The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

The Flung-Back Lid by Peter Godfrey

Peter Godfrey (1917-92) was a South African born writer and journalist who settled in England in 1962, because of his opposition to the apartheid regime, and continued his career as a reporter for the Daily Herald, the Sun and The Times. He wrote scores of stories for South African and American magazines and newspapers but during his lifetime only a handful were collected between covers in Death Under the Table (1954). More recently his son Ronald, also a journalist, compiled a new volume, The Newtonian Egg (2002). They all feature the cases of Rolf le Roux, a detective in the Johannesburg police force. All are unusual, but here is possibly the most perplexing.

All that day, the last day of March, the cableway to the top of Table Mountain had operated normally. Every half hour the car on the summit descended, and the car below ascended, both operating on the same endless cable. The entire journey took seven minutes.

Passengers going up or coming down gawked at the magnificent panorama over the head of the blase conductor in each car. In his upper-station cabin the driver of the week, Clobber, hunched conscientiously over his controls during each run, and was usually able to relax for the rest of the half hour.

In the restaurant on the summit, Mrs Orvin worked and chatted and sold curios and postcards and buttered scones, and showed customers how to post their cards in the little box which would ensure their stamps would be canceled with a special Table Mountain franking.

In the box-office at the lower station, the station master, Brander, sold tickets for the journey, and chatted with the conductor who happened to be down at the time, and drank tea.

Then, at 5.30 p.m., the siren moaned its warning that the last trip of the day was about to commence. Into the upper car came the last straggling sightseers, the engineer on duty, Mrs Orvin, and the conductor, Skager. Alone in the lower car was the other conductor, Heston, who would sleep overnight on the summit.

Then two bells rang, and the cars were on their way. For the space of seven minutes Clobber and the Native labourer, Ben, were the only two on top of the mountain. Then the cars docked, and Heston stepped jauntily on to the landing platform.

He joined Clobber, but neither spoke. Their dislike was mutual and obvious. They ate their evening meal in silence.

Clobber picked up a book. Heston took a short walk, and then went to bed.

Some hours later, he woke up. Somewhere in the blackness of the room he could hear Clobber snoring softly.

Heston bared his teeth. Snore now, he thought, snore now. But tomorrow…

The night began to grow less black. The stars faded first, then the lights far below in the city also winked out. The east changed colour. The sun rose.

It was tomorrow.

Brander came into the room which housed the lower landing platform, and peered myopically up along the giant stretch of steel rope.

The old Cape Coloured, Piet, was sweeping out the car which had remained overnight at the lower station – the right-hand car. He said: “Dag [1], Baas Brander.”

“Dag, Piet,” said Brander.

Two thousand feet above, the upper station looked like a doll’s house, perched on the edge of the cliff. The outlines of Table Mountain stood deep-etched by the morning sun. On the flat top of the elevation there was no sign of cloud – the tablecloth, as people in Cape Town call it – and there was no stirring of the air.

Brander thought: Good weather. We will be operating all day.

Piet was sweeping carefully, poking the broom edgeways into the corners of the car. He noticed Brander looking at him, and his old parchment flat-nosed face creased suddenly into a myriad of grins “Baas Dimble is the engineer today,” he said. “The car must be very clean.”

“That’s right, Piet,” said Brander. “Make a good job for Baas Dimble. You still have twenty minutes.”

In the upper station, Clobber settled himself in his chair in the driver’s cabin, and opened the latest issue of Armchair Scientist. He had just about enough time, he reckoned, to finish the latest article on the new rocket fuels before the test run at nine-thirty.

Line by line his eyes swallowed words, phrases and sentences. Then, interrupting the even flow of his thoughts, he felt the uneasy consciousness of eyes staring at the back of his neck. He had an annoying mental image of Heston’s thin lips contorting in a sardonic smile.

He turned. It was Heston, but this time his face was unusually serious. “Did I interrupt you?” he asked.

