{"product_id":"the-sunday-hangman-isbn-9781616951054","title":"The Sunday Hangman","description":"Tollie Erasmus, an unsavory bank robber on the run, is hung from the neck until dead. Unfortunately, execution was administered without the benefit of South African judge or jury. Somewhere there’s a killer who knows far too much about the hangman’s craft, and Lieutenant Tromp Kramer and his Bantu assistant Mickey Zondi must find him before his trail of death continues.\u003cu\u003ePraise for James McClure:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\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—\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Probably one of the best police procedurals published so far in 2012.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Mystery Tribune\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\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.\u003cb\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eTollie Erasmus looked at the room in which he\u003cbr\u003ewas about to die, and saw there the story of his life. Nothing\u003cbr\u003ehad ever turned out quite the way he’d imagined it.\u003cbr\u003e   For once, however, he was very relieved to find this was so.\u003cbr\u003eIn nightmare after nightmare, he had seen himself in a harshly\u003cbr\u003elit execution chamber that had whitewashed walls and high\u003cbr\u003efanlights, a scrubbed wooden floor and a crude beam, a long\u003cbr\u003elever and a thick, bloodstained rope. Whereas, in fact, the\u003cbr\u003echamber was far more like a hospital corner, screened off by\u003cbr\u003egreen curtaining and lit by a warm orange glow; there was a\u003cbr\u003eclinical sparkle to the brass pulley, and the rope was so clean\u003cbr\u003eit must have been specially sterilized, assuring him of a swift,\u003cbr\u003ecertain, scientifically humane end to his days.\u003cbr\u003e   Tollie was thinking very fast, absorbing all this in a twinkling\u003cbr\u003ewhile, on another level, wondering what had happened to\u003cbr\u003eall the in-between bits. He couldn’t remember his arrest, the\u003cbr\u003etrial, or the passing of sentence. It was like coming round in\u003cbr\u003ea dentist’s chair: you knew where you were and why, but you\u003cbr\u003edidn’t want to probe too much for fear of the onrush of pain.\u003cbr\u003e   His other senses were recovering now. He smelled the\u003cbr\u003eprison stink of disinfectant and tasted brandy. In his left hand\u003cbr\u003ewas something squarish. His hand wasn’t visible. None of him\u003cbr\u003ewas visible. He had been rolled up in a sheet so expertly he\u003cbr\u003ecouldn’t move. A sheet wrapped round and round and round,\u003cbr\u003eand pinned neatly down the side with safety pins. He was sitting\u003cbr\u003ein a chair, bound to it by a wide, soft bandage that went\u003cbr\u003eround and round and round.\u003cbr\u003e   This couldn’t be right. Think, Tollie, think fast.\u003cbr\u003e   The shape of the room was wrong. Every weekday morning\u003cbr\u003eat Pretoria Central he’d waited in the soccer yard to be marched\u003cbr\u003eoff to the workshops with the others. Facing him, as he stood\u003cbr\u003ethere, had been two and a half stories of solid wall with only\u003cbr\u003ea fanlight near the top. If you didn’t guess right away that this\u003cbr\u003ewas the gallows building, you soon enough learned, because\u003cbr\u003eon Tuesdays and Thursdays there was often a delay while they\u003cbr\u003efinished nailing down the coffin lids. Inevitably, you came to\u003cbr\u003eknow its dimensions pretty well, and this room just didn’t go\u003cbr\u003ewith them at all. Think faster.\u003cbr\u003e   The pulley for only one rope was another thing—and so was\u003cbr\u003ethe amount of floor space. He knew for a fact that sometimes\u003cbr\u003ethey strung up six kaffirs at once, and no way could six stand\u003cbr\u003eside by side on that area of trap door. Naturally, the warders\u003cbr\u003eliked to exaggerate the figures they dealt with, but he had seen\u003cbr\u003ethe evidence of a multiple hanging with his own eyes. After\u003cbr\u003eleaving the soccer yard, you went up some steps at the side of\u003cbr\u003ethe gallows building and along a passage between the door to\u003cbr\u003ethe laying-out room and the door they brought them out of,\u003cbr\u003eover sawdust sprinkled to keep the drips of blood from sticking\u003cbr\u003eto your feet. And one Thursday morning, after an unusually\u003cbr\u003elong delay, he had actually seen six pairs of soggy khaki shorts\u003cbr\u003ebeing dropped outside the door for collection by the laundry.