Chapter 16

It was characteristic of Konstabel Els that his feelings as he watched the end of White Ladies were less ambiguous than those of the Kommandant. If he felt any regret, it was that his efforts at fire-raising had been so completely successful. He had at least hoped that the flames would have driven some survivors of the Dornford Yates Club out into the open where they could be shot down at leisure like men or more correctly as men dressed as women. Els particularly regretted the failure of his late employer to put in an appearance. He had been looking forward to despatching An English Rose with a degree of lingering incivility he felt the Colonel merited.

Long before the ashes were cool, Konstabel Els was busy in the ruins counting the bodies and making quite sure that no one had been overlooked. By the time he had finished he had managed to recover the melted remains of Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s jewels and was beginning to think that something else was missing.

Stumbling around in the ashes he counted the bodies again.

“There’s only eleven here,” he told Sergeant Breitenbach, who was watching him with some revulsion.

“Who cares?” asked the Sergeant rhetorically.

“I do,” said Els. “There ought to be thirteen.” He did some mental arithmetic. “Still wrong,” he said finally. “There’s still one missing.”

“How many servants?” asked the Sergeant.

“I’m not counting kaffirs,” said Els, “I’m talking about people.”

“Which one is it?”

“Looks like the Colonel,” said Els bitterly. “Shifty bastard. Typical of him to get away.”

Sergeant Breitenbach said he thought it was very sensible but he went over to the armoured cat and knocked on the door.

“What is it now?” the Kommandant asked sleepily.

“Els says the Colonel got away,” said the Sergeant and was amazed at the rapidity with which Kommandant van Heerden responded.

“Get the dogs” he yelled frantically, “get the dogs. We’ve got to find the swine.” As Sergeant Breitenbach gave orders for the Dobermann Pinschers to be released, Konstabel Els went off to the kennels and presently the gravel forecourt was filled with snarling police dogs and slobbering foxhounds, each pack busily disputing the right of the other to be there. In the middle of the seething mass Kommandant van Heerden, appalled at the knowledge that Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s irate husband was still at large and doubtless imbued with a new sense of grievance, tried to avoid getting bitten.

“Down Jason, down Snarler,” he yelled vainly trying to repeat the magic formula that had worked so well in the dell. Here it was less successful. Busy about their private business the hounds snapped and snarled at one another in an ever-increasing vortex of confusion and the Kommandant was just beginning to think he was going to be bitten to death when Els rode up on his nag leading Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s bay. The Kommandant climbed into the saddle thankfully and looked around.

“I suppose you could say I was MFHDP,” he said proudly. Els blew his horn and the hunt moved off through the gate and across the field.

“What’s DP stand for?” Els asked as they followed.

The Kommandant looked at him irritably. “Police dogs, of course,” he said and spurring the bay galloped after the hounds who had picked up the scent of The English Rose. Compounded of Chanel No 5 and aniseed, it was unmistakable. Even the Dobermann Pinschers loping ominously behind the fox hounds could pick it up. In the light of the early dawn they quickened their pace.

 So did Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon, whose sleep had not deflated him sufficiently to escape from the intractable embrace of his wife’s corsets. Stumbling about the thicket in an attempt to rid himself of the beastly things, the Colonel heard the sound of Els’ horn and read its message rightly. As the first foxhounds breasted the horizon a mile away the Colonel broke cover and headed for the river. As he ran he scattered the less obdurate accessories of An English Rose. The frock of pale pink georgette, the bell-shaped sleeves, the Leghorn hat and the miniature apron fluttered behind him on the veldt, pathetic remnants of an Imperial dream. At the river bank the Colonel hesitated before diving in. “Got to lose the scent,” he thought as he surfaced and allowed the current to carry him downstream.

“He’s given us the slip,” Els shouted as the hounds milled round the discarded garments.

“I can see that,” said the Kommandant studying the torn fragments of pink with considerable distaste. “Are you sure it’s not Major Bloxham?” he asked. “He said he always wore pink.”

But Els was already down by the river with the foxhounds and sniffing the air. “He’s gone thataway,” he said finally pointing downstream and blowing his horn set off along the river bank. Kommandant van Heerden followed slowly.

