It was dark when McQuade got back to the motel at Hartebeestpoort. Exhausted from working all the previous night, he went straight to bed, but it took him a long time to go to sleep, his mind feverishly excited, turning over the importance of what he was on to.
Early next morning he checked out of the motel. He drove to a local garage and arranged for the dents to be panel-beaten out of the Landrover, the vehicle entirely resprayed. He asked where he could rent a motorcycle. He tied his handgrip onto the pillion, kicked the machine to life and got onto the by-road to Johannesburg.
He needed a hotel room with a telephone. He found the Holiday Inn in Bree Street. He checked in, locked his door, and got to work. He spread the summary and short-list on the table and dialled Directory Inquiries. ‘I want the number of a subscriber in Cape Town, please.’ He put his finger on the first name on his short-list.
He scribbled the number in the Remarks column of his list.
He paused, thinking through his lines again. Then he dialled.
A woman said: ‘Doctor Strauss’s residence.’
Doctor? ‘May I speak to Doctor Strauss, please.’
‘I’m afraid he’s not home yet. Who’s calling?’
‘Allan Benson,’ McQuade said. ‘Thank you, madam—’
‘Are you one of his students?’
‘No. Thank you, I’ll call back, goodbye.’
He hung up. He wrote in the Remarks column: Doctor? Home.
What kind of doctor has students? At age seventy-nine? Well, it was rather unlikely that Heinrich Muller had taken a doctorate in anything.
He looked at the next Strauss on his short-list. He flicked through the Johannesburg telephone directory. Hans George Hendrik Strauss, 34, 8th Avenue, Parktown North. He dialled.
An African voice said: ‘Hullo.’
‘May I speak to Mr Strauss, please?’
‘Yes, wait please, sir.’
McQuade returned the receiver to its cradle. He wrote in the Remarks column: Home.
He put his finger on the next name on his short-list. Martin Hendrik Strauss. He ran his finger down the directory. He noted the number down. He dialled.
A voice rasped: ‘Strauss.’
McQuade said: ‘Good morning, may I speak to Mr Strauss senior, please.’
‘Speaking. There is no Mr Strauss junior.’
McQuade forced a grin into his voice. ‘Hullo, Malcolm! This is Clive! Long time no see!’
There was a pause. ‘Did you say Malcolm?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry, wrong number. My name is not Malcolm.’
‘I’m terribly sorry – goodbye.’
He hung up. He wrote in the Remarks column: Home.
Two hours later he had telephoned all the people on his short-list, all over southern Africa.
He sighed tensely. Well, that was the first step. He now knew all the gentlemen on his short-list were at home. And he had provisionally shortened that list: Dr Strauss with his students in Cape Town could be written off provisionally. So could two others: one was frightfully English, the other was at the synagogue. He felt he was getting somewhere.
He looked at his watch. Then put his finger at the topmost name on the Question-mark list. He dialled Directory Inquiries again.
At one-thirty McQuade made his last entry in the Remarks column. He got up and collapsed on the bed.
All right. He now had an idea how much work he had to do. How many men he had to see long enough to have a good look at their faces. And how was he going to achieve that? He recapped his options.
Option one: Surveillance. Lie in wait outside their houses and photograph them with a telephoto lens.
No. He might have to resort to that eventually, but not now. Firstly, it would take a long time. Secondly, the surveillance could make him unconspicuous, Thirdly, he might photograph the wrong man.
Option two: find out the man’s movements, the clubs he belongs to, his employment, et cetera, then think up a scheme to get a good look at him.
Again, no. Again, it would take too long. He would have to do that after he had identified his man.
Option three: Trespass and house-breaking. Climb his garden wall, shin up his drainpipe, and get a good look at him.
Obviously not. How many times could he get away with it before he was slapped in jail? Not to mention all the dogs that might bite him, the guns that might be fired. And Heinrich Muller was going to be highly security-conscious after the fate that befell his pal Adolf Eichmann.
That only left Option Four: Gain entry by a trick. In circumstances that required the man to deal with him face to face. What trick was that?
Several possibilities.
Pretend to be the man who reads the electricity meter. Or the municipal inspector come to check on his drains.
Not bad. And it wouldn’t require any uniform. But it would require an identification document – especially from a security-conscious Herr Muller. And what did that look like, and how would he get one forged? But the biggest snag was that he might not set eyes on Herr Strauss – it might be Mrs Strauss or the servant who shows him the meter or the drains.
So what other tricks were there? He tried to think of an alternative, but could not: there was only one type of person he could impersonate: a policeman. Everybody opens the door for a policeman.
But how do you get hold of a policeman’s uniform?
