The Caterpillar Cop

10

L UNCH BREAK WAS almost over when the call finally came through. Lisbet snatched up the receiver, aware that the secretary had paused for only a brief exchange with a raucous pupil outside the office door.

“Trompie? Listen hard because I haven’t got time to repeat anything. It’s the magazine-Boetie has a letter in the latest issue. No date but you can work out roughly when it was written. This is what it says:

“‘Dear Sir, I think the Detective Club is very good. But I have a complaint. The new station commander has chased us all away. He says it is not children’s work. Now there is just me left of the Midnight Leopards. Of course he is wrong, but he will not listen. I think I have found a way of proving to him a big mistake has been made. Only I do not have all the right information yet. Respectfully yours,’ et cetera.

“And underneath it says: ‘Leave this matter to me, old pal. Send me the name of the police officer concerned and I will pass it on to the brigadier for his attention. Keep up the good work!’ ”

Lisbet nodded.

“That’s just what I thought, Trompie. Yes, I’ll be in all evening. Why?”

The line went frustratingly dead.

Pembrook, who had been typing to Zondi’s dictation, dragged the sheet of paper out of the machine and handed it to Kramer.

“Word for word, Sergeant?”

Zondi, still toying with the telephone’s extra earpiece, shrugged modestly; it had not been much to memorize. The mission where he had been educated could never afford to issue textbooks.

“That’s quite a trick he’s got there,” Pembrook observed. “Where did he pick it up?”

“ Ach, from a nun.”

“Hey?”

“Back to work, Johnny-what do you make of this letter?”

“It’s ambiguous, isn’t it, sir? I can see how the magazine read it so the ‘big mistake’ was referring to the station commander’s attitude. I can also see Boetie could have been referring to some other ‘big mistake.’ ”

“Like the wrong verdict at an inquest?”

“Yes, sir. But we have no evidence to-”

“Look at his last line, man. That could mean he didn’t have, either.”

Pembrook rubbed his brow and gave it a couple of thumps.

“Sorry, I can’t think straight,” he said. “This cold is a bastard. Can Zondi go out for some tissues?”

“In a minute. First tell me if you have any ideas, Mr. Memory.”

“Many, boss.”

“Let’s hear them, then.”

Kramer offered a cigarette to Pembrook, which was politely refused, and tossed another over to the stool in the corner. Zondi caught it in his hat and lit up. He enjoyed an audience but kept his tone respectful.

“My woman gave me two boys at one time thirteen years ago, boss. I have studied their ways-and the ways of others. From when they suck the breast until they are so high, there is no trouble for them in this world. It does not matter if their singing is like a dog crying to the spirits. Or if the drawing they make in the sand is like where the dung beetle has been running. Then one month they are not children. Because why? Because soon they will have time to find their own bread; we have told them this is so, we have said you must learn well in school now, we have shaken our finger at childish things. There is a big exam for the high school and they must pass it. This is the change, boss, they do not like to try something unless they can do it nicely. They do not like people to laugh at them.”

He paused.

“Is it the same for white children, boss?”

“Can’t remember. Certainly they lose confidence for a while.”

“But it is the laughing that is the big matter here. You have asked why the little master did not go to the police straightaway-maybe this is what he feared.”

Pembrook sighed, caught Kramer’s eyes, and turned it into a dry cough. Zondi clicked his tongue sympathetically before going on.

“There is also another idea I have been thinking. If the little master had seen this foreigner being killed, he would have to admit to the policemen that he was trespassing on private property.”

“So what? That would be overlooked under the circumstances.”

“Unless they knew already there had been a murder, boss. They would laugh and say,‘What the hell were you doing there, you little bugger? Didn’t we tell you to keep away from Greenside?’ ”

It was an impertinent bit of mimicry.

“Wait a minute!”

Kramer jumped up with an expression of dawning comprehension. He dithered a moment and then disappeared from the room.

Zondi took it very calmly, concentrating on smoking his cigarette right down to the pinch of his forefinger and thumb. Pembrook watched him do it, wincing once, and then blew his nose on a piece of notepaper.

The rain stopped.

Nothing else happened.

Until Kramer returned with a box of paper tissues that he flung at Pembrook.

“Hell, sir! But you shouldn’t have gone out for-”

“Oh, belt up. I wanted a walk. Why not? You owe me thirty-five cents.”

