Chapter 5

In the following days Kommandant van Heerden, oblivious of the interest that was being focused on him both by Luitenant Verkramp and Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, continued his literary pilgrimage with increased fervour. Every morning, closely shadowed by the Security men detailed by Verkramp to watch him, he would visit the Piemburg Library for a fresh volume of Dornford Yates and every evening return to his bugged home to devote himself to its study. When finally he went to bed he would lie in the darkness repeating to himself his adaptation of Coue’s famous formula, “Every day and in every way, I am becoming Berrier and Berrier,” a form of auto-suggestion that had little observable effect on the Kommandant himself but drove the eavesdropping Verkramp frantic.

“What the hell does it all mean?” he asked Sergeant Breitenbach as they listened to the tape-recording of these nocturnal efforts at self-improvement.

“A berry is a sort of fruit,” said the Sergeant without much conviction.

“It’s also something you do when you want to get rid of bodies,” said Verkramp, whose own taste was more funereal, “but why the devil does he repeat it over and over again?”

“Sounds like a sort of prayer,” Sergeant Breitenbach said. “I had an aunt who got religious mania. She used to say her prayers all the time…” but Luitenant Verkramp didn’t want to hear about Sergeant Breitenbach’s aunt.

“I want a close watch kept on him all the time,” he said, “and the moment he starts doing anything suspicious like buying a spade let me know.”

“Why don’t you ask that headshrinker of yours …” the Sergeant asked, and was startled by the vehemence of Verkramp’s reply. He left the office with the distinct impression that if there was one thing Luitenant Verkramp didn’t want, need or wish for, it was Dr von Blimenstein.

Left to himself Verkramp tried to concentrate his mind on the problem of Kommandant van Heerden by looking through the reports of his movements.

“Went to Library. Went to police station. Went to Golf Club. Went home.” The regularity of these innocent activities was disheartening and yet hidden within this routine there lay the secret of the Kommandant’s terrible assurance and awful smile. Even the news that his house was being bugged by Communists had shaken it only momentarily and as far as Verkramp could judge the Kommandant had entirely forgotten the affair. True, he had banned Dr von Blimenstein’s questionnaire but, now that Verkramp had first-hand knowledge of the doctor’s sexual behaviour, he had to admit that it was a wise decision. With what amounted to, literally, hindsight Luitenant Verkramp realized that he had been on the verge of disclosing the sexual habits of every policeman in Piemburg to a woman with vested interests in the subject. He shuddered to think what use she would have put that information to and turned his attention to the question of miscegenating policemen. It was obvious that he would have to tackle that problem without outside help and after trying to remember what Dr von Blimenstein had told him about the technique he went off to the Public Library, partly to see if there were any books there on aversion therapy but also because the Library figured so frequently in Kommandant van Heerden’s itinerary. An hour later, clutching a copy of Fact & Fiction in Psychology by H. J. Eysenck, he returned to the police station satisfied that he had got hold of the definitive work on aversion therapy but still no nearer any understanding of the change that had come over the Kommandant. His inquiries about the Kommandant’s reading habits, unconvincingly prefaced by the remark that he was thinking of buying him a book for Christmas, had elicited no more than that Kommandant van Heerden was fond of romantic novels which wasn’t very helpful.

On the other hand Dr Eysenck was. By skilful use of the index Luitenant Verkramp managed to avoid having to read those portions of the book which taxed his intellectual stamina and instead concentrated on descriptions and cures effected by apomorphine and electric shock treatment. He was particularly interested in the case of the Cross Dressing Truck Driver and the case of the Corseted Engineer both of whom had come to see the error of their ways thanks in the case of the former to injections of apomorphine and of the latter to electric shocks. The treatment seemed quite simple and Verkramp had no doubt that he would be able to administer it if only he was given the opportunity. Certainly there was no difficulty about electric shock machines. Piemburg Police Station was littered with the things and Verkramp felt sure the police surgeon would be able to supply apomorphine. The main obstacle lay in the presence of Kommandant van Heerden, whose opposition to all innovations had proved such a handicap to Luitenant Verkramp in the past. “If only the old fool would take a holiday,” Verkramp thought as he turned to the case of the Impotent Accountant only to learn to his disappointment that the man had been cured without recourse to apomorphine or electric shocks. The Case of the Prams and Handbags was much more interesting.

