The Caterpillar Cop

9

While waiting for Zondi to report back, Kramer had Pembrook fetch the toffee tin from the safe so that they could study its contents afresh in the light of a drizzly morning. Little wonder people caught colds in such an unpredictable climate.

“Pull over Zondi’s stool but don’t sit too close to me,” he said.

Pembrook complied with a sniff.

“I went round to the Swanepoels’ at breakfast time, sir,” he said. “That reference the father made to Boetie oversleeping one Sunday and missing church for the first time-it was on November the sixteenth.”

“Fine! Now we have narrowed it right down to the morning after, so to speak.”

“And that reminded Bonita that Boetie had been in high spirits the morning before. He’d exchanged his bike for a better one with a dynamo lamp-said he’d be out late testing it.”

“Even better. But it still beats me why his parents never asked him what he was up to.”

“They keep saying the same thing: they trusted him and-”

“Who, man?”

“God.”

Kramer wrote the name on his blotter. Then he opened the tin, giving two of the squares of tissue to Pembrook and opening the other one out himself.

“I have a feeling,” he said, “that these things might tell us a lot about what our young friend knew. The trouble is finding out how they work.”

“Well, isn’t the first thing deciding whether it’s a code or a cipher, sir?”

“Hey? Come again? And stick to Afrikaans this time.”

The probationer squirmed.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know the word for ‘cipher.’ ”

“What does it mean, then?”

“That you give each letter of the alphabet a number or something, perhaps switch the letters around, and write like that.”

“Bugger it, Pembrook, that is a code!”

“No, sir-at least not according to what I read once. A code is where one letter stands for a whole word-or where a drawing, say a circle, stands for ‘battleship.’ The trouble is you can’t write just anything and you must have a codebook to do it.”

Kramer made a show of peering into the tin.

“Nothing there,” he said.

“That’s also the trouble, sir,” Pembrook went on, rather apprehensively. “You can’t get anywhere without one.”

“Uhuh.”

A prisoner from the cells shuffled in to sweep the floor and was waved out again.

“Seeing you know so much about it, my boy, which one is this in?”

Pembrook caught a sneeze in a tissue and spent some time folding it away.

“Couldn’t we ask them through in Security, sir? They’re supposed to know all there is to know-more than me.”

“What? And make a bloody fool of myself if it’s a lot of twaddle? We’re dealing with a kid of twelve, remember.”

“Sir.”

“Well?”

“I think it’s in code, sir. You’ll notice how each line of letters stays straight and keeps inside a sort of square. There’s a pattern to it you wouldn’t need if you were just switching letters around. It must match up with something.”

“Of course! That explains the tracing paper!”

Pembrook flushed with embarrassed pride.

“Shall I have another go at his room, sir?”

Kramer did not hear him. He was closely examining all four slips, putting one on top of another and holding them to the light.

“No good,” he said finally, “can’t see anything that way. But I can help you in your search a little. You’ll notice that although he used tissue paper and a sharp pencil, there are no tears in it-no dents along his lines either. He must have done these on a very hard, smooth surface.”

“A book cover?”

“Much harder than that. Probably some sort of plastic or tin.”

“And the bedroom’s a likely place?”

“Why not? A job like this would have taken time and he’d need to be private.”

Pembrook reached for his raincoat but Kramer stopped him.

“Wait to hear what Zondi has to say first,” he said. “I’m sick of repeating everything.”

Grandfather Govender was being very tiresome. Short of telling him he was a senile old fool, the rest of the family could find no obvious way of explaining why he could not understand what had happened to Danny. There he stood, clutching his staff like some latter-day Gandhi in the corridor of the magistrate’s court, toothlessly sucking on an orange and shaking his head.

“All rubbish!” he muttered once again.

“Listen to me, Grandfather,” said his son Sammy. “Last night Danny was arrested by the police and today he must go to a place of safety until they find out what it was he has done.”

“They remanded him,” said the half-cousin.

“They say he was carrying a housebreaker’s tools, Grandfather,” went on Sammy. “Do not make another noise here or it will go badly for all of us-Danny, too.”

“What tools?”

Sammy winced.

“A spade,” said the half-cousin.

