The Sunday Hangman

1

TOLLIE ERASMUS LOOKED at the room in which he was about to die, and saw there the story of his life. Nothing had ever turned out quite the way he’d imagined it.

For once, however, he was very relieved to find this was so. In nightmare after nightmare, he had seen himself in a harshly lit execution chamber that had whitewashed walls and high fanlights, a scrubbed wooden floor and a crude beam, a long lever and a thick, bloodstained rope. Whereas, in fact, the chamber was far more like a hospital corner, screened off by green curtaining and lit by a warm orange glow; there was a clinical sparkle to the brass pulley, and the rope was so clean it must have been specially sterilized, assuring him of a swift, certain, scientifically humane end to his days.

Tollie was thinking very fast, absorbing all this in a twinkling while, on another level, wondering what had happened to all the in-between bits. He couldn’t remember his arrest, the trial, or the passing of sentence. It was like coming round in a dentist’s chair: you knew where you were and why, but you didn’t want to probe too much for fear of the onrush of pain.

His other senses were recovering now. He smelled the prison stink of disinfectant and tasted brandy. In his left hand was something squarish. His hand wasn’t visible. None of him was visible. He had been rolled up in a sheet so expertly he couldn’t move. A sheet wrapped round and round and round, and pinned neatly down the side with safety pins. He was sitting in a chair, bound to it by a wide, soft bandage that went round and round and round.

This couldn’t be right. Think, Tollie, think fast.

The shape of the room was wrong. Every weekday morning at Pretoria Central he’d waited in the soccer yard to be marched off to the workshops with the others. Facing him, as he stood there, had been two and a half stories of solid wall with only a fanlight near the top. If you didn’t guess right away that this was the gallows building, you soon enough learned, because on Tuesdays and Thursdays there was often a delay while they finished nailing down the coffin lids. Inevitably, you came to know its dimensions pretty well, and this room just didn’t go with them at all. Think faster.

The pulley for only one rope was another thing—and so was the amount of floor space. He knew for a fact that sometimes they strung up six kaffirs at once, and no way could six stand side by side on that area of trap door. Naturally, the warders liked to exaggerate the figures they dealt with, but he had seen the evidence of a multiple hanging with his own eyes. After leaving the soccer yard, you went up some steps at the side of the gallows building and along a passage between the door to the laying-out room and the door they brought them out of, over sawdust sprinkled to keep the drips of blood from sticking to your feet. And one Thursday morning, after an unusually long delay, he had actually seen six pairs of soggy khaki shorts being dropped outside the door for collection by the laundry. He recalled the warder winking at him, and wiping a hand on the wall.

He had ears as well. He couldn’t hear the sound that never ceased within the walls of Central—except, very abruptly, when the traps went down: the sound of the kaffir condemneds singing hymns and chanting in the great cell in B2. They always sang even louder before a hanging, making Abide with Me last all night, driving A and B sections crazy, which served the privileged bastards right. Although even in C, which was that much farther away, they got to you when the lights came on at five-thirty and there was that final upsurge before the long, empty silence.

Fighting to impose his sanity on an insane situation, Tollie put a simple question to himself: If I’m not in Central, then where the sod am I?

It wasn’t a dream, and logically he couldn’t be anywhere else, despite all the—

Tollie knew exactly where he was, and just why things hadn’t matched up to his experience. He had been away from Central a good while, and had forgotten the new building for the condemneds which had been going up on the rise just behind it. A really modern place, the papers had said, with all sorts of up-to-date ideas; the inmates had nicknamed it Beverly Hills.

In that same instant, everything slotted into place. The idea of having one gallows for all races had always surprised him; this was the gallows reserved for whites, which explained the curtains and the single rope. The constant hymn-singing from B2, back in the old block, had worked on everyone’s nerves; now, the kaffirs had been put in a new section that was sensibly soundproofed. As for the sheet around him, it was an improvement on the old straight jacket, which, as the warders had often complained, had never worked all that well on the really stroppy cases.

Having resolved the immediate conflicts set up by his awakening in a room like that, Tollie suddenly realized he’d never had a mental blackout before. In fact, he could remember quite distinctly—

Don’t be frightened, son, you won’t feel any pain, said a deep voice behind him. We’re all here and it’s half-past five on the dot.

2

IN HIS TIME, Lieutenant Tromp Kramer of the Trekkersburg Murder and Robbery Squad had been asked to believe many things. But when they told him that Tollie Erasmus had hanged himself, he simply shook his head.

See for yourself, said the new man in Fingerprints, dealing him a photograph from the batch in his hand. I took that myself this morning, as you can tell from how nice and clear it is.