 While Verkramp tried to forget Dr von Blimenstein by immersing himself in the study of abnormal psychology, the doctor, unaware of the fatal impact her sexuality had had on Verkramp’s regard for her, tried desperately to remember the full details of their night together. All she could recall was arriving at Casualty Department of Piemburg Hospital classified according to the ambulance driver as an epileptic. When that misunderstanding had been cleared up she had been diagnosed as blind drunk and could vaguely remember having her stomach pumped out before being bundled into a taxi and sent back to Fort Rapier where her appearance had led to an unpleasant interview with the Hospital Principal the following morning. Since then she had telephoned Verkramp several times only to find that his line seemed to be permanently engaged. In the end she gave up and decided that it was unladylike to pursue him. “He’ll come back to me in due course,” she said smugly. “He won’t be able to keep away.” Every night after her bath she admired Verkramp’s teeth marks in the mirror and slept with her torn vermilion panties under the pillow as proof of the Luitenant’s devotion to her. “Strong oral needs,” she thought happily, and her breasts heaved in anticipation.

 Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was too much of a lady to have any doubts about the propriety of pursuing her acquaintance with Kommandant van Heerden. Every afternoon the vintage Rolls would steal down the drive of the golf course and Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon would play a round of very good golf until the Kommandant arrived. Then she would save him the embarrassment of displaying his ineptness with a golf club by engaging him in conversation.

“You must think I’m absolutely frightful,” she murmured one afternoon as they sat on the verandah.

The Kommandant said he didn’t think anything of the sort.

“I suppose it’s because I’ve had so little experience of the real world,” she continued, “that I find it so fascinating to meet a man with so much je ne sais quoi.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said the Kommandant modestly. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon wagged a gloved finger at him.

“And witty too,” she said though the Kommandant couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. “One somehow never expects a man in a position of responsibility to have a sense of humour and being the Kommandant of Police in a town the size of Piemburg must be an awesome responsibility. There must be nights when you simply can’t get to sleep for worry.”

The Kommandant could think of several nights recently when he couldn’t sleep but he wasn’t prepared to admit it.

“When I go to bed,” he said, “I go to sleep. I don’t worry.” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon looked at him with admiration.

“How I envy you,” she said, “I suffer terribly from insomnia. I lie awake thinking about how things have changed in my lifetime and remembering the good old days in Kenya before those awful Mau-Mau came along and spoilt everything. Now look what a horrible mess the blacks have made of the country. Why they’ve even stopped the races at Thomson’s Falls.” She sighed and the Kommandant commiserated with her.

“You should try reading in bed,” he suggested. “Some people find that helps.”

“But what?” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon asked in a tone which suggested she had read everything there was to read.

“Dornford Yates,” said the Kommandant promptly and was delighted to find Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon staring at him in astonishment. It was precisely the effect he had hoped for.

“You too?” she gasped. “Are you a fan?”

The Kommandant nodded.

“Isn’t he marvellous?” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon continued breathlessly, “Isn’t he absolutely brilliant? My husband and I are devoted to him. Absolutely devoted. That’s one of the reasons we went to live in Umtali. Just to be near him. Just to breathe the same air he breathed and to know that we were living in the same town as the great man. It was a wonderful experience. Really wonderful.” She paused in her recital of the literary amenities of Umtali long enough for the Kommandant to say that he was surprised Dornford Yates had lived in Rhodesia. “I’ve always pictured him in England,” he said, conveniently forgetting that always in this case meant a week.

“He came out during the war,” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon explained, “and then went back to the house at Eaux Bonnes in the Pyrenees afterwards, the House That Berry Built you know but the French were so horrid and everything so terribly changed that he couldn’t stand it and settled in Umtali till his death.”

The Kommandant said he was sorry he had died and that he would like to have known him.

“It was a great privilege,” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon agreed sadly. “A very great privilege to know a man who has enriched the English language.” She paused in memory for a moment before continuing. “How extraordinary that you should find him so wonderful. I mean I don’t want to … well… I always thought he appealed only to the English and to find a true Afrikaner who likes him …” she trailed off, evidently afraid of offending him. Kommandant van Heerden assured her that Dornford Yates was the sort of Englishman Afrikaners most admired.

“Really,” said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, “you do amaze me. He’d have loved to hear you say that. He had such a loathing for foreigners himself.”

“I can understand that too,” said the Kommandant. “They’re not very nice people.”

By the time they parted Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon had said that the Kommandant must meet her husband and the Kommandant had said he would be honoured to.

