Read Online The Blood of an Englishman by James McClure - Free Book Online

were a lot of leaves in the way—I looked from the same place and that is true—so she thought maybe it was a different boss in a different car.”
    “At that time of night? Wasn’t she suspicious?”
    “Boss, boss, boss,” said Zondi, with a doleful wag of his head, “will you never learn that a black child is only seven years old when he stops wondering at the ways of white persons? They do so many strange things, believe so many strange things, that life is just too short.” Then he caught the green and surged across the intersection towards Boomplaas Street.
    “But I
know
I’ve got one somewhere,” the district surgeon was saying to Van Rensburg, as they came out of the postmortem room. “And I’m not taking any excuses—just you find it!”
    Nxumalo ran his duster over a mahogany coffin that rested on a pair of trestles near the fridge doors. Generally speaking, the only coffins ever seen in the mortuary were the splintery pine boxes which blacks provided for their relatives, while all white remains were removed by undertaking firms to be coffined on their own premises. From time to time, however, when the white remains in question were in a disgusting state and unfit to be later viewed by the family, it was judged more expedient to have them transferred straight into the chosen coffin and screwed down.This had been the fate of Mr. Horace Austin, who’d been reduced—in Van Rensburg’s phrase—to “toast and gravy” by a blazing car, and then placed in the coffin now awaiting removal by Abbott & Son.
    “Er, Nxumalo,” said Van Rensburg, crossing over to him, “there’s something I want to ask you.” He glanced at a list on his clipboard. “Where’s the body of Philemon Bapuna?”
    “Gone, Sergeant.”
    “Ja, I thought so. And Daisy Majola?”
    “Gone, Sergeant.”
    “Let me see.… This one is Mr. Austin—oh ja, what about Roger Dhlamini? Have we still got him round the back?”
    “Gone, Sergeant!”
    Van Rensburg’s face fell. “Now are you quite—?”
    “Ach, come on, Van Rensburg!” barked Strydom, who had been at his elbow all the time. “What has this to do with finding that arm for me?”
    “Er, I was only getting some routine matters out of the way first, Doc!” Van Rensburg looked appealingly into Nxumalo’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you have actually done what I said you must do this morning?”
    “Oh, yes indeed, Sergeant!” replied Nxumalo, showing pride in his obedience. “I took my finger right out!”
    Van Rensburg smiled at him wanly, and then turned to Strydom, whose foot was tapping impatiently. “I’m sorry, Doc, but I don’t think that arm is in the mortuary any longer,” he said. “I can’t remember why I believed this to be a fact, but perhaps you could try your experiment on—”
    “Sergeant Van Rensburg,
come with me
,” hissed Strydom, and led the way back into the post-mortem room.
    Alone once more, Nxumalo chortled and went on using his duster, pausing now and again to look with amusement towards the foot of the coffin lid.
    Kramer had quite forgotten about Meerkat Marais, who was posed on the edge of the filing cabinet like The Thinker, with one fist pressed against his forehead.
    “Well, well, my old friend,” he said, as he entered his office with Zondi in tow, “now you have had a chance to reflect on your sinful past, could it be you’re ready to change your tune?”
    “For pity’s sake.…” whispered Meerkat.
    “Good, now I’ll tell you what I want you to do. I’ve changed my mind about that statement we were going to write, and instead I want you to find out for me how many other thirty-twos have been on the market recently—okay?”
    “Anything!” replied Meerkat, in the same strained whisper. “But can your Bantu go out for a minute while I talk to you?”
    “Fine, and I also want you to look round for a very big bloke such as Archie Bradshaw described in the paper.”
    “Look, Lieutenant, can I have a word in