\u003cbr\u003eHe recalled the warder winking at him, and wiping a hand on\u003cbr\u003ethe wall.\u003cbr\u003e   He had ears as well. He couldn’t hear the sound that never\u003cbr\u003eceased within the walls of Central—except, very abruptly,\u003cbr\u003ewhen the traps went down: the sound of the kaffir condemneds\u003cbr\u003esinging hymns and chanting in the great cell in B2. They always\u003cbr\u003esang even louder before a hanging, making “Abide with Me”\u003cbr\u003elast all night, driving A and B sections crazy, which served the\u003cbr\u003eprivileged bastards right. Although even in C, which was that\u003cbr\u003emuch farther away, they got to you when the lights came on\u003cbr\u003eat five-thirty and there was that final upsurge before the long,\u003cbr\u003eempty silence.\u003cbr\u003e   Fighting to impose his sanity on an insane situation, Tollie\u003cbr\u003eput a simple question to himself: If I’m not in Central, then\u003cbr\u003ewhere the sod am I?\u003cbr\u003e   It wasn’t a dream, and logically he couldn’t be anywhere\u003cbr\u003eelse, despite all the—\u003cbr\u003e   Tollie knew exactly where he was, and just why things\u003cbr\u003ehadn’t matched up to his experience. He had been away from\u003cbr\u003eCentral a good while, and had forgotten the new building\u003cbr\u003efor the condemneds which had been going up on the rise just\u003cbr\u003ebehind it. A really modern place, the papers had said, with\u003cbr\u003eall sorts of up-to-date ideas; the inmates had nicknamed it\u003cbr\u003eBeverly Hills.\u003cbr\u003e   In that same instant, everything slotted into place. The idea\u003cbr\u003eof having one gallows for all races had always surprised him;\u003cbr\u003ethis was the gallows reserved for whites, which explained the\u003cbr\u003ecurtains and the single rope. The constant hymn-singing from\u003cbr\u003eB2, back in the old block, had worked on everyone’s nerves;\u003cbr\u003enow, the kaffirs had been put in a new section that was sensibly\u003cbr\u003esoundproofed. As for the sheet around him, it was an\u003cbr\u003eimprovement on the old straight jacket, which, as the warders\u003cbr\u003ehad often complained, had never worked all that well on the\u003cbr\u003ereally stroppy cases.\u003cbr\u003e   Having resolved the immediate conflicts set up by his awakening\u003cbr\u003ein a room like that, Tollie suddenly realized he’d never\u003cbr\u003ehad a mental blackout before. In fact, he could remember quite\u003cbr\u003edistinctly—\u003cbr\u003e   “Don’t be frightened, son, you won’t feel any pain,” said a\u003cbr\u003edeep voice behind him. “We’re all here and it’s half-past five\u003cbr\u003eon the dot.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn his time, Lieutenant Tromp Kramer of the Trekkersburg\u003cbr\u003eMurder and Robbery Squad had been asked to believe\u003cbr\u003emany things. But when they told him that Tollie Erasmus had\u003cbr\u003ehanged himself, he simply shook his head.\u003cbr\u003e   “See for yourself,” said the new man in Fingerprints, dealing\u003cbr\u003ehim a photograph from the batch in his hand. “I took that myself\u003cbr\u003ethis morning, as you can tell from how nice and clear it is.”\u003cbr\u003eKramer used an apathetic finger to bring the picture round\u003cbr\u003ethe right way up on the bar counter. Sure enough, that was the\u003cbr\u003eface of Tollie Erasmus, all right: a sleekly handsome, pointy\u003cbr\u003eface, with small, close-set eyes; the sort of face a bull terrier\u003cbr\u003ewould have if it were human. A dead face, moreover, and there\u003cbr\u003ewas a rope around the neck.\u003cbr\u003e   “Where?” he murmured, glancing up to see who else had\u003cbr\u003ecome across to the hotel from police headquarters opposite.