The Gooseberry Fool Read online

  The Widow Fourie took the turkey through.

  “Because I didn’t. Against the law, Dawie, to offer enticements for special preferation.”

  “Hey?”

  “I don’t care about presents,” said the eldest girl. “I just like Uncle Trompie. He’s my boyfriend.”

  “And there you have your explanation for why we’re here today,” said the Widow Fourie, coming back in. “Bet you had it all wrong.”

  Kramer avoided her eyes, drew the children with him into the dining room, and made them all take their places. He sat himself down at the head of the table. The first time he had ever done so.

  The telephone rang.

  “Wrong number,” the Widow Fourie called out.

  It had to be. As far as her few friends were concerned, she had gone away indefinitely, probably for good. A lawyer was to see to the flat.

  The ringing continued.

  Kramer had given the number to nobody. The flat was one place he could never be reached.

  Still the telephone rang.

  “Maybe it’s the caretaker,” Kramer said. “Wondering what’s going on. He didn’t expect you back.”

  “Ach, of course,” said the Widow Fourie, smiling.

  “Aren’t you going to answer then?”

  “My hands are all sticky.”

  “Want me to?”

  “Be a dear. He knows you’re big stuff in the police, so don’t go making something up.”

  Kramer grinned and lifted the receiver.

  “Oh, please God, no!” said the Widow Fourie, unable to stop herself, when she saw what happened to that cheerful face.

  She came with him down to the car, leaving the children to pull the crackers on their own. They would be served their food later.

  “How is it she had your number, my girl?”

  “Pardon? Oh, long ago—don’t you remember?—I asked Zondi to ask her to find me a washerwoman. Before I bought the machine? I gave it to her then, just to save trouble. Must have kept it by her all this time.”

  “I suppose she rang CID first.”

  “Yes, she must have.”

  “But bloody hell! Why wasn’t I rung at the boardinghouse this morning? I got your message all right! Why is all this being left to a wog woman to do?”

  “Perhaps they don’t know at CID yet”

  “Of course they do! How else did Miriam get her information? Who told her about it?”

  “Honestly, I can’t help you find answers.”

  “My girl?”

  “Trompie?”

  “This, for nobody else. You understand?”

  She squeezed his arm.

  “And keep me some turkey, hey?”

  He drove off, watching her in his mirror all the way to the corner, then opening the throttle right up.

  The telephone call had proved one thing: Zondi was totally trustworthy, for otherwise his wife would have been told that the Widow Fourie was no longer at that number.

  Being declared trustworthy was, Kramer thought grimly, small consolation to a dying man.

  He had planned to start inquiries at the CID building but found, when he reached there, he was in no state to perform a dispassionate disembowelment of John Pig’s Bum Scott.

  So he headed out along the prison road for Peacevale Hospital and had plenty of time to make mental adjustments; he knew a way of using hot blood, like the paraffin flame in a farm fridge, to bring about an ice-cold self-control in seconds. When this was achieved, he looked about him and recorded the fact that it was a nice day and not too hot—around the eighty mark—that the shacks either side of the divided highway were pleasantly bereft of any festive nonsense, that some stupid Kaffir would lose his horse for good if he could not tether it properly.

  The Chevrolet swept around the animal and covered another mile before the turnoff. The side road rose steeply up, pitching visitors suddenly into a congested forecourt beneath the hospital, and making it necessary to slow right down.

  Kramer slowed down, perfectly under control. He found a parking space between some doctors’ cars and got out. He lit his first cigarette of the day.

  Peacevale Hospital was gigantic, larger than anything for whites in the Trekkersburg district. It had a thousand beds in its wards, hundreds more in the absurdly wide corridors, and beds on the floor under beds. He hoped he would find Zondi not too uncomfortable.

  He tossed his cigarette to a beggar and went in, crossing, hands in pockets, over to the admitting section.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked the Bantu clerk, giving a little tweak to his glasses.

  “CID. A man Zondi. You’ve got him?”