“Rubbish!” shouted Grandfather, expelling a seed with the word.

“They can get you for just having a nail file sometimes,” said an uncle with unhappy experience in these matters.

“What’s the matter with you all?” Grandfather spluttered. “Do you think I’m senile?”

All Zondi wanted to talk about were the dogs. To avoid any complications, he had left the Chev some distance from 10 Rosebank Road and gone on foot the rest of the way, dressed as ordered in his worst. Within a matter of yards he felt like the star attraction at a jackal hunt. One haughty old bitch in a floppy hat, cutting a rosebush down to size with secateurs, had actually encouraged a toy poodle to join in the chase.

“Shame!” laughed Kramer. “Did you show them your warrant card?”

Zondi patted his Walther PPK in the shoulder holster.

“Next time, boss,” he growled.

“Don’t let the Colonel hear you, kaffir. He’s always saying he doesn’t ever want a Sharpeville in his area.”

Pembrook seemed ill at ease in their company. He would have to grow used to the idea that CID work made such partnerships necessary and therefore fairly common. Kramer felt himself curiously irritated.

“Why the look?” he asked sharply. “Are you a liberal or something?”

“ Pardon, sir?”

“Forget it. Now, Zondi, my heart bleeds for you, but tell us what you found out. We’re all busy men here.”

Zondi began, in the way of his people, at the very beginning. He told them how, in his ragged jacket and trousers, he had slunk up to the door of the back veranda at the Jarvis house and informed the maid he was a togt boy. She came back and said there were no odd jobs going. Then he had pleaded for a morsel of food. This had brought him a doorstep of stale bread, spread thickly with apricot jam, and a can of black tea, well sugared. He had been given permission to eat in the compound.

There he had encountered one Jackson Zulu, the head cookboy, who was resting from his labors and idly planning the midday menu. He looked askance at the stranger and ordered him into the coal shed. Jackson had such a grand manner, Zondi almost obeyed him.

Then he had shown Jackson his handcuffs and suggested a confidential chat. Jackson was a wily old bird, though. Before agreeing to anything, he had asked if Zondi, who would have to be educated if he really was a detective sergeant, could spell “asparagus.” Oddly enough, he could. Jackson added it to his list on the back of an old bill and pronounced himself ready to be of any service. He had a great respect for the police, as had any man with something to lose.

They got on tremendously after that. Shrewdly, Zondi had started with the staff, leaving his questions about the family to appear polite afterthoughts to make Jackson feel important.

The Jarvises employed a head cookboy, a head maid who cooked in his absence, a housemaid, a wash girl part time, a garden boy, and a youngster who helped him. They had all been with the family some time and had arrived with first-class references.

“Get on with it,” said Kramer, tossing a cigarette to Pembrook. The smoke might dry up that damn nose of his.

Zondi seemed mildly aggrieved but continued. Captain Jarvis-that was a captain of an army-was regarded as a good master. He was very particular about everything, and sometimes he swore terribly in a language nobody else understood, but he was just. The remarkable thing about him was the fact he never went out to work. Jackson had once asked tactfully for an explanation from the missus and she had told him a long story about sharing petrol that he could not understand. Still, it did not matter, as the wages were better than most.

Jackson liked his missus very, very much. She was much younger than her husband and never got angry. She forgot many things, too, and that was why she let Jackson run everything and even order groceries by telephone himself. It was a great honor to be so trusted. One of which, of course, Jackson was eminently worthy. Zondi had entirely agreed with him.

That loosened things up a bit. Jackson then admitted that there were times when the Jarvis household was not a pleasant place to be. There was the night of the elder daughter’s birthday, for example. There had been a dinner party with ten guests and no less than six delicious courses which Jackson had served personally, resplendent in his red sash and white gloves. He had thought the missus very happy and talkative. Why, she had raised her voice like their own women did when they were enjoying themselves. And yet, afterwards, there was a quarrel in the missus’s bedroom-his employers slept separately-that became so bad that he and the other servants were told to leave the washing-up. The master had shouted that the visitors would say things about her that could do the family harm.