The sun had risen and with it there came to the Kommandant a sudden sense of regret. There was no need to hurry now. Els was on the trail and had scented blood and from long experience the Kommandant knew he would never give up. Besides there was no doubt now that he was safe from BOSS. Verkramp’s errors of judgement had been buried in the wreckage of White Ladies and no one would question the Kommandant’s efficient handling of the matter now that he had eleven corpses and three hundred pounds of gelignite to prove it. He felt safe at last and with his sense of security there returned the desire to do the gentlemanly thing. Certainly chasing elderly colonels dressed as women across the countryside wasn’t a gentlemanly occupation. There was something vaguely sordid about it. With one last glance at the tailless haunches of the Dobermanns gliding menacingly among the willows, the Kommandant turned his bay and rode slowly back to the house. On the way he met Sergeant Breitenbach in an armoured car and with a rejuvenated sense of chivalry pointed in quite the wrong direction. “They’ve gone thataway,” he shouted and watched the Sergeant disappear over the hillside. Far down the river Els sounded his horn and the Kommandant thought he heard the cry, “Gone to earth.” It was followed by the sound of yelping.

 In the back of the taxi Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon had spent her night watching the night sky turn crimson over the taxi-driver’s shoulder and had responded with a degree of agitation that lent weight to his conviction that she was actively enjoying what he was doing. As the reflected glow ebbed from the sky Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s writhings ebbed with it and the taxi-driver fell asleep. As she detached herself from him and climbed out of the car, it occurred to her to search his pockets for money but she discarded the thought. There was more to be gained in the house. When the armoured cars drove out of the yard in pursuit of her husband, Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon adjusted her dress and then scrambled through the hedge and walked up to the house. A mound of blackened rubble, it had little to remind her of the past. In any case Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was more concerned with the future. She hadn’t left the suburbs of South London for the dangers and discomforts of life in Africa for nothing. She climbed the steps which had been the scene of so many welcomes and which still retained something of their old warmth and surveyed the ruins. Then stepping adroitly between her old friends she made her way to her bedroom and began to dig in the ashes.

 As the sound of the horn reached him Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon scrambled out of the river and disappeared into the trees. He stumbled through the undergrowth and five minutes later found himself at the foot of a cliff. He could go no further. Behind him the yelps of the hounds grew more insistent on the far side of the river. The Colonel listened breathlessly for a moment and then turned and searched for somewhere to hide. He found it in an overhang of rock. Crawling inside he found himself in some sort of cave, dark and deep and with a narrow entrance. If only I could block it up, he thought and the next moment, with a presence of mind that had come rather late in life, he was out in the sunlight and struggling with a thorn bush which resolutely defied his efforts to pull it up by the roots. Below him the sound of the pack seemed closer and spurred on by this indication of danger, the Colonel hauled the bush out of the ground, a feat which had it not been for his wife’s corsets would certainly have ruptured him. He crawled back into the hole and dragged the thorn bush behind him. That ought to keep them out, he thought grimly, crouching in the darkness oblivious to the paintings of other hunts that glimmered from the walls of the cave.

On the river bank Konstabel Els and the hounds sniffed the air. There was nothing to indicate which way their quarry had gone. Els wondered what he would have done had he been in the Colonel’s shoes and came to the conclusion that he would have headed into the thick bush on the far side of the river. Urging his nag forward, Els waded into the water and with the hounds swarming around him crossed over. A few minutes later the leading hounds had picked up the trail and were following a line through the trees. Els pushed on after them and came out into the open to find the pack giving tongue round a thorn bush which appeared to be growing in the most unlikely fashion from inside a cave. Els dismounted and considered the situation while the Dobermann Pinschers snarled and the foxhounds greeted their old master with a friendliness that was not reciprocated. With reckless disregard for life and limb Els waded into the pack and peered into the thorn bush. A moment later his “Gone to earth” echoed from the cliff face.

In his burrow Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon recognized the call and the voice had something familiar about it. Hope surged in his breast. If Harbinger was outside, he was safe. He started to push the thorn bush forward to crawl out but was instantly dissuaded by three Dobermanns who threw themselves into the gap with bared teeth. The Colonel hauled the thorn bush back and tried shouting but his words were drowned by the noise of the pack.