  “It is a very common name, sir, but I’ll look.”

  “He’s CID, too.”

  “Oh, you mean Sergeant Zondi! Why, of course, sir. I know the details off pat.”

  Kramer almost felt amused when the man gave another little tweak to his spectacle frame, a pathetic ploy to stress his intellectualism.

  “Shoot.”

  “Sergeant Michael Zondi was found at approximately one o’clock this morning near Boshoffdorp by a police patrol car. His vehicle had left the road and somersaulted some twenty feet into a dry watercourse. His passenger, one Thomas Shabalala, was killed instantly through loss of blood occasioned by—”

  “Stop. Tell me about the sergeant.”

  “His condition was critical when he was moved through to the ward, sir.”

  “What ward?”

  “Intensive care.”

  That sounded all right.

  “What was the matter with him?”

  “Such information must be obtained from the doctor in charge, sir. It is the rule here.”

  “You have no personal opinion?”

  The clerk loved him for this small crumb.

  “It is my opinion, sir, that the person in question will shortly decease. That is why I immediately communicated by telephone with the township office at Kwela Village and had them inform Mrs. Zondi of the situation.”

  “Where is she? She’s here?”

  “Arrived by taxicab moments ago.”

  “But why are you doing all this and not us?”

  “I truly do not know, sir. The police are here with Sergeant Zondi, but they have not referred in any way to myself.”

  “And you say it was your idea to ring Miriam Zondi?”

  “Not a service that it is possible to extend to all those who pass through these portals, of course, but I—if I can say so, sir—have a great admiration for the police.”

  “Long may it last, my friend.”

  The clerk was still trying to decide what he should make of Kramer’s parting remark when he saw him step into a lift.

  The operator let Kramer out on the fourth floor with instructions to keep going left until he reached a T junction, where he should turn right. Easier said than done; the corridors were crowded with beds, trolleys, and drip stands. But finally he reached a pair of swinging doors beneath the sign INT. CARE.

  Kramer pushed his way through them and looked into the duty room. There a white doctor, just a baby, was offering a cigarette to his black colleague, not much more than a piccanin himself. The movement of the extending arm was quickly converted into a clumsy gesture of welcome.

  “Lieutenant Kramer, Murder Squad. Where’s my boy?”

  The black doctor slipped a stethoscope into his long white coat, smiled shyly, and made good his escape. Kramer stepped aside for him.

  “Dr. Smith-Jenkins, Lieutenant. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Yes, yes, but Zondi—how is he?”

  “Not too good, I’m afraid.”

  “The facts.”

  “Severe loss of blood, fractured arm, lacerations, head injury. He’s in a coma.”

  “Coma? Since when?”

  “Dr. Mtembu has just notified me this very minute.”

  “The coon who was in here?”

  “Dr. Mtembu, as I said.”

  “I see.”

  What K
ramer saw was red. Here was this bloody little puppy, sitting on his fat arse letting a Kaffir run errands for him instead of being there at Zondi’s bedside himself, doing all he could. But he would have to be careful.

  “And so, what are you going to do about it, doctor?” Kramer asked lightly.

  “Me? Nothing. The sergeant is his patient.”

  “Not for long.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I’m getting the District Surgeon up here. It’s a police case; Dr. Strydom handles all police cases.”

  “But he’s been already, lieutenant. Okayed Dr. Mtembu for his neurological experience, then went down to E ward to see that constable stabbed last night.”

  “Jesus!”

  A short word that said everything, and more, Kramer thought. Perhaps too much. This Smith-Jenks—or whatever it was—had an odd look in his eye.

  “You see,” said Kramer, “this boy might have had some information I wanted—he was on an important case. Makes me bloody mad that nobody tells me what’s going on until it’s too bloody late.”

  “Not necessarily, Lieutenant.”

  “You mean he’ll live?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of that; no, just that a Lieutenant Scott has been with him since he was brought in.”

  “When was that?”

  “About ten—ten-thirty.”