“You must come and stay at White Ladies,” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon said as the Kommandant opened the door of the Rolls for her.

“Which white lady’s?” the Kommandant inquired. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon reached out a gloved hand and tweaked his ear.

“Naughty,” she said delightfully, “naughty, witty man,” and drove off leaving the Kommandant wondering what he had said to merit the charming rebuke.

 “You’ve done what?” Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon asked apoplectically when she told him that she had invited the Kommandant to stay. “At White Ladies? A bloody Boer? I won’t hear of it. My God, you’ll be asking Indians or niggers next. I don’t care what you say, I’m not having the swine in my house.”

Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon turned to Major Bloxham. “You explain, Boy, he’ll listen to you,” and took herself to her room with a migraine.

Major Bloxham found the Colonel among his azaleas and was disheartened by his florid complexion.

“You ought to take it easy, old chap,” he said. “Blood pressure and all that.”

“What do you expect when that damned woman tells me she’s invited some blue-based baboon to come and stay at White Ladies?” the Colonel snarled, gesticulating horridly with his pruning shears.

“A bit much,” said the Major placatorily.

“A bit? It’s a damned sight too much if you ask me. Not that anyone does round here. Sponging swine,” and he disappeared into a bush leaving the Major rather hurt by the ambiguity of the remark.

“Seems he’s a fan of the Master,” said the Major addressing himself to a large blossom.

“Hm,” snorted the Colonel who had transferred his attentions to a rhododendron, “I’ve heard that tale before. Says that to get his foot in the door and before you know what’s happened the whole damned club is full of ’em.”

Major Bloxham said there was something to be said for that point of view but that the Kommandant sounded quite genuine. The Colonel disagreed.

“Used to wave a white flag and shoot our officers down,” he shouted. “Can’t trust a Boer further than you can see him.”

“But…” said the Major trying to keep track of the Colonel’s physical whereabouts while staying with his train of thought.

“But me no buts,” shouted the Colonel from a hydrangea. “The man’s a scoundrel. Got coloured blood too. All Afrikaners have a touch of the tar. A known fact. Not having a nigger in my house.” His voice distant in the shrubbery rumbled on to the insistent click of the secateurs and Major Bloxham turned back towards the house. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, her migraine quite recovered, was drinking a sundowner on the stoep.

“Intransigent, my dear,” said the Major treading warily past the chihuahua that lay at her feet. “Utterly intransigent.” Proud of his use of such a diplomatically polysyllabic communique the Major poured himself a double whisky. It was going to be a long hard evening.

“Cub hunting season,” said the Colonel over avocado pears at dinner. “Look forward to that.”

“Fox in good form?” asked the Major.

“Harbinger’s been keeping him in trim,” said the Colonel, “been taking him for a ten-mile trot every morning. Good man, Harbinger, knows his job.”

“Damn fine whipper-in,” said the Major, “Harbinger.”

At the far end of the polished mahogany table Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon gouged her avocado resentfully.

“Harbinger’s a convict,” she said presently. “You got him from the prison at Weezen.”

“Poacher turned gamekeeper,” said the Colonel, who disliked his wife’s new habit of intruding a sense of reality into his world of reassuring artifice. “Make the best sort, you know. Good with dogs too.”

“Hounds,” said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon reprovingly. “Hounds, dear, never dogs.”

Opposite her the Colonel turned a deeper shade of puce.

“After all,” continued Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon before the Colonel could think of a suitable reply, “if we are going to pretend we’re county and that we’ve ridden to hounds for countless generations, we might as well do it properly.”

Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon regarded his wife venomously. “You forget yourself, my dear,” he said at last.

“How right you are,” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon answered, “I have forgotten myself. I think we all have.” She rose from the table and left the room.

“Extraordinary behaviour,” said the Colonel. “Can’t think what’s come over the woman. Used to be perfectly normal.”

“Perhaps it’s the heat,” suggested the Major.

“Heat?” said the Colonel.

“The weather,” Major Bloxham explained hurriedly. “Hot weather makes people irritable, don’t you know.”

“Hot as hell in Nairobi. Never bothered her there. Can’t see why it should give her the habdabs here.”