Outside Konstabel Els sat on a rock and lit a cigarette. He was in no hurry. Can’t shoot him, he thought recalling the MFH’s adamant veto on the shooting of foxes; what I need is a terrier. Els began to cast about for a suitable substitute. Presently he was scrambling among the rocks on one side of the cliff. It was hot work and the sun was up and it took Els half an hour to find what he was looking for. In the end he grabbed a large snake that was sunning itself on a ledge and holding it by the tail made his way back to the earth. The dogs backed away and Els dropped the snake into the thorn bush with a snigger and watched it slither into the darkness. A moment later a convulsive shudder shook the thorn bush to be followed by a scream as the corseted Colonel erupted from his burrow and hurtled across the scree and into the trees. “Gone away,” yelled Els and watched with a smile as the hounds surged after him. Silly bugger, he thought, he ought to know grass snakes are harmless. Screams and snarls from the bushes marked the end of the hunt and Els pushed his way among the dogs and took out his knife.

To Kommandant van Heerden jogging back to White Ladies the sight that greeted him was full of a poignancy he would never forget. It put him in mind of the heroines in the books of the author whose portrait had once adorned the wall of the dining room. True, Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was no slender girl and the magic that clung to her was wholly black, but these discrepancies were as nothing to the vision of tragic grief she presented. The Kommandant left the horse at the gate and crossed the gravel to her side. Only then did Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon raise her tinted head.

“It’s buried…” she began, tears ravaging her lovely features. Kommandant van Heerden looked down at the corpse beside her feet and shook his head.

“Not Berry, Daphne. Boy,” he murmured. But Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was obviously too far gone in grief to hear.

“My precious treasure …” she shrieked and threw herself down to scrabble in the ashes. The Kommandant knelt beside her and shook his head again sadly.

“They’ve gone for good, my darling,” he whispered and was astonished at the fresh paroxysm of grief that racked her body. Cursing himself for the lack of tact that had made him use an endearment at a time like this, he took her hand in his.

“They’ve gone to a better world,” he said gazing into her deep grey eyes. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon thrust him away imperiously.

“You’re lying,” she cried, “they can’t have. They’re all I’ve got,” and disregarding her delicate hands she dug into the rubble. Beside her, overcome by emotion, the Kommandant knelt and watched.

He was still maintaining his steadfast vigil when Els rode up on his nag waving something.

“I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” he shouted triumphantly and dismounted. Kommandant van Heerden regarded him bleakly through eyes dimmed by tears and motioned him away. But Els lacked the Kommandant’s sense of occasion. He ran up the steps into the ruins eagerly and waved something in the Kommandant’s face.

“Look at that. Isn’t it a fine one?” he shouted. Kommandant van Heerden shut his eyes in horror.

“For God’s sake, Els, there’s a time and a place …” he shouted dementedly but Els was already daubing his cheeks and forehead.

“You’re blooded,” he shouted, “you’re blooded.”

The Kommandant rose frantically to his feet.

“You swine,” he screamed, “You filthy swine.”

“I thought you’d like the brush,” Els said in a puzzled tone of voice. It was obvious that he was cut to the quick by the Kommandant’s rejection of his offering. So it appeared was Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon. As the Kommandant turned to make his apologies for Konstabel Els’ appalling lapse of taste, the Colonel’s widow struggled to her feet.

“It’s mine, you thief,” she screamed and lunged at Els furiously. “You had no right to take it, I want it back,” a claim whose justice the Kommandant had to admit while deploring the fact that Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon should want to make it.

“Give it to her,” he shouted at Els, “it’s hers by right,” but before Els could proffer his ghastly souvenir, Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, evidently intent on more practical reparation for the loss of her conjugal rights, had hurled herself on the konstabel and was tearing at his trousers.

“Dear God,” bawled the Kommandant as Els fell back into the ashes.

“Help,” screamed Els evidently imbued with the same suspicion as to her intentions.

“It’s mine,” shrieked Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, clawing at Els’ pants. Kommandant van Heerden shut his eyes and tried to shut out too the screams from Els.

“That it should come to this,” he thought and was trying to reconcile this new evidence of feminine fury with that gentle image of Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon he had nurtured in the past when with a shriek of triumph the Colonel’s widow got to her feet. The Kommandant opened his eyes and stared at the strange object in her hand. It was not, he was thankful to note, what he had expected. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s hand held a dark lump of metal in whose misshapen surface there gleamed here and there large brilliant stones. Twisted and melted though they were, the Kommandant could still recognize traces of Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s bijouterie. Clutching the great ingot to her breast she looked once more the woman he had known.

“My darlings,” she shrieked, her voice radiant with frenetic gaiety, “my precious darlings.”

