{"product_id":"the-blood-of-an-englishman-isbn-9781616951061","title":"The Blood of an Englishman","description":"Six days into their search for a man who put a .32-caliber bullet into a South African antique dealer, neither Kramer of the Murder Squad nor his Bantu assistant, Zondi, has a single lead in the case. On the seventh day, Mrs. Digby-Smith opens the trunk of her car and discovers the hideous, tied-up corpse of her younger brother. Two violent crimes—seemingly unconnected. But as Kramer and Zondi pursue their investigation, startling connections turn up in the sordid underworld of Terkkersburg and in the secret, unresolved enmities of World War II.\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Blood of an Englishman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The writing sparkles with the wit and concision of the best traditional mysteries.... McClure was one of the great originals in crime fiction, a defier of categories, and very much worth reading for crime-fiction-lovers of all stripes.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Detectives Beyond Borders \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for James McClure:\u003cbr\u003e  \u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"The pace is fast, the solution ingenious.  Above all, however, is the author’s extraordinary naturalistic style. He is that rarity—a sensitive writer who can carry his point without forcing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “More than a good mystery story, which it is, \u003ci\u003eThe Steam Pig\u003c\/i\u003e is also a revealing picture of the hate and sickness of the apartheid society of South Africa.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWashington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “So artfully conceived as to engender cheers.... A memorable mystery.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “This well-plotted, well-written murder mystery is exceptional ... sometimes grim, sometimes sourly comic, always shocking.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Soho completes its reprinting of one of the finest police series to begin in the 1970s, James McClure's eight books about Tromp Kramer and Mickey Zondi, a South African biracial detective team in the days of Apartheid.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJames McClure (1939-2006) was born in Johannesburg, South Africa, where he worked as a photographer and then a teacher before becoming a crime reporter. He published eight wildly successful books in the Kramer and Zondi series during his lifetime and was the recipient of the CWA Silver and Gold Daggers.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDroopy Stephenson hadn’t been a dirty old man\u003cbr\u003eall that long. He was still adjusting. He was weighing up the\u003cbr\u003epros and cons, and trying not to allow it to affect his work.\u003cbr\u003eWhich wasn’t easy.\u003cbr\u003e“What’s this I hear, Droopy?” asked Sam Collins, his boss,\u003cbr\u003ecrouching beside the Land-Rover from which Droopy was\u003cbr\u003eremoving the sump. “Man, I’m shocked at you!” And off he\u003cbr\u003ewent with a laugh, slapping his thigh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDroopy extended a hand for a No. 8 ring spanner, and\u003cbr\u003eJoseph, his intuitive Zulu assistant, wiped the grease from its\u003cbr\u003eshank and placed it gently in his grasp. Then for a while Droopy\u003cbr\u003ejust lay there on his back on the crawler board, staring up at\u003cbr\u003ethe sump’s drain plug.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThree days ago, he had gone into the little fruit shop on the\u003cbr\u003ecorner, a few yards down the back street from the two-bay\u003cbr\u003egarage where he worked, and said to the proprietress, “Another\u003cbr\u003escorcher, hey, Mavis? Okay if I feels your tomatoes?” He liked\u003cbr\u003ehis tomatoes crisp. And Mavis Koekemoor, who had known\u003cbr\u003eDroopy for years, hadn’t even bothered to nod. Instead, she told\u003cbr\u003ehim that her feet were killing her, and that while the heatwave\u003cbr\u003elasted she had a good mind to get her young niece along to look\u003cbr\u003eafter the counter side of things. As the