Kramer used an apathetic finger to bring the picture round the right way up on the bar counter. Sure enough, that was the face of Tollie Erasmus, all right: a sleekly handsome, pointy face, with small, close-set eyes; the sort of face a bull terrier would have if it were human. A dead face, moreover, and there was a rope around the neck.

Where? he murmured, glancing up to see who else had come across to the hotel from police headquarters opposite.

He really should have guessed. Why, it was none other than Sergeant Klip Marais, the gladdest bearer of ill tidings in the Criminal Investigation Department, and, an obsequious, sometimes quarrelsome, little runt to boot.

Lieut Gardiner said to inform you immediately, explained Marais, his tone repenting the levity shown by his companion. We saw the note you had left in your office for Zondi, and so.…

Where? Kramer repeated.

Ach, upcountry, said the new man. They had him unidentified at Doringboom, and the Lieut sent me to get prints, et cetera. Then, when I got back just now, the other blokes all recognized him straight off, and I was sent to find you in CID.

He seemed amused by his present surroundings.

So Doringboom is handling this? Kramer said, pocketing the print. When are they doing the P.M.?

This afternoon, I hear.

Uh huh. The body was found when?

Today.

Where?

In one of those picnic places for cars alongside the national road, about twenty kilometers this side of Doringboom. His car was there also, a green Ford, and he’d strung himself up on a thorn tree just by the fence. Some umfaans made a report to a family that had stopped for breakfast with their caravan. He hadn’t been there all that long; only a few hours—or that’s what the doc says.

Doc who?

Don’t ask me—the local district surgeon, whoever he is.

Uh huh.

Kramer stared at this new man, and then decided that he was not going to be an asset to crime detection in the division. Shyness made some people cocky, and so did being the minimum required height of five foot six, but here was an object that was neither of those things: if anything, he was almost as tall as Kramer himself, a lot bulkier, and his swagger showed even in the way his greasy quiff was combed back.

It was curious how the unbelievable had this effect, tempting you into thinking about petty irrelevancies, while, deep inside, certain adjustments were made.

Are you offering? the new man asked, nodding at the drink in front of Kramer.

Why not?

Um—I think I’d best be getting back, said Marais, edging away. Um—see you, hey?

They watched him go.

By the way, I’m Klaas Havenga, the oaf announced, snapping his fingers for the Indian barman. A brandy and orange, no ice, and the officer here is paying for it.

The same, Kramer added, noting how automatic his responses had become.

He took out the picture for another look at it.

So what’s this all about? Havenga asked, after using his first sip as a mouth rinse. Marais was trying to tell me as we came across, but you know how that bugger talks, nineteen to the dozen like a bloody coolie.

The barman, a sensitive soul, moved to the far end of the counter, taking his newspaper with him. He’d been writing some interesting names into the crossword when the two jokers had arrived, armed with their bombshell.

I was looking for him, said Kramer, feeling nothing as yet.

Oh, ja? Is it true he tried to take a pot shot at you once, only your boy went and buggered things up?

Three months ago, Kramer replied, taking some ice from the plastic barrel. We got a late tip-off there could be a raid up on that rise in Peacevale where there’s a line of Bantu business premises—ach, you know, along that dirt road that runs parallel to the dual carriageway. They were trying out the idea of a small bank there at the time. Right on noon, our informant said, but when we rolled up, the bloody thing was already in progress.

Yirra!

Not that it looked like it. The people outside didn’t even know at that particular moment, he was so quick. They were used to seeing armed whites going in, carrying the bank’s money—and the same went for the bank employees. The stupid bastards took him right up to the safe and opened it. Anyway, Erasmus comes running out with his gun up before we realized the position. Mine was still in under here, so Zondi spins the car around, to give me time to draw. As he comes on to Erasmus’s side, he gets a thirty-eight in the leg, straight through the bloody door. That was it.

How do you mean? asked Havenga, frowning.

The leg went stiff, onto the accelerator, and we went into the front of this fruit shop—glass, grapes, cabbages everywhere. The owner was killed outright.

Never, so it seemed, had the man heard anything funnier. Kramer smiled indulgently as he came up for air.

Jesus Christ! C-c-cabbages everywhere! Havenga gasped, rejoicing in such a vision. Man, you’ll have to excuse me a sec.

And he used the back of his inky hand to smear the tears from his eyes, before beckoning for the barman.

Same again, he ordered. Only this time I pay.

Like hell, said Kramer, and the matter rested there.

While the barman saw to their refills, a bright splash of reflected light began to flutter across the bottles and glasses on the shelves behind the counter.

"Who’s doing that?" muttered some old bugger irritably, following its progress back and forth.

