The Colors of All the Cattle

by Alexander McCall Smith

  The disclosure worried Mma Ramotswe. Charlie was keen to learn the art of detection, but could he be trusted to adhere to proper procedures? She had entertained doubts about that, and now here he was more or less confessing to having threatened a contact. She would have to sit down with him one day and give him some basic lessons in the ethics of the profession, as set out by Clovis Andersen in that superlative first chapter of The Principles of Private Detection. That chapter, entitled “Behaving Properly,” laid out the basis of professional ethics in investigation. And it almost went without saying—Clovis Andersen did actually say it, though—that one should never use threats or violence. It might be tempting, Clovis Andersen admitted, to lean on a recalcitrant source or a witness, but you never do that because, as he so succinctly put it, “leaning on somebody can very quickly become pushing somebody, or even twisting somebody’s arm behind his back.” That would not do, he said, because evidence obtained in that way was forever tainted. And at this point Clovis Andersen had even quoted Shakespeare, and the anguished attempts of Lady Macbeth to cleanse the blood from her sullied hands. Mma Ramotswe knew about Shakespeare, of course, and somebody had once mentioned Macbeth to her, but she had not encountered before the image of somebody wishing away a taint quite so strongly. Clovis Andersen, she thought, was a whole education as well as being a practical manual.

  Looking at Charlie with a certain seriousness, she now asked him directly whether he had threatened Eddie. “Because you must never, never do that, Charlie. It is what we call unethical. That means you must not do it.”

  Charlie seemed unmoved. “I didn’t threaten him,” he said. “I just reminded him. There is a difference between threatening and reminding, Mma—even I can tell that.”

  “So what did you remind him of?” she asked.

  Charlie grinned. “Eddie is one for the ladies,” he said. “I know you don’t approve of that sort of thing, Mma, you being a lady…But there are some men who are called ladies’ men, Mma. They are ones who like many pretty ladies and like to have them as their friends.”

  Mma Ramotswe resisted the temptation to laugh. Charlie could have been describing himself.

  “So,” Charlie went on, “old Giraffe was seeing this girl a long time ago. This is years I’m talking about, Mma. She liked him, I think, because he was so tall. There are some girls who think that tall men are attractive. They like them. I have seen it happen, Mma Ramotswe—I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

  “Anyway, Giraffe was seeing this girl, and I’m sorry to say that one day she came to him and said, Eddie, I’m going to have a baby. He was very upset about this, Mma—very upset.”

  “I’m not surprised, Charlie. A baby is a big commitment, and if you’re one for the ladies, as you say Eddie was, you may not be thinking of marriage and babies and commitments in general.”

  “Oh boy,” exclaimed Charlie. “Eddie was certainly not thinking of commitments.”

  She waited for the tale to unfold. It was not going to end well, she imagined.

  “Her father was not happy,” Charlie continued. “He was a big man in the ostrich business. He had an ostrich farm with hundreds of ostriches. You should see those places, Mma—all those stupid birds running around in circles. Ow!

  “He didn’t like the thought of his daughter not being married and having a baby. So he sent a message to Eddie that he should get married quickly—in one week’s time, I think he said—or he might find himself dumped in the middle of a whole lot of ostriches. Now, Mma, you may not know how dangerous those birds are. Some people think they’re just like chickens and chickens can’t harm you. Big mistake, Mma. An ostrich has a big claw where its toes should be, and if it kicks you with that, it can split you in two. I’m not making this up, Mma Ramotswe—those birds are bad news.

  “The trouble was that Eddie was not ready to commit. That’s what he said to me, Mma. He said, I’m not ready to commit. So he came to see me and asked me if he could stay at my place until the heat died down. I said yes, and then straightaway thought better of it. Those ostrich people traced him and they came to talk to me at the garage. Eddie had told me to tell them that he had gone to South Africa and that I wasn’t sure exactly where, but it was down near Durban somewhere. He gave me a story to tell them, which was that he had a cousin down there who was a big man with the Zulus. You don’t mess about with the Zulus, Mma Ramotswe—try that and you’ll regret it big time. I gave them this story and added a few details. I said that the cousin down there was a senior gangster who ran twelve shebeens in Durban and Pietermaritzburg. I said that Eddie had gone to work in one of the shebeens, but that I didn’t know which one it was.

  “That stopped them, Mma. They looked cross and went off. I think they knew they wouldn’t be able to chase after him there, what with all those Zulus and the cousin being a gangster and so on. So they went back and told that girl’s father, and he found another husband for her instead of Eddie.

  “Now I can see you looking at me, Mma Ramotswe, as if you’re thinking—Charlie is a big liar who told lies to those men to save Eddie. But I think I did the right thing there: they would have forced him to marry somebody he didn’t want to marry, and that would not have been good for anybody, would it, Mma? So it was the right thing to do, I think.”

  His story finished, Charlie looked defiantly at Mma Ramotswe. She did not upbraid him, but simply said, “I wasn’t thinking that, Charlie. I was wondering, though, what you reminded Eddie of the other day.”