“Oh, go to hell,” said Clobber. He marked the place in his magazine, and put it down. He asked: “Well?”

“I wanted a few words with you,” said Heston.

“If it’s chit-chat you’re after, find someone else.”

Heston looked hurt. “It’s… well, it’s rather a personal problem. Do you mind?”

“All right. Go ahead.”

“I’m a bit worried about the trip down.”

“Why? You know as well as I do that nothing can go wrong with the cable.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just… Look, Clobber, I don’t want you to think I’m pulling your leg, because I’m really very serious. I don’t think I’m going to get down alive. You see, yesterday was my birthday – I turned thirty-one and it was 31 March – and I had to spend last night up here. Now, I’m not being superstitious or anything, but I’ve been warned that the day after my birthday I’d not be alive if my first trip was from the top to the bottom of the mountain. If I hadn’t forgotten, I’d have changed shifts with someone, but as it is…”

“Look here, Heston, if you’re not bluffing, you’re the biggest damned fool-”

“I’m not bluffing, Clobber. I mean it. You see, I haven’t got a relation in the world. If anything does happen, I’d like to see that each of the men gets something of mine as a sort of keepsake. You can have my watch. Dimble gets my binoculars-”

“Sure, sure. And your million-rand bank account goes to Little Orphan Annie. Don’t be a damned fool. Who gave you this idiotic warning, anyway?”

“I had a dream-”

“Get to hell out of here, you little rat! Coming here and-”

“But I mean it, Clobber-”

“Get out! It would be a damned good thing for all of us if you didn’t reach the bottom alive!”

Dimble, neat and officious but friendly, arrived at the lower station wagon, and with him were Skager and Mrs Orvin.

Brander shuffled forward to meet them.

“Nice day,” said Dimble. “What’s your time, Brander? Nine twenty-five? Good, our watches agree. Everything ship-shape here? Fine.”

Skager scratched a pimple on his neck.

Mrs Orvin said: “How’s your hand, Mr Brander?”

The station-master peered below his glasses at his left hand, which was neatly bound with fresh white bandages. “Getting better slowly, thanks. It’s still a little painful. I can’t use it much, yet.”

“Don’t like that Heston,” said Dimble. “Nasty trick he played on you, Brander.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t a trick, Mr Dimble. Perhaps he didn’t know the other end of the iron was hot.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs Orvin. “He probably heated it up, specially. I can believe anything of him. Impertinent, that’s what he is.”

“Even if he did do it,” said Brander, “I can’t bear any hard feelings.”

Dimble said: “You’re a religious man, eh, Brander? All right in its way, but too impractical. No good turning the other cheek to a chap like Heston. Probably give you another clout for good measure. No, I’m different. If he’d done it to me, I’d have my knife into him.”

“He’ll get a knife into him one of these days,” said Skager, darkly. He hesitated. “He’ll be coming down in the first car, won’t he?”

“Yes,” said Brander.

“And it’s just about time,” said Dimble. “We’d better get in our car. After you, Mrs Orvin. So long, Brander.”

“Goodbye, Mr Dimble – Mrs Orvin – Skager.”

Heston came through the door leading to the landing platform at the upper station. In the car, the Native Ben was still sweeping.

“Hurry up, you lazy black swine,” said Heston. “What in hell have you been doing with yourself this morning? It’s almost time to go, and you’re still messing about. Get out of my way.”

The Native looked at him with a snarl. “You mustn’t talk to me like that. I’m not your dog. I’ve been twenty years with this company, and in all that time nobody’s ever spoken to me like that-”

“Then it’s time someone started. Go on-get out!”

Ben muttered: “I’d like to-”

“You’d like to what? Come up behind me when I’m not looking, I suppose? Well, you won’t get much chance for that. And don’t hang around – voetsak!” [2]

From the driver’s cabin they heard the two sharp bells that indicated that the cars were ready to move. Ben stepped aside. As the upper car began to slide down and away Heston went through the door, up the short flight of stairs and into the driver’s cabin. Ben looked over Clobber’s shoulder at the plate-glass window.

