shrugging.
Ramjut Pillay was exhausted by the time he reached Gladstoneville, a sprawling shanty town set aside for Asiatics on the north-western edge of Trekkersburg. Normally, he hadpermission to use his Post Office heavy-duty bicycle for getting to and from work, but now that he was under suspension this privilege had been withdrawn from him. Barefoot, too, because his boots had been retained for forensic examination by the police, and because he was in no position to requisition another pair, his progress had been slow and painful, especially over the last three kilometres, a dirt road down from the asphalt highway skirting Gladstoneville. The heat hadn’t helped, either, seeming to become more intense each weary step he took.
“Ten thousands five hundred and ninety-one, ten thousands five hundred and ninety-two,” he murmured, reaching the corner of Apricot Street, “ten thousands five hundred and—ah, jolly good!—ninety-three.”
He was home.
“Ramjut?” his mother croaked from her wicker chair on the slanting porch. “Where have you been, you shameful son of respectable parents? Your poor aged father is out looking for you, begging news of a fully grown-up boy who should have returned from his work many hours ago. What have you to say to your—?”
“Mother, would you like to know how many pacings it is from the Post Office to—?”
“Pah!” she said, dismissing him with that familiar wave of her fly-whisk.
Which, for once, pleased Ramjut Pillay immensely, because all the way back to Gladstoneville he had been turning over in his mind the most exciting thought he’d entertained in years, not excluding several associated with brahmacharya experiments.
And so, indifferent to his limp, he went through the house and out to the corrugated lean-to in which he lived at the back. It was like stepping into an oven, save for the fact that few ovens held such a pungent odour of warm horsehair mattress, and for several seconds he was tempted to leave the door ajar. But, no,that would be wholly unprofessional, so he closed it firmly and did up its seven bolts and two chain locks. Then, feeling a little faint, he edged his way between his divan and the bookshelves he had constructed out of orange-crates, and drew aside the faded curtain in the far corner. Behind it, hanging from a sagging length of string, was his entire wardrobe: shirts, trousers and a couple of jackets, motor mechanic’s overalls, a chemist’s white coat, an advocate’s black gown, a loincloth, a Scout uniform, a grey plastic raincoat, a tracksuit, nineteen ties in various designs, and a pillowcase containing hats, caps, helmets and a gas-mask. From a termite-proof tin box hidden beneath all this he selected a diploma and pinned it to the edge of one of the orange-crates. He stepped back to admire it, collided with his divan and had to sit down suddenly.
Ramjut Pillay
, said the diploma, in beautifully curly writing,
Has Passed With Distinction All The Exacting Requirements Of This Course & Is Henceforth Qualified To Practise As A Private Investigator
.
Theo Kennedy, only child of the late Naomi Stride, arrived at Woodhollow in a Land-Rover painted black and white in wavy stripes to resemble zebra hide.
“ ‘Afro Arts,’ ” murmured Zondi, reading aloud the sign-writing on the cab doors. “ ‘Wholesale and Export.’ ”
“You’d best bugger off and find yourself a good place to listen from outside the window,” suggested Kramer.
“On my way, boss!”
Kramer walked out on to the front veranda at much the same moment as young Kennedy started up the steps. He looked angry, very pale.
“I’ve just heard on the radio,” he said, “that my mother’s been murdered. What the hell are they talking about? That can’t be true!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but for once they’ve got their facts right.”
“Rubbish! Next of kin would have to be informed first, and nobody’s—”
“We’ve been trying to get hold
Ramjut Pillay was exhausted by the time he reached Gladstoneville, a sprawling shanty town set aside for Asiatics on the north-western edge of Trekkersburg. Normally, he hadpermission to use his Post Office heavy-duty bicycle for getting to and from work, but now that he was under suspension this privilege had been withdrawn from him. Barefoot, too, because his boots had been retained for forensic examination by the police, and because he was in no position to requisition another pair, his progress had been slow and painful, especially over the last three kilometres, a dirt road down from the asphalt highway skirting Gladstoneville. The heat hadn’t helped, either, seeming to become more intense each weary step he took.
“Ten thousands five hundred and ninety-one, ten thousands five hundred and ninety-two,” he murmured, reaching the corner of Apricot Street, “ten thousands five hundred and—ah, jolly good!—ninety-three.”
He was home.
“Ramjut?” his mother croaked from her wicker chair on the slanting porch. “Where have you been, you shameful son of respectable parents? Your poor aged father is out looking for you, begging news of a fully grown-up boy who should have returned from his work many hours ago. What have you to say to your—?”
“Mother, would you like to know how many pacings it is from the Post Office to—?”
“Pah!” she said, dismissing him with that familiar wave of her fly-whisk.
Which, for once, pleased Ramjut Pillay immensely, because all the way back to Gladstoneville he had been turning over in his mind the most exciting thought he’d entertained in years, not excluding several associated with brahmacharya experiments.
And so, indifferent to his limp, he went through the house and out to the corrugated lean-to in which he lived at the back. It was like stepping into an oven, save for the fact that few ovens held such a pungent odour of warm horsehair mattress, and for several seconds he was tempted to leave the door ajar. But, no,that would be wholly unprofessional, so he closed it firmly and did up its seven bolts and two chain locks. Then, feeling a little faint, he edged his way between his divan and the bookshelves he had constructed out of orange-crates, and drew aside the faded curtain in the far corner. Behind it, hanging from a sagging length of string, was his entire wardrobe: shirts, trousers and a couple of jackets, motor mechanic’s overalls, a chemist’s white coat, an advocate’s black gown, a loincloth, a Scout uniform, a grey plastic raincoat, a tracksuit, nineteen ties in various designs, and a pillowcase containing hats, caps, helmets and a gas-mask. From a termite-proof tin box hidden beneath all this he selected a diploma and pinned it to the edge of one of the orange-crates. He stepped back to admire it, collided with his divan and had to sit down suddenly.
Ramjut Pillay
, said the diploma, in beautifully curly writing,
Has Passed With Distinction All The Exacting Requirements Of This Course & Is Henceforth Qualified To Practise As A Private Investigator
.
Theo Kennedy, only child of the late Naomi Stride, arrived at Woodhollow in a Land-Rover painted black and white in wavy stripes to resemble zebra hide.
“ ‘Afro Arts,’ ” murmured Zondi, reading aloud the sign-writing on the cab doors. “ ‘Wholesale and Export.’ ”
“You’d best bugger off and find yourself a good place to listen from outside the window,” suggested Kramer.
“On my way, boss!”
Kramer walked out on to the front veranda at much the same moment as young Kennedy started up the steps. He looked angry, very pale.
“I’ve just heard on the radio,” he said, “that my mother’s been murdered. What the hell are they talking about? That can’t be true!”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but for once they’ve got their facts right.”
“Rubbish! Next of kin would have to be informed first, and nobody’s—”
“We’ve been trying to get hold
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