No good pretending to be a plain-clothed policeman. He would have to produce identification. And how could he get one forged? Trouble. Risk. No, he had to get hold of a uniform.
He went to the telephone and rang room-service for coffee. He opened the yellow pages directory.
There were plenty of advertisements by tailors. Men’s, women’s, children’s, bespoke and haute couture, down to domestic servants’ uniforms, Al Tailors up to Zenith Tailors. He made notes of those that sounded promising. Then he turned to Costumiers.
In Johannesburg there are several costumiers, people who specialize in renting costumes to film-makers, advertising agencies, dramatic societies and for fancy dress balls. He made a note of all of them. Then he looked for Leather.
There were many leather workers, from dealers in raw hides to Olde Fashioned Shoemakers for the Hard-to-Fit and Hard-to-Please. He made his notes.
He turned to the letter B for Buttons, and ten minutes later he had finished. He thought it through, picked up the telephone and dialled.
‘Backstage,’ a voice sang.
‘Good afternoon,’ McQuade said. ‘I’m a member of an amateur dramatic society. We’re a new group – and we need to hire some costumes.’
‘Certainly, sir. If you tell me the name of the play it would be helpful, as we’ve assisted in many.’
McQuade was ready for it. ‘You won’t have heard of this one, it’s just been written by a local chap. But it’s a courtroom drama and we need a judge’s robes and two South African police uniforms.’
‘No problem with the judge’s robes. But I’m afraid we are not allowed to rent out police uniforms. Under the Police Act it is an offence to possess a police uniform, in case it is used to impersonate a policeman.’
McQuade closed his eyes. ‘I see …’
Of course,’ the man went on, ‘you can go to the officer in charge of your local police station and tell him your problem and he can issue you with a permit to borrow a uniform. They’re usually very helpful. Now, if you want to hire an English Bobby’s uniform, helmet, the lot – no problem.’
‘I see. But couldn’t you perhaps make me a police uniform?’
‘We’ve got tailors who will make you anything, but not a police uniform. Phone all the costumiers in the country, they’ll tell you the same. Now, when do you want these judge’s robes, sir?’
‘Thank you but we’ll have to see the police first,’ McQuade said quickly. ‘I’ll call you back.’
He hung up, telephoned the other costumiers, but got the same information.
What was he going to do about this?
He called Bloomberg and asked where Nathan was staying in Cape Town. He telephoned him. ‘When are you coming back?’ he demanded.
‘Next weekend,’ Nathan said.
‘Listen, this is important. Have you got anybody at your lingerie factory who could make a man’s suit?’
Surprise. ‘Why can’t you go to an ordinary tailor?’
‘We,’ McQuade emphasized, ‘need a tailor who’ll ask no questions.’
Nathan was mystified. ‘Why?’
‘Because, it’s a policeman’s uniform we want.’ He paused. ‘For our fancy dress ball. Remember?’
Understanding dawned on Nathan. ‘No,’ he said, ‘none of my staff could do it. And I wouldn’t ask anybody even if they could.’
McQuade had expected it. ‘Well, you’re in the rag-trade, you must know tailors you could trust?’
‘Sure, but only with legal business.’
‘Well think about it!’ McQuade snapped. ‘This is your investment, remember! I’ll call you back in an hour.’
‘But,’ Nathan whined, ‘why must you … go as a policeman?’
‘Because I’ve thought it all through! In fact, you should come back to Johannesburg immediately and help me. I don’t know this town.’
‘I’m here on business.’
‘This is your business too! You want that fancy dress prize, don’t you?’
‘Just give me back my twenty grand,’ Nathan whined, ‘and you can win the prize all by yourself. Sharon would cut me off without a penny if I walked away from this business trip.’
‘Talking about money, I’m wasting it in hotels when your house is empty. Can I stay there until you come back? And use the telephone?’
‘Sure,’ Nathan said, relieved to be agreeable to something. He added: ‘Just take it easy on the telephone.’
‘Thanks. And think about a tailor.’
How was this tailor going to know what to make? He would need a real uniform to copy. A photograph? He sat, thinking. Then reached for the telephone directory. He dialled the Public Library.
Five minutes later he hung up, very relieved. There existed a large, coffee-table book called Onse Polisie, Our Police, with many photographs of fine policemen in all their different regalia, giving a history of the force.
Next, he turned to his notes headed Buttons. He dialled.
A cheerful voice said, ‘Collectibles.’
‘I believe you sell all kinds of military insignia and so forth? I collect police buttons. Have you got a complete set of South African police buttons? Plus badges, insignia, and so forth?’
‘Modern police insignia, or antiques?’
‘Modern.’