\u003cbr\u003eHe really should have guessed. Why, it was none other\u003cbr\u003ethan Sergeant Klip Marais, the gladdest bearer of ill tidings in\u003cbr\u003ethe Criminal Investigation Department, and, an obsequious,\u003cbr\u003esometimes quarrelsome, little runt to boot.\u003cbr\u003e   “Lieut Gardiner said to inform you immediately,” explained\u003cbr\u003eMarais, his tone repenting the levity shown by his companion.\u003cbr\u003e“We saw the note you had left in your office for Zondi, and\u003cbr\u003eso. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e   “Where?” Kramer repeated.\u003cbr\u003e   “Ach, upcountry,” said the new man. “They had him unidentified\u003cbr\u003eat Doringboom, and the Lieut sent me to get prints, et\u003cbr\u003ecetera. Then, when I got back just now, the other blokes all recognized\u003cbr\u003ehim straight off, and I was sent to find you in CID.”\u003cbr\u003e   He seemed amused by his present surroundings.\u003cbr\u003e   “So Doringboom is handling this?” Kramer said, pocketing\u003cbr\u003ethe print. “When are they doing the P.M.?”\u003cbr\u003e   “This afternoon, I hear.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Uh huh. The body was found when?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Today.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Where?”\u003cbr\u003e   “In one of those picnic places for cars alongside the national\u003cbr\u003eroad, about twenty kilometers this side of Doringboom. His\u003cbr\u003ecar was there also, a green Ford, and he’d strung himself up\u003cbr\u003eon a thorn tree just by the fence. Some umfaans made a report\u003cbr\u003eto a family that had stopped for breakfast with their caravan.\u003cbr\u003eHe hadn’t been there all that long; only a few hours—or that’s\u003cbr\u003ewhat the doc says.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Doc who?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Don’t ask me—the local district surgeon, whoever he is.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Uh huh.”\u003cbr\u003e   Kramer stared at this new man, and then decided that he was\u003cbr\u003enot going to be an asset to crime detection in the division. Shyness\u003cbr\u003emade some people cocky, and so did being the minimum\u003cbr\u003erequired height of five foot six, but here was an object that\u003cbr\u003ewas neither of those things: if anything, he was almost as tall\u003cbr\u003eas Kramer himself, a lot bulkier, and his swagger showed even\u003cbr\u003ein the way his greasy quiff was combed back.\u003cbr\u003e   It was curious how the unbelievable had this effect, tempting\u003cbr\u003eyou into thinking about petty irrelevancies, while, deep inside,\u003cbr\u003ecertain adjustments were made.\u003cbr\u003e   “Are you offering?” the new man asked, nodding at the drink\u003cbr\u003ein front of Kramer.\u003cbr\u003e   “Why not?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Um—I think I’d best be getting back,” said Marais, edging\u003cbr\u003eaway. “Um—see you, hey?”\u003cbr\u003e   They watched him go.\u003cbr\u003e   “By the way, I’m Klaas Havenga,” the oaf announced, snapping\u003cbr\u003ehis fingers for the Indian barman. “A brandy and orange,\u003cbr\u003eno ice, and the officer here is paying for it.”\u003cbr\u003e   “The same,” Kramer added, noting how automatic his\u003cbr\u003eresponses had become.\u003cbr\u003e   He took out the picture for another look at it.\u003cbr\u003e   “So what’s this all about?” Havenga asked, after using his\u003cbr\u003efirst sip as a mouth rinse. “Marais was trying to tell me as we\u003cbr\u003ecame across, but you know how that bugger talks, nineteen to\u003cbr\u003ethe dozen like a bloody coolie.”\u003cbr\u003e   The barman, a sensitive soul, moved to the far end of the\u003cbr\u003ecounter, taking his newspaper with him. He’d been writing\u003cbr\u003esome interesting names into the crossword when the two jokers\u003cbr\u003ehad arrived, armed with their bombshell.\u003cbr\u003e   “I was looking for him,” said Kramer, feeling nothing as yet.\u003cbr\u003e   “Oh, ja? Is it true he tried to take a pot shot at you once,\u003cbr\u003eonly your boy went and buggered things up?