Free The Blood of an Englishman by James McClure

that followed with the chief switchboard operator at the General Post Office.
    “Lieutenant,” said Colonel Muller, a minute or so later, “I’ve got some news for you:
nobody
is talking on that line. Either the receiver’s off the hook, or.…” And he bunched his fists dramatically.
    “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Kramer replied, getting up off his corner of the desk, “but if you like, I’ll go down and take a look.”
    Zondi nosed the Chevrolet into another small backwater down in the oldest quarter of the city, and Kramer pointed to a street-sign half-engulfed by an unruly hedge. “Kitchener Row,” he said, relieved they had found it at long last. “Now what we want is Number Forty-two. It’s amazing he’d want to live in a dump like this—he’s certainly got the money to be somewhere much posher.” All his previous dealings with Bradshaw had taken place at either the shop in Ballard’s Arcade or in the hospital.
    “Forty-two will be on that side,” said Zondi.
    Kramer scanned the line of dreary orange-brick dwellings that stood so close together that some were almost touching. He had always had a strong antipathy for turn-of-the-century, jerry-built architecture, with its pointed cornices, pretentious Doric columns along the verandahs and steeply pitched tin roofs, and regarded them as the stuff of which bad dreams were made. He’d once had a witchlike aunt who’d lived in one, steeped in her memories and general incontinence, and given to pinching the pink cheeks of any young guest before offering them a biscuit.
    The car stopped.
    “This shouldn’t take long, Mickey,” said Kramer, patting his pockets to make sure he had his notebook, and discovering he was still carrying the length of cord about. “Here, play with this while I’m inside, and see if you can make out what it’s from. Doc Strydom thinks this frayed section half-way along is significant.”
    “Why are the ends cut off, boss?”
    “To make it shorter, of course! Hell, sometimes I think it must be true what they say about you kaffirs.…”
    Zondi laughed and settled back behind the wheel with the cord. “Some kind of pulley?” he murmured, becoming immediately engrossed.
    No. 42 Kitchener Row was a very small, unremarkable house that nobody would look at twice unless he was trying to find its front door. Kramer found it behind a faded canvas roller blind and knocked twice. When this failed to bring a response, he tried to find a doorbell, couldn’t see one anywhere, and knocked again. There wasn’t a sound from inside.
    He left the verandah and took a narrow footpath running between the left-hand side of the house and a high brick wall that cut off the neighbors. At the far end of the path was a wooden gate with a latch in it. He slipped the latch and stepped into a garden that took him quite by surprise; it wasn’t only far bigger than he’d imagined, but landscaped and filled with every tropic-bright bloom he had ever seen. Clearly such a garden could not have been put together in a decade or two, but must have been created by the original owners of the drab little house—all except for the swimming pool beyond the mulberry trees. As he advanced towards the pool, having caught a glimpse of movement there, the high wall all around enveloped him in a sense of total privacy that he coveted.
    He coveted even more the stunning if diminutive female form in a bikini who stood with her back towards him at thenear end of the pool, adjusting her yellow bathing cap. The legs were long and slender, the buttocks were firmly rounded, the waist was small, the shoulders wide, and from what he could see of the left breast, its perky promise was worth fighting and dying for. It was all he could do to keep walking, and not to throw himself forward, taking her—in every sense of the word—completely by surprise. What a wild, truly magnificent encounter that would be, there among the birds and the bees and the flowers,