‘Sorry. That modern stuff isn’t on the market yet. In years to come, they’ll start showing up.’
McQuade’s heart was sinking. ‘Isn’t there a shop that supplies policemen?’
‘No, sir. Only Police Headquarters. Your only hope is to go to the Police Recreation Club, introduce yourself as a collector and try to meet some cops who’re interested in the same thing.’
No way was he going near a policeman. ‘Yes?’
‘Then maybe I can sell you some insignia to swop with them. We have a big range from both world wars, British, American, South African, Australian, Italian, German, Japanese – and old police stuff. Why don’t you come and have a look, sir?’
McQuade said he would, thanked him, and hung up.
He sat back. This wasn’t going to be easy. If he couldn’t get the buttons the uniform was useless.
He put that problem aside, and turned to his notes of tailors. He thought well before making his first choice.
An Indian voice said, ‘Patel Brothers.’
McQuade put on a heavy South African accent.
‘Good morning, I’m a policeman and I’m going to need two uniforms made quickly, hey. My friend and I are here on holiday, and we have to attend a formal police wedding, man. Can you make two uniforms in a hurry?’
No hesitation. ‘Yes, sir. In how much of a hurry?’
‘Forty-eight hours? I’ll bring in a photograph for you to copy from. Look, if you can’t guarantee there’ll be no problems, I’ll find another tailor.’
‘Oh my goodness me, there’ll be no problems, sir.’
‘What about the material?’
‘Don’t worry, sir, we can find it in Jo’burg, sir.’
‘And what about our caps? You can make that too, hey?’
Mr Patel hesitated. ‘Your caps, sir?’
‘Of course. That can’t be hard, man, just some plastic covered in the right cloth? Look, there must be plenty of hatmakers in Johannesburg.’
Mr Patel said hastily, ‘Oh my goodness, no problem for me to make your hats, sir.’
McQuade took a deep breath of relief.
‘Okay, Mr Patel, I’ll come in to your shop later, hey.’
He bade Mr Patel a no-nonsense goodbye.
Thank God for Mr Patel. He consulted his notes of leather workers.
‘Leather Unlimited,’ a girl said.
‘Good afternoon. I want to have two belts and Sam Brownes made. You know, the leather strap that a military officer wears over his shoulders, attached to his belt.’
‘Yes?’ the girl said.
‘If I bring a photograph, could you copy it exactly?’
‘Oh, no difficulty at all.’
‘Thank you,’ McQuade said with relief. ‘And what about buckles and revolver holsters?’
‘The leather work won’t be any problem. We’ve got all kinds of brass in stock, and we can have most things made by outside craftsmen.’
‘Badges too?’
The girl hesitated. ‘We haven’t had this arise before. It would depend on the detail. These guys are pretty good. Or maybe they can make a mould and cast it for you. It depends on how much you’re prepared to spend.’
They said their goodbyes. McQuade sat there. These buttons and badges were the only problem. The whole plan could founder on these buttons and badges.
Wide stone steps sweep up to the Johannesburg Library, massive columns support its imposing facade; the city fathers of the Golden City had spared no expense. The atrium houses bronze busts of some of them, halls of books lead off and staircases lined with magnificent old oil paintings sweep upwards to more. McQuade found his way down panelled corridors to the reference section. Many people, black and white, hunched over tomes on polished tables in sepulchral silence.
The charming librarian brought him the large pictorial book entitled Onse Polisie, Our Police.
He flicked through it. The text was in both English and Afrikaans, and there were photographs of policemen from all angles, front, side and rear. The front page had an excellent photograph of a policeman’s cap badge.
He turned to the chapter on the Namibian police. They had a different uniform, as well as different buttons and badges.
What was Mr Patel going to say about this? Where was he going to get the Namibian buttons and badges? How was he going to explain two pairs of different police force uniforms to Mr Patel?
Answer: He couldn’t. He’d have to find another Mr Patel, a Mr Naidoo or Mr Wong. More weak links in the chain; more men to convince, bribe, bully; more men to blow the whistle on him …
He took a weary breath, closed the book, and took it to the librarian.
‘Where is the nearest shop I can buy this book?’
Patel Brothers had their premises in Diagonal Street, the old part of Johannesburg, where the shop fronts are single-storied Victorian with dirty pillars supporting galvanized iron roofs, their windows crammed with African truck, from hairpins to bicycles. The street was thronged with blacks. McQuade walked in with his new copy of Our Police.
The shop smelt of cloth and curry. Neon lights still left the place in half-darkness. Bolts of cloth lined the walls. There was a wooden counter, beyond which a door led onto a workroom where several blacks sat at sewing machines. Another doorway led onto a steamy kitchen, a backyard beyond. Two silhouettes appeared. One was a neat Indian man with greying hair, the other a woman in a sari.