shop had only a counter\u003cbr\u003eside of things, the idea, had seemed promising to Droopy, and\u003cbr\u003ehe had said as much. He had also asked politely after Mavis’s\u003cbr\u003eyoung niece, whom he remembered vaguely as having helped\u003cbr\u003eout in the shop during school holidays, and had learned that she\u003cbr\u003ewas waiting to start a job as a hair stylist. “Ja, she’s a big girl\u003cbr\u003enow,” Mavis Koekemoor had observed with satisfaction, giving\u003cbr\u003ethe bag of tomatoes a quick flip, closing and sealing it all in\u003cbr\u003eone operation. Droopy had tried to repeat this neat trick after\u003cbr\u003eenjoying two of the tomatoes with his lunch-time sandwiches,\u003cbr\u003eand had lost the rest of them down the lubrication pit.\u003cbr\u003e“The boss wants Number Six?” Joseph enquired uneasily,\u003cbr\u003ehaving heard no sounds of activity from beneath the vehicle.\u003cbr\u003e“Ach no, an Eight’s about right.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter applying the spanner to a couple of bolts, Droopy fell\u003cbr\u003eonce again into a reverie, going over and over the events leading\u003cbr\u003eto his new image of himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo days ago, he had gone into the little fruit shop on the\u003cbr\u003ecorner to be confronted—there was no other word for it—by a\u003cbr\u003epair of amazing bosoms, and a hair style like an electric shock.\u003cbr\u003e“You know Glenda,” Mavis Koekemoor had prompted from a\u003cbr\u003ecomfortable seat in front of the fan. “And will you just look\u003cbr\u003eat her? I ask you! That’s this young madam’s idea of ‘catching\u003cbr\u003ea tan, Auntie’!—she’s red all over.” Notwithstanding his normally\u003cbr\u003eshy and retiring nature, Droopy was already looking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn fact he was staring fixedly at Glenda, rather less awed by\u003cbr\u003ethe fiery ravages of the sun than he was by changes of a more\u003cbr\u003epermanent order.\u003cbr\u003e“Hi, Droopy,” Glenda had said, with such a sweet, innocent\u003cbr\u003esmile. “Well, do you see anything you’d like?”\u003cbr\u003e“Er, okay if I feels your tomatoes?”\u003cbr\u003e“Really, Droopy!”\u003cbr\u003eAnd from there it had gone from bad to worse. Much worse.\u003cbr\u003eUntil Droopy had finally fled, clutching a free cucumber and\u003cbr\u003etwo oranges, while Mavis Koekemoor had collapsed, helpless\u003cbr\u003ewith laughter, into the arms of her unscrupulous niece.\u003cbr\u003e“The boss is sick?”\u003cbr\u003eDroopy had emitted an involuntary groan. “Ach never! Isn’t\u003cbr\u003eit about time you fetched my tea?”\u003cbr\u003e“Sorry, boss.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe next day, of course, which seemed like a million years\u003cbr\u003eago but was only yesterday, Droopy had avoided the little fruit\u003cbr\u003eshop like the plague, seeking to augment his landlady’s idea\u003cbr\u003eof a packed lunch by a visit to the cake shop. Ordinarily, the\u003cbr\u003ethree girls in there seemed to take no notice of him whatsoever,\u003cbr\u003ebut sold him his confectionery without pausing in their\u003cbr\u003econversations together. A tense silence had fallen the moment\u003cbr\u003ehe reached the counter, the first giggle had come from behind\u003cbr\u003ehis back, and then the house had come down when he’d asked,\u003cbr\u003erather crossly, if they had any lemon tarts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We never imagined,” said the blonde one, as she handed him\u003cbr\u003ehis change. “Still waters run deep, hey, Droopy?”\u003cbr\u003eIt was enough to make anyone feel confused, baffled and\u003cbr\u003ebewildered, and soon it brought on a nasty headache. So, on his\u003cbr\u003eway back to Sam’s Garage, Droopy had slipped into the chemist\u003cbr\u003eshop. The two girl assistants had clung together behind a case\u003cbr\u003eof sunglasses, sniggering loudly, and then one, prodded forward\u003cbr\u003eby her colleague, had said, “Just hang on a sec, Droopy,\u003cbr\u003eand I’ll fetch the manager to serve you!”\u003cbr\u003e“What can he sell me you can’t sell me, hey? All I wants is\u003cbr\u003ea thingy of Disprin.”