Pretoria – that dull-sounding citadel of South Africa’s vast bureaucracy and labyrinthine Apartheid administration, that throbbing heart of Calvinistic conservatism with its massive Victorian-style Union Buildings embracing the horizon, its hundreds of modern apartment blocks for its thousands of civil servants, its ultra-modern government sky-scrapers and its huge statue of Paul Kruger telling each day there will be no nonsense – Pretoria is actually rather pretty. The streets are characterized by jacaranda trees, and pleasant green suburbs spreadeagle over a surrounding crescent of hills. It has a rather gentle, small-city atmosphere. It was eight o’clock the next morning when McQuade found his way into it, and the air was brisk and the sky was young, well-ordered traffic was starting a new day and stylish, pretty girls were on their way to work. And it was friendly:
‘But certainly,’ Johan Lombard said, with hardly a trace of South African accent, ‘any friend of Roger Wentland is a friend of mine! How about a hair of the dog at lunchtime? Where are you staying?’
‘Nowhere yet, I’m speaking from a public phone.’
‘Stay at the Burgerspark, dear boy, best pub in town. What scandal was Roger referring to?’
‘He just said I must ask you about a recent scandal in the Population Registration Department.’
‘This whole government is a scandal, dear boy, I tell them so every day in the newspaper, but I know the one he means. Meet me in the German Club, in Paul Kruger Street at noon. Sort of unofficial press club. Say you’re my guest, don’t swear about Adolf Hitler and you’ll be fine.’
‘Thank you. One other thing. How can I get hold of the Civil Servants’ Association membership list?’
‘I’m sure I’ve got a copy somewhere. I’ll dig it out. Why do you need it, by the way?’
‘I’m trying to trace an old friend.’
‘I’ll find a copy. And, how is dear old Roger, haven’t seen him since Pontius was a pupil Pilate …’
McQuade hung up a minute later, feeling extremely lucky.
He next traced Peter Duncan’s health studio number in the telephone directory. ‘Dun-can’s,’ the voice sang.
‘May I speak to Peter Duncan, please.’
‘It is he. In the flesh.’
Peter Duncan was also delighted to hear from Roger Went-land, and delighted to meet McQuade for a drink this afternoon. Lester’s Bar at four o’clock, jolliest pub in town, old man.
Feeling things were going his way, McQuade sorted out his coins and dialled Roger Wentland’s office in Swakopmund. No, Mr Wentland had not been in contact with the office yet. Yes, the secretary would remember to ask him to trace the vehicle.
McQuade hung up. He should telephone Inspector Dupreez, as promised, but he wasn’t going to do so today; the Inspector would have been told by the Namibian police about the double murder by now, and McQuade was not looking forward to his new questions. He stacked up his coins in preparation for telephoning Sarah. He wasn’t going to tell her about the double murder yet, since he did not want her panicky questions.
‘Hullo darling!’ Sarah cried. ‘Thank God. I’ve been so worried. Where are you?’
‘In Pretoria,’ he grinned.
‘I should never have let you bully me onto that plane. I’ve had nightmares about those swines catching you! When are you coming to Johannesburg?’
‘Tomorrow evening, I hope. I’ve got meetings all today and tonight. Have you had any contact from our friend Inspector Dupreez?’
‘No. How would he know where I’m staying?’
‘Right, but the police have infinite resources. Anyway, if he gets hold of you, please remember not to mention that fight with that Toyota in the bush.’
‘But I wish I knew why not. It’s very hard to tell these lies when you won’t explain why. I think this is all very serious – a man’s been beaten to death and the same thugs are chasing you across the country – I think the police should be informed, if only for your own safety.’
‘Sarah, I just need a few days. To try to find out something. If I fail, I’ll tell the police everything. And you.’
‘Is that a solemn promise?’
He took a breath. ‘Yes.’
‘And if you succeed in these few days?’
‘If I succeed I’ll solve the whole mystery, and bring these bastards to justice.’
There was a pause. Then she sighed. ‘Okay. Where are you staying tonight?’
‘I don’t know yet.’ He added, to forestall further questions, ‘Probably with my friend Johan Lombard. I’ll telephone you tomorrow.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
‘Okay.’ She sighed. ‘Jim? I think I’m madly in love with you.’
For a moment he was deliciously happy. ‘I’m madly in love with you as well.’