The Kommandant turned sternly to Els who was still lying prone and shaken by his recent experience.

“How many times have I told you not to nick things?” he demanded. Els smiled weakly and got to his feet.

“I was only looking after them,” he said by way of explanation.

The Kommandant turned away and followed Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon down the steps.

“Have you a car?” he asked solicitously. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon shook her head.

“Then I’ll send for a taxi,” said the Kommandant.

A fresh pallor blanched Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s face.

“You’ve got to be joking,” she muttered before collapsing in a dead faint in his arms.

“Poor thing,” thought the Kommandant, “it’s all been too much for her.” He picked her up and carried her gently over to a Saracen. As he lowered her to the floor he noticed that she still clutched the nugget in her limp hand.

“The British bulldog.” he thought and closed the door.

When the police convoy finally left White Ladies Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon had revived sufficiently to sit up. She was still obviously stunned by the change in her fortunes and the Kommandant tactfully didn’t bring the subject up. Instead he busied himself with some paperwork and ran over in his mind things he had still to do.

He had left Sergeant Breitenbach with a small body of men to guard the scene of the crime and had arranged for photographs of the cache of high-explosives and detonators in the harness room to be supplied to the press. He would write up a full report on the affair for the Commissioner of Police and forward a copy to BOSS and he would announce to the press that another revolutionary conspiracy to overthrow the Republic had been nipped in the bud. He might even hold a press conference. In the end he decided not to on the grounds that journalists were a breed of men who didn’t make the job of the police in South Africa any easier and he saw no reason why they should rely on him for their information. He had, in any case, more important matters to worry about than public opinion.

There was for instance the problem of the Colonel’s widow and, while he had every sympathy for her in her present plight, the Kommandant was alive to the possibility that the distressing action he had been forced to take might well have ended the good feeling she had once felt for him. As the convoy approached Piemburg the Kommandant inquired as to her plans.

“Plans?” asked Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon roused from her silent reverie. “I have no plans.”

“You have friends in Umtali,” said the Kommandant hopefully. “They would surely put you up.”

Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon nodded. “I suppose so,” she said.

“Better than a police cell,” said the Kommandant and explained that he ought to hold her as a witness. “Of course if you give me your word not to leave the country…” he added.

 That evening the Rolls stopped at the Customs Post at Beit Bridge.

“Anything to declare?” asked the Rhodesian Customs officer.

“Yes,” said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon with feeling. “It’s good to be back with one’s own kith and kin.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Customs Officer Van der Merwe and waved her through. As she drove through the night Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon began to sing to keep herself awake.

“Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, Britons never never will be slaves,” she shrieked happily as the car knocked an African cyclist into the ditch. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon was too tired to stop. “Teach him to drive without lights,” she thought and put her foot on the accelerator. In the glove compartment a fortune in gold and diamonds rolled unevenly about.

 In the week that followed the Kommandant was kept too busy to worry about Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s disappearance. The team of Security men who came down from Pretoria to report on the affair were sent up to Weezen to investigate.

“Try the storekeeper,” the Kommandant suggested. “Very helpful fellow.” The Security men tried the storekeeper and were infuriated by his refusal to speak Afrikaans.

“I’ve seen enough coppers,” he told them, “to last me a lifetime. I’ve ordered one off the premises already and I’m ordering you. This is Little England and you can get the hell out.”

By the time they returned to Pretoria they could find nothing to criticize in the Kommandant’s handling of the affair. The fact that the victims of police action were found on examination to be wearing women’s clothes in the case of the men and a jockstrap in the case of La Marquise added weight to the Kommandant’s claim that the safety of the Republic had been threatened. Even in the Cabinet the Kommandant’s handling of the affair received a friendly reception.

“Nothing like the threat of terrorism to keep the electorate on our side,” said the Minister of Justice. “We could do with an incident like this before every election.”

At Fort Rapier Luitenant Verkramp viewed the outcome of the affair in a different light. Now that the immediate cause of his insanity had been removed, Verkramp had regained sufficient rationality to regard his proposal to Dr von Blimenstein as a temporary aberration.

“I must have been mad,” he told the doctor when she reminded him of their engagement.

Dr von Blimenstein looked at him reproachfully.

“After all I’ve done for you,” she said finally.

“Done for me is about right,” said Verkramp.

“I’d planned such a lovely honeymoon too,” the doctor complained.