The upper car was then 20 or 30 yards from the station. Both men saw Heston lean over the side of the car, and salute them with an exaggerated sweep of his right arm. Both men muttered under their breath.

As the seconds ticked by, the two cars approached each other in mid-air.

In the ascending car Dimble looked at the one that was descending with a critical eye. Suddenly, he became annoyed. “That fool,” he said. “Look how he’s leaning out over the door. Dangerous…”

His voice tailed off. As the cars passed each other, he saw something protruding from Heston’s back – something that gleamed silver for an inch or two, and was surmounted by a handle of bright scarlet. Dimble said: “God!” He reached and jerked the emergency brake. Both cars stopped suddenly, swaying drunkenly over the abyss.

Skager moaned: “He’s not leaning…”

Mrs Orvin gulped audibly. “That’s my knife,” she said, “the one he said…”

The telephone bell in the car rang shrilly. Dimble answered it.

“What’s the trouble?” came Clobber’s voice.

“It’s Heston. He’s slumped over the door of the car. There seems to be a knife in his back.”

“A knife? Hell! He was alive when he left here. He waved to me… What should we do?”

“Hang on a second. Brander, are you on the other end? Have you heard this conversation?”

“Yes, Mr Dimble.”

“Okay, Clobber. I’m releasing the brake now. Speed it up a little.”

“Sure.”

The cars moved again.

At the top, Dimble led the rush up the stairs to the driver’s cabin, where Clobber’s white face greeted them. They waited.

The telephone rang.

Clobber stretched out a tentative hand, but Dimble was ahead of him.

“I’ve seen him,” said Brander, queerly. “He’s dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. He’s dead.”

“Now look, Brander, we must make sure nothing is touched. Get on the outside phone to the police right away. And let Piet stand guard over the body until they get here, OK?”

“It might be difficult, Mr Dimble. There are people here already for tickets, so I can’t leave here, and Piet is scared. He’s said so. I’ve locked the door leading to the landing stage-won’t that be enough?”

“No. If anyone there is curious, they can climb round the side of the station to the car, and possibly spoil evidence. Let me speak to Piet.”

“Here he is, Mr Dimble.”

“Hullo, Piet. Now listen – I want you to stand guard on the landing stage and see nobody touches the car until the police arrive.”

“No, Baas. Not me, Baas. Not with a dead body, Baas.”

“Oh, dammit. OK, Let me speak to Mr Brander. Brander? Listen – this is the best plan. Don’t sell any tickets – we won’t be operating today, anyway. We’ll start the cars and stop them halfway so nobody will be able to get near them. In the meantime you telephone the police. Do you get that?”

“Yes, I will telephone the police.”

“And give me a ring the moment they are here.”

“Yes, Mr Dimble.”

The police came. Caledon Square had sent its top murder team. Lieutenant Dirk Joubert was in charge of the party, and with him was his uncle, Rolf le Roux, the “expert on people” as he jocularly styled himself, the inevitable kromsteel [3] protruding through the forest of his beard. Happy Detective-Sergeant Johnson was there, Lugubrious Sergeant Botha, Doc McGregor and several uniformed men. They mounted the steps to the lower station building and found Brander waiting for them.

“Where is the body?” asked Joubert.

Brander pointed out the two tiny cars on their thin threads a thousand feet above. “Will you please speak on the internal phone to Mr Dimble, the engineer in charge, who’s at the upper station?” he asked.

“Get him for me,” said Joubert.

Brander made the connection, and then handed over the phone.

“Mr Dimble? I am Inspector Joubert of the Cape Town C.I.D. I want the cable car with the body to be allowed to come down here. What? No, it’d be better if you people stayed on top of the mountain while we do our preliminary work here. I’ll ring you when we’re ready. Hullo! Just one moment, just bring me up to date on the discovery of the crime-briefly, please. I see. You were going up in the right-hand car, and when you passed the other one at halfway, you saw a knife sticking out of the conductor’s back. His name? Heston… yes, I have that. And then? I see. Yes. Yes. And why did you move the car with the body half-way back up the mountain? Mm. No, that’s all right – it was a good idea. Right, better get the body back here now.”

