Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon
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said quietly: ‘Preposterous? That’s a big word.’ He paused. ‘Contravening the Suppression of Communism Act?’
‘But I’m a fucking capitalist! And so is Patti Gandhi!’
The colonel smiled. ‘And how about the Terrorism Act?’
Mahoney’s ears were ringing. Sick in his guts, with fear, with anger. ‘Neither of us is a terrorist!’
Colonel Krombrink smiled widely. ‘“Us”? You make it sound like you’re a couple. But the Immorality Act’s the least of your worries, hey? Because the Terrorism Act isn’t jail. It’s the gallows in Pretoria.’
Mahoney’s ears were ringing, his heart pounding. ‘For doing what?’
Colonel Krombrink smiled. ‘The men we arrested at Lilliesleaf Farm all face the gallows.’
Mahoney felt the vomit turn in his guts. ‘I’d never been to Lilliesleaf Farm before last Wednesday.’
The colonel sighed. ‘Another charge: attempted extortion.’ He looked at Mahoney grimly.
Mahoney stared at him, absolutely astonished. ‘Extortion?’
‘Blackmail?’ The colonel opened a drawer. He pulled out a folder. He pulled out a photograph and flicked it across to him.
Mahoney stared. It was the photograph of Patti copulating with Sergeant van Rensburg. He could see the stacked pages of his long story. Her secret weapon exposed …
‘That’s a legitimate journalist’s story!’
The colonel tossed across another photograph: Major Kotze with Patti. Krombrink looked at Mahoney with disgust. ‘Legitimate? How can any newspaper – even Drum – publish pictures like that?’
‘But they would publish the story! The pictures are just evidence to prove veracity …’
The colonel held his eye. ‘Then why didn’t you publish it?’
‘Because that was Miss Gandhi’s decision. It’s her story. Told to me in confidence. She would decide whether to publish!’
‘And when was Miss Gandhi going to publish her story?’
Mahoney closed his eyes in fury. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? Agh, come, Mr Mahoney, you expect us to believe that?’ He smiled. ‘When she wanted – or needed – to blackmail the police, perhaps?’
Mahoney tried to sigh theatrically. ‘I’m just a journalist, and I agreed to write it for her. Miss Gandhi is not a writer – it is an art form, you know.’
‘Oh, I know …’ the colonel said earnestly. The detective smirked. ‘And what did Miss Gandhi give you in exchange for your art form?’
The Immorality Act was the least of his worries. He was about to say ‘Nothing’ then brilliance struck him. ‘A case of brandy.’
‘Brandy?’ The colonel leered. ‘And what else?’
‘Nothing.’ He added shakily: ‘It is possible to be just friends with a woman, you know. And friendship with a non-European isn’t yet an offence, is it? They haven’t passed the Suppression of Friendship Act yet, have they?’
The colonel smiled. ‘And it was in the name of friendship that you’ve been going out of the country with her?’ He reached for the file, ran his eye down it studiously. ‘Swaziland, Botswana, Mozambique. I can give you dates …’
Outside the country? If that’s all they had against him he could laugh in their faces because there was no Immorality Act outside the country! ‘So what? We’re friends.’
The colonel smiled. ‘And what did you two friends talk about?’
Mahoney forced a shrug. ‘Oh, you know, this and that. Art. Poetry. Literature –’
‘Politics?’
He shrugged. ‘Not really, politics is so … predictable, in this country. So black or white – if you’ll pardon the pun.’
The detective who had taken the fingerprints entered. He placed a sheet of paper in front of Krombrink then withdrew. Krombrink read it expressionlessly. Then he sat back. ‘I like a man who sees the funny side of trouble.’ He slapped the file. ‘And where did you write this story?’
Mahoney’s pulse tripped again. ‘At Drum.’
‘At Drum, hey?’ The colonel flicked his thumb over the pages. ‘A long story. Even you can’t write such a long story in one go, man.’
‘Yes, all of it.’
‘Over how many sessions?’
‘Three or four.’ He shrugged.
‘And what make of typewriter have you got at Drum, hey?’
Oh God, typefaces. ‘A Remington.’
‘Yes,’ the colonel nodded. ‘Not an Olivetti. And this story, Mr Mahoney, was typed with an Olivetti.’
Mahoney fumbled. ‘I might have used somebody else’s typewriter at Drum – I can’t remember.’
‘Yes, you did use somebody else’s, Mr Mahoney. But not at Drum, hey? In fact,’ he smiled, ‘you used the Olivetti we found at Lilliesleaf Farm. In the cottage.’
It was another blow in the guts. He heard his ears ring. ‘That’s impossible.’
The colonel sighed. ‘Experts have compared the typeface of the Olivetti with your so-called story. And they match one hundred per cent.’ He raised his eyebrows pleasantly. ‘And if that’s not enough evidence – which it is – fingerprints were found all over the machine, hey. And those fingerprints – ’ he held up the note the detective had brought in – ‘match yours.’
Mahoney stared, heart pounding. Before he could say anything Colonel Krombrink continued: ‘So you were at Lilliesleaf Farm, Mr Mahoney. Where you wrote the whole –’ he flicked the typescript – ‘long story, over three or four long visits.’ The detective at the window grinned, fixing Mahoney with a cheerful glare. Colonel Krombrink went on: ‘An’ before you come up with some cock an’ bull story, let me advise you that your fingerprints were found on many of these, which we seized in the cottage.’ He waved his hand like a showman and the detective held up a beer bottle triumphantly.
Mahoney’s mind stuttered. And all he could think was – oh God, what about Patti’s fingerprints? He looked desperately at Colonel Krombrink.
‘Got, man, Mr Mahoney, you’re in big trouble, hey? Exactly the same as the guys we arrested red-handed at the farm, hey. Treason …’ He let that hang, then asked earnestly: ‘You know the penalty for treason?’
Mahoney was ashen, dread-filled. ‘You know bloody well I haven’t committed treason!’
The colonel sighed. ‘What I know is that you frequented the underground headquarters of the banned ANC and Communist Party, where the most-wanted terrorists in this country were arrested in possession of thousands of documents planning armed revolution to set up a black communist government supported by Moscow – and caught with a supply of weapons and explosives, hey. And I know that you wrote this –’ he flicked the file – ‘disgusting story for them with the intention of blackmailing the police – and you wrote it on their typewriter in their headquarters, drinking their beer, and that you left the story and pornographic pictures in their possession – we found it buried in a box. An’ I know that this Gandhi woman is a member of the ANC, an’ that she’s your girlfriend, an’ that you went on numerous trips with her to kaffir countries which are known ANC bases where these weapons and explosives