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Three months ago,” Kramer replied, taking some ice\u003cbr\u003efrom the plastic barrel. “We got a late tip-off there could be a\u003cbr\u003eraid up on that rise in Peacevale where there’s a line of Bantu\u003cbr\u003ebusiness premises—ach, you know, along that dirt road that\u003cbr\u003eruns parallel to the dual carriageway. They were trying out\u003cbr\u003ethe idea of a small bank there at the time. Right on noon, our\u003cbr\u003einformant said, but when we rolled up, the bloody thing was\u003cbr\u003ealready in progress.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Yirra!”\u003cbr\u003e   “Not that it looked like it. The people outside didn’t even\u003cbr\u003eknow at that particular moment, he was so quick. They were\u003cbr\u003eused to seeing armed whites going in, carrying the bank’s\u003cbr\u003emoney—and the same went for the bank employees. The stupid\u003cbr\u003ebastards took him right up to the safe and opened it. Anyway,\u003cbr\u003eErasmus comes running out with his gun up before we realized\u003cbr\u003ethe position. Mine was still in under here, so Zondi spins\u003cbr\u003ethe car around, to give me time to draw. As he comes on to\u003cbr\u003eErasmus’s side, he gets a thirty-eight in the leg, straight through\u003cbr\u003ethe bloody door. That was it.”\u003cbr\u003e   “How do you mean?” asked Havenga, frowning.\u003cbr\u003e   “The leg went stiff, onto the accelerator, and we went into\u003cbr\u003ethe front of this fruit shop—glass, grapes, cabbages everywhere.\u003cbr\u003eThe owner was killed outright.”\u003cbr\u003e   Never, so it seemed, had the man heard anything funnier.\u003cbr\u003eKramer smiled indulgently as he came up for air.\u003cbr\u003e   “Jesus Christ! C-c-cabbages everywhere!” Havenga gasped,\u003cbr\u003erejoicing in such a vision. “Man, you’ll have to excuse me a sec.”\u003cbr\u003e   And he used the back of his inky hand to smear the tears\u003cbr\u003efrom his eyes, before beckoning for the barman.\u003cbr\u003e   “Same again,” he ordered. “Only this time I pay.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Like hell,” said Kramer, and the matter rested there.\u003cbr\u003e   While the barman saw to their refills, a bright splash of\u003cbr\u003ereflected light began to flutter across the bottles and glasses\u003cbr\u003eon the shelves behind the counter.\u003cbr\u003e   “Who’s doing that?” muttered some old bugger irritably,\u003cbr\u003efollowing its progress back and forth.\u003cbr\u003e   Nobody could answer him, so he slid off his stool and went\u003cbr\u003eover to the mullioned windows behind them, which gave the\u003cbr\u003ebar its spurious look of a Tudor tavern. But the frosted panes\u003cbr\u003edefeated his attempts to peer through, and he went out onto\u003cbr\u003ethe pavement to do some shouting.\u003cbr\u003e   “So go on,” Havenga invited Kramer, clinking glasses.\u003cbr\u003e“While your boy was making a damn fool of you in all those\u003cbr\u003egrapes and bloody mangoes, Tollie got clean away?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Uh huh.”\u003cbr\u003e   “This is the first time you’ve heard of him since?”\u003cbr\u003e   “The first. His home town was Durban, but he didn’t go\u003cbr\u003eback there. We’ve had a running check going in all the big\u003cbr\u003ecenters—Joey’s, Cape Town, P.E.—without any joy so far.\u003cbr\u003eWhat plates did he have on his car?”\u003cbr\u003e   But Havenga was distracted at that moment by the return\u003cbr\u003eof the old misery from the pavement.\u003cbr\u003e   “Who was it?” asked a visiting farmer, who’d apparently\u003cbr\u003eordered them both fresh lagers in the meantime. “Some kid\u003cbr\u003eleft in—”\u003cbr\u003e   “No, some insolent little black bastard, waggling his tobacco\u003cbr\u003etin or something about over the other side, just grinned at\u003cbr\u003eme—you know the type. Dressed up like a dog’s dinner in a\u003cbr\u003ebloody suit he must have swiped. I don’t know. This for me?\u003cbr\u003eVery good of you, old chap.”\u003cbr\u003e   “If you like, I’ll go and kick his backside,” the farmer offered,\u003cbr\u003ebeing a much younger man.\u003cbr\u003e   “No, no; I’ve sent him packing! Best of health!”\u003cbr\u003eHavenga grinned cynically and turned back to Kramer.\u003cbr\u003e   “Sorry, what was that?”\u003cbr\u003e   “I asked you about his sodding plates.