The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe (20 page)

“I'd like to see it,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Charlie led her to the van, followed by Mma Makutsi.

“You see,” he said, pointing to the dent made by Mr. Sengupta's car. “It is not a big thing at all. They will fix it at the panel beaters. I can speak to them—we know them well. They'll give us a special price. They can also fix that dent there, that historical dent.”

Mma Ramotswe reached forward to touch the damaged metal. She had suspected that Charlie was probably minimising the damage, but she realised now that it was not extensive. She had caused many such dents herself on various occasions, some of them quite recent.

“Well,” she said, “it's not too bad.”

Mma Makutsi stepped forward and peered at the damage. “It doesn't look very good to me.” She turned to Charlie. “What speed were you doing?”

Charlie sniffed. “I've told you: the other car didn't stop when he should have. It's not my fault. I wasn't going fast.”

Mma Ramotswe said hurriedly, “It's all right. These things happen. Speak to those people about fixing it.”

Charlie glanced defiantly at Mma Makutsi, who simply shrugged. In normal circumstances, he would have engaged in the argument she seemed determined to have, but he did not want to prolong the discussion in case anybody asked who the other driver was.

They returned to the office, where Mma Ramotswe invited him to sit in the client's chair and give his report on the surveillance.

Charlie took a deep breath as he began his account. “I proceeded to the house of Mr. Sengupta,” he began.

“Proceeded!” exclaimed Mma Makutsi.

Charlie faltered. “That's what people say …”

“Of course they do, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We know what you mean.”

“You went,” said Mma Makutsi. “You mean to say that you went.”

Charlie resumed his report, now pointedly addressing it only to Mma Ramotswe. “I went to the house, Mma Ramotswe. I found a good place to park the van—there is some scrubland, you see, and I was able to park under a tree. It gave me a good view of the house. I sat there for a long time. There was nothing happening in the house. Then a lady came out and stood in the sun for a while. She was breathing, I think. Then she went back in.”

There was a snort from Mma Makutsi. “She was breathing? Are you sure?”

Mma Ramotswe came to Charlie's defence. “I think that Charlie meant she was taking the air.” She paused. “Carry on, Charlie.”

“Then maybe half an hour later, maybe a bit more, the gate opened. A green Mercedes came out, driven by that lady, Miss Rose—the one you told me about. There was another lady in the car with her. I think that must have been the lady you called Mrs.”

Mma Ramotswe urged him on. “And?”

“I got into the van and followed them. I did not get too close, and I do not think they saw me.”

“Where did they go?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“I was getting to that,” said Charlie peevishly. “I am trying to tell this story, but I cannot tell it if I am interrupted all the time.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Carry on, Charlie, we're listening.”

Charlie drew in his breath. “They went round the corner, Mma. Then they went to a street that was not very far away. They drove into a driveway there and the gate closed. That is when the accident happened and I had to return.”

He stopped. He looked down at his hands. Mma Makutsi looked at Mma Ramotswe, who looked at Charlie. In the garage next door,
they heard Fanwell shout something to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni; there was the sound of a car engine being fired, spluttering and then dying. Then silence.

Mma Ramotswe fiddled with her pencil. She had a pad open in front of her, but she had not noted anything down.

Mma Makutsi broke the silence. “Whose house was it?” she asked.

Charlie shrugged. “How can I tell?”

“You ask,” said Mma Makutsi. “You ask somebody. People know. There are no secrets in this town, Charlie.”

Charlie spoke defensively. “I didn't have time to find anybody. I looked but there was nobody.”

Mma Makutsi was about to say something, but Mma Ramotswe stopped her. “Never mind, Charlie,” she said. “At least you saw the house. Now you can take me there and we shall see what we can find out.”

Charlie's reaction was not what Mma Ramotswe had expected. “I don't want to put you to any trouble,” he said quickly.