Jackson had shrugged. He could follow the ways of the Europeans so far and then… Perhaps the Captain had taken too much spirits. Any sober man would have seen how attentively the guests had listened to the missus-and have heard how loudly they laughed.

This elder daughter? She was not so bad but a bit cheeky. Also very lazy about getting up and usually had her breakfast on a tray. He put this down to the fact that she had a lover called Mr. Glen.

The younger daughter, Sally, was a different calf altogether. More like her mother although she was not the pretty one. Hau, she had been so sad until she, too, found a little lover. At first he had come to the house just to swim, and then he had been invited to lunch.

That was another bad meal, Jackson remembered. Hastening to add that the cooking had been, as always, fit for a paramount chief. The thing was the boy had eaten his fish with the meat knife and fork. Then, when the meat was served, he tried to cut his steak with a fish knife. The little missus had been so angry when the others laughed because he complained the knife was blunt. She cried afterwards, too, when he had gone. Only the missus seemed sorry for her and asked that Jackson make some ice cream. After this incident he had given them their meals separately on the back veranda. There was talk, he added in hushed tones, that despite speaking English, the boy was actually an amaboona. A Boer.

Zondi relished echoing, by example, a degree of restrained horror. Kramer took the recollection better than Pembrook, who seemed, for some reason or other, acutely embarrassed. Then Jackson had tried to get back to the garden boy, about whom he harbored certain suspicions. There was this curious habit he had of going to sleep immediately after his evening meal. But Zondi wanted to know if the story of the little missus had a happy ending.

The boy had been up at the house on Saturday, Jackson said. No, not since then, because the little missus had gone away suddenly to stay with her grandparents in Johannesburg. That was on Monday. Oh, yes, of course, a driver was also employed now. He had taken her with the master.

“What about the American?” Kramer demanded.

“Jackson did not say much, boss, because he was at home in his kraal for the month. He could only tell me the maids thought he was very strange in his ways. He cut up all his food before-”

“Please, no more bloody table manners, man!”

“I was also going to say he spoke to the maids like they were white. They were afraid his mind was dirty.”

“That’s all?”

“ Hau, one more thing. They told Jackson that one morning the maid who makes the beds found a sock in the older daughter’s sheets. The laundry maid helped her return it to the proper place.”

“Young Andy’s chest of drawers, no doubt?”

Zondi laughed, nodding.

“You bastard,” said Kramer. “Why not start there with your story? Still, we’ve learned a lot, hey, Pembrook?”

“Yes, we have, sir.”

“Still not happy about something. What is it?”

“Must I answer that, sir?”

“Zondi, push off outside a minute.”

He left, closing the door carefully behind him.

“Come on, Constable, speak up.”

“It’s just-well, this doesn’t strike me as-er-a very wise procedure, sir, sending in Zondi. I’m sorry, sir.”

Kramer turned his back on him and then went over to look down into the street.

“Orthodox, you mean? What happened to Boetie Swanepoel wasn’t orthodox, Constable. Remember that. And to help you get your job into its correct perspective, I’m ordering you to go down now to the mortuary and ask to see the body. I want you to touch it with your left hand. I will then sign that hand in ink. You will not wash that hand until this docket here has some red tape around it. Understand?”

“No, sir. I mean-”

“What the hell do you mean, Constable?”

“I’ve already seen Boetie, sir. It’s not that. I’m worried about what will result if the cookboy tells his employers. If we’re wrong-”

He was interrupted by Kramer’s chortle.

“ Ach, Pembrook, let’s have our storyteller back in and see if he can’t put your mind at rest. You’ve got the aptitude for CID but still a lot to learn.”

Zondi entered warily.

“Sergeant, did you speak to any other of the servants?”

“No, sir.”

“And how did you end your interview with Bantu male Jackson Zulu?”

“I asked to see his room, sir.”

“For what reason?”

“To admire it, sir.”

“And what transpired there?”

Instead of answering, Zondi took an official envelope out of his jacket and emptied out of it two silver fruit knives marked with a crest. There was not a servant’s room in the land that could not reveal some sign of petty pilfering.

“You gave Zulu a receipt for them?”

“He did not want one.”

“But he took it?”

“Yes, Lieutenant. I told him to put it in a safe place while I considered making further inquiries.”