Nobody could answer him, so he slid off his stool and went over to the mullioned windows behind them, which gave the bar its spurious look of a Tudor tavern. But the frosted panes defeated his attempts to peer through, and he went out onto the pavement to do some shouting.

So go on, Havenga invited Kramer, clinking glasses. While your boy was making a damn fool of you in all those grapes and bloody mangoes, Tollie got clean away?

Uh huh.

This is the first time you’ve heard of him since?

The first. His home town was Durban, but he didn’t go back there. We’ve had a running check going in all the big centers—Joey’s, Cape Town, P.E.—without any joy so far. What plates did he have on his car?

But Havenga was distracted at that moment by the return of the old misery from the pavement.

Who was it? asked a visiting farmer, who’d apparently ordered them both fresh lagers in the meantime. Some kid left in—

No, some insolent little black bastard, waggling his tobacco tin or something about over the other side, just grinned at me—you know the type. Dressed up like a dog’s dinner in a bloody suit he must have swiped. I don’t know. This for me? Very good of you, old chap.

If you like, I’ll go and kick his backside, the farmer offered, being a much younger man.

No, no; I’ve sent him packing! Best of health!

Havenga grinned cynically and turned back to Kramer.

Sorry, what was that?

I asked you about his sodding plates.

Ach, I never saw them. Don’t these bloody English kill you?

The splash of light crossed Havenga’s face even as he spoke, slipping from it to move like a butterfly from the Oude Meester brandy over to the till.

What’s he playing at? exploded the old man, banging down his tankard. Just who the devil does he think he is?

Suddenly Kramer came to, and realized he knew the probable answers to both those questions. Not only this, but that he’d now made his adjustments, and the time had come to act.

Duty calls? asked Havenga, puzzled to see him rise so purposefully for no obvious reason.

Duty, Sergeant? I came off duty officially at six o’clock this morning.

But I … you mean, Marais …?

And the new man in Fingerprints looked at the glass in his hand, before coming the old comrade with a slightly uneasy laugh: You aren’t going to report me, hey, sir?

Naturally, said Kramer, just for the hell of it.

Over on the other side of the street, just as he’d supposed, leaned the jaunty figure of Bantu Detective Sergeant Mickey Zondi, still overcoming his problem of access to the bar with the aid of a spare 9mm magazine, angled to catch the sun. An instant later, however, this had stopped, and the fly little sod was on his way across.

How goes it, Mickey?

Not so good, boss—and not so bad. I was two hours with Mama Makitini, but she swears to God she never had one drop of that vodka in her shebeen. Then, by chance, I find Yankee Boy Msomi round the back of Pillay’s place, and I get a tip for us to watch where the Mpendu brothers go tonight, because maybe there is a connection. I am sorry you had to wait so long.

That’s okay; just got a bloody gutsful of the office. I’ve been talking.

Who with? The old guy with the fine command of the Zulu language? Zondi joked, waving a shaky fist. Only it would be a kindness to explain to him the difference between bhema and bhepa. He crudely told me to go and smoke myself.

Hmmm.

Boss? asked Zondi, quick to match moods.

Forget the bloody vodka and the Mpendus. I’m going to have a word with the Colonel, while you get the car filled up. Be in the yard at one.

Where do we go?

Doringboom. A post-mortem in Doringboom.

"Hau! This is a murder inquiry?"

Well, at the moment, Kramer said, that seems to be a matter of opinion. Here, you tell me what you think.

He handed over the photograph.

Zondi’s fleeting scowl was involuntary. He returned the picture, gave no sign of what was going through his head, and took a step away.

I get the car, boss.

Fine.

Kramer set off in the opposite direction, heading for the CID building, then side-stepped into the shadow of an offloading Coke truck. That limp wasn’t getting any better; in fact, when Zondi thought you weren’t looking, it tended to become a lot worse.

I’ve heard, said Colonel Hans Muller, without glancing up from his blotter, where he was making daisies with the juice tapped from his pipe stem. I’ve also been having a word with Dr. Myburgh, the young DS handling the case at Doringboom. Putting him in the picture and so on.

Oh, ja? What does he have to say? Kramer inquired, taking his usual seat on a corner of the big desk.

Careful! No vibrations, please. This isn’t as easy as it looks. Anyway, as I was saying, Myburgh sounded an intelligent fellow. He gets a lot of hangings, of course, being in a rural area and the Bantu not having sleeping pills and all that rubbish to play around with. Quite a lot of experience for his age.

Uh huh.

Interested in what we had to tell him about the deceased. Said it would account for Erasmus carrying no identity—which shows he isn’t a fool.

And? prompted Kramer, wary of the build-up.

