’ve got to admit.”

“Zondi’s too bloody clever half the time.”

“ Ach, Trompie, don’t get so angry. You should have realized that Boetie would probably have to use every language he could to make anything of such a small selection of words. You’ve got the connection now-it would be too big a coincidence to mean anything else-and that proves you’re on the right track.”

Kramer rose and went over to the telephone.

“I’ve got to put a trunk call through to Pembrook in Jo’burg before anything else happens,” he said.

“What do you mean by that, Trompie?”

There it was again-only a fifth-rate comedian would try to capitalize on such a commonplace ambiguity of words, but the tone alone was suggestive.

“I meant-hello, is that the exchange? I want a call to Johannesburg. From Trekkersburg 42910-the Jo’burg number is 7723612. Two hours’ delay? At this time of night? I don’t care if you’re having to route calls via Bloemfontein!”

“Tell them you’re the police.”

Kramer looked over his shoulder at Lisbet. She had closed the sliding doors across the alcove where they had eaten and was now sprawled smiling on the settee.

“Hello, exchange? Are you still there? Make it a person-to-person fixed-time call for eleven o’clock. The name’s Kramer. I want to speak to Johnny Pembrook. Thanks.”

“That was a funny thing to do, not to use your position,” Lisbet said.

“There’s wine left in the bottle, isn’t there?”

She pouted.

“You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?”

“Is there any reason why I should?”

“No.”

This time he was certain, the denial had been so softly spoken. She moved slightly to give him space to sit.

“You’re strange,” she said, touching his hands. “You seem so hard and tough yet you’re gentle as well.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The Swanepoels.”

“Hey?”

“You’ve never once been to see them. You can’t face the idea, can you? Not after seeing what actually happened to Boetie.”

“ Ach, no, I stay away because I don’t like saying sorry for something I haven’t done.”

“No emotions?”

“They reduce efficiency.”

“In private life, too?”

“I haven’t got one,” Kramer countered.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Am I wasting my time?”

Jan Smuts International Airport was agog with the discovery of a bomb on an Alitalia jetliner. All passengers on the flight had been hustled aside for questioning. There were police everywhere.

But, to Johnny Pembrook’s relief, none of them had a moment to spare on assisting a colleague in distress. By waving his identification card at each checkpoint, he was able, despite being lightheaded, to reach the taxi rank within minutes of touchdown. The stewardess, who had been very quick with the sal volatile, was probably still searching for him.

He was obsessed with one thought: to see Sally Jarvis and complete his mission before falling over.

The taxi door swung open and he climbed in.

“Where to, sonny?”

“Parktown.”

“It’s a big place.”

“Er, 39 Woodland Drive.”

“What’s that off? Woodland Avenue?”

“Could be.”

“Never been there before?”

“Just drive.”

“Hey…”

“Get going. I haven’t got all bloody night!” bellowed Pembrook, betraying his state of extreme agitation.

The taxi driver made a casual adjustment to his rear-view mirror. In it he saw a disheveled youth with a very pale face and the shakes.

“Just a minute, son, while I take a look at my map. You just got in?”

“Yes, on the Durban plane, five minutes ago.”

“I see.”

“Have you found the address yet, driver?”

“But what about your suitcases?”

“Just this bag.”

“You can’t have much in there.”

“What the hell business is it of yours? Give me the map-I’ll guide you.”

“It’s all right, we’re on our way. As the bishop said to the actress.”

Pembrook sat back and glared at the funny man who fully deserved to have ears that stuck out at right angles like Mickey Mouse. He hoped the sod got leprosy in them.

For this was certainly no time for idle chitter-chatter and pedantry. Pembrook felt terrible; he wanted desperately to flop down on a bed in the barracks-to see a doctor even, for the pain. But he knew such a move could bring immediate suspension from duty and that would not help the lieutenant. Hell, no, old Kramer was depending on him. Whatever the reasons, he had been given a chance to shine, and shine he would as long as he could. This meant he would be foolish to take a chance of being well enough in the morning to carry out his assignment as arranged. It had to be seen to without delay. His plan of action crystallized: extract fact from Sally Jarvis, telephone same reverse charges to Trekkersburg, find a cheap hotel to lick his wounds in. With luck, he would be fine come sunrise. If not, too bad-at least the investigation could continue.

Pembrook focused with difficulty on some flashing lights ahead. There were several vehicles parked on the highway itself and he spotted a policeman.

The taxi slowed down.

“For Christ’s sake, don’t stop,” Pembrook said. “It’s just an accident.”

“That’s what you think, you bugger,” muttered the driver, suddenly accelerating and then slamming on his brakes.

Pembrook was flung hard against the front seat. His forehead struck a chrome ashtray and he slumped, momentarily stunned, to the floor.

“It’s a roadblock!” the taxi driver shouted triumphantly as he leaped from his seat.

“Hey, what’s going on?” an authoritative voice inquired.

“The bomber! I’ve got him in there-grab him quick.”

The back doors of the taxi were wrenched open. Pembrook was dragged out and put on his feet. A couple of thick-set constables held him there, his arms pinned.

“Look,” he said and got no further.

“Came out of the main building like a bat out of hell, Sarge,” the taxi driver burbled. “All shaking and white, with just a bag. Very jumpy. Wanted to be taken to Woodland Drive in Parktown-there isn’t such a place. Then he says he got straight off the Durban plane but it gets in an hour before that!”

“Pressure trouble,” explained Pembrook.

“Huh! He’s trouble, all right-isn’t he, Sarge? Told me to drive like hell and not to stop for you either.”

“He doesn’t look like an intellectual,” said the sergeant, unsnapping his handcuffs.