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Ach, I never saw them. Don’t these bloody English kill\u003cbr\u003eyou?”\u003cbr\u003e   The splash of light crossed Havenga’s face even as he spoke,\u003cbr\u003eslipping from it to move like a butterfly from the Oude Meester\u003cbr\u003ebrandy over to the till.\u003cbr\u003e   “What’s he playing at?” exploded the old man, banging down\u003cbr\u003ehis tankard. “Just who the devil does he think he is?”\u003cbr\u003e   Suddenly Kramer came to, and realized he knew the probable\u003cbr\u003eanswers to both those questions. Not only this, but that\u003cbr\u003ehe’d now made his adjustments, and the time had come to\u003cbr\u003eact.\u003cbr\u003e   “Duty calls?” asked Havenga, puzzled to see him rise so\u003cbr\u003epurposefully for no obvious reason.\u003cbr\u003e   “Duty, Sergeant? I came off duty officially at six o’clock this\u003cbr\u003emorning.”\u003cbr\u003e   “But I . . . you mean, Marais. . . ?”\u003cbr\u003e   And the new man in Fingerprints looked at the glass in his\u003cbr\u003ehand, before coming the old comrade with a slightly uneasy\u003cbr\u003elaugh: “You aren’t going to report me, hey, sir?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Naturally,” said Kramer, just for the hell of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOver on the other side of the street, just as he’d supposed,\u003cbr\u003eleaned the jaunty figure of Bantu Detective Sergeant Mickey\u003cbr\u003eZondi, still overcoming his problem of access to the bar with\u003cbr\u003ethe aid of a spare 9mm magazine, angled to catch the sun. An\u003cbr\u003einstant later, however, this had stopped, and the fly little sod\u003cbr\u003ewas on his way across.\u003cbr\u003e   “How goes it, Mickey?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Not so good, boss—and not so bad. I was two hours with\u003cbr\u003eMama Makitini, but she swears to God she never had one drop\u003cbr\u003eof that vodka in her shebeen. Then, by chance, I find Yankee Boy\u003cbr\u003eMsomi round the back of Pillay’s place, and I get a tip for us to\u003cbr\u003ewatch where the Mpendu brothers go tonight, because maybe\u003cbr\u003ethere is a connection. I am sorry you had to wait so long.”\u003cbr\u003e   “That’s okay; just got a bloody gutsful of the office. I’ve\u003cbr\u003ebeen talking.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Who with? The old guy with the fine command of the Zulu\u003cbr\u003elanguage?” Zondi joked, waving a shaky fist. “Only it would be\u003cbr\u003ea kindness to explain to him the difference between bhema and\u003cbr\u003ebhepa. He crudely told me to go and smoke myself.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Hmmm.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Boss?” asked Zondi, quick to match moods.\u003cbr\u003e   “Forget the bloody vodka and the Mpendus. I’m going to\u003cbr\u003ehave a word with the Colonel, while you get the car filled up.\u003cbr\u003eBe in the yard at one.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Where do we go?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Doringboom. A post-mortem in Doringboom.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Hau! This is a murder inquiry?”\u003cbr\u003e   “Well, at the moment,” Kramer said, “that seems to be a\u003cbr\u003ematter of opinion. Here, you tell me what you think.”\u003cbr\u003e   He handed over the photograph.\u003cbr\u003e   Zondi’s fleeting scowl was involuntary. He returned the\u003cbr\u003epicture, gave no sign of what was going through his head, and\u003cbr\u003etook a step away.\u003cbr\u003e   “I get the car, boss.”\u003cbr\u003e   “Fine.”\u003cbr\u003e   Kramer set off in the opposite direction, heading for the\u003cbr\u003eCID building, then side-stepped into the shadow of an offloading\u003cbr\u003eCoke truck. That limp wasn’t getting any better; in\u003cbr\u003efact, when Zondi thought you weren’t looking, it tended to become \u003cbr\u003ea lot worse.","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46305544339685,"sku":"NP9781616951054","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616951054.jpg?v=1767741738","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-sunday-hangman-isbn-9781616951054","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}