The German Club is a solid, stolid building, the lounge in heavy furniture with potted palms, yesterday’s newspapers all the way from Germany, and muted German music on the air. Johan Lombard was a jolly, portly man with curly grey hair and cherubic cheeks. ‘Not kind of me at all, dear boy, always have a hair of the dog at this very hour if the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune permit, sitting on this very bar stool. Now, I presume Roger is referring to the homosexuality scandal in the Population Registration bureau?’
McQuade was relieved – he had been afraid of arousing Johan’s suspicions by not even knowing what the scandal was about. ‘Yes. Has there been any other scandal in that department?’
‘The mere existence of the department is a scandal!’ Johan said. ‘Why must we have our entire official lives recorded in a single booklet? So that any passing policeman can scrutinize our personal histories from the cradle to the grave at a moment’s glance.’ He held up a finger. ‘History has always shown that the citizen’s personal freedom has been at its lowest when governmental regimentation is at its highest. It is an oppressive government which insists you have a number, and in this benighted country, a racial classification to boot! It’s a cattle-brand – in black and white. And ne’er the twain shall meet. Except,’ he added grudgingly, ‘I detect a ray of hope in our present State President, the illustrious P. W. Botha. A measure of reform is in the air, after forty years of bloody-minded Boer rule. And I’ve got a feeling Botha will be replaced quite soon by a younger, more go-ahead man. However, what about this homosexuality scandal?’ He peered at him. ‘Not a bum-bandit, are you?’
McQuade grinned. ‘No. Roger just said that you’d know all about it, being a newspaperman.’
‘Forgive me asking, old chap, and as a newspaperman I’m quite accustomed to nosey-parkers, and any friend of Roger’s is a friend of mine, et cetera – but what is your interest in this sordid piece of Pretoria history?’
McQuade was ready for the question. ‘I’m an external student of the University of London, doing a degree in Political Science. Roger and I were talking about political history one day, and when he mentioned this scandal, he told me to ask you if I was ever in Pretoria. And here I am. On a few weeks holiday.’
Johan nodded. ‘Governmental cock-up, our daily fare – except it’s my unhappy lot to have to meet a dead-line every day when intellectual pursuit beckons from so many watering-holes.’ He held up a finger again. ‘Professor Simone Jansen. You must meet my friend Simone, teaches Political Science at the university. I’ll give her a call for you. Anyway, about this scandal.’ He waved a hand. ‘Did you know that Pretoria has a substantial homosexual population?’
‘No.’
‘Something to do with all the Calvinistic red tape, I suppose. Anyway, it so happened that a few of them worked in the Population Registration Department, and one of them was having it off with some Coloured boys – by which I mean near-whites.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Eventually these Coloured boys began to blackmail this hapless official to do … guess what? To issue them with false Books-of-Life, which said they were whites! He was caught out. Sent to jail. Big scandal. End of story.’
McQuade picked up his beer. His tired mind working and his heart sinking. Blackmail? That was what Roger was indirectly suggesting to him – blackmail of some homosexual official to give him the details of all the Strausses in the Population Register? How the hell did he go about that?
‘I see.’ He wanted to ask Johan the quickest way to find out about Nazis in South Africa. But that was too direct. Too close to the subject of Population Registration. He said conversationally, ‘This is a big club. Are there a lot of Germans in Pretoria?’
‘Lots, dear boy. Came flooding here after the war when this Afrikaner government got into power.’
‘Are many politically active?’
Johan glanced around the bar. ‘Dear fellow, this isn’t exactly the place to discuss the political ambitions of the Master Race.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Nor the time. I’ve got to get back to the grindstone before my vast readership stages a riot.’ He held up a finger again. ‘Professor Simone Jansen. She’s the lady to talk to about German activity in this part of the world. And me, but not here.’
They said goodbye outside the club. McQuade walked down the street, looking for a café where he could sit quietly and look at the Civil Servants’ Association list which Johan had given him. He saw a Wimpy Bar, crowded with lunch-time traffic, black and white. It was many years since McQuade had been to Pretoria, and it was a surprise to see blacks sitting with whites in this conservative town. Things sure were changing. He ordered coffee and a hamburger.
The Civil Servants’ Association list was a year out of date, but it was comprehensive. Under the Population Registration Department there were hundreds of names. He finished his lunch, walked uptown looking for a shop that did photocopying, and had the pages relating to the Population Registration Department photo-copied. He borrowed the shop’s scissors, cut the heading off the pages, and all telephone numbers, leaving only the names. He paid and asked the shop assistant the way to Lester’s Bar.
What was he going to say to Peter Duncan? Roger had said he must simply show him the list of civil servants after speaking to Johan about the scandal. So obviously Duncan would know which of the people on this list were homosexual. But Duncan would surely want to know why he needed this information. And how the hell was he going to use it after he got it? How was he going to go about blackmail?