\u003cbr\u003eHer plucked eyebrows had gone up. “You’re sure? You’ve\u003cbr\u003enot run out or anything?”\u003cbr\u003e“Of course I’ve bloody run out!” Droopy had snapped, adding\u003cbr\u003eimmeasurably to their merriment. The last straw had come\u003cbr\u003ewhen, on his return to the garage, the scatty receptionist had\u003cbr\u003elooked on him with twinkling eyes and said, “Oh, Droopy—\u003cbr\u003ewhere have you been all lunch-time? What have you been up to?”\u003cbr\u003eJoseph’s gape-toed shoes scraped to a halt beside the Land-\u003cbr\u003eRover. “Excuse, boss. Boss Sam he say does the boss want Boss\u003cbr\u003eSam to put stuff in his tea?”\u003cbr\u003e“What ‘stuff’?”\u003cbr\u003e“Ungasi, boss. I go ask him?”\u003cbr\u003e“No, just bring me my bloody tea and stop fooling around,\u003cbr\u003eman! I’ve got work to do!”\u003cbr\u003e“Sorry, boss.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut still the No. 8 ring spanner lay inactive in his hand.\u003cbr\u003eEnlightenment had come on his way home, when little Miss\u003cbr\u003eBrooks, who ran the Dolls’ Hospital round the corner, had\u003cbr\u003ebeckoned him into her shop and said, “I just want you to know,\u003cbr\u003eMr. Stephenson, that no matter what that hussy is telling\u003cbr\u003eeveryone, I shall never be persuaded you’re a—you’re a dirty\u003cbr\u003eold man.” Droopy had thanked her humbly, and returned to\u003cbr\u003ehis lodgings, where he’d tossed and turned on the small divan\u003cbr\u003eall night, trying to think of ways of killing Glenda Koekemoor\u003cbr\u003estone dead. By the morning, he had admitted to himself\u003cbr\u003ethat all he could do was brazen this whole thing out, and so,\u003cbr\u003ebefore arriving at the garage, he had called at the cake shop,\u003cbr\u003ethe chemist shop, the travel agency, the film rental place, and\u003cbr\u003eseveral other businesses, including the little fruit shop. Glenda,\u003cbr\u003eMavis Koekemoor had told him, would be coming in later that\u003cbr\u003emorning, and he left a message saying he’d like to see her.\u003cbr\u003eActually, although he had dreaded the idea of doing the rounds,\u003cbr\u003eDroopy found that he had enjoyed himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the cake shop, the usual crowd of apprentices and virile\u003cbr\u003eyoung office workers, buying their sticky buns for eleven, had\u003cbr\u003egone ignored the moment he walked in. The girls there had\u003cbr\u003ehung on his every word, and he had no need to say anything\u003cbr\u003emore than half-funny for them to shriek with laughter, and\u003cbr\u003eflaunt their charms at him. Much the same had happened in the\u003cbr\u003echemist shop until the manager had intervened, and Droopy\u003cbr\u003ehad marched out with the first packet of sheaths he had owned\u003cbr\u003ein forty years. As for the red-head in the travel agency, she\u003cbr\u003ehad titillated him beyond words by insisting that, for a man\u003cbr\u003eof his reputation, there was nowhere in the world he should\u003cbr\u003esooner go than Gay Paree—and she would, given half a chance,\u003cbr\u003eaccompany him. Even walking back down the street had been\u003cbr\u003eexcitingly different; whereas Droopy had been accustomed to\u003cbr\u003epass by, shabby and unseen, now his progress was the focus of\u003cbr\u003ealmost limitless attention.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA pair of grease-soaked moccasins came up to the Land-\u003cbr\u003eRover. “Morning, Droopy!”\u003cbr\u003eIt was his fellow mechanic, Boet Swart.\u003cbr\u003e“Morning, Boet. How goes it?”\u003cbr\u003e“So-so, hey? But tell me, how do you do it?”\u003cbr\u003e“Do what?”\u003cbr\u003e“Ach, come on, Droopy—don’t play games with me, hey?\u003cbr\u003eThe word is out—let me tell you that, the word is out!”\u003cbr\u003e“I know,” said Droopy, and surprised himself by quite liking\u003cbr\u003ethe idea; some of the titillation he’d received this morning\u003cbr\u003ewas still having a residual effect. “I heard it off Miss Brooks\u003cbr\u003elast night.”\u003cbr\u003e“Oh ja?”\u003cbr\u003eThe misgivings in Boet’s voice pressed a needle point against\u003cbr\u003ethe bubble of Droopy’s elation. “Why say ‘Oh ja?’ in that\u003cbr\u003efashion? Surely you would be glad if all the popsies—”\u003cbr\u003e“But Miss Brooks, hey?”