The Sunday Hangman by James McClure Page B

story himself. “Ach, no; I’m not sure this is connected,” he said. “But talking of other people, did he ever have visitors?”
    “None I know of, and—like I told you—he hardly ever left the place, except to go to the bank. Our terms are strictly cash, of course.”
    “Uh huh. What about guests?”
    “Always kept clear of them. You could see he didn’t much like getting in the same pool as the cripples.”
    “And the locals? Was there anyone he was particularly friendly with?”
    “Apart from Frikkie?”
    Kramer nodded.
    “No, nobody special. The farmers all knew him from the bar, naturally, and a few of them liked his stories. They sort of respected Tommy, but they didn’t invite him out or anything, if that’s what you mean. He wasn’t all that social himself. We hold a barbecue here every Saturday night; he came to the first one, but didn’t really show for the rest. I can’t remember seeing him, anyway. Everybody around here comes, sort of a tradition, and—”
    “What about women?” Kramer cut in. “From our knowledge of this man, he had to have it twice a day, practically.”
    Ferreira shot the rubber band at his calendar. “Unless he was taking his chances with black velvet, not a hope—not around here.”
    “Sure?”
    “I should know! If it isn’t a bloody granny, then it isn’t white. Period. You must have been in this kind of country before?
    The young ones can’t wait to get out of it, get themselves off to varsity or training college and stay there.”
    “Best take a weekend off and come to Trekkersburg to collect yourself a wife,” Kramer half joked, having sensed something false in the man’s locker-room bravado.
    “I was married,” replied Ferreira, his face a blank, “but she died.”
    That could have led to an awkward pause, to all sorts of imaginings about what had led to this poor sod’s burying himself alive in the backveld, yet Kramer handled it smoothly, he thought, by saying; “Register.”
    “It’s by your elbow. His address is ‘care of’ the YMCA, Hillbrow, Johannesburg.”
    “Then I’ll not bother to look. Just a couple more questions.”
    “Ja?” said Ferreira, trying to find his rubber band again among all the papers. “Keep talking.”
    “I need to know if anyone contacted Tommy here on Monday. You say he didn’t get any mail, but what about phone calls?”
    “None I know of, and I was working here in the office almost all day. He vanished while I was still in here, doing the bar receipts.”
    “Any strangers in the bar that night?”
    “No; I’ve already asked to see if they knew where he went. Just the usual crowd.”
    “And has anyone been here since Monday? Any new guests?”
    “Nobody.”
    Kramer took a look at the register after all, noted the number of Erasmus’s room, and got to his feet.
    “I’d like to see 14,” he said.
    “Seems a bit pointless,” objected Ferreira, scratching under his sunglasses. “If you want his things, the boy will put them in your Land-Rover. Frikkie and I were in there this morning.”
    “All the same, I’d better.”
    It was true that Kramer hadn’t any idea of what he might be looking for. But then again, it was equally true that Ferreira and Jonkers had been expecting to find very little—and that men who found what they expected seldom looked further.

8
    T HERE WAS A decided contrast between the weekly tariff pinned behind the door of Room 14 and the standard of amenities to be found therein. The floor was red concrete, softened and warmed over one square yard by locally made grass matting, and the four unevenly plastered walls were sloshed over with lime that came off on your hand. The plumbing to and from the cracked washbasin was the gray plastic stuff trained baboons can screw together, and both taps said cold on the top. The wardrobe and dressing table were so flimsy they moved bodily toward you at the tug of a knob, and the bed, a knee-high divan, seemed to have prolapse problems.