Read Online The Gooseberry Fool by James Mcclure - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Mcclure
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And you can’t tell me that Du Plessis is going to miss his pudding for this one either.”
Scott laughed. “Maybe you’re right, Tromp.”
“Right? Course I’m right!”
“See you at five then.”
The receiver at the other end went down, leaving the one in Kramer’s hand bleeping wrong wrong wrong. He should have given himself time to think. In his hurry to protect Zondi’s interests, he had forgotten his own. Now, should the investigation fail to deliver within two days, Scott could quite justifiably pass him the buck. And with the kind of odds Zondi was facing out there, the chances of that happening were very great. So great the Colonel was probably in for his best Christmas goody in years: Kramer and Zondi, the pair of them, in one fell swoop.
An Indian waiter knocked hesitantly on the glass and pointed out a hotel guest who wanted to make a call. Kramer replaced the receiver, took his drink, and left the booth.
Wrong. There was a lot that was wrong with the Shabalala case, when you paused to consider. It was wrong that he had been taken off it, and it was wrong that Scott had not done anything himself all day—at least, that was how it seemed. It was also wrong that Colonel Du Plessis had not simply ordered that manhunt without consulting Scott first, and probably even wrong that it had not been tackled on a large scale right from the start. But most troubling was the wrong feeling Kramer had experienced on his return to Sunderland Avenue, when he had noticed little changes in the study, and thought something was missing. Behind it all was an elusive.…
“I thought you’d never be coming,” said Miss Weston, putting away her powder compact.
Oh, God, you never got a proper chance to think.
“Sorry, Pat. Duty before pleasure, hey?”
“It’s getting late. I wanted to do some last-minute shopping.”
“Gone off me, have you?”
“What gives you the idea I was ever on?”
“When I went to the bog you undid your two top buttons, am I right?”
She blushed pink as a carbon monoxide stiff and covered her cleavage with a spread hand. Then she tried to push her chair back but the cane legs caught in the coconut matting.
“You Afrikaans,” she said. “You’re as crude as my father’s always said. I’m used to gentlemen!”
“Afrikaans is a language, Miss Weston,” Kramer replied, smiling pleasantly, with an effort. “I am an Afrikaner. But talking of gentlemen, which one in particular? Mr. Mark Wallace, Esquire?”
“I’m going!”
“But you won’t!”
“Huh! So you think!”
Kramer made no move to restrain her, but leaned back and stretched.
“Why not?” she snapped.
“Because you don’t want to miss the rest of the show.”
She was half out of her seat when she stopped to stare quizzically at him. Slowly a wry smile appeared and as slowly she sat down again.
“Is that what it is, Lieutenant? I’m fascinated. Tell me, where do you get all your ideas—the bioscope?”
“Nice guess. Walt Disney mostly. Lady and the Tramp, y’know.”
“I’m flattered!”
“How do you think I feel? Playing up to you as a member of the inferior breed. All sniff and let’s get on with it.”
“Daddy—”
“Ach, of course he has said that, too, Miss Weston! I wasn’t bloody born yesterday.”
When she blushed this time, she went pink as a schoolgirl. Poor kid.
“I—I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”
“No need. My mistake for letting it get personal.”
And Kramer meant that. He had pushed it too far. This was just another reminder that ever since his arrival at Swart’s house the night before, he had not been quite himself. In trying to make something of the Wallace case, he had been forcing the pace all along. To cap it all, now he had somehow dragged in the Widow Fourie’s children and the cartoon treat he had given them at the Durban drive-in. Which was entirely the sort of thinking he wanted most to avoid. Still no word from her.
“You said Murder Squad.”
“Hey?
Scott laughed. “Maybe you’re right, Tromp.”
“Right? Course I’m right!”
“See you at five then.”
The receiver at the other end went down, leaving the one in Kramer’s hand bleeping wrong wrong wrong. He should have given himself time to think. In his hurry to protect Zondi’s interests, he had forgotten his own. Now, should the investigation fail to deliver within two days, Scott could quite justifiably pass him the buck. And with the kind of odds Zondi was facing out there, the chances of that happening were very great. So great the Colonel was probably in for his best Christmas goody in years: Kramer and Zondi, the pair of them, in one fell swoop.
An Indian waiter knocked hesitantly on the glass and pointed out a hotel guest who wanted to make a call. Kramer replaced the receiver, took his drink, and left the booth.
Wrong. There was a lot that was wrong with the Shabalala case, when you paused to consider. It was wrong that he had been taken off it, and it was wrong that Scott had not done anything himself all day—at least, that was how it seemed. It was also wrong that Colonel Du Plessis had not simply ordered that manhunt without consulting Scott first, and probably even wrong that it had not been tackled on a large scale right from the start. But most troubling was the wrong feeling Kramer had experienced on his return to Sunderland Avenue, when he had noticed little changes in the study, and thought something was missing. Behind it all was an elusive.…
“I thought you’d never be coming,” said Miss Weston, putting away her powder compact.
Oh, God, you never got a proper chance to think.
“Sorry, Pat. Duty before pleasure, hey?”
“It’s getting late. I wanted to do some last-minute shopping.”
“Gone off me, have you?”
“What gives you the idea I was ever on?”
“When I went to the bog you undid your two top buttons, am I right?”
She blushed pink as a carbon monoxide stiff and covered her cleavage with a spread hand. Then she tried to push her chair back but the cane legs caught in the coconut matting.
“You Afrikaans,” she said. “You’re as crude as my father’s always said. I’m used to gentlemen!”
“Afrikaans is a language, Miss Weston,” Kramer replied, smiling pleasantly, with an effort. “I am an Afrikaner. But talking of gentlemen, which one in particular? Mr. Mark Wallace, Esquire?”
“I’m going!”
“But you won’t!”
“Huh! So you think!”
Kramer made no move to restrain her, but leaned back and stretched.
“Why not?” she snapped.
“Because you don’t want to miss the rest of the show.”
She was half out of her seat when she stopped to stare quizzically at him. Slowly a wry smile appeared and as slowly she sat down again.
“Is that what it is, Lieutenant? I’m fascinated. Tell me, where do you get all your ideas—the bioscope?”
“Nice guess. Walt Disney mostly. Lady and the Tramp, y’know.”
“I’m flattered!”
“How do you think I feel? Playing up to you as a member of the inferior breed. All sniff and let’s get on with it.”
“Daddy—”
“Ach, of course he has said that, too, Miss Weston! I wasn’t bloody born yesterday.”
When she blushed this time, she went pink as a schoolgirl. Poor kid.
“I—I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”
“No need. My mistake for letting it get personal.”
And Kramer meant that. He had pushed it too far. This was just another reminder that ever since his arrival at Swart’s house the night before, he had not been quite himself. In trying to make something of the Wallace case, he had been forcing the pace all along. To cap it all, now he had somehow dragged in the Widow Fourie’s children and the cartoon treat he had given them at the Durban drive-in. Which was entirely the sort of thinking he wanted most to avoid. Still no word from her.
“You said Murder Squad.”
“Hey?
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