They finished their meal in silence and the Colonel took his coffee through to his study where he listened to the stock-market report on the radio. Gold shares were up, he noted thankfully. He would ring his broker in the morning and tell him to sell West Driefontein. Then switching the radio off he went to the bookshelf and took down a copy of Berry & Co. and settled down to read it for the eighty-third time. Presently, unable to concentrate, he laid the book aside and went out on to the stoep where Major Bloxham was sitting in the darkness with a glass of whisky looking out at the lights of the city far below.

“What are you doing, Boy?” asked the Colonel with something akin to affection in his voice.

“Trying to remember what winkles taste like,” said the Major. “Such a long time since I had them.”

“Prefer oysters meself,” said the Colonel. They sat together in silence for some time. In the distance some Zulus were singing.

“Bad business,” the Colonel said, breaking the silence. “Can’t have Daphne upset. Can’t have this damned fellow either. Don’t know what to do.”

“Don’t suppose we can,” agreed the Major. “Pity we can’t put him off somehow.”

“Put him off?”

“Tell him we’ve got foot-and-mouth or something,” said the Major whose career was littered with dubious excuses. Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon considered the idea and rejected it.

“Wouldn’t wash,” he said finally.

“Never do. Boers,” said the Major.

“Foot-and-mouth.”

“Oh.”

There was a long pause while they stared into the night.

“Bad business,” said the Colonel in the end and went off to bed. Major Bloxham sat on thinking about shellfish.

In her room Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon lay under one sheet unable to sleep and listened to the Zulus’ singing and the occasional murmur of voices from the stoep with increasing bitterness. “They’ll humiliate him if he comes,” she thought, recalling the miseries of her youth when napkins had been serviettes and lunch dinner. It was the thought of the humiliation she would suffer by proxy as the Kommandant fumbled for the fish fork for the meat course that finally decided Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon. She switched on the light and sat at her writing table and wrote a note on mauve deckle-edged paper to the Kommandant.

“You’re going to town, Boy?” she asked the Major next morning at breakfast. “Pop this into the police station will you?” She slid the envelope across the table to him.

“Right you are,” said Major Bloxham. He hadn’t intended going to Piemburg but his position in the household demanded just this sort of sacrifice. “Putting him off?”

“Certainly not,” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon said looking coldly at her husband. “Compromising. It’s the English art or so I’ve been led to believe. I’ve said we’re full up and…”

“Damned good show, my dear,” interrupted the Colonel.

“And I’ve asked him if he would mind putting up at the hotel instead. He can have lunch and dinner with us and I trust you’ll have the decency to treat him properly if he accepts.”

“Seems a fair arrangement to me,” said the Colonel.

“Very fair,” the Major agreed.

“It’s the least I can do,” said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, “in the circumstances. I’ve told him you’ll foot the bill.”

She got up and went into the kitchen to vent her irritation on the black servants.

 At Piemburg Police Station Kommandant van Heerden was busy making arrangements for his holiday. He had bought a map of the Weezen district, a trout rod and flies, a pair of stout walking boots, a deerstalker hat, a twelve-bore shotgun, some waders, and a pocket book called Etiquette for Everyman. Thus accoutred he felt confident that his stay with the Heathcote-Kilkoons would give him valuable experience in the art of behaving like an English gentleman.

He had even gone to the trouble of buying two pairs of pyjamas and some new socks because his old ones had mended holes in them. Having acquired the outward vestiges of Englishness, the Kommandant had practised saying “Frightfully” and “Absolutely” in what he hoped was an authentic accent. When it was dark he went into his garden with the trout rod and practised casting flies into a bucket of water on the lawn without ever managing to land a fly in the bucket but decapitating several dozen dahlias in the attempt.

“Practising what?” Luitenant Verkramp asked incredulously when his men reported this new activity to him.

“Fishing from a bucket,” the Security men told him.

“He’s off his rocker,” Verkramp said.

“Keeps muttering to himself too. Repeats ‘Fascinating’ and ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir’ over and over again.”

“I know that,” said Verkramp who had listened in to the Kommandant’s monologue on his radio.

“Here’s a list of all the things he’s bought,” said another Security man. Verkramp looked down the list of waders and deerstalkers and boots, completely mystified.

“What’s all this about him meeting some woman at the Golf Club?” he asked. He had never given up his original idea that the Kommandant was engaged in some sort of illicit love affair.

“Chats her up every day,” the Security men told him. “Plump little thing with dyed hair aged about fifty-five. Drives an old Rolls.”