Well, he told me he’d visited the scene in person. No signs of violence, no strangulation prior to suspension, and a nice little fork in the tree to jump off. Nothing to make—

But, Colonel—

"Ach! Look what you made me do! I don’t want bloody sunflowers, hey? If you’ll just let me finish.… The one slightly unusual feature was Tollie’s bust neck and his use of a drop—most suicides just sort of strangle."

Slightly unusual? Christ, I’d like to hear what our own DS has to say about that, Kramer retorted, confident that his doubts would be shared by Dr. Christiaan Strydom, the gifted if eccentric garden gnome with whom he generally worked.

Your wish, Trompie, murmured the Colonel, good-humoredly, is my whatsit. I checked with the very same not five minutes ago, and Chris agreed that a fracture was rare—although far from impossible, given the circumstances I described. He also made a couple of very sound observations, one of which Doc Myburgh had himself already noted.

Instead of explaining what this was, the amateur artist gave his undivided attention to the spread of the next disgusting yellow stain.

Do I have to just guess, Colonel?

Hmmm. You could try, if you like: what have—or had—Doc Strydom and Tollie Erasmus got in common?

The answer he received was deservedly coarse.

Then let me give you a clue: where have they both, in a manner of speaking, served a term?

Kramer kept silent, regretting he’d ever bothered to pay the bastard the courtesy of a quick call. But his mind childishly insisted on solving the riddle: Strydom and Erasmus had both spent time in Central Prison, Pretoria, the site of the Republic’s gallows and, for this reason, one of the few places blacks were able to share the same amenities, however briefly.

Full marks, Colonel Muller continued, taking Kramer’s correct assumption for granted. … where it would surely be impossible for a man to remain in ignorance of what takes place there on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Every warder has to witness at least one little send-off, and I’m sure he then feels it his duty to pass on the deterrent effect to those maximum-security prisoners in for rehabilitation. Tollie must have heard their stories dozens of times during his last stretch—and maybe even the sound of the trap going down. And so, when he felt in need of an instantaneous death, guaranteed by the government itself, then—

Tollie? That’s crap! snapped Kramer.

Then I hesitate to ask you to bear it in mind, Lieutenant. Nonetheless, such an approach would be entirely rational on Tollie’s part, especially if he’d thrown away his gun and left himself just with a tow rope. Don’t let the statistics fool you: very few members of the ordinary public know anything about a drop or more would use it.

You’ll be saying he did it out of conscience next!

The Colonel looked up. Now who’s in the crap business? He chuckled, leaning back. That’s one kind of trouble our friend never got himself into, having a bad conscience. But you’ve got to admit that, in this context, there’s nothing inconsistent about the method used.

I’d be surprised if he hanged himself any other way, sir—which doesn’t mean that I think, for one minute, he did it.

A feeling in your water?

Other inconsistencies, beginning with—

Hold it; point two coming up. Doc Strydom shares your respect for precedent, you see.

Oh, ja?

Hanging, he reminds us, is a form of violent death that’s different to all the rest, inasmuch as the forensic presumption is, for once, that death was self-inflicted. In his strange mind, even judicial hangings are self-inflicted, but we won’t waste our time going into—

Ach, why not? Kramer was niggled into saying.

"Watch it. You should be asking why this presumption is made. Simply because self-inflicted hanging has millions of precedents—going right back to Judas, if you like—whereas homicidal hanging is a crime that’s virtually unprecedented. Follow? In fact, the only case Doc could cite offhand was one in Paris in 1881."

Kramer lit a Lucky Strike and rode out a few waves of doubt in that water of his. For a moment there, this talk of precedent had impressed him, then he’d realized that the Colonel’s whole argument depended solely upon the number of homicidal hangings that had been actually detected.

A handy presumption, he remarked dryly. Hell, if my love life ever gets too complicated, I might give it a whirl myself.

You do that, Tromp—providing you’re picking on two-year-olds these days, or on junkies stoned from here to bloody Christmas. Because the DS will still be making his routine check, and is certain to note any signs of secondary violence, such as might be needed to control your victim. Erasmus was conscious at the time, and there was no evidence of recent bruising.

Fully conscious? How could Myburgh tell?

Ah, said the Colonel, appearing shifty on purpose, here is the unbelievable part of the story. It seems that Tollie had in his left hand a small, leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible. He must have been holding it hell of a tight, and then the fatal spasm kept it there.

Of course, Kramer could believe that: sudden and violent death was capable of many tricks. He had once spent ten minutes trying to free a hair drier from the grasp of a skinny typist electrocuted in her bath. He had found a brier pipe, not unlike the Colonel’s, clenched in the teeth of a steeplejack impaled on a parking meter. And if anyone was to turn to Jesus in extremis, then it was invariably the