  And Kramer had been at the Hunter’s Moon boardinghouse up until eleven.

  “Zondi was conscious?”

  “Off and on, yes.”

  “Thank you, doctor. Which way, please?”

  “Well actually, Lieutenant—”

  “Which bloody way, man?”

  “The doctor stood up, not in indignation but in fright. Kramer’s crashing fist had put a splintered dent in the plywood desk top.

  “Roo—Room Ten.”

  “Ten?” Then, with an effort, “No hard feelings, doc.”

  Kramer turned and walked straight into Scott, who at that moment appeared in the doorway.

  “Stick around, Tromp!”

  “You!”

  “Who else? Been keeping an eye on old Zondi through there—he’s having a kip.”

  “I want words with you, Scott.”

  “Fine. Okay to leave us alone?”

  “Be delighted,” blurted Dr. Smith-Jenkins, on his way as if the President had called for an enema.

  And giving Kramer just enough time to adjust once again: outwardly, he relaxed and smiled; inwardly, he brought his blood back to a point above freezing.

  “I don’t know about you,” he said to Scott, “but these bloody quacks bloody well get on my nerves sometimes. Christ, all I did was ask how Zondi was and he goes off with all these bloody long words.”

  “Ach, I know, Tromp. Smart alecks, that’s what they are.”

  Scott’s tone was sympathetic, but his eyes suspected something. So what.

  “Can you tell me then, John? About Zondi?”

  “Not much. The poor Kaffir’s had a hammering. Shabalala was killed in the smash, you know. Mtembu says it’ll be two days before he can say how it’ll be with him.”

  “So now I know. Thanks, man.”

  “A bloody shame.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Kramer helped himself to one of the doctor’s cigarettes on the desk and took a light off Scott.

  “Tell me, John, exactly what happened?”

  “Zondi doesn’t remember.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “First we knew about it, there’s this farmer up that way, near a resettlement area called Jabula, who rings his local station to say he thinks there’s been a crash.”

  “Jabula?”

  “You’ve got quite a clever little bugger there, Tromp, man. Seems Shabalala’s lot were moved to this place two days ago and Zondi got on to it. He made his arrest at Jabula; I’ve got that out of him.”

  “Why did the farmer just think?”

  “It appears that the car went right down this cliff and into a small gorge thing. It was dark and the bloke couldn’t get down himself. He saw the car go over—or at least he thinks he saw it. You know what people are like. Anyway, he gets home and gives the locals a ring.”

  “Time?”

  “Around midnight. Well, our lot have got a van going out to a report of a faction fight, so they stop for a look. They find the car, see it’s police from the cuffs, and think everybody has kicked it. Then they notice Zondi is breathing and haul him out and send for an ambo, which brings him down here.”

  “Time?”

  “Arrived in Peacevale about ten-thirty.”

  “Hell, what’s with this ambulance? Did they have to pedal it?”

  “Sorry; first they take Zondi to a mission hospital close by, but they haven’t got proper equipment so they come on down the whole way. Get here and tell CID and the duty officer phones me at the hotel.”

  “You poor sod. Bet you had a headache this morning, hey?”

  “I’ll say. Anyway, I tell them to find you and I come up here meantime.”

  “Fine. You say Zondi told you he made his arrest at Jabula. Anything else?”

  “Ach, man, he was rambling a lot, hey.”

  “Like?”

  “Nothing I could put in my notebook. Had some idea that women were after him, hundreds of them, the randy bastard.”

  “And him a married man. Talking of that, they tell me downstairs that his woman, Miriam, is here, too.”

  “That’s her name, is it? Came about twenty minutes ago and Mtembu said maybe it was right she should see him in the circumstances.”

  “She there now?”

  “Was when I last saw.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Kramer crushed the last inch of the cigarette into a kidney bowl, yawned, and sighed.

  “Oh, well,” he said wearily, “I suppose I’d better have a look in at him.”

  “What for?”