Verkramp gave orders to his men to find out all they could about Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon and went back to his study of Fact & Fiction in Psychology. He had no sooner started than his phone rang with a message that the Kommandant wanted to see him. Verkramp put the book away and went along the passage to the Kommandant’s office.

“Ah, Verkramp,” said the Kommandant, “I’m taking a fortnight’s leave as from Friday and I’m leaving you in charge here.” Luitenant Verkramp was delighted.

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” he said diplomatically. “We’ll miss you.” The Kommandant looked up unpleasantly. He didn’t for one moment believe that Verkramp would miss him, particularly when he had been left in command.

“How are you getting on in the search for those Communists?” he asked.

“Communists?” said Verkramp, puzzled for a moment. “Oh well it’s a long business sir. Results take a long time.”

“They must do,” said the Kommandant feeling that he had punctured Verkramp’s irritating complacency a bit. “Well, while I’m away I expect you to concentrate on routine crime and the maintenance of law and order. I don’t want to find that rapes, burglaries and murders have gone up in my absence. Understand?”

“Yes sir,” said Verkramp. The Kommandant dismissed him and Verkramp went back to his office in high spirits. The opportunity he had been waiting for had arrived at long last. He sat down at his desk and considered the manifold possibilities offered by his new authority.

“A fortnight,” he thought. “A fortnight in which to show what I can really do.” It wasn’t long but Luitenant Verkramp had no intention of wasting time. There were two things he had particularly in mind. With the Kommandant out of the way he would put into effect Plan Red Rout. Crossing to his safe he took out the folder in which all the details of the operation were kept. Months before he had drawn up the plan in secret. It was time to put it into practice. By the time Kommandant van Heerden returned from his holiday, Luitenant Verkramp was certain that he would have uncovered the network of saboteurs he was convinced was operating in Piemburg.

During the course of the morning Verkramp made a number of phone calls and in various firms throughout the city employees who didn’t normally receive phone calls during working hours were called to the phone. In each case the procedure was the same.

“The mamba is striking,” said Verkramp.

“The cobra has struck,” said the secret agent. Designed as an infallible method of communicating the order to his agents to meet him at their prearranged rendezvous, it had its disadvantages.

“What was all that about?” the girl in agent 745396’s office asked when he put down the phone after what could hardly be called a prolonged conversation.

“Nothing,” agent 745396 replied hastily.

“You said ‘The cobra has struck,’” said the girl, “I distinctly heard you. What cobra’s struck? That’s what I want to know.”

All over Piemburg Verkramp’s system of code words aroused interest and speculation in the offices where his secret agents worked.

That afternoon Luitenant Verkramp, disguised as a motor mechanic and driving a breakdown truck, left town for the first of his appointments, and half an hour later ten miles out on the Vlockfontein road was bending over the engine of 745396’s car pretending to mend a broken distributor to lend verisimilitude to his disguise while giving 745396 his instructions.

“Get yourself fired,” Verkramp told the agent.

“Done that already,” said 745396 who had taken the afternoon off without permission.

“Good,” said Verkramp wondering how the hell he was going to get the distributor together again. “I want you to work full-time from now on.”

“Doing what?”

“Infiltrating the revolutionary movement in Zululand.”

“Where do I start?” 745396 asked.

“Start hanging about Florian’s café and the Colonial Bar. Plenty of students and Commies go there. The University canteen is another place where subversives gather,” Verkramp explained.

“I know all that,” said 745396. “Last time I went there I got chucked out on my ear.”

“The last time you went there you hadn’t blown anything up,” said Verkramp. “This time you won’t just say you’re a saboteur, you’ll be able to prove it.”

“How?”

Verkramp led the way round to the cab of his breakdown truck and handed the agent a packet. “Gelignite and fuses,” he explained. “On Saturday night blow the transformer on the Durban road. Put it there at eleven and get back into town before it goes up. It’s got a fifteen-minute fuse.”

745396 looked at him in astonishment. “Jesus wept,” he said, “you really mean it?”

“Of course I do,” snapped Verkramp, “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought and it’s obviously the only way to infiltrate the sabotage movement. No one’s going to doubt the dedication to the Communist party of a man who’s blown up a transformer.”

“I don’t suppose they are,” 745396 agreed nervously. “What happens if I get arrested?”

“You won’t be,” Verkramp said.

“That’s what you told me when I had to pass those messages in the men’s lavatory in the Market Square,” said 745396, “and I got nabbed for soliciting.”