Almost as soon as he put the receiver down, the cable began to whine.

From the landing-stage they watched the approaching car. Even at some distance they could see the slumped figure quite clearly, with the scarlet splash of the knife handle protruding from its back.

“I can tell you one thing right now,” said McGregor. “It’s not a suicide.”

As the car came closer to the landing-stage, Johnson began checking his photographic and fingerprint equipment.

Brander mumbled: “It is the will of the Lord…”

He looked almost grateful when Joubert said: “There’s nothing we can do here, Brander. Let’s go into the ticket office. There are one or two questions…”

Rolf went with them.

Joubert said: “I’ve had the rough details of the story from Mr Dimble. You were here when the body first came down. Did you examine it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He was dead. I could see that.”

“And did anyone else come near the body? This Coloured, Piet?”

“No, not Piet. He was afraid. He wouldn’t go near the car. He stood at the door until the motors-started, though, in case anyone else wanted to go through.”

“Anyone else? Who else was here?”

“Well, there was a man and two women-passengers – but they left when I wouldn’t sell them tickets.”

Joubert tried a new tack. “This Heston, now. Tell me, Brander, what sort of a man was he? Was there anyone working here who hated him?”

Brander hesitated. “I do not like to talk about him. He is dead now. What does it matter what he was like in life?”

Joubert said: “Answer my question. Is there anyone here who hated him?”

“He was not liked,” said Brander, “but nobody here hated him enough to kill him.”

“No? Someone stuck a knife in his back, all the same. Who could have done it?”

“What does it matter?” said Brander. “He’s dead now. Let him rest in peace.”

The experts had finished. Two constables carried a long basket clumsily down the steps to a waiting ambulance.

“Well, Doc?” asked Joubert.

“One blow,” said McGregor. “A very clean swift blow. No mess. The murderer struck him from behind and above. Either the killer stood on something, or he was a very tall man.”

“Or woman?”

“Maybe. I canna say one way or another.”

Johnson made his report. “No fingerprints on the knife, Dirk. Couple of blurred smears, that’s all. Probably wore gloves.”

Joubert said: “All right. Doc, you go back with the body, and do the P.M. If you come up with anything new, telephone me here… Now let’s talk to this Coloured, Piet.”

But Piet knew nothing. He was old and superstition-ridden. He had not even looked at the body. The nearest he had come to it was to stand on guard on the other side of a closed door.

Joubert phoned Dimble. “We’re coming up. What is the signal for starting the car? Two bells – right. I’m not interested in rules about conductors on every trip. We’re coming up without one, and the car at the top must come down completely empty. All right – so it’s irregular. So is murder. I’ll take the responsibility… We’ll want to interview you one at a time. Is there a room there we can use? The restaurant? Right. You’ll hear the signal in a couple of minutes.”

Joubert, Rolf le Roux and Johnson. Four uniformed policemen. Going up in the car in which death had come down.

“I don’t think we’ll be long,” said Joubert. “The solution’s on top, obviously.”

Rolf said: “How do you make that out?”

“When the cars reached the middle of the run, Heston already had the knife in his back. He was alone in the cable-car. Therefore he must have been killed before he left the summit. One of the men stationed up there is the chap we’re looking for.”

Rolf looked worried. He said: “I hope you are right.”

“Of course I’m right. It’s the only possible explanation.”

“So you’ll start off by concentrating on the men who were on the mountain when the cars started this morning?”

“No, let them stew in their own juice for a while. This Dimble seems a proper fuss-pot – better get him over first.”

Dimble

“… And so I told Brander to see the body was guarded, and when I found Piet was afraid I told him…”

“Right, Dimble. We’ve got all that. Now, let me get one thing clear. Apart from Heston, there were two men who stayed overnight at the summit – Clobber, and the Native, Ben?”