\u003cbr\u003e“She calls me into her shop, and she—”\u003cbr\u003e“Hell.”\u003cbr\u003e“She was doing it out of kindness, and what’s so wrong\u003cbr\u003ewith that?”\u003cbr\u003e“Hmmmm.”\u003cbr\u003eDroopy crabbed his way out from under the Land-Rover,\u003cbr\u003eand got up off the crawler board. “That’s a funny expression,\u003cbr\u003eBoet—best tell me what’s on your mind.”\u003cbr\u003e“Well, maybe you haven’t heard about Miss Brooks, Droopy\u003cbr\u003eold friend. There could be another reason she’s suddenly so\u003cbr\u003einterested in you. . . .”\u003cbr\u003eDroopy cocked his head to one side, waiting. “What could\u003cbr\u003ean old woman like that want with me?” he said.\u003cbr\u003e“Man, it’s a question of what kind of old woman,” said Boet\u003cbr\u003edolefully, “and she won’t be the only one after you, now the\u003cbr\u003eword is out. You’ll have them coming for you from every direction.”\u003cbr\u003eThen he spun on his heel and walked very quickly away,\u003cbr\u003ewhile the scatty brunette grinned at them from Reception.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePanic rooted Droopy to the spot. Fantasies with nubile\u003cbr\u003eyoung popsies had been one thing, but not for a moment had\u003cbr\u003ehe considered the possibility of dirty old women getting the\u003cbr\u003ehots for him. His brother had been a policeman, and he’d often\u003cbr\u003esaid he would rather face nine kaffirs armed with cane knives\u003cbr\u003ethan one determined woman—especially the posh sort, like\u003cbr\u003eMiss Brooks, when they were hysterical. Given another second\u003cbr\u003eor two, Droopy might have been able to laugh the whole thing\u003cbr\u003eoff, but he didn’t get the chance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA high, cultured voice rang out from the open workshop\u003cbr\u003edoor. “I don’t see what the difficulty is! Why can’t I have that\u003cbr\u003eone? He doesn’t appear to be doing anything at the moment.”\u003cbr\u003eAnd when he turned round, Droopy saw a tall, skinny woman,\u003cbr\u003ewith white hair and very red lips, pointing her finger at him.\u003cbr\u003e“Can you come over for a minute?” Sam asked, waiting until\u003cbr\u003eDroopy had shuffled over before going on. “It seems that this\u003cbr\u003elady has a problem you can help her with.”\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, lady?” said Droopy, ignoring Sam’s wink and the snorts\u003cbr\u003ecoming from behind him at Reception.\u003cbr\u003e“My boot’s stuck—it’s absolutely infuriating. I’d just bought\u003cbr\u003ea mountain of things to put in it, but I simply can’t get the key\u003cbr\u003eto work. It won’t even go in.”\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll leave you to it,” said Sam, turning away to his office.\u003cbr\u003e“Here,” the woman said, handing over her key-ring. “I’ve\u003cbr\u003eleft it over there, and now I must dash, or I’ll be late for my\u003cbr\u003ehair appointment.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDroopy wandered out and down the road a short way. The\u003cbr\u003efirst thing that struck him about the car was that dogs had been\u003cbr\u003epeeing all over the back tires and the back bumper. This was\u003cbr\u003ea bit strange, but shouldn’t have affected the lock. Then he\u003cbr\u003ecrouched down and inspected the keyhole.\u003cbr\u003e“Hi, Droopy!”\u003cbr\u003eHe jumped. It was Glenda, bursting forth out of a thin\u003cbr\u003eblouse and quite unrepentant. His grip tightened on the shaft\u003cbr\u003eof the No. 8 ring spanner, which he still had with him.\u003cbr\u003e“You wanted to talk to me, Auntie says. I hope it’s not going\u003cbr\u003eto be so embarrassing like the last time!”\u003cbr\u003e“Look!” said Droopy, before words failed him.\u003cbr\u003eIt was no good, his common sense insisted. There was\u003cbr\u003enothing he could say that would change what she’d done. All\u003cbr\u003ehe could pray was that something else would come along to\u003cbr\u003etake people’s minds off it, although that was the trouble with\u003cbr\u003ea back street, nothing ever happened.\u003cbr\u003e“Forget it,” mumbled Droopy.