matter of fact, I—”
“What?” said Botha, looking up and narrowing his eyes.
“No, no, I don’t mean it was me, man! I was just going to ask if you’d spoken to Japie from Traffic Enquiries about it.”
“You saw him take it from here?”
“Not exactly, but I did see him go into the darkroom with that new typist from CID, and she’s so flat-chested I reckon a bloke might need a comparison scope to—”
“
Out
,” said Botha.
“Ja, get out,” agreed the others, for once unappreciative of Mitchell’s razor-sharp wit. “Get out and stay out.”
Mitchell shrugged and turned his attention to the two .32 slugs that Botha had lined up side by side under the twin lenses of his instrument. “What are these?” he asked. “Don’t tell me Wonder Dog Kramer has come up with a match in the Bradshaw case?”
“Cast your own expert eye, if you like,” Botha invited him. “Not that anyone would need a second opinion.”
“Really?” said Mitchell, impressed.
Kramer slid down low in the front passenger seat of the Chevrolet and hooked his heels comfortably under the dashboard. With Zondi at the wheel, and in a somewhat exuberant state, it was often more restful not having a clear view of the road ahead. They were doing at least sixty along the crowded freeway back into the center of town.
“Ja, it’s all coming together,” he said, his mood much improved by the contribution that Zondi had made. “Don’t ask me
what
is coming together, but the two cases do seem definitely connected. If Ballistics can give us a positive on that slug we removed, then we’ll know for certain.”
Zondi intimidated a five-ton lorry and made a gain of fifty yards. “And if this man is truly big, boss, that will make our job much easier.”
“Right. None of that Oh-he-was-sort-of-average rubbish! How many times have you and me gone looking for Mr. Average?”
“Move it!” Zondi growled at a Mini dithering in front of him, then swept by on the wrong side. “Sorry, boss?”
Kramer had already gone back to reviewing the known facts so far. “So you say all the vehicles at the Digby-Smiths’ were being parked in the street?”
“Yebo, the men have been working on the drive for a week, they tell me, so the cars must be left outside.”
“How many do they have?”
“Three, boss. There is the Rover, Boss Digby-Smith drives a big Ford to work, and then they have this old one they use when the others are in the garage for servicing. It’s a Morris.”
“I see, so it wasn’t at all strange that the car should be left outside in the street last night. But what about the ignition key?”
Zondi snapped his fingers in irritation at himself. “That I forgot to tell you! The cook said her madam was complaining at breakfast this morning because the keys had not been put back on the silver tray in the hall. But her husband told her not to be so stupid, and to use the spare key instead.”
“Uh huh. Did you speak to any of the other servants?”
“The chief garden boy. He lives at Peacevale, so he didn’t know anything of what happened in the night. All he noticed when he came to work was that the dogs from all around were sniffing at the back of the car and peeing on it.”
“Didn’t that seem unusual to him?”
“It made him laugh,” said Zondi, grinning. “He said he had felt that way about his employer many times himself.”
Kramer chuckled. “But did you think to ask him if he’d seen anyone snooping round the property? The killer must have known about the cars being left outside.”
“Why ‘must’?” asked Zondi.
“Because—ach, we’ll try and sort that out later. Tell me more first about what the housemaid says she saw at one o’clock.”
Zondi throttled back as they approached the first set of traffic lights. “She saw this car come with only its small lights on. She saw it stop outside the hedge, and a big man get out—the street light over the other side was shining behind him. There
“What?” said Botha, looking up and narrowing his eyes.
“No, no, I don’t mean it was me, man! I was just going to ask if you’d spoken to Japie from Traffic Enquiries about it.”
“You saw him take it from here?”
“Not exactly, but I did see him go into the darkroom with that new typist from CID, and she’s so flat-chested I reckon a bloke might need a comparison scope to—”
“
Out
,” said Botha.
“Ja, get out,” agreed the others, for once unappreciative of Mitchell’s razor-sharp wit. “Get out and stay out.”
Mitchell shrugged and turned his attention to the two .32 slugs that Botha had lined up side by side under the twin lenses of his instrument. “What are these?” he asked. “Don’t tell me Wonder Dog Kramer has come up with a match in the Bradshaw case?”
“Cast your own expert eye, if you like,” Botha invited him. “Not that anyone would need a second opinion.”
“Really?” said Mitchell, impressed.
Kramer slid down low in the front passenger seat of the Chevrolet and hooked his heels comfortably under the dashboard. With Zondi at the wheel, and in a somewhat exuberant state, it was often more restful not having a clear view of the road ahead. They were doing at least sixty along the crowded freeway back into the center of town.
“Ja, it’s all coming together,” he said, his mood much improved by the contribution that Zondi had made. “Don’t ask me
what
is coming together, but the two cases do seem definitely connected. If Ballistics can give us a positive on that slug we removed, then we’ll know for certain.”
Zondi intimidated a five-ton lorry and made a gain of fifty yards. “And if this man is truly big, boss, that will make our job much easier.”
“Right. None of that Oh-he-was-sort-of-average rubbish! How many times have you and me gone looking for Mr. Average?”
“Move it!” Zondi growled at a Mini dithering in front of him, then swept by on the wrong side. “Sorry, boss?”
Kramer had already gone back to reviewing the known facts so far. “So you say all the vehicles at the Digby-Smiths’ were being parked in the street?”
“Yebo, the men have been working on the drive for a week, they tell me, so the cars must be left outside.”
“How many do they have?”
“Three, boss. There is the Rover, Boss Digby-Smith drives a big Ford to work, and then they have this old one they use when the others are in the garage for servicing. It’s a Morris.”
“I see, so it wasn’t at all strange that the car should be left outside in the street last night. But what about the ignition key?”
Zondi snapped his fingers in irritation at himself. “That I forgot to tell you! The cook said her madam was complaining at breakfast this morning because the keys had not been put back on the silver tray in the hall. But her husband told her not to be so stupid, and to use the spare key instead.”
“Uh huh. Did you speak to any of the other servants?”
“The chief garden boy. He lives at Peacevale, so he didn’t know anything of what happened in the night. All he noticed when he came to work was that the dogs from all around were sniffing at the back of the car and peeing on it.”
“Didn’t that seem unusual to him?”
“It made him laugh,” said Zondi, grinning. “He said he had felt that way about his employer many times himself.”
Kramer chuckled. “But did you think to ask him if he’d seen anyone snooping round the property? The killer must have known about the cars being left outside.”
“Why ‘must’?” asked Zondi.
“Because—ach, we’ll try and sort that out later. Tell me more first about what the housemaid says she saw at one o’clock.”
Zondi throttled back as they approached the first set of traffic lights. “She saw this car come with only its small lights on. She saw it stop outside the hedge, and a big man get out—the street light over the other side was shining behind him. There
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