The Blood of an Englishman Read Free Page B

Muller, would have the right to start asking awkward questions. Had any possible motive for his attack been established?—No. Had anyone been found who had also seen a hulking stranger near the golf course?—No. Had the firearm involved been traced?—No. Had the investigation moved forward one inch since last Friday?—No. Had Kramer begun to lose his grip?—Very possibly, yes.
    “Meerkat.…”
    “Ja, Lieutenant?”
    “I’m going to be very straight with you. I’m in trouble over this case, and my boss is beginning to say a lot of things that are cruel and unkind. So the best plan for me is just to write out a statement—which you will naturally sign—saying that you sold this thirty-two of yours to a kingsize loony you’d never in your life seen before. I know that’s not the whole story, but—”
    “Hey?”
gasped Meerkat, almost toppling from his perch.
    “Unless, of course, you can prove in some way that I’ve got it wrong somewhere.”
    Kramer heard running on the stairs and glanced towards the door. Two seconds later, a trim, neatly built Zulu, dressed in a zippy black suit with silver threads in it, and wearing a snap-down trilby, skidded to a halt on the verandah and put hishead in the door. It was his assistant, Bantu Detective Sergeant Mickey Zondi.
    “Don’t tell me,” sighed Kramer, “let me guess. Her husband came home unexpectedly and didn’t believe a—”
    “There has been a murder, Lieutenant. The Colonel was trying to get you on the phone, but all the time it is engaged.”
    Kramer replaced his receiver in its cradle. “What kind? Black on black?”
    “A white boss—the body has just been found.”
    “Where?”
    “Gillespie Street.”
    Meerkat watched Kramer pick up his jacket and slouch towards the door. “Just a sec, Lieutenant!”
    “Ja, old friend?”
    “What’s going to happen to me?”
    “That,” said Kramer, as he left with Zondi, “is a question you must ask yourself over and over.”
    The traffic was heavy for a Wednesday, and Zondi was forced to keep his speed down. They traveled two blocks without speaking, each man absorbed in private conjecture over what awaited them in Gillespie Street, then the Chevrolet stopped at a red traffic light.
    “That reminds me,” grunted Kramer. “How are you making out on that clown who was knifed down at Mama Bhengu’s whorehouse?”
    “Not so good, boss. I’ve found the murder weapon, that’s all. It was an old hacksaw blade sharpened up.”
    “Uh huh. At least that’s a start. Me, I’ve got nothing.”
    Zondi clucked with his tongue and shook his head sympathetically. “Maybe I should go to Boss Bradshaw’s house again and talk more with the servants.”
    “Waste of time.”
    “What about that lead on the thirty-two?”
    “Waste of time as well. And do you know the only dirt on Bradshaw I’ve been able to come up with so far? That once he swindled an old lady over some gold coins she had, only her son found out and Bradshaw paid up. Great, hey? Tell me one antique dealer who doesn’t try little tricks like that from time to time.”
    The lights changed and they rolled forward. “But what about the silver that Housebreaking traced to his shop, boss?”
    “He had a good explanation, they tell me, so they didn’t press charges. Make no mistake, Mickey, this Bradshaw’s a hard man, and there’s lot of people in this city who’ll call him a bully, a bastard, but there’s not one of them who can say why anyone would want to kill him.”
    “And so?”
    “And so I’m coming round to the Colonel’s idea that it must have just been some loony that took a pot-shot at Bradshaw. You tell me what other theory makes sense.”
    “Maybe this man will try again.”
    Kramer snorted. “Christ, have a heart! Haven’t I got enough on my plate already, now this new one’s come up? No, it was a loony, I’m certain of it, and lightning doesn’t strike in the same place twice.”
    “Boss Bradshaw is a tall tree,”