A Beautiful Place to Die by Malla Nunn Page B

clean and unused. Inside the desk, Emmanuel found newspaper articles on rural pursuits like the art of biltong making and the proper care of hunting knives. He kneeled down and peered into the empty drawer cavity.
    “Looking for dirty magazines, Detective?” Louis asked.
    Emmanuel caught the hard edge of the boy’s stare.
    “You want to show me where he hid the magazines, Louis?” he asked casually, aware it was a clumsy attempt to catch the boy out, but worth a try.
    Louis flushed pink and began sorting through the spanner box again. “No, because there aren’t any. My pa was very clean that way. If you knew him you’d understand.”
    “That’s right.” Hansie took up the fight on Louis’s behalf and threw Emmanuel a look of disgust.
    “I wasn’t the one who mentioned dirty magazines,” he pointed out. Did the captain have a secret stash somewhere? Or was Louis worried about a dog-eared magazine hidden somewhere in his own bedroom?
    Two maids and a garden boy hurried past the back entrance to the shed without slowing pace or looking in. The three figures disappeared into the darkening veldt.
    “What’s this?” Emmanuel pointed to the grass pathway the servants had taken.
    “A kaffir path. The kaffirs use them to get around,” Hansie said. “They run all through the town and join up near the location. It’s quicker than using the main roads.”
    “People don’t mind?”
    “No. Nobody uses the paths in town after eight-thirty. There’s big trouble if a kaffir is caught walking along here between then and sunrise.”
    “You ever use them?”
    “They’re kaffir paths. For kaffirs.” Hansie had the dumbstruck look of an idiot asked to explain the facts of life to an imbecile. “Coloureds use them sometimes, but we never do.”
    “Then how do you know they’re not used at night?” Emmanuel stepped out of the shed and onto the path.
    “The captain,” Hansie replied. “He ran along these paths three or four times a week. Sometimes in the morning and sometimes at night. Shabalala took care of the paths near the location.”
    Emmanuel moved deeper into the veldt as a second group of house servants, determined to clear the white part of town before curfew, jogged by singing. Emmanuel knew the song:
    “Shosholoza, shosholoza…Kulezontaba…”
    The song translated roughly to “Move faster, you are meandering on those mountains. The train is from South Africa.” The sound of the word “shosholoza” was like the hiss of a steam train itself.
    The servants’ rhythmic chant drifted back and he felt the African night warm on his skin and hair. The voices of the servants grew softer and he turned toward the captain’s house.
    “How often did you and Lieutenant Uys patrol?”
    “We patrolled when the captain asked,” Hansie said. “Once we went out every night for a week, then not again for a long time. It wasn’t a regular-type thing.”
    “Random,” Emmanuel said, aware of the simple genius underpinning the captain’s system. Zweigman was aware of the close scrutiny of the patrols and didn’t like it. How much did the captain see and hear as he crisscrossed the town at constant but irregular intervals? Had he uncovered a secret someone was willing to kill to protect?
    Emmanuel reentered the shed where Louis packed the last of his tools into a red metal box. The boy appeared engrossed in his task, but there was a tightness in his shoulders that suggested an alert and mindful presence.
    “Hey, Louis.” The shed door swung open and Henrick stepped in. “Get yourself cleaned up, it’s time for supper and Ma needs you.”
    “Ja.” Louis ducked out past his elder brother and made his way quickly toward the house. He scuttled up the stairs and across the veranda like a crab racing for safety on a rock ledge.
    “Ma will see you now, Detective,” Henrick said. “She’s not doing so well, so make it quick.”
    “Of course,” Emmanuel said. Henrick’s boss-man act was starting to get on