‘Good afternoon,’ McQuade said in a heavy South African accent. ‘I telephoned you this morning about making my police uniforms, hey?’
Mr Patel’s eyes flickered, and he said hastily, ‘Not me, sir, my brother, sir …’
‘Well, is he here, man?’
Mr Patel said something rapidly in dialect. The woman left, closing the kitchen door behind her. Mr Patel looked very nervous, his eyes sliding as he turned back to McQuade. ‘My brother has told me to tell you he’s very sorry but he cannot make your uniforms, sir.’
McQuade’s heart was sinking. ‘Why not?’
Mr Patel shook his head. ‘We have too much work, sir, too very much work.’
‘But your brother told me there’d be no problem, man!’
‘My brother is crazy, sir’ – he made circles around his ear – ‘quite crazy, he don’t know nothing, sir.’ Mr Patel threw up his hands and rolled his liquid eyes. ‘But he is quite innocent, sir, he does not know it is illegal to make policeman’s uniforms, sir, he is quite stupid and innocent, sir—’
‘But all I want is a new uniform for a wedding—’
‘Oh my goodness gracious me, sir, my brother he told me, sir, but he doesn’t understand about the law, sir, Patel Brothers never break the law and so I telephoned our lawyer, sir, and he said it is quite illegal to make a police uniform, sir.’ He clasped his hands. ‘Oh, my goodness gracious, please excuse my stupid brother, sir.’
McQuade wanted to get the hell out of here, but this was his only chance. ‘Well, Got, man, can you tell me another tailor who is not so stupid?’
Mr Patel clutched his hands together. ‘Oh my goodness gracious me, I’m sorry, sir. All my friends know the law except my stupid brother, sir.’
Oh Jesus, the word had gone around … With the last of his composure McQuade held a finger out at Mr Patel. ‘You’ll never get any more business from me, hey!’
The taxi dropped him near the shop called Collectibles. He was worried how far the story had gone from Mr Patel, and whether there was a police informer along that line. How the hell was he going to get a uniform now? He walked into Collectibles, on edge.
‘Ah yes,’ the man said. He went to a cabinet and pulled out a tray. ‘These are old police buttons.’
McQuade had a vivid picture in his mind of the modern police buttons. And at a glance these old buttons looked almost identical! ‘Have you got an entire set? Tunic, cuffs, et cetera?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have two sets?’
The man disappeared into a back room. He re-emerged with a box. He tipped buttons onto the counter, and sorted them out. McQuade watched, his hopes rising.
‘All except two cuff buttons,’ the man said.
‘Have you got something similar?’
‘Yes, but the crest will be different.’ The man went off again. He came back with another box.
McQuade selected two. They bore naval crests, but they looked the same size as the police buttons.
‘What are you going to do with these, sir? Swop them or what?’
‘Probably just put them in my display cabinet. Can I look at your old cap badges?’
A tray came out. There were all kinds of badges, but nothing that closely resembled the police cap badge.
McQuade bought two, anyway. He would have his cap off when he came face to face with Mr Strauss.
He got back to his hotel about six o’clock, sat down and dialled Nathan in Cape Town. ‘Well?’
‘There’s nobody,’ Nathan complained. ‘I tried one tailor friend, who just might have gone along with it, and he refused point blank. I tried Julie Wonderful, but he’s in the Middle East flogging magic carpets until next week sometime. He’s your best bet.’
McQuade cursed. ‘Doesn’t Bloomberg know anybody?’
‘I asked Bloomers, and he nearly had a heart-attack.’
‘Couldn’t Sharon do it? All women can make dresses and things.’
There was a pause. ‘Sharon?’ Nathan said. ‘Did you say Sharon?’
‘Yes, you dope!’
‘No way,’ Nathan exhaled. ‘No way must Sharon know about this or she’ll remodel my circumcision with a blunt bread-knife.’
McQuade hung up, went to the bed and collapsed.
Okay, so he had passable buttons. Now what?
There were doubtless dozens of crooks in this town who could supply him with police uniforms. But how to find them and can you trust a crook to keep his mouth shut?
He massaged his eyelids. Not yet. No way was he about to blow his whole submarine and millions of dollars by opening his mouth to Johannesburg crooks. And how many police-informers were in that underground? No, not yet.
Unless he came up with another idea, tomorrow he would have to find a dishonest private detective, and put the problem to him.
Then he had another idea. He doubted this would work, either, but he had nothing to lose because now she knew almost everything. And he ached to see her anyway.
He got up and telephoned Sarah’s apartment.