In the Company of Cheerful Ladies (7 page)

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bad men. But there are also men who are there because of other

things that they did.”

They waited for him to continue, but he did not.

“So,” said Mma Ramotswe. “What did you do, Rra? Why did they send you to prison?”

Mr Polopetsi looked at his hands. “I was sent to prison because of an accident.”

Mma Makutsi turned to look at him. “An accident? They sent you instead of somebody else?”

“No,” said the man. “I was sent to prison because there was an accident while I was in charge of something. It was my fault, and a person was killed. It was an accident, but they said that it would not have happened had I been more careful.”

They were nearing Tlokweng now, and Mma Ramotswe had to ask for directions to the man’s house. He pointed to a dusty side-road, not much more than a bumpy track, and she drove the tiny white van down that, trying to avoid the larger holes in the ground. If there was a grader in Tlokweng, then it must rarely have bothered to come this way.

“Our road is not very good,” said Mr Polopetsi. “When it rains all these holes fill up with water and you can go fishing if you like.”

Mma Makutsi laughed. “I have lived along a road like this in the past,” she said. “I know what it is like.”

“Yes,” said Mr Polopetsi. “It is not easy.” He stopped, and pointed at a house a short way down the road. “That is my place.”

It was a simple, two-room house, and Mma Ramotswe could see that it was in need of painting; the lower part of the outside walls was specked with dried red mud, which had been splashed up at the last rains. The yard, which was small, was well-swept, which suggested that there was a conscientious woman in charge of it, and there was a small chicken coop to one side, again well-kept.

“This is a very tidy place,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is good to see a place that is well-kept, as this one is.”

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“It is my wife,” said Mr Polopetsi. “She is the one who keeps this place so clean.”

“You must be proud of her, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi.

“And she must be proud of you,” said Mma Ramotswe.

There was silence for a moment. Then Mr Polopetsi spoke. “Why do you say that, Mma?” he asked.

“Because you are a good man,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “That is why I said that. You may have been in prison for two years, but I can tell that you are a good man.”

THEY LEFT Mr Polopetsi in his house and drove back down the pothole-ridden road. The bicycle was still in the back of the tiny white van and Mma Ramotswe had agreed with Mr Polopetsi that she would take it to be fixed the following day and bring it out to him when it was ready. As he had stepped out of the van, she had offered him money to compensate him for the accident, but he had shaken his head.

“I can tell when something is an accident,” he said. “And people are not to blame for accidents. I know that.”

She had not pressed the matter. This man had his pride, and it would have been rude for her to persist. So they agreed about the bicycle and left him outside his house. They were largely silent as they drove back. Mma Ramotswe was thinking of Mr Polopetsi, and his house, and the humiliation that he had suffered

in his life. That must have been why he was in tears after the accident; it was just one more thing that he had to bear. Of course they had heard only his side of the story of the prison sentence.

Surely people were not sent to prison in Botswana for nothing? She knew that they could be proud of their system of justice—of their judges who would not kow-tow to anybody, who were not afraid of criticising the Government. There were so

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many countries where this was not so, where the judges were browbeaten or chosen from amongst the ranks of the party faithful,

but this had never been the case in Botswana. So surely these judges would never have sent a man to prison unless he deserved punishment?

Mma Makutsi was anxious about being late for the typing class she was due to give at seven o’clock, and so they did not linger on their way back, although they did go slightly out of their way in order to drive past Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s house—or, rather, the house which belonged to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni but which was now occupied by a tenant. The silver Mercedes-Benz was still there.

“Does she live in that house?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Did Mr

J.L.B. Matekoni let the house to a woman?”

“No,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He let it out—without first asking

me, mind you—to a man whose car he used to fix. He does not know him very well, but he said that he always used to pay his bills.”

“It is very strange,” said Mma Makutsi. “We will have to find out more about this.”

“We certainly shall,” agreed Mma Ramotswe. “There are many mysteries developing in our lives, Mma Makutsi, what with these rich ladies in silver cars, bicycles, pumpkins, and all the rest, and we shall have to sort them all out.”

Mma Makutsi looked puzzled. “Pumpkins?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “There is a pumpkin mystery, but we do not have time to talk about it now. I shall tell you about it some other time.”

THAT EVENING Mma Makutsi could not get pumpkins out of her mind, and it was one of the words which she got the typing class to type. She held these classes several times a week in a

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church hall that she rented for the purpose. The Kalahari Typing School for Men, which admitted only men, was based on the supposition that men usually cannot type very well but are afraid to admit this fact. And while it would be perfectly possible for them to register for any of the part-time courses provided by the Botswana Secretarial College, they tended not to do this for reasons

of shame. Men would not wish to be outstripped by women in typing, which would be sure to happen. So Mma Makutsi’s discreet

classes had proved very popular.

She stood now before a class of fifteen men, all eager students

of the art of typing, and all making good progress, although at different rates. This class had worked on finger position, had worked its way through the simple words which start every typing career (hat, cat, rat, and the like), and was now ready for more advanced tasks.

“Pumpkin,” Mma Makutsi called out, and the keys immediately

began to clatter. But she had something to add: “Do not leave out the p. That is very important.”

A number of the keys stopped, and then started afresh, on a new line.

MMA RAMOTSWE had intended to ask Mr J.L.B. Matekoni about his new tenant that evening, but it was busy at home, with the children making demands to be taken here and there and Rose staying late to talk to her about her sick child. So by the time that nine o’clock arrived, and the pots and pans had been washed in the kitchen, and sandwiches made and wrapped up for the children to take to school the next day, Mma Ramotswe was too tired to start a new conversation, particularly one which might prove awkward for Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. So they both retired to bed, where she read a magazine for a few minutes before drowsiness forced her to abandon her reading and she switched off the light.