“That was different. Uniformed branch got you that time.”

“Uniformed branch could get me this time,” said 745396. “You never know.”

“I’m in charge of the uniformed branch from now on. I’m Kommandant from Friday,” Verkramp explained. “And anyway who paid your fine?”

“You did,” 745396 admitted, “but I got the publicity. You want to try working in an office where everyone thinks you make a habit of soliciting old men in public lavatories. It took me months to live that down and I had to move my lodgings five times.”

“We’ve all got to make sacrifices for a White South Africa,” said Verkramp, “which reminds me. I want you to move your digs every few days. That’s what real saboteurs do and you’ve got to be really convincing this time.”

“All right, so I blow the transformer. What then?”

“Do as I say. Mingle with the students and the lefties and let it be known you’re a saboteur. You’ll soon find the swine letting you in on their plans.”

745396 was doubtful. “How do I prove I blew the transformer?” he asked. Verkramp considered the problem.

“You’ve got a point there,” he agreed, “I suppose if you could show them some gelignite it would do the trick.”

“Fine,” said 745396 sarcastically, “and where do I get gelly from? I don’t keep the stuff handy you know.”

“The police armoury,” said Verkramp, “I’ll have a key cut and you can take some out when you need it.”

“What do I do when I’ve found the real saboteurs?” 745396 asked.

“Get them to blow something up and inform me before they do so that we can nab the bastards,” said Verkramp, and having arranged to drop the key of the police armoury at an arranged spot, he handed over 500 rand from Security Branch funds for expenses and left 745396 to fix the distributor he had taken to bits.

“Remember to get them to blow something up before we arrest them,” Verkramp told the agent before he left. “It’s important that we have proof of sabotage so we can hang the swine. I don’t want any conspiracy trials this time. I want proof of terrorism.”

He drove off to his next rendezvous and during the course of the next two days twelve secret agents had left their jobs and had been given targets round Piemburg to destroy. Twelve keys for the police armoury had been cut and Verkramp felt confident that he was about to strike a blow for freedom and Western Civilization in Piemburg which would significantly advance his career.

Back in his office Luitenant Verkramp checked the scheme and memorized all the details carefully before burning the file on Operation Red Rout as an added precaution against a security leak. He was particularly proud of his system of secret agents whom he had recruited separately over the years and paid out of the funds allocated by BOSS for informers. Each agent used a nom de guerre and was known to Verkramp only by his number so that there was nothing to connect him with BOSS. The method by which the agents reported back to him was similarly devious and consisted of coded messages placed in “drops” where they were collected by Verkramp’s security men. Each day of the week had a different code and a different “drop” which ensured that Verkramp’s men never met his agents, of whose existence they were only vaguely aware. The fact that the system was complex and that there were seven codes and seven drops for each agent and that there were twelve agents would have meant that there was an enormous amount of work being done had it not been for lack of Communist and subversive activity in Piemburg to be reported. In the past Verkramp had been lucky to receive more than one coded message per week, and that inevitably of no value. Now it would be different and he looked forward to an influx of information.

 Having initiated Operation Red Rout, Luitenant Verkramp considered his second campaign, that against miscegenating policemen, which he had code-named White Wash. Out of defence to Dr Eysenck he had decided to try apomorphine injections as well as electric shock and sent Sergeant Breitenbach to a wholesale chemist with an order for one hundred hypodermic syringes and two gallons of apomorphine.

“Two gallons?” asked the chemist incredulously. “Are you sure you’ve got this right?”

“Quite sure,” said Sergeant Breitenbach.

“And a hundred hypodermics?” asked the chemist, who still couldn’t believe his ears.

“That’s what I said,” insisted the Sergeant.

“I know that’s what you said but it doesn’t seem possible,” the chemist told him. “What in God’s name are you going to do with two gallons?”

Sergeant Breitenbach had been briefed by Verkramp.

“It’s for curing alcoholics,” he said.

“Dear God,” said the chemist, “I didn’t know there was that number of alcoholics in the country.”

“It makes them sick,” the Sergeant explained.

“You can say that again,” muttered the chemist. “With two gallons you could probably kill them all off too. Probably block the sewage system into the bargain. Anyway I can’t supply it.”

“Why not?”

“Well for one thing I haven’t got two gallons and wouldn’t know where to get it and for another you need a doctor’s prescription and I doubt if any doctor in his right mind would prescribe two gallons of apomorphine anyway.”