“I’ll-”

“Later, man. I’ve got it all worked out.”

“ All of it?”

“Enough. One thing I want to check first, then I’ll tell you. Meantime you book yourself a seat on the five o’clock plane from Durban.”

“Where to, sir?”

“Jo’burg-where else? Got a nice little girlie lined up for you there. Try not to give her your cold.”

Providence did Kramer proud. The house and grounds were completely deserted, apart from the driver; having dropped off Captain and Mrs. Jarvis at their weekly bridge party, he was taking his time over waxing the Rover round the back. The other servants were out visiting.

Kramer left Zondi to have a quiet word with him, and began his tour of the property’s perimeter. This established that it was completely secure except for an almost invisible hole in the wire fence hidden within the high hedge alongside the road.

He stood with his back to it and studied the lie of the land. There was a long stretch of lawn, a flower bed, more lawn, some large shrubs, the tops of the tennis court poles, and, out of sight, but very much in mind, the swimming pool. The house was also impossible to see from this point-and, presumably, impossible to be seen from.

It was an excellent access for the uninvited. Kramer headed in a straight line for the shrubs, taking the flower bed in a single stride, and not halting until forced to by the shrubs. There was a gap in them slightly to the left and he pushed his way into it. The sun had been out for an hour but the leaves were still very wet. He scowled but persevered.

Finding he had not far to go. Quite suddenly the tennis court lay before him, and-beyond its walls of wire netting-the pool. He examined the ground at his feet. Nothing.

The patio was on the far side of the absurdly blue water; a pebbled wedge of concrete on which stood some cast iron furniture painted white, a furled cafe umbrella, and a child’s swing missing its seat. He could take in every detail. Even the oyster shell ashtrays.

Another, more careful, examination of the ground where he stood revealed nothing.

Then Kramer had an inspiration: he bent at the knees until he approximated Boetie’s eye level. The patio was now blotted out of view by some azalea bushes in the foreground.

So that was it. Edging along like a bad case of piles, to keep his head at the right height, he discovered a gap in the azaleas through which he could see very clearly.

Still nothing on the ground. But a sapling just to his right caught his eye. Someone had been tearing the twigs off it. Someone who had not seen it bore an important-looking botanical label. Maybe because it was dark.

And anyway, a Midnight Leopard probably did not give a damn where it sharpened its claws.

The dispatch manager at the Gazette finished his day at two in the afternoon, having had to be there before sunrise to supervise local deliveries. He was about to take a farewell ogle at the new filing clerk when Grandfather Govender hobbled in.

“Out!” shouted the manager.

“Master, one more time I am asking you to come help by Danny’s side. That poor children, master, he-”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Please, master. God blessing you. I can see you are a kind man in your heart.”

“But I won’t be so kind if you come back again, Sammy. I’ve already told you the kid was too good to be true-always knew he was up to something. Now the cops have him and I’m not interfering with them for you or anyone else. Bugger off.” Grandfather Govender struck the floor with his staff, in the manner of Moses installing a plague, then withdrew with patriarchal dignity.

Whereupon the new filing clerk said he had given her goose pimples all over.

And the foreman asked to see them.

Three cups of coffee from the Greek cafe were very welcome. Zondi poured one into his tin mug and retired to the corner.

“Too bloody hot!” said Kramer, sucking his upper lip. “Any milk?”

“No, boss.”

“ Ach, I’d better just get started then. But first, did Zondi give you Sally’s address in Jo’burg, Johnny?”

“It’s 39 Woodland Drive, Parktown.”

“Or Avenue-the driver was not positive about that.”

“I’ll find her, sir. But what line do I take?”

“There is one thing about Boetie we know for absolute certain,” Kramer said, “and that is he behaved out of character for the four weeks before his death. Or seemed to.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t believe anyone changes so much so fast. What we have to do is keep both Boeties in mind and see how they can work together. Okay?”

Zondi gave a nod of understanding.

“Right. The next step is to pinpoint when this-shall we say-apparent change took place. Any suggestions?”

“On Sunday he overslept.”

“Perfectly normal if he was very tired. Nor is there anything really remarkable in the fact he didn’t do his homework and seemed somewhat peculiar on Monday morning. This was all very passive, if you get me.”

“Then what about when he bought the paper?”