“Yes.”

“Did either of these two have anything against Heston?”

“Probably. Heston wasn’t very likable, you know. But I don’t think anyone would murder him.”

Joubert said again: “Someone did. Now look, Dimble – to your knowledge did either Clobber or Ben have anything against Heston?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. They may have. For that matter, we all disliked him. He was always doing something… objectionable. Like practical jokes – only there was malice behind them, and he never acted as though he was joking. Never could be sure. Nasty type.”

Rolf asked: “Exactly what sort of objectionable actions do you mean, Mr Dimble?”

“Well, like putting an emetic in my sandwiches when I wasn’t looking. Couldn’t prove it was him, though. And burning Brander’s hand.”

Joubert said: “I noticed his left hand was bandaged. What happened?”

“Heston handed him a length of iron to hold, and his end was all but red-hot.”

“I see. So it would appear that both you and Brander had cause to hate the man?”

“Cause, yes, and I must admit I didn’t like him. But Brander’s different. We were talking about it this morning, and he didn’t seem to bear any grudge. He’s a religious type, you know.”

“So I gathered,” said Joubert, drily.

Dimble went on: “And that reminds me – Skager had it in for Heston too. When I mentioned that if it had been my hand he burnt, I’d have my knife in for him, Skager said that one day someone would… Hey! That’s ironic, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Joubert. “All right, Dimble. Let’s have Skager.”

Skager

A pasty, pimply young man, with a chip on his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Inspector. It’s just an expression. I didn’t like him.”

“So you didn’t like him, and you just used an expression? Doesn’t it strike you as strange that a few minutes later Heston did have a knife in his back?”

“I didn’t think about it.”

“Well, think now, Skager. Why did you hate him?”

“Look, Inspector, I had nothing to do with the murder. How could I have killed him?”

“How do you know how he was killed? I tell you, Skager, I am prepared to arrest any man who attempts to hide his motives… Now answer my question?”

A slight pause of defiance, then -

“Well, I don’t suppose it makes any difference. I’ve got a girlfriend. Some time ago, someone rang her up and warned her not to go out with me because I had an incurable disease. It took me weeks before I could convince her it was a lie.”

“And you thought Heston made the phone call?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Maybe because he was always making snide remarks about my pimples. Besides, it’s just the kind of sneaky trick he would get up to.”

“So you hated him, eh, Skager-hated him enough to kill him?”

“Why do you pick on me, Inspector? I know nothing about any murder. Why don’t you speak to Mrs Orvin? At least she recognised the knife…”

Mrs Orvin

Mrs Orvin said: “Yes, the knife is mine. My brother-in-law sent it to me from the Congo.”

“What did you use it for?”

“Mainly as an ornament. Occasionally for cutting. It was kept on this shelf under the glass of the counter.”

“So anyone could have taken it while you were in the kitchen?”

“Yes, that’s what must have happened.”

“When did you find it was missing?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“And before that, when did you last notice it?”

“Only a few minutes earlier. I’d been using it to cut some string, and I put it down to attend to something in the kitchen-”

“Was there anyone else in the restaurant at the time?”

“Yes, quite a few people. Four or five tourists and Heston and Clobber.”

“Clobber was here?”

“Yes, having his tea. He sat at the far corner table.”

“And Heston?”

“At first he was on the balcony, but when I came back from the kitchen he was sitting at this table.”

“So when you missed the knife, what did you do?”

“I spoke to Heston…”

Heston looked up innocently at her. “Yes, Mrs Orvin?”

“Mr Heston, have you by any chance seen my knife?”

“You mean the big one with the red handle? The voodoo knife? Of course I have. You were using it a minute ago.”

“Well, it’s gone now. Did you see anyone take it?”

“No, I didn’t see anyone take it, Mrs Orvin, but I know what happened to it all the same.”

“What?”