“How was he when you left him? Talkative?”

“Very quiet, sir.”

Pembrook, whose youth had made it impossible for him to disguise his astonishment at Zondi’s sudden command of formal Afrikaans, laughed out loud for the first time.

“It sounds very orthodox to me, sir!” he said.

“Naturally,” replied Kramer. “Now I think we’d all better get about our business. You to check the room and me to pay a call on the Jarvises. Zondi here has to tidy up his part in last night’s ax murder.”

They began to move towards the passage.

“Why are you taking that stick, sir?” asked Pembrook.

“To be honest, man, I don’t like dogs myself.”

“But there isn’t one at No. 10,” Zondi reassured him. “It’s dead.”

The last lesson before midmorning break induced the teeth-gritting feeling Lisbet usually associated with a piece of hard chalk squealing on the blackboard.

Finally she gave up trying to instill any enthusiasm for the onomatopoeia in early Afrikaans poetry, and told her class to read.

Immediately every hand shot up. She would kill the lot of them in another minute.

“What’s the matter now, Jan?” she asked.

“We haven’t been to the library this week,” he replied earnestly. “We’ve all finished our books.”

“Yes, miss,” chorused the others, suddenly anxious to receive the best education possible.

Little swine. Kids were quicker than anyone to smell out weakness.

“Have the magazines come?” asked Jan.

“That’s a good idea. They’re in my desk. Just a minute.”

Lisbet brought out the parcel, tore the paper off, and divided the pile into two.

“I’d like Dirk and Hester to hand them out, please. Be as quick and quiet as you can. Then you must all read until the bell.”

“Can I do the crossword puzzle instead, miss?”

“Yes, you may, Jan.”

Sometimes she suspected, rather nastily, that he took full advantage of that harelip of his, knowing that few had the courage to shut him up. You felt it might be likened to tripping a cripple.

Peace.

Lisbet began to do what she had wanted so badly all morning: to read through Boetie’s compositions in the hope of finding something there of significance. Her courses at teachers’ training college had included elementary psychology and she had learned something of the mechanism of projected thoughts.

“Miss?”

“Jan! Didn’t I tell you I wanted silence?”

“I want to show you something, miss.”

He looked very hurt. Realistically, too.

“What? It better be important! Tell me from there.”

Jan pointed in Hester’s direction without letting her see him do it. Lisbet took the hint but frowned.

“All right then, come up if you must.”

He tiptoed onto the platform and spread his copy of the magazine before her. His finger jabbed at a letter in the Detective Club section.

“See, miss? It’s signed by Boetie.”

Lisbet read the letter in a gulp.

“Jan,” she said softly, “I don’t think it’ll do Hester any harm to see this. But I think I’d better make a phone call. Can I leave you as monitor in charge?”

“If you like, miss.”

She shot from the room.

The constable handling the switchboard at police headquarters turned to his companion working on canteen accounts and said: “Hell, what are you buggers putting into old Kramer’s coffee these days?”

“He doesn’t drink our coffee. Why?”

“Then it must be that Greek over the road.”

“Doing what?”

“Putting something in his coffee.”

“Christ, I’m taking these things into the other office if you’re going to go on like that all bloody morning!”

“ Ach, don’t be like that, hey? It was just a joke. I mean a bloke like that isn’t my idea of a ladykiller-he needs a little extra.”

“Look, just tell me what this is all about.”

“That’s two dollies now, both different, both wanting to speak to him. Very sexy voices, I can tell you.”

“And so?”

“They keep ringing but I can’t put them through. He’s out and as usual I don’t know where. Feel like introducing myself-they sound hell of a anxious, if you know what I mean.”

One of the pinafored Bantu maids admitted Kramer to the hall and left to inform her master and missus of his arrival.

If she had been white, it would have convinced Kramer he was on a film set. Even the weather contributed to the uncanny feel of the place as rain hissed against the diamond-shaped bits of glass in the narrow windows on either side of the great wooden door. Not that he had seen more than two films about England in his life, but they had made a strong impression on him-largely because the strange girl who insisted on going to them was too ladylike to allow herself to be unbuttoned.