Mma Ramotswe assured him that it would not be any trouble. “Mma Makutsi can look after the office while we go there,” she said. “We can make enquiries as to who lives in the house. We can easily do that.”

Charlie glanced about him nervously. “I think we should wait,” he muttered. “I should do more observation.”

“Yes, you can certainly do that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But there's no need to wait to find out about the house. We can do that right now.” She rose from her seat, and Charlie also stood up, albeit reluctantly.

Mma Makutsi busied herself with some task at her desk. “I hope you find something out,” she said. “It's always more difficult later on, you know. That's why I always follow through with my enquiries, even if it means I'll be late home as a result …” She left the censure unfinished, indifferent to Charlie's hostile stare.

“Come along now, Charlie,” said Mma Ramotswe breezily. “No time like the present.”

“No,” said Mma Makutsi. “Indeed not.”

MMA RAMOTSWE
tried to make conversation with Charlie as they drove in the tiny white van, but her every effort seemed to be met only with silence, or, at best, with monosyllabic replies. Eventually, when they stopped at a red light, she turned to him and said, “There's something wrong, isn't there, Charlie?”

Charlie hesitated, and for a moment it seemed as if he was going to reply, but then the traffic light changed to green and the moment was lost.

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “You know you can talk to me, Charlie—you know that, don't you?”

He nodded. “I know that, Mma.”

“And you know that however much trouble you're in,” she continued, “I won't shake my finger at you and refuse to hear you out. You know that too?”

“I know that too, Mma.”

“Very well. Now, we're almost there. When we arrive, you show me which way they went.”

Charlie muttered something that she did not catch.

“What was that, Charlie?”

He raised his voice. He sounded peevish now. “I said that I don't think there's much point. Maybe they just went there for tea or something like that. That won't give us any information we don't know.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “But that's where you're wrong, Charlie. In a case like this, where there is no information to begin with, every little fact, no matter how irrelevant it seems, may tell us something important.”

They had reached the Senguptas' road, and rather than turning into it, Mma Ramotswe drove down the adjacent road that Charlie
now pointed out to her. Then at the corner, after a further turn, he told her to stop. “It is along there,” he said. “It is that house there.” Under his breath he added, “I think.” Mma Ramotswe did not hear.

They drove towards the gate Charlie had pointed out. They could see that the garden behind it was large as there were several clumps of trees, including a palm tree, rising above the top of the surrounding high wall. Along the top of this wall was a double row of electrified wire. Mma Ramotswe made a clicking sound with her tongue. “Security,” she said. “Why are all these people so keen on security?”

“Burglars,” said Charlie.

Mma Ramotswe chuckled. “But if you put up an electric fence, then every burglar in town is going to say, ‘That's the house we need to break into—that one with the electric fence. That means there are some very expensive things inside. They will be very well worth stealing.' ”

She peered again at the wall. “I think I know what to do. I shall go and speak to them.”

“You can't, Mma,” Charlie said with concern. “You can't do that. You don't know who they are.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled at him. “Since when have you had to know people to speak to them? This is Botswana, Charlie, and you don't have to know people before you speak to them.”

“But what are you going to say, Mma?”

“I will say that I am looking for my friend who lives near here.”

Charlie thought for a moment. He appeared uncomfortable. “And then when they say they do not know your friend—what then?”

Mma Ramotswe was amused by Charlie's embarrassment. That was a problem of the young, she thought: they were very conservative underneath it all; they were reluctant to stand out in any way.

“We'll see how things go,” she said, her finger poised above the bell set into the wall. “It will be simple, Charlie.”

She pressed the bell, and almost immediately the electric gate
began to open, revealing the paved driveway of the house beyond. Charlie said nervously, “These people are very rich, Mma.”

“Yes, there are some rich people around,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But they are just like us, remember. They have two arms and two legs, same as us.” She paused. “I have never seen a rich person with four arms, Charlie, or two heads. Have you?”

He did not reply.