“It suddenly rose in the air, and sort of fluttered out through the door. All by itself…”

“Mr Heston, you’re being stupid and impertinent-”

“But it’s true, Mrs Orvin, it’s true. Some of the other people here must have seen it, too. Why don’t you ask Clobber?”

Joubert said: “And did you ask Clobber, Mrs Orvin?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say?”

“He knew nothing about the knife. He was very angry when I told him about Heston.”

“Well, thanks, Mrs Orvin – I think that’ll be all for now.”

Mrs Orvin left.

Rolf allowed a puff of smoke to billow through his beard. He said to Johnson: “So now we have a flying voodoo dagger.”

“Utter nonsense,” said Joubert. “This is murder, not fantasy. Someone wearing gloves killed Heston, and the murder was done on top of the mountain. It can only be one of two – the Native or Clobber. I fancy Clobber.”

“You’re quite sure, eh?” said Rolf. “What will you say if we find Heston was alive when he left the summit?”

“It just couldn’t happen. There is no possible way of stabbing a man alone in a cable-car in mid-journey.”

Rolf said: “I still have a feeling about this case…”

“There are too many feelings altogether. What we need are a few facts. Let’s send for Clobber.”

Clobber

Clobber was pale. He was still wearing the soiled dustcoat he used while driving. Joubert looked at something protruding from the pocket and glanced significantly at Johnson and Rolf.

“Do you always wear cotton gloves?” he asked.

“Yes. They keep my hands clean.”

“They also have another very useful purpose. They don’t leave fingerprints.”

Clobber’s face went even whiter. “What are you getting at? I didn’t kill Heston. He was alive when he left the summit.”

“And dead when he passed the other car half-way down? Come off it, Clobber. He must have been killed up here. Either you or Ben are guilty.”

Clobber said, stubbornly: “Neither of us did it. I tell you he was alive when he left.”

“That’s what you say. The point is, can you prove it?”

“Yes, I think so. After the car had started, when he was about twenty yards out, he leant over the side of the car and waved to me. Ben had just come into my cabin. He saw him too.”

“Where was Ben before that?”

“He was with Heston at the car.”

A new gleam came into Joubert’s eye. “Look, Clobber,” he said, “couldn’t Ben have stabbed Heston just as the car pulled away?”

“I suppose he could, but don’t forget, Ben was with me when Heston waved.”

“Are you sure it was a wave? Couldn’t it have been a body wedged upright, and then slumping over the door?”

“No, definitely not. The arm moved up and down two or three times. He was alive. I’m sure of that.”

Joubert flung up his hands in a gesture of impatience. “All right, then. Say he was alive. Then how did the knife get in his back halfway down?” Clobber looked harassed. “I don’t know. He had an idea… but that’s nonsense-”

“Idea? What idea?”

“He told me this morning he didn’t expect to get to the bottom of the mountain alive.”

Rolf echoed: “Didn’t expect?”

“Yes. He said he’d been warned. His thirty-first birthday was yesterday – the 31st of the month – and he’d been told that if he spent last night on top of the mountain, he’d never reach the bottom alive. I thought he was pulling my leg.”

“Who was supposed to have told him that?

“He said it was a dream.”

Joubert said: “Oh, my God!” but Rolfs face was serious.

“Tell me, Mr Clobber,” he said, “did Heston ever mention prophetic dreams to you before?”

“Just once. About a month ago.”

“And the circumstances?”

“I’d just come off duty, and I was at the lower station with Heston and Brander. Somehow or the other the conversation led to the subject of death…”

Clobber said: “When a man dies, he’s dead. Finished. A lot of chemical compounds grouped round a skeleton. No reason to hold a body in awe. The rituals of funerals and cremations are a lot of useless hooey. There should be a law compelling the use of bodies for practical purposes – for transplants, medical research, making fertiliser-anything except burning them up or hiding them in holes in the ground under fancy headstones.”

