an impeccably clean pair of underpants which would uphold the family’s honour in the event of an accident.
“Ach, I’m sorry,” the man apologised, switching smoothly from English into Afrikaans, “it’s just I’m forced to speak the bloody language most of the day because of my job—software, you know. The name’s Hennie Vorster, sir. Here, you can see it on my licence, and it’s clean.”
Kramer took the licence, then glanced over the car.
“A beauty, isn’t it?” the man went on. “I’m afraid, if this isone of those spot checks, you’re not going to find a thing to give me a ticket for—I only took delivery on Monday. Oh, thanks very much.”
And he reached for the licence which Kramer had just held out to him, giving a sharp little cry as the handcuff snapped over his wrist.
“Jesus Christ!” he gasped, in English. “You can’t be arresting me! Whatever for?”
“Theft of one newspaper,” said Kramer. “But don’t worry,” he added, attaching the other handcuff to the man’s steering-wheel. “I’ll leave a little note for the next patrol van coming by, explaining all about it.”
4
Z ONDI HAD THREE things to tell Kramer when he arrived back at Woodhollow and went into Naomi Stride’s study. The first concerned what he had learned from Cyclops Security.
“They said, boss, Mrs. Stride rang up last Friday to inform them she had changed her plans and would be leaving for London tomorrow, Wednesday, and they were not to worry about guarding this place until then. They were not very clear why she was leaving later, but it had something to do with her being at a point in her latest book where she did not want to stop until the chapter was finished.”
“Uh-huh, and what else?”
“The son’s secretary has phoned. He is on his way here, should be arriving any time now.”
“Does he know his old lady has—?”
“No, just that the police want to contact him.”
“Fine. What was the third thing?”
Zondi did a three-quarter turn in the swivel chair and pointed to the sheet of paper in the typewriter. “I have been looking at that last line, boss.”
“Oh ja? Something about ‘two, comma, two’—didn’t make any bloody sense to me, unless it’s just that two and two make four. But, then, the whole book seems to be so bloody strange that—”
“Boss, I don’t think this Naomi Stride missus wrote that. Take another look.”
Kramer took another look, leaning low to view the paper at an angle to the light coming in through the window. “The pressure used on the keys is the same as with the lines before it—which is only logical, since this is an electric typewriter. What’s there to tell apart?”
“Here,” said Zondi, taking down at random a novel from the bookshelves. “Have you ever noticed that in books, when they show the words people speak, they don’t always use double inverted commas for quotation marks, they just use one?” And he held out a page for Kramer to inspect. “Ordinary people, though, use the double quotation mark, because that’s what they learn at school.…”
“Wait a minute,” said Kramer, taking up some sheets of manuscript from the wire tray. “Ja, but Naomi Stride actually typed the same way as the printers, with one mark.”
“And suddenly there are double quotation marks around that last line.…” murmured Zondi. “I don’t think that someone who typed so much would break a habit just once in more than two hundred pages.”
“You’ve looked?”
Zondi nodded. “I can’t find any other place she has used double marks.”
Kramer walked over to the window and stared out of it for a while. Then he turned and nodded. “You’re right, Mickey,” he said. “It can’t have been her, and so it had to be—well, bugger it, the murderer? Leaving us some kind of message? Having a little joke?”
“It seems so, boss.”
“But ‘two, comma, two’ means nothing to you, either?”
“No idea, boss,” replied Zondi,
“Ach, I’m sorry,” the man apologised, switching smoothly from English into Afrikaans, “it’s just I’m forced to speak the bloody language most of the day because of my job—software, you know. The name’s Hennie Vorster, sir. Here, you can see it on my licence, and it’s clean.”
Kramer took the licence, then glanced over the car.
“A beauty, isn’t it?” the man went on. “I’m afraid, if this isone of those spot checks, you’re not going to find a thing to give me a ticket for—I only took delivery on Monday. Oh, thanks very much.”
And he reached for the licence which Kramer had just held out to him, giving a sharp little cry as the handcuff snapped over his wrist.
“Jesus Christ!” he gasped, in English. “You can’t be arresting me! Whatever for?”
“Theft of one newspaper,” said Kramer. “But don’t worry,” he added, attaching the other handcuff to the man’s steering-wheel. “I’ll leave a little note for the next patrol van coming by, explaining all about it.”
4
Z ONDI HAD THREE things to tell Kramer when he arrived back at Woodhollow and went into Naomi Stride’s study. The first concerned what he had learned from Cyclops Security.
“They said, boss, Mrs. Stride rang up last Friday to inform them she had changed her plans and would be leaving for London tomorrow, Wednesday, and they were not to worry about guarding this place until then. They were not very clear why she was leaving later, but it had something to do with her being at a point in her latest book where she did not want to stop until the chapter was finished.”
“Uh-huh, and what else?”
“The son’s secretary has phoned. He is on his way here, should be arriving any time now.”
“Does he know his old lady has—?”
“No, just that the police want to contact him.”
“Fine. What was the third thing?”
Zondi did a three-quarter turn in the swivel chair and pointed to the sheet of paper in the typewriter. “I have been looking at that last line, boss.”
“Oh ja? Something about ‘two, comma, two’—didn’t make any bloody sense to me, unless it’s just that two and two make four. But, then, the whole book seems to be so bloody strange that—”
“Boss, I don’t think this Naomi Stride missus wrote that. Take another look.”
Kramer took another look, leaning low to view the paper at an angle to the light coming in through the window. “The pressure used on the keys is the same as with the lines before it—which is only logical, since this is an electric typewriter. What’s there to tell apart?”
“Here,” said Zondi, taking down at random a novel from the bookshelves. “Have you ever noticed that in books, when they show the words people speak, they don’t always use double inverted commas for quotation marks, they just use one?” And he held out a page for Kramer to inspect. “Ordinary people, though, use the double quotation mark, because that’s what they learn at school.…”
“Wait a minute,” said Kramer, taking up some sheets of manuscript from the wire tray. “Ja, but Naomi Stride actually typed the same way as the printers, with one mark.”
“And suddenly there are double quotation marks around that last line.…” murmured Zondi. “I don’t think that someone who typed so much would break a habit just once in more than two hundred pages.”
“You’ve looked?”
Zondi nodded. “I can’t find any other place she has used double marks.”
Kramer walked over to the window and stared out of it for a while. Then he turned and nodded. “You’re right, Mickey,” he said. “It can’t have been her, and so it had to be—well, bugger it, the murderer? Leaving us some kind of message? Having a little joke?”
“It seems so, boss.”
“But ‘two, comma, two’ means nothing to you, either?”
“No idea, boss,” replied Zondi,
Similar Books