  Charlie looked pleased with himself. “I just reminded him, Mma. I reminded him of what I had done for him and also…” He hesitated; he had now noticed Mma Ramotswe’s expression. “Also, I wanted him to think about what would happen if I went to that girl’s father and told her that Eddie wasn’t down in Durban, but was in Mochudi. I think he might still have something to say to Eddie—if he knew where he was.”

  Mma Ramotswe stared at the floor in silence. Watching her, Charlie shifted in his seat. “You do know that what you have done is blackmail, Charlie,” she said. “You do know that?”

  Charlie looked at his hands. “I do not see what is wrong with that, Mma.” He looked up again. “Think of Dr. Marang, Mma. Just think of him. I am just trying to help that old man. That is why I had to…to remind Eddie.” He watched for signs of her being persuaded, but she was still gazing down at the floor. Charlie persisted. “And remember, Mma, Eddie is a no-good sort of person. He is very selfish—and he does not treat women well. I can tell you that, in confidence, Mma. Ladies need to look out when Eddie is about.”

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. “All right, Charlie. I will not mention it again. But please be careful—and never, never think that you are justified in doing something wrong just because you are trying to do something right.”

  Charlie was pleased to have been let off. Sometimes he felt that Mma Ramotswe could make you feel bad just by looking at you; she did not have to say anything, she just looked, and her look was impossible to ignore, because it said so much without actually saying anything. “So you see, Mma,” he concluded breezily, “that is why I am so sure that I shall hear something from Eddie. I am one hundred per cent sure, Mma, that he will come and tell me who was driving that car on the day that poor Dr. Marang was knocked over.”

  Mma Ramotswe said that she hoped for the same thing, even if she still felt that Eddie might not call back. “I hope he does, though,” she said, “because I’m afraid I don’t have any ideas at all as to how we can take that particular investigation any further. You don’t have any ideas, do you, Charlie?”

  “I do not,” he said.

  * * *

  —

  CHARLIE WAS PROVED RIGHT rather sooner than he had expected. The next morning, when he was working in the garage with Fanwell and Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, a red car, throaty in its exhaust, drew up at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors. The arrival of this car was noticed by Mma Makutsi through her
window in the office, and she drew Mma Ramotswe’s attention to it.

  “Are you expecting anybody in a noisy red car, Mma Ramotswe?” she asked.

  Mma Ramotswe barely glanced up from the file before her on the desk. “I do not know anybody who drives a noisy red car,” she replied. “Cars like that are just for young men—they are never for ladies. It will be somebody for the garage, I think.”

  Mma Makutsi got up from her chair to get a better view. “It’s a very tall young man,” she said. “He’s getting out. Very tall.”

  Mma Ramotswe looked up. Very tall? And then she remembered: Giraffe.

  “And now Charlie is going out to see him,” reported Mma Makutsi. “Charlie is wiping the grease off his hands. They are greeting one another.”

  “I think I know who that is,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is the young man from Mochudi. Charlie spoke to him the other day about that Marang business and—”

  Mma Makutsi interrupted her. “Now he’s saying something to Charlie. He’s pointing his finger at him. He has some sort of message, I think.” She paused. “Now Charlie is taking a step back. I don’t think he’s happy.”

  And in that respect, Mma Makutsi was right. Eddie had brushed aside Charlie’s greeting and had gone straight to the point.

  “That thing you asked me to do, Charlie,” he said. “I’ve done it.”

  Charlie was casual. “Oh, yes? And?”

  Now came the pointing of the finger. Eddie raised his voice. “You’re not going to like this, Charlie.”

  Charlie said nothing.

  “You see, I found out something about a car that needed a repair.”

  Charlie nodded. “That’s good, Eddie. Now all you need—”

  He did not finish. Again, the finger jabbed against his chest. “I don’t need anything, Charlie. You’re the one who needs to do something. You need to be very careful.”

  Charlie took a step back. “You found out who it was?”

  “No,” said Eddie. “All I did was find somebody who knows somebody. That other somebody is the person who has the car. I don’t know who he is, but I do know somebody who knows that.”

  “Couldn’t you—”

  Eddie cut him off. “No, I can’t. This person who knows this other person won’t tell me who he is. But he did tell me something, and that’s the bit you’re not going to like.”

  Charlie looked about him nervously. From within the garage, Fanwell was watching him, but, even so, even here in these familiar surroundings, in broad daylight, he felt afraid.

  “What won’t I like?” He tried to sound firm, but his voice trembled.

  “You won’t like this one little bit,” Eddie said. “That person—the person with the car—said to the other person—the person I know—that the owner of that car does not want you sniffing around. He said, and I quote him directly; he said: You tell that guy that if anything happens to me, he’s meat for the hyenas. That’s what he said, Charlie—and, in case you haven’t got it, I think he means you.”

  Charlie thought quickly. “But how does he know that I’ve been asking?”

  Eddie replied quickly. “Because I told my friend. He asked me, and I had to tell him. It would be rude not to.” This was delivered with a smirk, and Charlie did not respond.

  “So,” Eddie continued, “if I were you, I’d be very worried.”