“We’re getting closer, but even that action appeared acceptable when he said he wanted it to better his English. The first time he actually did anything that shocked anyone was on Tuesday when he gave Hester the boot.”

“Yes, it was crazy, that. He could easily have two-timed her. The girls lived worlds apart.”

“What about spies like Doreen West, who saw him at dancing?”

“Just a chance he had to take, sir. Anyway, he could have lied. Hester would believe him sooner than a spiteful English dame.”

Kramer shook his head.

“But this is Boetie Swanepoel you’re talking about,” he said. “Lying and two-timing are not part of a strict Christian upbringing-and we know he had a hatred of cheats. I think he would have taken steps to avoid having to do either if he could.”

“Huh! And what about the lies he must have told Sally?”

“Perhaps they could not be avoided. Some lies make you feel bad; others don’t, if you feel you have good enough reason for them.”

The coffee was now cool enough to drink. The three of them sipped in thoughtful silence.

“Even so, sir, if Boetie was the upright bloke you say, then it couldn’t have been easy to drop Hester without telling her why.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t. Not something to be done on the spur of the moment. I’m sure Boetie gave it a lot of thought. How long would you make it?”

“A day, sir?”

“Agreed-although it’s purely arbitrary. The interesting thing is to count a day back from Tuesday lunchtime and see where you end up.”

“With him buying the newspaper?”

“And whose name appeared in that story?”

“Sally’s?”

“It also gave her age.”

Zondi tipped his head sideways like a puzzled jackal.

“Age was the common denominator, you see,” said Kramer. “Something he could work on if he wanted an ‘in’ to the Jarvis family.”

“But why-”

“Once upon a time,” Kramer interrupted, “there lived a bloke called Boetie who wanted to catch a burglar.

“Bonita told us that on Saturday, November 15, he went out at night on his bicycle; Hennie told us he was still patrolling Greenside; Mr. Swanepoel told us Boetie overslept; and so Boetie was out very late on patrol in Greenside on the night of Andy’s death.

“There are not many street lights in Greenside and most of the properties are difficult to see into. Boetie was going along, relying on his ears to alert him to suspicious circumstances.

“We have one address in Greenside with which we can connect him-10 Rosebank Road. He also claims to have seen something. This couldn’t have been at No. 10 unless he entered the property.

“So what we have is Boetie passing by when he hears a sound or sounds that make him curious. He finds a hole in the fence inside the hedge and crawls through. All he sees is lawn-and it’s dark, too, remember. He makes for the next bit of cover.”

“The shrubs where you-”

“Shhhh, man. He forces his way through the shrubs and then finds the way blocked by the tennis court wire. Does he then go round sideways?”

“If he has any sense.”

“Unless, of course, he can identify from where he is who or what is making those sounds.”

“Naturally, sir! He can see all right and that’s why he stands there, buggering up that little tree, looking right onto the patio…”

“Through two lots of wire netting. That’s important because although your eyes put it out of focus-like when you’re gawking in a zoo-it still blurs the vision slightly, particularly at night. I’ll come back to that.

“The question now is: What does he see? Take the official version. Andy is walking about bare-arsed, falls in, and doesn’t surface.

“Man, I doubt it. The first reason is we wouldn’t have had all this nonsense afterwards. Andy would have drowned and there’s an end. The other reason is that Boetie was good at swimming-remember what the Dominee said. If he had seen someone fail to rise in the water, it would have been his instinct to rush and save him.

“Which forces us to concoct an alternative version, and we start by asking ourselves why didn’t Boetie go to the rescue? Either he was afraid to or he did not see the point. What does that suggest to you?”

Zondi was the first to answer.

“That there was another person there, boss.”

“Or, sir, he knew Andy was dead already.”

“Impossible, Johnny; he could not even begin to see the bottom of the pool from where he stood.”

Pembrook glanced across to Zondi before answering.

“Then he must have made a judgment based on someone else’s behavior.”

“Ah, so Andy was not alone after all when he took his moonlight dip! And what’s more, this third party made no attempt at a rescue or the body would have been dragged back onto dry land-you can’t apply respiration in water.”

“And that’s what Boetie saw!”

“Plus what went before. If I tell you that a man has died mysteriously and there was another person there at the time, what are your conclusions?”

“Foul play.”

