In the Company of Cheerful Ladies (24 page)

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message, a careful voice had announced, and in the meantime, my prayers are with you. Mma Makutsi had been momentarily taken by surprise when she heard this message, and she put down the receiver without saying anything. How could his prayers be with her if he did not even know who it was who had called? It would be different, she thought, if he had said that his prayers would be with her in the future, once he had heard that she had called. That, at least, would have been honest. Of course, he was only trying

to be kind—she understood that—but it was important, she felt, that one should always speak the truth, and ministers of religion,

more than others, should understand that.

Mma Makutsi thought about this for a few minutes, and the more she pondered it, the crosser she became. Eventually, picking

up the telephone she dialled the number again and listened, with irritation, to the insincere message. Then, after hearing the tone which indicated that she could leave a message, she spoke. “This is Grace Makutsi of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency here. I am calling you about some important matters. But how can your prayers be with me until you have heard who I am? Should you not say that you will pray for people after you find out who they are? Shouldn’t you do that? Thank you very much, Reverend,

and goodbye.”

She felt better for having struck a blow for truth-telling and accuracy. She would tell Mma Ramotswe about that when she came back with the van; she would approve of it, she imagined, as she was a very truthful woman and did not like people who made false claims. She would certainly approve of this …or would she? Suddenly Mma Makutsi was visited by doubts. It occurred to her now that Mma Ramotswe might think it rather unkind to give a lecture of this sort—and a recorded lecture to boot—to a minister of religion who was only trying to be helpful to the people who telephoned him. Might not Mma Ramotswe

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say something like, “Well, Mma, many of the people who call that man will be troubled in some way. Maybe they will have somebody

who is late and they will be phoning him about that. Maybe that is why he is trying to make them feel better.”

Mma Makutsi thought a little longer and then picked up the telephone and dialled the number again. She had decided to leave another message saying that she had not quite meant what she had said, but this time the telephone was answered by the minister.

For a few moments, Mma Makutsi was unsure what to say, and even considered putting down the receiver, like a child who is caught playing with the telephone.

But better judgement prevailed. “It is Mma Makutsi,” she said. “I left a message a few minutes ago and …”

“I have listened to your message, Mma,” the minister interrupted

her. “And you are right. I was not thinking when I said ‘in the meantime.’ I shall re-record the message and say, ‘When I hear your message, I shall put you in my prayers.’ That is what I shall say.”

Mma Makutsi felt a flush of shame. “I did not mean to be rude,” she said hurriedly.

“I know that,” said the minister. “And you did not sound at all rude. You were very polite about it.”

A short silence ensued before the minister continued. “But you said that you had something to say to me. May I ask what that was?”

Mma Makutsi told him of her business with him, and when she had finished, he said, “What exactly are you asking of me, Mma? Are you asking me to tell you whether any such person, any businessman from Zambia, has spoken to me? Is that what you are asking?”

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “You will know many of your countrymen

down here. They come to ask you for help. I thought that perhaps this man had done that too.”

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The minister was silent. At the other end of the line, sitting at her desk in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, Mma Makutsi watched a small white gecko climb expertly and effortlessly up a wall. The creature’s head moved from side to side as it made its journey, watchful for predators and prey.

Then the minister cleared his throat. “I cannot speak about these things, Mma,” he said, his tone now reproachful. “When people come to me in their sorrow and their difficulties, they do not expect me to talk to other people about that. They do not think that I shall discuss their affairs with the first private detective

who telephones.”

Mma Makutsi felt her embarrassment increase at the rebuke. What would he think of her? Not only had she left an unsolicited

lecture on his answering machine, but now she had quite improperly asked him to disclose a confidence. She would have to apologise and bring the conversation to an end before the reputation,

in his eyes, of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency suffered

even further.

“I am very sorry, Reverend,” she began. “I did not mean …”

“People think,” interrupted the minister, “people think that ministers sit in judgement on them. They think that we sit here and think, now that’s a very bad thing to do, or that’s a very wicked person. But we do not do that, you know. We recognise that all of us are weak and that we all do things that we should not. There is not one of us who is not a sinner, you know. Not one. And so when this poor man came to see me with his troubled

soul, I did not sit here and think you should not have taken that money. I did not think that. Nor did I tell him that he should not go running off to Johannesburg, to his cousin, who works in a big hotel there, as he was intending to do. I did not do that. But I did tell him that he could speak to me in complete confidence and that I would not go to the police. And I have not gone to the

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police, because that would be to break the secrecy of the conversation

that a minister has with one of his flock, whoever he might be. So, you see, Mma, I cannot talk to you about this man. I just cannot do that.”

Mma Makutsi sat bolt upright at her desk. In front of her, on a small piece of paper, she had written the words: Gone to Johannesburg.

Cousin. Hotel.

She smiled to herself. “You have been very kind,” she said to the minister. “I am sorry for asking about these private matters.”

“And I am sorry that I cannot help you,” said the minister.

“But you have been most helpful,” said Mma Makutsi. And with that, the conversation came to an end, as did the case of the missing Zambian financier. The problem could now be passed on to somebody else, but passed on in a useful way, and with some positive information attached to it. Their quarry was now in Johannesburg, which was a very large place, of course, but there were not all that many big hotels there, and now those who were after this man would know precisely where to start looking.

They had enough information now to report back to the attorneys,

and to do so with their heads held high. Their report would be well worth their fee, she thought; and from her point of view, she was eagerly awaiting the chance to tell Mma Ramotswe about what she had discovered. It was always satisfying to be able to make a positive report.

When she heard the truck come back, she got up from her desk and went outside. She had expected, of course, to see Mma Ramotswe’s van ignominiously tied to the truck with a tow-rope, and was dismayed when she saw only the truck and a disconsolate-looking Mma Ramotswe getting out of the passenger seat.