A woman had appeared on the verandah and was beckoning them to join her. “Up here, Mma,” she shouted. “Come up here.”

They walked up the driveway. As they did so, Charlie glanced through the open garage door to the side of the house. “Look,” he whispered. “That must be the only Porsche in Botswana. Look, Mma Ramotswe!”

“It is just a car, like any other car,” she replied. “Rich cars don't have more than four wheels, do they? And do they have two steering wheels? I don't think so. They are exactly the same as poor cars, Charlie.”

The woman standing on the verandah now greeted them properly, according to custom, and Mma Ramotswe replied in the same way.

The woman looked her up and down. She did not invite her in, but addressed her from where she stood.

“Have you much experience, Mma?” she asked.

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. “Quite a bit, Mma.”

“That's good. And you're in a job at the moment?”

Mma Ramotswe understood. Glancing at Charlie, she saw that he too had realised what was happening. “I am working,” she said.

“Can you cook?” asked the woman.

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I have been working for Mr. Sengupta. Perhaps you know him, Mma.”

The woman frowned. “Sengupta? Sengupta? Who is this Sengupta?”

“He lives a few streets away, Mma. He is an Indian person, and there is his sister, who is called Miss Rose. Do you know her, Mma?”

The woman made an impatient gesture with her hand. “Why are you asking me? I have no idea who these people are. It is not for you to ask me questions, you know.” She looked at Charlie. “And this young man is your son, I take it. There will not be enough room for him, I'm afraid. There is just one room for the maid.”

Mma Ramotswe shifted her weight from one leg to another. She had had enough. “You are a rude lady,” she said.

The woman took a moment to react. Then she shouted angrily, “What did you say, Mma? What did you say to me?”

“I said that you are rude, Mma. And I have not come about a job. You must have been expecting somebody else. I am a detective, if you must know who I am.”

This had an extraordinary effect. The bombastic, arrogant manner disappeared, to be replaced by an air of apprehension. “You …”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I am a detective. But now, Mma, I think I have found out enough.”

The woman reached out to steady herself on one of the verandah pillars. “We have nothing to hide here.” Her voice faltered. “It is all above board. All of it.” She looked about her wildly before continuing, “My husband has a very good lawyer, you know. He will be here soon.”

Mma Ramotswe could have enjoyed herself, but she did not. She turned to Charlie and gestured towards the still-open gate. “I think we should go, Charlie,” she said.

They returned to the van. “I don't think that was the house,” said Mma Ramotswe.

Charlie giggled. “Did you see how she changed? Like that! One minute as bossy as Mma Potokwane herself—sorry, Mma, I know Mma Potokwane is your friend—the next like a naughty child caught doing something wrong.”

“I suspect they have done something wrong,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Many rich people have something to hide, I think. Not all of them, of course—but many.”

Mma Ramotswe asked Charlie whether it was the gate next door that Miss Rose had driven through. He looked down the road. It was because of the accident that he found it hard to remember; everything had happened at once. He tried to reconstruct the sequence of events in his mind. He had turned and had not gone far; the green Mercedes-Benz must have been about three-quarters of the way along this road, and that meant that if it wasn't this gate, it must have been the gate next door, or the one after that. He scratched his head.

“I think that maybe it's the one after that, Mma. I think that might be it.”

Mma Ramotswe started the engine “Well, there is only one way to find out,” she said. “Let's go there.”

She drove the van a few hundred yards further along the road and then parked in the shade of a conveniently placed acacia tree.

“Here we are,” she said. “We can try this place.”

Charlie became anxious again. “But we can't just go in, Mma. What will you say?”

Mma Ramotswe looked at him teasingly. “I shall try something different. I shall ask them whether they have seen a cat.”

“But you haven't got a cat, Mma Ramotswe.”

Mma Ramotswe was enjoying herself. “Well, they don't know that, do they?”

“You cannot lie,” said Charlie. “You told me that yourself. You keep saying it: don't lie.”