“You could go a step further, in the light of what happened to Boetie, and say murder. But let’s keep within the framework and just call it a crime.”

“Why didn’t he…?”

“This is where what Zondi said comes in. Here we have Boetie witnessing a crime. He knows it’s a crime and he knows the police will inevitably become involved in it because they must investigate all sudden deaths. He also reads the Detective Club column which praises the police to high heaven. Nothing can escape their watchful eye. Naturally he supposes the crime he sees committed will be no exception.”

“Christ, sir, that’s good!”

“Logical, nothing else. So what is there in it for him? If he tells the police what they already know, they will laugh. If he tells them what they will doubtlessly find out, they’ll want to know where he got his information. He realizes that it would be best to keep quiet.”

“That sort of cool thinking would take a hard-headed kid.”

“Boetie in a nutshell, Johnny. Okay, so he sneaks out and goes home, but he’s only twelve and he’s seen a man die. This keeps him awake. Makes him oversleep. Perhaps by morning it is all unreal and almost a dream. He forgets to do his homework. On Monday he wants to make sure he saw what he saw-and he’s also very curious to check on how the case has been treated. Crime in Greenside is big stuff.

“He buys a paper. What’s in it? An inquest stating Andy Cutler died accidentally. He must have flipped. And I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t make the same mistake we made over that line. ‘A typical drowning.’ ”

“But, sir…”

“Go on.”

“Surely that was his cue to tell the police? Now he was in the strongest possible position.”

“Oh, no, he could go one better. Here, the letter reads: ‘I think I have found a way of proving to him a big mistake has been made.’

“You mustn’t overlook Boetie’s feud with the station commander. That had made him really sore. He didn’t want to reveal the crime so much as actually use it to prove how useful he and his mates could be.”

Pembrook pushed back his cuff from his watch and frowned.

“You see,” said Kramer, leaning forward, “what Boetie had in mind was presenting the police not with just his eyewitness report, but the whole bloody thing tied up in a string. Real evidence like a real detective.”

“Sorry, sir, that’s too much to believe.”

“All right, let’s try another approach. Up to the moment Boetie saw the newspaper article he had no reason to doubt his assessment of the activity by the pool. Now he is confronted by what seems an incredible oversight. Or is it? Only an investigation can give him the answer and he prefers to carry it out himself.”

“Then nobody can call him a fool,” Zondi murmured.

“Well, Johnny?”

Pembrook had been turning the rubber roller of the typewriter in an irritating way. He jerked his head up.

“I think all he wanted was something to back up his word. One or two outside facts, maybe. If he had just gone to the station commander with his story, it could have been dismissed as a nasty piece of malicious hearsay-particularly as everyone was being so soft about the thing. I’m with you there, but now I can’t understand why he put it in his letter to the Detective Club. Or why he wrote to it at all.”

“A good point. My theory is simply that he felt he had to tell someone. You can see the kids take this club pretty personally.”

“Hmmm. Where do we go from here then, sir?”

“Just a minute-the wire netting. There is a chance that it boosted any doubt that started to grow in his mind. At that range he might not necessarily have been able to give a good description of the other party. He’d have to see them again first, so he decided to get mixed up with the family. He notices Sally is twelve and somehow finds out she goes to dancing. Let’s not trouble with that point too much. In the first place, it’s a reasonable deduction considering the type of girl she is-and in the second place, we know he was training down at the town baths with English boys. They could have told him.

“Hester is a snag. She expects him to go around with her, and won’t be easily fobbed off with excuses. She’ll get in the way. Then the conscience thing again, which I think is very real. And on top of this, the breaking-off committed him to his plan of action.

“Boetie gets all togged up and goes to dancing on Friday night. Naturally Sally is pleased when a boy takes so much notice of her for a change. She’s probably so hard-up that it doesn’t make any difference he’s Afrikaans-or maybe she goes for being a rebel daughter. With an old man like that, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. From here on, Boetie worms his way into the household, trying to find out what he can.”

“Yet he still isn’t any the wiser after how many visits?”

“Who said? He must have finally got somewhere because he implied as much when he asked Hennie to look after the toffee box.”

Pembrook opened it.

“I bet these codes could explain a few things. Pity there was nothing in his room-I was there two hours, you know.”

“That’s what I’m going to work on as soon as you leave. Christ, the time! You’d better go.”

