The Steam Pig Read Online Free Page B

and means of disposal, and the coding. He noted down the latter and then unfolded a document which had been tucked into the page.
    It appeared to be the official go-ahead from the local branch of Trinity Burial Society, and there were a few details above a mass of small print about expenditure.
    Name: Le Roux, Theresa
    Date of birth: December 12, 1948
    Race: White
    Address: 223B Barnato Street, Trekkersburg
    Status: Single Occupation: Music teacher
    Next-of-kin: None
    Instructions: Disposal as convenient
    Well, that solved something. Or did it? Even orphans generally have someone to weep over them. And what about the people living at 223A? And—most significantly of all—what about the pupils? A teacher dying posed parents a problem they would be only too eager to smother under a mountain of wreaths. There was the time factor, of course; the Press notice had only run one day—the day of the funeral.
    â€œNo flowers?” Kramer asked.
    â€œNone,” replied Mr Abbott, pausing a moment to think visibly as he refilled his glass.
    Very, very strange. For a single, unguarded moment, Kramer felt intense, almost affectionate, respect for whoever had set up this killing. For once a murderer had attempted to do a proper job. Most never bothered to give their deed any constructive thought—Nkosi had been a good example of this. With them it was a case of deplorable self-control followed by instant action with whatever weapon was handiest. Nkosi had snatched up a cane knife, slashed Gertrude thirty-two times in front of the neighbours, and then stood around wiping the blood from his hands on the seat of his trousers while the police were called. Some did try a little harder. They were usually whites or sophisticated wogs who had gone to mission schools. In either case, he was sure it was a question of reading. Do-gooders, who saw to stocking mission libraries, always seemed to have limitless private sources of second-hand Agatha Christies. This type of murderer felt a social responsibility to adopt the key role in an intricate game of skill—some would call it mischance. They were careful with alibis and fingerprints. They had answers for everything. They often took tremendous pains to eradicate the body. In the final analysis, though, they saw themselves ranged against the police—whether in the open or watching from a thicket of deceit. They knew that the very act of concealing their connection with the murder had incriminated them. They were committed to a battle of wits. Even if they succeeded in setting up a “missing person” situation, they never knew when the bugle might suddenly sound as a pet dog unearthed a delectable but forbidden bone. A perfect murder, however, owed nothing to this outlook. Its perpetrator made no attempt to disassociate himself from his deed—simply because he was totally confident his deed would never be recognised as such. He shed clues without a care because no one would ever seek them. He did not give the police any more thought than they an unfamiliar name in the Gazette ’s Deaths column. His way was Nature’s Way. A pedant might insist that some element of risk remained: a husband impregnating his wife could not be certain a mongol would not result. Yet in both cases only the odds were what mattered. And the odds against having a mongol would be considerably lower than those against a doctor doubting his own opinion on the demise of a known cardiac case—and astronomically lower than those against a professional undertaker switching bodies in the heat of some unspeakable passion. Yet the battle had begun.
    â€œWell, Georgie, I must say you’ve really pulled one out of the hat this time,” Kramer remarked, affable on adrenalin.
    â€œThanks,” Mr Abbott muttered. He was well into his third glass and very, very much happier.
    Kramer’s glands had, in fact, started to cause havoc with their secretions. It was like being