Brander was uneasy. “I don’t think I can agree with you…”

“The trouble with you, Brander, is that you’re a religious man, which also means you are a superstitious one. Try looking at hard facts. What we do with our dead is not only irrational, it’s also economically wasteful.

“Last night I went to a municipal-election meeting. The speaker made what the crowd thought was a joke, but he was really being sensible. He said the wall round Woltemade cemetery was an example of useless spending – the people outside didn’t want to get in, and the people inside couldn’t get out… What’s the matter with you, Brander?”

Heston suddenly interrupted. “You’ve upset him with all your callous talk. Can’t you realise that Brander’s a decent religious man who has a proper respect for the dead?”

Brander dabbed his forehead and his lips in an obvious effort to pull himself together. “No… no… it’s not just that. This business about the wall and the people inside reminds me of something that’s always horrified me. The idea of the dead coming to life. Even the Bible story of Lazarus… you see, ever since I can remember, every now and again I have a terrible nightmare. I’m with a coffin at a funeral, and suddenly from inside the box there’s a loud knock… I feel my insides twisting in fear…”

Clobber said, hastily: “Sorry, Brander. Didn’t mean to upset you. But if you think about it for a moment, you’ll realise the whole thing’s a lot of nonsense – the dead coming to life, and things like that. Absolute rubbish.”

“Really?” said Heston. “What about Zombies?”

Brander gasped: “What?”

“Zombies. Dead men brought to life by voodoo in the West Indies to work in the fields. And dreams, too. I know all about prophetic dreams.”

Clobber was almost spitting with rage. “What do you mean, you know? What are you getting at?”

“I’ll tell you some other time,” said Heston. “Here’s the station wagon, and I’m in a hurry.”

Joubert said: “And the next time he mentioned a dream to you was to tell you he wouldn’t reach the lower station alive?”

“Yes.”

“And now do you believe in prophetic dreams?”

“It’s got so I don’t know what to believe.”

Joubert rose. “Well, I do. There are no prophesies and nothing here except a cleverly planned murder, and God help you if you did it, Clobber – because I’m going to smash your alibi.”

“You can’t smash the truth,” said Clobber. “In any case, why should I be the one under suspicion?”

“One of the reasons,” said Joubert, “is that you wear gloves.”

Clobber grinned for the first time. “Then you’ll have to widen your suspect list. We all wear them up here. Dimble has a pair. Ben, too. And, yes, Mrs Orvin generally carries kid gloves.”

“All right,” said Joubert savagely. “That’s enough for now. Tell Ben we want to see him.”

Ben came, gave his evidence, and went.

“If I could prove that he and Clobber were collaborating,” Joubert started, but Rolf stopped him with a shake of his head.

“No, Dirk. There is nothing between them. I could see that. You could see it, too.”

“We’re stymied,” said Johnson. “Apparently nobody could have done it. I examined the cable-car myself, and I’m prepared to swear there’s no sign of any sort of apparatus which could explain the stabbing of a man in mid-air. He was alive when he left the top, and dead at the half-way mark. It’s just… plain impossible.”

“Not quite,” said Joubert. “We do know some facts. First, this is a carefully premeditated crime. Secondly, it was done before the car left the summit-”

Rolf said: “No, Dirk. The most important facts in this case lie in what Heston told Clobber – his dream of death – his thirty-first birthday-”

“What are you getting at, Oom?”

“I think I know how and why Heston was killed, Dirk. It’s only a theory now, and I do not like to talk until I have proof. But you can help me get that proof…”

The word went round. A reconstruction of the crime. Everyone must do exactly as he did when Heston was killed.

Whispers.

“Who’s going to take Heston’s place?”

“The elderly chap with a beard: le Roux I think his name is. The one they call Oom Rolf.”

“Do you think they’ll find out anything? Do you think -?”

“We’ll know soon enough, anyway.”

On the lower station Joubert rang the signal for the reconstruction to start. Dimble, Mrs Orvin and Skager went towards the bottom car. Sergeant Botha went, too.