Zondi handed Pembrook his raincoat and small suitcase, adding a little bow which did not go down very well.

“All right, sir, I’ll ring in the morning. I think I know what you want out of Miss Jarvis.”

“What’s that?”

“Mainly if Boetie told her dirty jokes, too. That’s the one bit that doesn’t fit into all of this.”

“You’re my boy.” Kramer grinned.

The padlocked Ford van carrying Danny Govender from the place of safety to the magistrate’s court for another remand that Thursday afternoon was being driven by Constable Hendriks.

A very cheerful Hendriks, because he had once again succeeded in winning a transfer to a job he considered more congenial-and this time he was confident of having found his true billet. Nobody else had transfers granted as readily as he did. He wondered again if, in point of fact, he did have a winning personality. A sergeant had once murmured something to that effect.

There was not a great deal of traffic, yet he kept his speed down. The whole secret of ferrying prisoners to and fro was in the timing; if you did the journey too quickly, the jail would find paper work for you; too slowly and the court cell sergeant would bawl you out in front of the wogs.

He looked into his mirror, noting with satisfaction that the sole occupant of the lock-up section in the rear was sitting nice and quiet. Now here was an interesting case, this snot-nosed Indian kid who claimed he had gone into a posh area to dig up a dog. What a story! And yet everyone felt there was an even better one somewhere if only they could coax it out.

Hendriks’ thoughts homed in on himself. Actually, when he dispassionately reviewed his career in the force to date, he could detect only one minor shortcoming: a tendency to forgetfulness.

Which was one of the reasons he had for being so pleased about his present job. There was nothing to remember-no messages, no beats, no faces on the wanted list. All he did was count the prisoners as they hopped in, snap the lock, drive, twist the key, count them as they got out, and hand over the papers.

He hiccuped, tasting again the very strong coffee he had been given out at the place of safety by the housekeeper. A nice woman who always made him very comfortable, and it was good to put up his feet for five minutes.

Jesus! Some cheeky sod behind him was hooting to pass; he would bloody well-

A fire engine shot by, its siren coming on with a long wail of derision. Hendriks could have sworn that the baboon next to the driver had shaken a fist at him.

He would bloody well show them!

The van leaped in pursuit, its police markings giving it the same immunity from the normal rules of the road, and all other traffic shrank towards the curbside.

To his delight, Hendriks started gaining and could spare a moment to check his prisoner in the mirror again. The little devil was loving it. There would be no complaints, and if there were…

Just look at that, the fire engine was chickening out at the turnoff to Binswood Avenue. It might be a blind corner but there was no need to drop down into bloody first gear for it. Wait till he got there. The fire engine disappeared out of sight.

Hendriks braced himself against the door and gunned the van into a fancy four-wheel drift.

He came out of the corner into Binswood Avenue at thirty mph, which, while being a lot slower than it felt, gave him a thinking distance of thirty feet and a braking distance of forty-five feet. For the first ten yards he thought about the petrol tanker lying on its side, completely blocking the road, and its load gushing out of the fractured seams. For the rest of the way he braked.

As it happened, he traveled all of eighty feet from the corner-missing the fire engine by a coat of red paint-before denting his radiator grille slightly on the stricken vehicle. It was amazing how his all-weather tires kept their grip through the great spread of fuel.

A fireman wrenched his door open.

“Jump, you stupid bastard! This lot could go up any second!”

Hendriks wobbled out on trembling legs and was hustled to safety.

“Has he got anyone in there?” asked the fire chief, being answered with a nod. “Then give us the bloody key, mate, and be quick!”

Hendriks felt in his pocket. Then in his other pocket. All three other pockets.

“ Ach, no! I forgot it when I had coffee,” he mumbled. “You see, you don’t need it to snap on-”

“Bolt cutters!” bellowed the fire chief, somewhat needlessly, as two of his men were already rushing towards the van with them.

The exhaust manifold on the police van ignited the vapor-or so it seemed, for the first explosion came from under its bonnet. There were nine others, and flames as high as the walls of hell.

Luckily for the pair with the bolt cutters, the initial blast knocked them flying before they got their boots wet. But although suffering severe injuries, they did not lose consciousness and were able to hear, as much as they tried not to, the sounds that Danny Govender made as he was roasted alive.

A horrible death for a boy-but pure accident.