Mma Ramotswe told her what had happened, and Mma Makutsi let out a wail of sorrow, for a moment quite forgetting the good news which she had intended to welcome her back.

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“Ow, Mma!” she cried. “Your van! They have stolen your van! Ow!”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stood back from the two women, looking miserable. He tried to calm them, saying, “We will find another van. There are many vans …,” only to be hushed by Mma Makutsi, who felt that this was not the moment for sensible male advice.

Later, when she and Mma Ramotswe were sitting down together in their office for a quickly brewed cup of bush tea— which Mma Makutsi had now decided that she liked—it was Mma Ramotswe who set out to calm her assistant.

“I suppose that it had to go sometime,” she said. “Mr J.L.B. Matekoni has often said that cars and vans do not last forever. We have to face that. And he’s right, isn’t he?”

Mma Makutsi had to admit that this was so. But that did not make this monstrous misfortune any easier to bear. “You are being very calm about it. I would be very angry if this had happened to me.”

“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe, “I have felt that anger. I felt it when I saw that the van had gone. I felt it a bit in the truck on the way back. But what is the point of anger now, Mma? I don’t think that anger will help us.”

Mma Makutsi sighed. “You are right about anger,” she said. “There is no point in it.”

“So tell me what has been happening here,” said Mma Ramotswe.

At this invitation, Mma Makutsi sat up in her chair and grinned. At least here was something to make up, even in small part, for the news of the van. “I have solved a case,” she said modestly.

“That Zambian …”

Mma Ramotswe let out a cry of delight. “You’ve found him? Where is he?”

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Mma Makutsi held up a hand. “Not exactly found him,” she said. “But I’ve found out that he’s no longer here. He’s in Johannesburg.”

She explained to Mma Ramotswe about the telephone call to the minister and about his inadvertent disclosure of the whereabouts

of their quarry.

“You assume that it was inadvertent,” corrected Mma Ramotswe.

“But I rather think that the minister may have known exactly what he was saying. He did know that you were looking for somebody who had probably stolen a very large amount of other people’s money? He did know that?”

“He did,” said Mma Makutsi. “He knew all about that.”

“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe, “I think that this minister is not as stupid as you think he is. It sounds to me as if he was looking for a way of telling you something without running up problems with his own conscience. He knew that he should not break any confidences, but if he could do it indirectly, as he obviously has done, then perhaps he would not feel so bad about it.”

“But is that the way that ministers think?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“It certainly is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “One thing I have learned in this job is that everybody, even ministers, find ways of telling you things that they feel they should not tell you directly. And in the case of this minister, he probably thinks that it would be a very good thing for somebody to catch up with this man. So he has told you all that he knew, but he has done it in a special, roundabout way.”

Mma Makutsi was thoughtful. “So, what should we do now, Mma? Is that enough?”

“What would Clovis Andersen suggest?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi looked at the well-thumbed copy of The Principles

of Private Detection. She had never actually read the book

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from cover to cover, although she knew that one day she should do this.

“He would say that you should always remember when to stop asking questions,” she ventured. “I think he says that, doesn’t he?”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Mma Ramotswe, adding, “I don’t think we even need that book any more. I think we know enough to start writing our own book, Mma. Do you agree?”

“I do,” said Mma Makutsi. “Private Detection for Ladies by Precious Ramotswe and Grace Makutsi. I can see that book already.”

“So can I,” said Mma Ramotswe, taking a further sip of her tea. “It will be a very good book, Mma. I am sure of that.”

TO REWARD MMA MAKUTSI for her success, Mma Ramotswe gave her the rest of the day off.

“You have worked very hard,” she said to her assistant. “Now you can go and spend the bonus I am going to give you.”

Mma Makutsi could not hide her surprise. No mention had ever been made of bonuses, but she had heard people who worked for large companies talk about them.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe, smiling, and reaching for the cash box which she kept in the top drawer of her desk. “We shall get a very good fee for this Zambian work. I think that it will be about ten thousand pula altogether.” She paused, watching the effect of her words on Mma Makutsi. “So your bonus will be twenty-five per cent of that, which is …”

“Two thousand five hundred pula,” said Mma Makutsi quickly.

“That much?” said Mma Ramotswe absent-mindedly. “Well, yes, I suppose it will be two thousand five hundred pula. Of course you’ll have to wait until we’re paid before you get all of that, but here is five hundred pula to be going on with.”

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Mma Makutsi accepted the notes gratefully and tucked them into the top of her blouse. She had already decided what she would do with her bonus, or this portion of it, and it seemed to her that this was exactly the time to do it. She looked down at her shoes, her work shoes, and shook a finger at them.

“More new shoes?” asked Mma Ramotswe, smiling.

“Yes,” said Mma Makutsi. “New shoes and some new handkerchiefs.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded her approval. The tiny white van had crossed her mind again, and the thought threatened to darken the mood of joy. But she said nothing to Mma Makutsi, who was now preparing to leave the office and catch a minibus to the shops. She deserves this happiness, thought Mma Ramotswe.

She has had so many years in which there has been little for her. Now with her typing school and her new house, and this bonus of course, her life must be taking a marked turn for the better. Perhaps she would find a man too, although that might be too much to ask for at the moment. Still, it would be good for her to find a nice man, if there were any left, which was a matter about which Mma Ramotswe was beginning to feel some doubt. The tiny white van would not have been stolen by a woman, would it? That would have been a man. And this dishonest Zambian

financier—he was a man too, was he not? Men had a lot to answer for, she thought; except for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, of course, and Mr Polopetsi, and her late father. So there were good men around, if one looked hard enough. But where, she wondered,