Lester’s Bar is smart, modern, with leather furniture, subdued lights and art-nouveau pictures of muscular men, chic women and fast cars.
‘And how is Roger?’ Peter Duncan said. He was a thick-set, healthy, balding man of about forty, who did not look in the least bit gay. He was drinking tomato-juice.
‘Very well, sends his best wishes to you.’ McQuade decided to get straight on with it. ‘He’s my lawyer, and said you’d be able to help me.’
‘Oh? Pity. I thought my luck might have changed. But how could I help you?’
The innuendo made McQuade more uncomfortable. ‘Roger said you would know all the gays in this town.’
‘Did he, now? But you aren’t one of us, are you? I can usually spot them.’
McQuade felt relieved. This man was out of the closet. ‘No,’ he smiled.
Duncan shrugged. ‘Well, I hardly know them all, old chap.’ He added with a frown: ‘But why?’
‘But with your … connections, you could find out whether a certain person is gay or not?’
Duncan frowned. ‘Maybe. But what’s all this about?’
McQuade pulled out his photo-copied list. ‘Roger wants to find out if any of these people are gay.’
Duncan took the list, but did not look at it. ‘Why didn’t Roger telephone me himself?’
McQuade sighed, theatrically. ‘Because it’s all rather sensitive. Legal ethics and all that. As a lawyer, Roger dare not be directly involved. Suffice it to say the information is needed for a case he’s handling for me.’ He paused. ‘Only the information. Nothing else.’
Duncan nodded slowly. ‘And that’s all you want to know? You won’t be asking me do anything else – of an illegal nature?’
‘Correct.’
‘Cross your heart?’
‘Cross my heart.’ McQuade smiled.
‘Can I telephone Roger, to verify this?’
‘Yes. He’ll have to be evasive, but, yes, telephone him and ask if I’m a client. And a good friend.’
Duncan turned to the bulky list. He ran his finger down the first page slowly, then looked to see how many pages there were. He folded the list, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. ‘Leave it with me. Call me tomorrow.’ He stopped. ‘No, telephones are not to be trusted in this country. Better drop around to my health studio at about ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He produced a card.
‘Many thanks, indeed.’ McQuade added earnestly, ‘You’ll be discreet with that list, won’t you?’
Duncan smiled wryly. ‘In the Fast Lane – in the intimate, bitchy world of homosexuality – it is very hard to be discreet. But for Roger’s sake I’ll do my best.’
McQuade walked back to the Landrover. Feeling a bit more encouraged. That the meeting had gone fine. No questions he couldn’t answer. He was not even worried about Duncan telephoning Roger, who would verify his credentials, and he felt confident that Mr Peter Duncan would come up with the information. He felt he had done a good day’s work, and right now he was going to find a cheap hotel and sleep. In a delicatessen he bought two hamburgers, in a liquor store two bottles of wine.
After asking for directions, he drove through town, looking for the Burgerspark Hotel which Johan Lombard had recommended. It looked too expensive for James McQuade, set in well-kept gardens, with a black doorman in a top hat and tails. McQuade did not even stop, but two blocks further down was the squat Assembly Hotel, a one-star establishment with neon signs advertising billiard room, beer garden and Flamingo Ladies Bar – that looked more McQuade’s speed.
He checked in and carried his own bag upstairs. The floor had not been polished for a long time, the double bed had a torn headboard, the bathroom had white tiles of public lavatory persuasion, but he did not care. It was cheap and all he wanted to do was sleep. He sat down on the bed, poured a glass of wine and held his face.
After Peter Duncan came up with the names of all the queers in the department, then what? How the hell was he going to blackmail an official queer? A queer official? Without ending up in jail?
Take one problem at a time. One day at a time. You’ve done very well in one day …
You’ve found out the scandal, found the names of all the civil servants, broken the ice with Peter Duncan, and Johan and this Professor Simone Jansen are going to save you a lot of work by telling you about old Nazi activity in South Africa. You have had a good day.
Then the chilling thought came back. What about the new double murder? And Inspector Dupreez? The Khorixas police would have informed him by now. McQuade had to telephone him tomorrow. Dupreez wasn’t going to be fooled. How many other natives in the area had Skellum or Jakob told about the two white demons who came struggling ashore forty years ago? How long before Dupreez discovered that motive for murder? Then that submarine would disappear out of his grasp. And so would Heinrich Muller.
And how long before those murdering bastards caught up with him …?