Rolf le Roux came through the door of the upper landing platform, and looked at Ben sweeping out the empty car.

He said: “Baas Heston spoke to you, and you stopped sweeping?”

“Yes. And then I came out of the car, like this.”

“And then?”

“Then we talked.”

“Where did Baas Heston stand?”

“He got into the car, and stood near the door. Yes, just about there.” He paused. “Do you think you will find out who killed him?”

“It is possible.”

“I hope not, Baas. This Heston was a bad man.”

“All the same, it is not right that he should be killed. The murderer must be punished.”

Two sharp bells rang in the driver’s cabin. The car began to move. Ben went through the door up the stairs and stood in the cabin with Clobber and Johnson. They saw Rolf lean over and wave with an exaggerated gesture.

Clobber reached to lift a pair of binoculars, but Johnson gripped his arm. “Wait. Did you pick them up at this stage the first time?”

“No. I only used them after the emergency brake was applied,”

“Then leave them alone now.”

They watched the two cars crawling slowly across space towards each other.

In the ascending car Dimble peered approvingly at the one which was descending. “That’s right,” he said to Botha. “He’s leaning over the door exactly as Heston… Good God!”

He pulled the emergency brake. Mrs Orvin sobbed and then screamed.

The telephone rang. Botha clapped the instrument to his ear.

“Everything OK?” asked Johnson.

“No!” said Botha, “no! Something’s happened to Rolf. There’s a knife sticking out of his back. It looks like the same knife…”

From the lower station Joubert cut in excitedly. “What are you saying, Botha? It’s impossible…”

“It’s true, Inspector. I can see it quite clearly from here. And he’s not moving…”

“Get him down here,” said Joubert. “Quick!”

The cars moved again.

In the driver’s cabin Johnson, through powerful binoculars, watched the car with the sagging figure go down, down, losing sight of it only as it entered the lower station.

Joubert, with Brander, stood on the landing-stage watching the approaching car. He felt suddenly lost and bewildered and angry.

“Oom Rolf,” he muttered.

Brander’s eyes were sombre with awe. “The Lord has given,” he said, “and the Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

He and Joubert stepped forward as the car bumped to a stop.

The head of the corpse with the knife in its back suddenly twisted, grinned, said gloatingly: “April fool!”

Brander shivered into shocked action. His arms waved in an ecstacy of panic. His bandaged left hand gripped the hilt of the knife held between Rolf’s left arm and his body, and raised it high in a convulsive gesture. Rolf twisted away, but his movement was unnecessary. Joubert had acted, too.

Brander struggled, but only for a second. Then he stood meekly peering in myopic surprise at the handcuffs clicking round his wrists.

“And that is how Heston was killed,” said Rolf. “He died because he remembered today was April the first – All Fools Day – and because he had that type of mind, he thought of a joke, and he played it to the bitter end. A joke on Clobber, on the people in the ascending car, on Brander.

“But to Brander it was not a joke – it was horror incarnate. A dead man come to life. This was infinitely more terrible than the dream he feared of a knock from a coffin. This was like the very lid being suddenly flung open in his face. And his reaction was the typical response to panic when there is no escape – a wild uncontrollable aggression, striking out in every direction – as he struck out at me when the unthinkable happened again.

“The first time he plunged the knife into Heston. The joke became reality. The dead stopped walking.

“And now you see why there were no fingerprints on the knife. Brander is left-handed – he reached for the hot iron with that hand, remember. So it was burnt and bandaged. Bandages – no fingerprints. The way Heston was crouched, too, explains the angle of the wound.”

Joubert said: “So it was not premeditated after all.” Then, to Brander: “Why did you not tell the truth?”

Brander said, meekly: “Who would believe the truth?” Then, louder, with undertones of a new hysteria: “The dead are dead. They must rest in peace. Always rest. They are from hell if they walk…”

Then he mumbled, and his voice tailed off as he raised his eyes, and his gaze saw far beyond the mountain and the blue of the sky.