“Well I’m not going,” said Verkramp, “I’ve had enough trips to last me a lifetime.”

“Is that your last word?” asked the doctor.

“Yes,” said Verkramp.

Dr von Blimenstein left the room and ordered the nurse to put Verkramp under restraint. Ten minutes later Verkramp was in a straitjacket and Dr von Blimenstein was closeted with the Hospital Chaplain.

That afternoon Kommandant van Heerden, visiting Fort Rapier to inquire about Aaron Geisenheimer, found Dr von Blimenstein dressed, rather ostentatiously, he thought, in a picture hat and a shark-skin suit.

“Going somewhere?” he asked. In the rush of events he had forgotten about Verkramp’s impending marriage.

“We’re honeymooning in Muizenberg,” said the doctor.

Kommandant van Heerden sat down suddenly in a chair.

“And Verkramp’s quite well?” he asked.

In the light of the Kommandant’s gallantry at their last meeting Dr von Blimenstein overlooked the imputation.

“A touch of last-minute nerves,” she said, “but I think it’ll go off without a hitch.” She hesitated before continuing, “I know it’s a lot to ask but I wonder if you would be best man?”

Kommandant van Heerden tried to think what to say. The thought that he would be in any way instrumental in joining the author of so many of his misfortunes to a woman as totally unloveable as Dr von Blimenstein had its appealing side. The thought of the doctor as Mrs Verkramp had nothing to recommend it.

“I suppose Verkramp has given up all idea of returning to his post?” he inquired hopefully. Dr von Blimenstein was pleased to reassure him.

“You’ve nothing to worry about,” she said. “Balthazar will be on duty just as soon as we get the honeymoon over.”

“I see,” said the Kommandant, rising. “In that case I think I had better see him now.”

“He’s in Hypnotherapy,” said the doctor as the Kommandant went out into the corridor. “Tell him I won’t be long.”

The Kommandant went down the passage and asked a nurse the way. At Hypnotherapy the nurse opened the door and smiled.

“Here’s your best man,” she said and ushered the Kommandant into the ward where Verkramp was sitting up in bed surrounded by an inferno of chrysanthemums.

“You too?” Verkramp groaned as the Kommandant entered and sat down on a chair by the bed.

“Just popped in to see if there was anything you needed,” said the Kommandant. “I had no idea you were getting married.”

“I’m not getting married,” said Verkramp, “I’m being married.”

“I see they’ve given you a clean straitjacket for the occasion,” said the Kommandant anxious to keep off controversial topics.

“Won’t be needing that in a minute,” said the nurse. “Will we?” She picked up a hypodermic and pulling back the bedclothes rolled Verkramp on to his stomach.

“I don’t want …” shouted Verkramp but the nurse had already plunged the needle into his backside. By the time she withdrew it the Kommandant was feeling distinctly agitated while Verkramp had relapsed into an unusual torpor.

“There we are,” said the nurse propping him up again and unfastening his straitjacket. “No need for this horrid old thing now, is there?”

“I do,” said Verkramp.

The nurse smiled at the Kommandant and left the room.

“Listen,” said the Kommandant, appalled at what he had just witnessed, “is it true that you don’t want to marry this woman?”

“I do,” said Verkramp. The Kommandant, who had been on the brink of assuring him that there was no need for him to go through with the marriage looked nonplussed.

“But I thought you said you didn’t,” he said.

“I do,” said Verkramp.

“There’s still a chance to change your mind,” said the Kommandant.

“I do,” said Verkramp.

“Well I’m damned,” muttered the Kommandant. “You certainly change your mind quickly.”

“I do,” said Verkramp. At that moment the nurse returned with the ring.

“Does he often go into this ‘I do’ routine?” the Kommandant asked as he slipped the ring into his pocket.

“It’s a new treatment that Dr von Blimenstein has developed,” the nurse told him. “It’s called CIRS.”

“I should think it must be,” said the Kommandant.

“Chemically Induced Repetitive Syndrome,” the nurse explained.

“I do,” said Verkramp.