Kramer removed his raincoat and hung it up with some others on a thing made of antlers. Curious to know the name of the beast, he peered at the small silver plate beneath it and read: “Subalterns’ Mess, Fort George.” A lot of use that was.

He went back and wiped his feet on the mat again before stepping onto the rich pile of the Persian rug. The ceiling was very low. He tapped one of the brown beams and confirmed it was painted concrete, as befitted such conceits in the land of the termite. The original purpose of a long row of brass disks with pictures cut in them was quite beyond him.

But he understood the prime function of the rest of the decorations, while wondering idly if some were properly licensed. There were old pistols, swords, a crossbow, a daisy of daggers, and a battleax; an enormous gong, a vase as high as his waist stuffed with bull rushes, and paintings of horsemen in red blazers jumping over farm fences-in one the farmer was waving his stick at them.

Much as he looked, however, he could not find anything from Africa. All the smaller stuff was the sort of junk that Indians tried to sell you from cloth-covered baskets on Durban beach, although not as nice and shiny. With so many servants about you would think they-

The maid had returned with a maidenly giggle to announce that her master would see the boss now in the drawing room. Having carefully surveyed the large, thatched house on his way up the drive, Kramer had worked out its distribution of rooms well enough to open the correct door in the corridor.

Captain Peter Jarvis stood with his back to the gigantic fire-place, which had a one-bar electric fire poised for winter in its grate, at the far end of a gleaming floor. In spite of the distance separating them, Jarvis’s features-and particularly his mustache-were defined with exceptional clarity; they were sharp, in the physical sense, but it was the strong coloring that gave such an edge. The face was deeply tanned, from a line just above a normal collar, the cheeks had circles of red on them, the mustache itself was pitch black, while the hair fringing the pate was shark gray; the eyes were brown, the teeth whiter than a new golfball. The first thing Kramer thought of was a model soldier, dismissed it as too trite, and then could not think of a better comparison. That was what the man looked like, and he stood like one, too, making the best of his five-footten heavy build, and no visible scars or tattoos.

He wore a tailored suit as muted in its tone as the furnishings, offset by a single carnation.

“Gentlemen generally make an appointment,” Jarvis remarked in military English with a militant edge to it. “However, seeing as you’re here, come in, Lieutenant. I’m afraid I do not speak Cape Dutch.”

“That’s all right, sir. I’m paid to be bilingual. Just a casual inquiry.”

Kramer made his way over, using the many rugs like stepping stones, and was waved diffidently into a leather chair.

“Drink?”

“Later maybe. Is your wife not here this morning?”

“Mrs. Jarvis is about the place, but I am sure that there is no necessity for troubling her with whatever you have come about.”

“I thought that might be obvious, sir.”

“Is it? I would have thought our connection with the boy hardly warranted your attention. It was very much a passing phase on Sally Ann’s part.”

“Surely that’s an assumption?”

“Made himself unpopular, I’m afraid, rather inevitably really. He was not quite our-”

“Go on, sir?”

Jarvis eyed Kramer carefully.

“Shall we say, cup of tea, Lieutenant?”

“Uhuh. And yet he came to your house very frequently.”

“Got that off his school friends, did you? I’m afraid he must have exaggerated to impress them. I would not place his visits at over half a dozen at the most.”

“So you’re not sorry he’s dead?”

Jarvis reddened. “That is a most outrageous remark, sir! You will withdraw it at once!”

“I was only asking, Captain. You’re not the first person to seem-you know. Far from it.”

Jarvis took a decanter from a tray and poured a whisky.

“Think I’ll join you, sir, after all,” Kramer said.

“Good man.”

With them both seated, the tension eased slightly. They raised glasses and drank.

“I imagine you prefer a Cape brandy?” Jarvis said conversationally.

“To tell the truth, Captain, I usually order Pernod.”

“Remarkable,” Jarvis muttered to himself. Then added quickly, “Is there anything specific you want to know about the boy?”

“Yes, we’d like to know when he was last here.”

“On Saturday afternoon. He came to bathe, I believe.”

“So your daughter was friendly with him as recently as that?”

“That was when it happened, Lieutenant. He overstepped the mark with some of his schoolboy smut. My elder daughter was not amused. Sally tried to defend him and realized, during the kafuffel that then took place, how dreadfully-er-common he was.”