So it was not until the next morning when Mr J.L.B. Matekoni came into the office for his mid-morning cup of tea, that she was able to raise the subject of what she and Mma Makutsi had seen the previous evening. She had told him about the accident, of course, and he had told the apprentices to fix the bicycle that morning.

Mma Ramotswe had expressed doubts about their abilities to fix it properly. “They are very rough with machinery,” she said.

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“You’ve told me that yourself. And we’ve all seen it. I don’t want them to make that poor man’s bicycle worse.”

“It is only a bicycle,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, reassuringly. “It’s not a Mercedes-Benz.”

Now the topic of Mercedes-Benzes came up again, as she passed Mr J.L.B. Matekoni his brimming mug of bush tea.

“Mma Makutsi and I saw a Mercedes-Benz yesterday,” she began, glancing at Mma Makutsi for confirmation. “It stopped right outside this place.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, in a tone which suggested that he was not very interested. “There are many Mercedes-Benzes these days. You see them all the time. What sort was it?”

“It was silver,” offered Mma Makutsi.

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “That is its colour. There are silver

Toyotas too. Many cars are silver. I meant what model was it?”

“It was a Mercedes E class,” said Mma Ramotswe.

This remark made Mma Makutsi look up in astonishment, and then look down in shame. Of course that was exactly the sort of detail which a detective should spot, and which Mma Ramotswe had indeed noted. Whereas she, Mma Makutsi, a mere assistant detective, had noticed nothing other than the colour.

“A good car,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “Not that I would ever spend that much money—even if I had that much—on a car like that. There must be a lot of rich people around.”

“I think that the driver was a rich lady,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that she is a rich lady who is seeing Charlie out there. Yes. I believe that.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni stared down into his tea. He did not like to think of the private life of his apprentices, largely because he imagined that it would be distasteful in the extreme. It would all be girls, he thought, because that is all they had in their minds. Just girls. So he said nothing, and Mma Ramotswe continued.

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“Yes. Mma Makutsi and I saw Charlie getting into this Mercedes-Benz with the rich lady who was driving it and then they drove off.”

She waited for a reaction from Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, but he merely continued to drink his tea.

“So,” she went on, “they drove off towards the old airfield and then they went to a house.” She paused before adding, “Your house, in fact.”

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni put down his mug of tea. “My house?”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “They went into your house, and that is what made me swerve and make that poor man fall off his bicycle. If it had not been your house, I would not have been so surprised and would not have swerved.”

“And they stayed there for some time,” said Mma Makutsi. “I think they were visiting the people who live there now, whoever they are.”

“That could be true,” said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. “The people who live in my house will have friends, no doubt. Perhaps this lady with the Mercedes-Benz is a friend of those people.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that this was a possibility. But the apprentices were always happy to gossip, and if they were mixing socially with Mr J.L.B. Matekoni’s tenants they might well have been expected to mention the fact, surely?

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni now shrugged. “It is Charlie’s affair,” he said. “If he is going round with this woman in his own time, then that is his business. I cannot stop those young men from having girlfriends. That is not my job. My job is to teach them to work on engines, and that is difficult enough. If I had to teach them about looking after themselves once they leave the garage, then…” He spread his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, who asked, “Who is your tenant, Rra?”

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“His name is Ofentse Makola,” he said. “I do not know much about him, but he has been paying his rent very regularly every month. He has never been late with it—not once.”

Mma Ramotswe caught Mma Makutsi’s eye, signalling to her that they should bring this discussion to an end. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked a little bit awkward, she thought, and it would be best not to press him at this stage. Besides, she wanted to find out who owned the silver Mercedes, and this would require his co-operation. If he thought that the two of them were up to something, then he might decline to help. So there should be no more talk of Charlie’s exploits for the time being.

After Mr J.L.B. Matekoni had returned to work, Mma Ramotswe busied herself with some telephone calls before she turned to Mma Makutsi and asked her directly what she thought they should do.

“Should we bother to find out anything about this woman?” she asked. “Is it really any of our business?”

Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. “Charlie is a young man,” she said. “He is responsible for himself. We cannot tell him what to do.”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that this was true, but then, she asked, what should one do if, as an older person, one saw a younger person about to make a bad mistake, or do something wrong. Did one have the right to say anything? Or did one just have to stand by and let matters take their own course?

Mma Makutsi considered this for a moment. “If I was about to do something foolish—really foolish—would you tell me, Mma?”

“I would tell you,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I would tell you and hope that you would not do it.”

“So should we tell Charlie to be careful? Is that what we should do?”

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Mma Ramotswe very much doubted whether Charlie would take advice when it came to the matter of a woman, but thought that perhaps they might try. “We could try talking to him about it,” she said. “But we don’t really have much to go on, do we? We don’t know anything about this woman, other than that she has a Mercedes-Benz. That is not enough to go on. You can’t warn somebody if you know only that. You can’t say: Have nothing to do with ladies who drive Mercedes-Benzes! You can’t say that, can you, Mma?”

“Some people would say that,” suggested Mma Makutsi, mischievously.

“But I think we need to know a little bit more,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Then ask him. Isn’t that the way we work in the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency? Don’t we just ask people if we want to find out something?”

Mma Ramotswe had to agree that this was true. If she ever wrote a book like The Principles of Private Detection, she would add to what Clovis Andersen had to say. He suggested all sorts of clever ways of finding out facts—following people, looking at what they threw away in the bin, watching the sort of people they mixed with, and so on—but he did not say anything about asking them to their faces. That was often the best way of getting information,

and in her book, if she ever wrote it (Private Detection for Ladies might be a good title), she would make much of this direct method. After all, this technique had served her well in many of her cases, and perhaps this was another occasion on which it might be used.