Sergeant Breitenbach reported his refusal to Luitenant Verkramp.

“Need a doctor’s prescription,” he said.

“You can get one from the police surgeon,” Verkramp told him and the Sergeant went down to the police morgue where the surgeon was performing an autopsy on an African who had been beaten to death during questioning.

“Natural causes,” he wrote on the death certificate before attending to Sergeant Breitenbach.

“There’s a limit to what I’m prepared to do,” said the surgeon with a sudden display of professional ethics. “I’ve got my Hippocratic oath to consider and I’m not issuing prescriptions for two gallons. A thousand cc is the most I’ll do and if Verkramp wants anything more out of them he’ll have to tickle their throats with a feather.”

“Is that enough?”

“At 3cc a dose you should get 330 pukes,” said the surgeon. “Don’t overdo it though. I’ve got my work cut out signing death certificates as it is.”

“Stingy old bastard,” said Verkramp when Sergeant Breitenbach returned from the chemist with twenty hypodermics and 1000cc of apomorphine. “The next thing we need is slides of kaffir girls in the raw. You can get the police photographer to take those as soon as the Kommandant leaves on Friday.”

 While his deputy was making these preparations for Kommandant van Heerden’s holiday, the Kommandant was adjusting himself to the change of plans occasioned by Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s letter. He was just passing the desk in the police station when Major Bloxham arrived.

“A letter for Kommandant van Heerden,” said the Major.

Kommandant van Heerden turned back. “That’s me,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” and shook the Major’s hand vigorously.

“Bloxham, Major,” said the Major nervously. Police stations always had this effect on him.

The Kommandant opened the mauve envelope and glanced at the letter.

“Hunting season. Always the same,” said the Major, by way of explanation, and alarmed by the suffusion of blood to the Kommandant’s face. “Damned awkward. Sorry.”

Kommandant van Heerden stuffed the letter hurriedly into his pocket.

“Yes. Well. Hm,” he said awkwardly.

“Any message?”

“No. Yes. I’ll stay at the hotel,” said the Kommandant and was about to shake hands again. But Major Bloxham had already left the police station and was getting his breath back in the street. The Kommandant went upstairs to his office and read the letter again in a state of considerable agitation. It was hardly the sort of letter he had expected to receive from Mrs. Heathcote-Kilkoon.

“Darling Van,” he read, “I feel so terrible writing to you like this but I’m sure you’ll understand. Aren’t husbands a frightful bore? It’s just that Henry’s being awkward and I would so love to have you but I think it would be better for all our sakes if you stayed at the hotel. It’s this wretched club thing of his and he’s so stubborn and anyway I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable there and you can come and eat with us. Please say you will and don’t be angry, Your loving Daphne.” It was heavily scented.

Unaccustomed as he was to receiving perfumed letters on mauve deckle-edged paper from other men’s wives, the Kommandant found the contents quite bewildering. What Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon meant by calling him Darling Van and describing her husband as a dreadful bore he could only surmise, but he was hardly surprised that Henry was being awkward. Given half an inkling that his wife was writing letters like this, the Colonel had every right to be awkward and the Kommandant, recalling the Major’s enigmatic remark about the hunting season being always the same, shuddered.

On the other hand the notion that he found favour in Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s eyes, and if the letter was anything to go by there wasn’t much doubt about that, appealed to the chivalrous instincts of the Kommandant. Of course, he wouldn’t be angry. Circumspect certainly but not angry. After consulting Etiquette for Everyman to see what it had to say about replying to amorous letters from married women and finding it of little use, the Kommandant began to draft a reply. As he couldn’t decide for ten minutes whether to use Dearest, My Dear, or simply Dear the letter took some considerable time to write and in its final form read, “Dearest Daphne, Kommandant van Heerden has pleasure in accepting Colonel & Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s kind invitation to stay at the hotel. He also has pleasure in accepting your invitation to dinner. Yours affectionately, Van,” which the Kommandant thought was a nice blend of informal and formal and unlikely to offend anyone. He sent it up by police messenger to the Heathcote-Kilkoons’ house at Piltdown. Then he turned his attention to the map and planned his route to Weezen. Lying at the foot of the Aardvark mountains, the little town had something of a reputation as a health resort - had once in fact been something of a spa - but in recent years had been forgotten like Piemburg itself and replaced as a holiday centre by the skyscrapers and motels along the coast.