“Smut? You mean a joke?”

“I do. A deplorable piece of filth, so I was told.”

“By whom? Sally?”

“No, Caroline, my eldest daughter.”

“What happened then?”

“He left under a cloud.”

“I see.”

“May I emphasize something, Lieutenant? When I use the word ‘common’ I refer to a chap’s breeding. I have the greatest respect for the forefathers of this country. The Boers were the finest mounted warriors since the Huns-Winston himself says so in one of his books.”

A pretty speech.

“You mean you were lucky to win?” Kramer asked with a laugh.

Jarvis reddened again-he was better value than a performing chameleon.

“Perhaps so, Lieutenant. I must say your people were a surprise after the peasantry we were used to scrapping with.”

Oh, very nicely done. However, Kramer was not there to settle old scores, but a new one. And he still had no idea who the enemy was.

“Did any member of your family see Boetie again after his incident?”

“No. I’m quite sure they would have mentioned it.”

“Nevertheless, could I have a word with your daughters this evening, Captain? After school?”

“Caroline is in the nursing home having a cyst removed. I wonder if you’d not-”

“Sally, then?”

“I sent her up to her grandmother on the Witwatersrand.”

“When was this?”

“On Monday, directly I saw the news in the paper. It would have upset her dreadfully. I know what I said about their little liaison, but the child’s had enough to contend with recently.”

Kramer got up and put his glass on the tray. He had the air of a man who had suddenly lost interest in the matter in hand and just wanted to beat a friendly retreat.

“Of course, I’d forgotten,” he said. “You also had that sad business concerning the American youth. I was in Zululand at the time.”

“Lovely part of the world, that,” murmured Jarvis, accompanying him over to the door. “I’ll show you out myself.”

“There was one thing I never quite did understand about that accident.”

“Really, Lieutenant? This is your mackintosh, I believe.”

“The bit about the American’s clothes. The story goes he was stripped down and probably about to have a swim when he fell in accidentally.”

“That’s what happened.”

“But where was his swimming costume? I’ve never seen that mentioned.”

Kramer took his raincoat from the hands outstretched to help him on with it so that he would be able to keep his eyes on Jarvis’s face. A slight tremor.

“Then your colleagues have kept their word,” Jarvis said quietly.

“Not that I’ve been asking questions, but I’d like to know out of curiosity.”

“You’re an astute man, Lieutenant, but the explanation is simple: he often swam alone without one. He was rather given to that sort of thing.”

“Walking round nude?”

“Something of that order. Surprising what American youth considers normal these days. Even so, we felt obliged to be discreet in the matter for his parents’ sake. Sergeant Brandsma was most understanding. We didn’t want the papers calling Andrew a hippie either-it’s such a vulgar expression-and they would have leaped at it. As it was, the press wallahs did rather overdo-”

“But was he a hippie, in your opinion?”

“Sheer affectation! Came of excellent stock-told me his father liked his pimp’s trousers no better than I did. Never could get him to have a decent haircut, but we did calm down his clothes a bit. His manners themselves were remarkably good.”

“What did your daughters and their friends think of him?”

“Sally and Caroline were all right, but I’m afraid the others suspected him of being-er-sissy. Hair that length is effeminate by South African standards.”

“No girl friends, then?”

“Hardly had time, old boy. Poor little blighter.”

“He had a month, Captain. I’ve known a bloke set himself up in a week.”

“The devil he did.”

The great door stood wide and the rain tapped its way towards the Persian carpet.

“One more thing, if I may, Captain.”

“Fire away.”

“Was ‘sissy’ really the word for Master Cutler?”

Jarvis looked wary, then broke out a man-to-man smile.

“Deuced difficult to tell ’em apart these days,” he murmured. “But that’s not for publication.”

They shook hands silently.

As Kramer ran through the wet to his car, he turned once to look back at the house. Remembering then that he had, in fact, seen a third English film: one about a country mansion which became haunted. Not, however, by the ghost of a clean-living boy who told dirty stories-nor of a homosexual youth who left his socks in girls’ beds. Man, it had been dull.