  Kramer looked at Scott blankly.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” he replied, with a lie and a laugh. “I suppose just to see how much damage there is. Maybe I’ll have to get myself a new boy.”

  “On the way out anyway, Tromp. I’ll show you.”

  Kramer followed Scott back down the passage almost to the double doors and was taken into a two-bed ward.

  There he allowed himself to notice only two things: the fact that Miriam was no longer present, and that Zondi looked unnaturally small under the sheet. It was all he could take.

  Then he and Scott went by lift down to the admitting hall.

  “Oh, by the way, Tromp, the Colonel wants us blokes at his place for drinks at three.”

  “Hey?”

  “Honest, I’m not bulling you.”

  “But just you and me?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Jesus, wonders will never cease.”

  “Now I’d better get back to the hotel or I’ll miss my Christmas dinner. Join me?”

  “No, thanks, John, but ta all the same. Let’s say I’ve got a turkey of my own, hey?”

  The food remained untouched on its plate, but the Widow Fourie did not press him. She sat opposite drinking Cape wine from a sherry glass.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “Out. I sent them round to Hettie’s place.”

  “Day after tomorrow I’ll get them all something.”

  “No need, but they’ll be pleased. Very.”

  “I want to.”

  The Widow Fourie poured another glass to the brim and pushed it across.

  “No, thanks, my girl.”

  “You think he’ll die then?”

  “Who knows?”

  “I’m sorry for Miriam. If he does, she’ll have all those little piccanins to feed.”

  “The twins are quite big.”

  “Funny she didn’t stay longer at the hospital, Trompie.”

  “Think so? Christmas Day? Five kids?”

  “Of course. You forget with them, don’t you?”

  “Plus the fact she was offered a l
ift home.”

  “You didn’t say that before.”

  “Not important. Huh!”

  She responded eagerly to his first sign of a lighter mood in over an hour.

  “What’s funny, Trompie?”

  “This ikbastard Scott. He fixes for a van to take her back to Kwela Village but doesn’t say. I got it off a wog in Admitting. What’s wrong, does he think I’ll say he’s a Kaffir-lover?”

  “You men!” She laughed hopefully.

  But Kramer had relapsed into introspection. He had already accepted the fact that Bantu Detective Sergeant Michael Zondi was as good as dead, so it was not some suspect sentiment that gnawed at his guts. Gnawed like a rat, nibbled and tore with the tiny teeth of tiny details barely noticed, now forgotten. A rat called intuition, perhaps. But no, intuition was not something tangible with a tail, and a fetid smell about it. For he could swear he had more than once seen this rat out of the corner of an eye, had caught a whiff of it in passing. Of course, a mouse in the guts could feel as bad, when you came to think about it They had little sharp teeth, too. And stank.

  He stood up and reached for his jacket.

  “Off to the Colonel’s after all?” asked the Widow Fourie.

  “Miaow,” replied Kramer.

  10

  COLONEL DU PLESSIS lived with his unlovely family in a large bungalow on a small holding two miles west of Trekkersburg along the Tierkop road. There he boasted of maintaining the great agricultural traditions of his pioneer forefathers by employing three Kaffirs to grow flowers for the market. His specialty was delphiniums.

  In honor of the day, however, pride of place in his lounge had been given to the top of a dead pine tree painted silver. From its branches hung chocolate dainties wrapped in gold paper.

  “Take one,” the Colonel encouraged Kramer. “Go on, man, we don’t mind.”

  Kramer minded, for several reasons—among which was the fact the sodding awful things had melted in the heat.

  “No, thanks, sir. Never gone for sweet things.”

  “Never, Lieutenant?”

  This archly merry remark had come from the Colonel’s wife, Popsie, a pinch-faced nympho who looked out on the world from between her fine legs. Alas for poor Popsie, her efforts on behalf of her spouse had finally placed her with him on a pedestal where no sane man, whatever his motive, would dare venture. Which had a moral: bitches in heat should never climb lampposts; some get stranded and miss all the fun.