The Sunday Hangman Read Online Free

resolved itself into three concrete picnic tables, a large refuse bin, and half a dozen flat-topped thorn trees—plus a police Land-Rover, parked with its doors left open. Two Khaki-trousered Bantu constables were crouched with a tape measure, while a white constable, in his blue tunic and shorts, made notes on a clipboard. As a roadside attraction, it was too good to be missed.
    They came to a sliding halt, waited for their dust to clear, and climbed out. The white constable approached, treating them to a full measure of rustic caution. He was a scrawny lad, knobbly at knee and elbow, and heavily reinforced by the revolver sagging at his side.
    “Lieutenant Kramer?”
    “That’s right—and this is Dr. Strydom, senior DS.”
    “Van Heerden, sir,” said the youngster, shaking hands with the civilian. “Hell, you were quick! When Sarge warned meto get down here and finish my plan, instead of finding those sheep, I didn’t see what the panic was about.”
    He had an engaging innocence that wouldn’t get him very far in the force.
    “Let’s have a look, then.”
    “Please, sir, it’s only in rough. If you will wait a minute, I’ll—”
    “Ta,” said Kramer, jerking the clipboard from him. “I see what you mean: lots of nice sums and pretty letters, but no bloody plan begun—let alone finished. You are an idler, aren’t you?”
    “Very idle, sir. Only there’s this sheep business to worry me, and the tape’s got no meters, so I’m having to convert. My boys brought the wrong one.”
    “So relax,” Kramer grunted, handing the board back.
    Then he went over to where the dirt met the tar, and looked to the right and to the left. You could see a considerable distance in either direction, and at night, any approaching vehicle would give at least sixty seconds’ warning before its headlights became effective.
    “How about the whatsit itself?” suggested Strydom, who was showing a decided stubbornness regarding precedent.
    “Doc, you think of everything.”
    “Out of the officer’s way!” barked Van Heerden, bustling through a wide gap between his black assistants. “This is the tree in question, right here. And to be strictly fair, sir, if you give my plan another look, you’ll see that I have called it A.”
    The tree called
A
was the second tallest of the group. It had a very hard, grayish-yellow bark, and supported an umbrella of tiny, dusty leaves, protected from long-vanished giraffes by clusters of big thorns. The trunk, which was roughly the thickness of two telephone poles, rose fairly straight, dodging a few imaginary redcoat shells near the top. There it divided into a spread of twisted spokes, with the stoutest branch goingoff horizontally, away from the road. And then, because asymmetry was a quirk of all thorn trees, the neat look of the thing had been spoiled by a secondary trunk, sprouting out of the main one at head height, on the other, picnic-spot side.
    “Shall I explain, Lieutenant?”
    “Uh huh.”
    “The deceased was dangling over this exact area where you see the red ants going in and out of their nest. His toes were almost touching, because of the stretch in the neck—it was terrible. So, as you can see, the rope went up and over that biggest branch, and down to where it was tied on the main part.”
    “Just hold on,” Strydom interrupted, his head tipped back. “How could he have got it over a branch as high as that? He couldn’t have thrown it, with all the rest of the sticks in the way.”
    “That was also a bloody long tow rope,” Kramer added.
    “Not really, sir; usual double-length. Can I show you?”
    “You’re about the right size.”
    Grinning, Van Heerden went around to the far side of the tree and sprang onto a large boulder. He reached up, took a grip on the offshoot from the main trunk, and hauled himself into the air. Then he slipped his foot into the fork, swung round and stood triumphant, with his underpants showing.
    “Very clever, Van. You worked