“Just shows you how clever the swine are! I was telling the blokes on the rank only yesterday that appearances meant nothing these days. Take pop stars, for example. They arrive here all dressed in-”

“What’s your name?” the sergeant asked Pembrook.

“John Pembrook. This is all-”

“Where from?”

“Trekkersburg.”

“Any papers to prove it?”

Pembrook thought fast. His driving license had his parents’ address on it. It would do for identification and he could sort out the rest of the story without revealing his affinity. The cautious sergeant was just the sort of fatherly type to wreck his plans through an excess of charity.

“This is all a big mistake, Sergeant,” he said very calmly. “The Boeing lost cabin pressure and made me sick because I’ve got a cold. It was late-ask the control tower. As far as the address goes, I stupidly didn’t bring it along and was working from memory. It was 39 Woodland Avenue I wanted, I’m sure.”

“I asked if you had any papers.”

“If you’d let my arm go, I’ll give you my driving license.”

“Careful, Sergeant,” warned one of the constables, “I can feel a gun through his jacket.”

“Did you hear that? A gun! ” the taxi driver announced excitedly to the crowd of motorists that had gathered.

“Hold him nice and tight and I’ll help myself,” said the sergeant, taking a wad of documents from Pembrook’s inside pocket. He turned to read them in the beam of his riot van’s headlights.

The crowd went up on tiptoe.

“Is he a saboteur, Sarge?” asked the taxi driver, adding, for the benefit of late arrivals, “It was me who caught him!”

“Are you really this?” the sergeant asked, turning on Pembrook and holding out his identity card.

The probationer detective constable said good-bye to all that, brought himself back into the present, and nodded.

“What’s he?” begged the crowd.

“I’m entitled to know!” demanded the taxi driver, grabbing the sergeant’s arm.

“A policeman, sir. Do you want to leave your name? For a medal?”

Even Pembrook found a smile to go with the ignominious retreat by a citizen who might still have won praise for vigilance if he had not gone about it with the gusto of a vulture.

Well satisfied, the crowd discreetly withdrew.

Leaving Pembrook very much alone.

“ Ach, you are all done in, son,” said the sergeant. “I think I’ll leave my questions for later. Best we get you to a doctor.”

Kramer read the label upside down because he was loath to change his position.

The Ultimate in Comfi Sleepware — Summer Cloud — the Mattress that Makes your Night.

It also made one hell of a fine haystack.

His body, partially supported on cantilevered elbows over a dozing Lisbet, was entirely relaxed, emptied of striving, and no longer nagging for a piece of action. His mind was experiencing a state of tranquil detachment like having the moon for a head.

So he serenely surveyed what had come to pass on an earthly plane and accepted it amounted to very little. His only achievement being the establishment of a nebulous link between Boetie’s murder and the death of an American student. No more than that because his theories so far had been based on assumptions rather than deduction. While the decoded message went a long way to confirm them, there was still the possibility they could apply equally well to some other situation-or to nothing at all, being merely part of a kid’s wild imaginings. What was needed was one tangible something that tied the two cases together, beyond a reasonable doubt.

Kramer slipped out of Lisbet and rolled over on his back. She cuddled up.

Everything rested now on what Pembrook could discover from the younger daughter in the morning. She was the sole member of the Jarvis family they could approach without arousing suspicion and, with the contents of the toffee tin exhausted of information, their sole source of fresh fact. Kramer hoped to God the Telex statement would come through before midday as the press would soon start getting restive. When that happened, bigger brass than the Colonel would dictate how the investigation was run-maybe take charge themselves. And as Zondi said, a man should share nothing but his bed.

Such thoughts broke his mood, making him restless again. Lisbet, however, had fallen deeply asleep. He decided to have a smoke.

What a gorgeous sight she made from the doorway. It was worth dwelling on-toasting, even, with the dregs of the demijohn.

He found enough to rinse out his mouth and, after another pause, went in search of his Lucky Strikes. They were there in the jacket with his other clothes stacked on the phonograph. It had been a ritual as solemn as any church ceremony. Then had come the extraordinary business with the jazz record. He had soon put a stop to it by teaching her instead a few healthy games.

The match flared brightly, hurting his eyes. He waited for them to readjust before going over to the drinks cabinet to pour something special. He opened the doors and looked in.

To see himself reflected dimly in the mirror that backed the cabinet’s interior. Hell, this was how that tennis player champ must have looked that night; a naked, muscled body in semi-darkness with a cigarette tip glowing like an illuminated boil.

“Jesus!”

Kramer let go of his tumbler where he thought a table stood and it shattered on the floor. A startled sound came from Lisbet’s bedroom. He was on his way over when she staggered into his arms.

“What’s happening, Trompie?”

“ Ach, I’m sorry, my poppie! It’s just I’ve suddenly realized…”

“Oh, yes?”

“You’re still asleep, though. Let me take you back.”

“Please tell me.”

“Come over here, then. That’s right, sit. I’ll put the little light on because I’ve got something to show you.”

Lisbet battled to keep her head up as she watched him hurriedly sort through the junk from his jacket pockets. He bulged open an envelope.

“See this?” Kramer said gleefully. “It’s the stub of a Texan found at the scene of the murder. I discounted it before, thinking it had been dropped in the glade by the young bloke who found the body. He told me he had one to steady his nerves after dressing and before going for help. What I overlooked was that his clothes were in the other glade-like mine were in this room.”

She beat off a yawn with her fist.

“Couldn’t he have gone back with it?”

“I’ll check, of course, but under the circumstances, that’s very unlikely. The girl with him had flipped her lid and I’m sure he’d seen enough of the body.”

“Now you’re bleeding on my carpet,” she groaned.

So he was, having rushed in bare feet across broken glass without noticing.