“Good God,” said the Kommandant suddenly realizing the full implications of the treatment. If Dr von Blimenstein could get Verkramp unwillingly to the altar by chemically induced hypnosis and get him saying “I do” all the way there, she could do anything. Kommandant van Heerden visualized the outcome. Hundreds of innocent and respectable citizens could be induced to confess to sabotage, membership of the Communist party, training in guerrilla warfare and any crime you cared to name. Worse still, Dr von Blimenstein was not the sort of woman to hesitate when it came to advancing her husband’s career by such dubious methods. The Kommandant was just considering this new threat to his position as Chief of Police when the bride arrived with the hospital Chaplain and a bevy of patients who had been raked in as bridesmaids. A tape recorder struck up the wedding march and the Kommandant slipping the ring into Verkramp’s hand left the room. He had no intention of being best man at a wedding that marked the end of his own career. He went out on to the parade ground and wandered miserably among the inmates cursing the irony of fate that had saved him from the consequences of Verkramp’s deliberate attempts to oust him only to destroy him now. It would have been better to have let Verkramp take the rap for the activities of his secret agents than to have allowed him to marry Dr von Blimenstein. The Kommandant was just wondering if there was anything he could do even at this late hour when he became aware of a disturbance outside Hypnotherapy. Dr von Blimenstein was being escorted, weeping, from the makeshift chapel.

Kommandant van Heerden hurried across.

“Something go wrong?” he asked eagerly.

“He said ‘I do’,” the nurse explained. Dr von Blimenstein wept uncontrollably.

“But I thought he was supposed to,” said the Kommandant.

“Not when the Chaplain asked if anyone present knew of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy wedlock,” the nurse explained. A broad smile broke across the Kommandant’s face.

“Oh well,” he said cheerfully, “Verkramp seemed to know his own mind after all,” and slapping the disconsolate doctor on the back with “You can’t win them all”, he went into the ward to congratulate the ex-bridegroom.

 With Konstabel Els, his problem was rather different. The telephone call from the taxidermist at the Piemburg Museum verged on the hysterical.

“He wanted me to stuff it,” the taxidermist told the Duty Sergeant.

“What’s wrong with stuffing a fox’s brush?” asked the Sergeant who couldn’t see what all the fuss was about.

“But I keep telling you it wasn’t a fox’s brush. It was a phallus,” screamed the taxidermist.

“A false what?” the Sergeant asked.

“Not a false anything. A real phallus.”

“You’re not making much sense, you know,” said the Sergeant.

The taxidermist took a deep breath and tried again. In the end the Sergeant put him through to the Kommandant who knew exactly what the man was talking about.

“No need to worry,” he said soothingly, “I’ll take the matter in hand at once.”

The taxidermist looked at the phone with disgust.

“You do that small thing,” he said and put the receiver down thankfully. Kommandant van Heerden sent for Els.

“I thought we’d seen the last of that beastly thing,” he said. Els looked downcast.

“I wanted to keep it as a souvenir,” he explained, “I was thinking of having it mounted.”

“Mounted?” shouted the Kommandant. “You must be out of your mind. Why can’t you give it a rest?”

Els said he would try.

“You’ll do more than that,” the Kommandant told him. “If I catch you flashing the thing again, I’ll book you.”

“What with?” Els asked.

“Indecent Exposure,” snarled the Kommandant. Els went away to get rid of his trophy.

 As the weeks passed and Piemburg resumed its slow routine the memory of exploding ostriches and the outbreak of sabotage passed into the safe hands of local legend. Kommandant van Heerden was well content to see it go. Looking back over the events of those days he found himself wondering at the great difference between life and literature. It doesn’t do to read too much, he thought, recalling the fate that literary endeavours had held in store for Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon and the members of the Dornford Yates Club. Instead the Kommandant chose to carry on the traditions of the English gentleman in practice. He added the foxhounds of the Colonel’s pack to the police kennels where they struck up friendly relations with the Dobermann Pinschers and he put Konstabel Els in charge of them. Els, it seemed, had a way with dogs. The Kommandant acquired a horse and ordered a crimson hunting coat from the tailors and twice a week he could be seen riding to hounds in Chaste Valley with Els on a nag and a convict running for his life with a bag of aniseed tied round his middle. Sometimes he even invited Dr von Blimenstein, who was quite fond of riding. It seemed the least he could do for the poor woman now that Verkramp had jilted her and in any case he felt it was wise to keep on the right side of her.

All in all he was well content. Whatever had happened, the Values of Western Civilization were still safe in Piemburg and as MFHDP Kommandant van Heerden maintained those traditions which went with the heart of an English gentleman.