\u003cbr\u003eGlenda crouched beside him, nudging his left shoulder with\u003cbr\u003eher right. “What’s the problem?”\u003cbr\u003e“You’ve got eyes, haven’t you?”\u003cbr\u003e“Ja. There’s a bit of matchstick stuck in there.”\u003cbr\u003eDroopy hadn’t noticed that. He squinted, put down his\u003cbr\u003espanner and felt in his pockets.\u003cbr\u003e“Hairpin,” said Glenda, handing him one of her own.\u003cbr\u003e“That’s no bloody good.”\u003cbr\u003e“You haven’t tried it.”\u003cbr\u003eHe tried it. The matchstick only became wedged more\u003cbr\u003efirmly. “Bloody kids!” he grunted. “Trust them to. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e“Oh ja, it’s always kids—blame the kids! How do you know?”\u003cbr\u003e“Who else?”\u003cbr\u003e“Let me try, Droopy.”\u003cbr\u003e“You can push off, as far as I’m concerned!”\u003cbr\u003eGlenda stayed right where she was. She sniffed. She wrinkled\u003cbr\u003eher nose and made a face. “Hell, there’s a horrible smell\u003cbr\u003earound here,” she said, disgustedly. “Where does this car come\u003cbr\u003efrom—a farm? Must be stuck to the wheels.”\u003cbr\u003e“I said, push off!”\u003cbr\u003e“Ach, Droopy man, you mustn’t be like that, hey?” She laid\u003cbr\u003eher soft hand on his gnarled fist, and a tingle shot right through\u003cbr\u003ehim. “You must learn to take a joke!”\u003cbr\u003e“What joke?” he scoffed. “Since when is what you did a joke?”\u003cbr\u003e“You mean me telling everyone about the tomatoes?”\u003cbr\u003eHer audacity took his breath away. “You need your panties\u003cbr\u003epulled down and your bottom spanked, young lady!”\u003cbr\u003e“Are you offering?”\u003cbr\u003e“Glenda Koekemoor!”\u003cbr\u003e“But naturally it was a joke,” she went on blithely, taking the\u003cbr\u003ehairpin from his nerveless fingers and trying her luck with the\u003cbr\u003elock. “It wouldn’t have been funny if you was really a dirty old\u003cbr\u003eman, would it? But you’re not—in fact, you’re probably the\u003cbr\u003emost unsexy man in the whole of Trekkersburg.”\u003cbr\u003e“Hey?”\u003cbr\u003e“Do you think anyone would dare to play up to you if you\u003cbr\u003eweren’t—you know, sort of a nice nothing? They’d run a\u003cbr\u003emile first!”\u003cbr\u003e“I—I—”\u003cbr\u003e“My boyfriend could open this easy—he just gives it a boot,\u003cbr\u003eand the thing flies up.”\u003cbr\u003e“I—”\u003cbr\u003e“Mind you, it’s got him in trouble with the cops before!”\u003cbr\u003e“God Almighty,” gasped Droopy, hurt as he’d never been\u003cbr\u003ehurt before, “who are you calling a ‘nice nothing,’ hey? Who\u003cbr\u003eare you to judge a man—?”\u003cbr\u003e“Ah!” Glenda laughed delightedly. “So you’re admitting now\u003cbr\u003ethat there was some guilty feeling in the way you blushed red\u003cbr\u003eas a beetroot?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat did it. Droopy found the No. 8 ring spanner back in his\u003cbr\u003egrasp, and all he wanted to do was hit her and hit her, to hurt\u003cbr\u003eher just as she was hurting him with every lash of her wicked\u003cbr\u003etongue. More than that, he wanted to smash her whole head\u003cbr\u003eto pieces, splattering the brain that could think such things,\u003cbr\u003epenetrate so deeply into him, all over the road.\u003cbr\u003e“Droopy!” cried Glenda, jumping up in alarm.\u003cbr\u003eAnd he struck, delivering a terrible blow to the lock. The\u003cbr\u003eboot of the car sprang open, a frightful smell choked the air,\u003cbr\u003eand there before them lay what was undoubtedly the dirtiest\u003cbr\u003eold man either of them had ever seen. He was covered in mud,\u003cbr\u003eexcrement and blood, and he had his hands tied behind him in\u003cbr\u003ea knot tightened by some hideous strength, for the bones were\u003cbr\u003ebroken. Lastly, he was dead.  \u003cbr\u003eGlenda screamed and screamed and the whole street rushed\u003cbr\u003eto her rescue.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300891480293,"sku":"NP9781616951061","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616951061.jpg?v=1767738416","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-blood-of-an-englishman-isbn-9781616951061","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}