  Charlie looked over his shoulder, as if for support from within. Three pairs of eyes were on him now, in witness of this encounter: Mma Makutsi’s, Mma Ramotswe’s, and Fanwell’s. Only Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, engaged in a tricky repair of a wheel bearing, failed to observe what was going on.

  Eddie turned back towards his car. “Don’t follow a regular routine, Charlie,” he said. “Be careful of your movements. Okay?”

  And with that Eddie left.

  “See that?” said Mma Makutsi. “That tall young man has just threatened Charlie.”

  Mma Ramotswe returned to her desk. “Call him in, Mma. I think Charlie is going to need a bit of advice.”

  They brought Charlie in. He looked preoccupied, perhaps even shaken, but when Mma Ramotswe asked him what Eddie had said, he replied that he had merely come to report that he had found nothing. They asked him if he was sure, and he gave the same answer. Then, claiming that he had some chore to perform in the garage, he walked out of the office.

  “Charlie’s hiding something,” said Mma Makutsi. “You can always tell.”

  Mma Ramotswe did not disagree. “There is something wrong,” she said. Life at the moment, she felt, was becoming a bit too complicated. Threats, campaigns, disagreements over hotels—this was not how Botswana should be.

  Mma Makutsi looked at her watch. “Tea time,” she announced.

  Tea, thought Mma Ramotswe—no matter what was happening, no matter how difficult things became, there was always the tea break—that still moment, that unchangeable ritual, that survived everything, made normal the abnormal, renewed one’s ability to cope with whatever the world laid before one. Tea.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ME? A DETECTIVE? HA!

  “GOBE MORUTI,” muttered Mma Makutsi under her breath. And then repeated, “Gobe Moruti.”

  Charlie was at the wheel of Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van and Mma Makutsi was in the passenger seat beside him. Mma Makutsi had asked him to drive her to the offices of the Big Fun Hotel developers; although she now had a driving licence, she did not like coping with the traffic and, in particular, with the rudeness of other drivers.

  “There are some very rude people on the roads,” she had once observed to Mma Ramotswe. And then, developing the theme, had remarked on how strange it was that people should seem to change their personalities once behind the wheel of a car. “Many people are quite polite when on their feet, you know. But then they get into the car and they become very hostile if you make a small mistake.”

  Mma Ramotswe agreed. She had made a similar observation to Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni after she had incurred the wrath of another driver for simply changing lanes on the Francistown Road. “All I did,” she said, “was change my mind. People should be allowed to change their minds, Rra, don’t you think?”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was cautious. “Yes, in general, Mma, but…” He thought of exceptions. A pilot should not really change his mind about landing once the aircraft wheels were almost on the runway; a surgeon should not change his mind too lightly once he had made the first incision; and a driver…well, there were circumstances in which you should be very careful about changing lanes.

  “You see,” continued Mma Ramotswe, “you may be driving to one place and then you remember that you need to go to another place. That happens all the time, I think. You are driving to one shop and you think, Oh, my goodness, I need to get to that other shop because I have to buy eggs or potatoes or whatever.”

  “Yes…but sometimes it’s better, isn’t it, to decide in advance where you want to go.”

  Mma Ramotswe considered this, but only briefly. “You cannot run your life on that basis, Rra,” she replied. “The problem is that thoughts don’t come into your head in alphabetical order.” She paused, and thought of something that made her smile. “That may happen if you’re Mma Makutsi and you’re filing something. I think that Mma Makutsi may sometimes think alphabetically. It may be deeply ingrained if you have graduated from the Botswana Secretarial College.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni grinned. “Possibly, Mma, possibly.”

  “But as far as the rest of us are concerned,” Mma Ramotswe concluded, “we can be thinking of one thing and then another thought comes along because that first thought has made you think it.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni returned to the incident. “This other driver, Mma? What did he do?”

  “He shouted at me,” she said. “He wound down his window and he shouted out something very unkind.”

&nb
sp; Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni shook his head. “It’s very sad when drivers do that. We are all brothers and sisters when we are on the road. There is no excuse for that sort of thing.” He was silent for a few moments. The world had changed; even Botswana had changed—a bit. Now everybody was in such a hurry, desperate to get things done in double-quick time, determined to get to their destination as quickly as they possibly could, too busy to allow other people to get there too. But now, in spite of his disapproval, he asked, “What was it that he said, Mma?” Adding, hurriedly, “But don’t tell me if he used bad language. I do not want to hear bad language.”

  Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “He did not use bad language. He shouted, Even a chicken knows where it’s going when it crosses the road!”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni frowned. “What is it they say about chickens crossing the road, Mma? I remember when I was a boy they said something about that. Why did the chicken cross the road? Isn’t that what they said?”

  She remembered too. “We thought it very funny, Rra. We asked our friends, Why did the chicken cross the road? And then, when they couldn’t answer, we said, To get to the other side. And then we laughed a lot.”

  Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni smiled. “And if you were a boy, and you asked your friend a riddle he couldn’t answer, you could punch him on the arm.”

  “I remember seeing that,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I remember seeing boys in the playground punching one another. They did it all the time.”

  “And kicking too,” Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni added. “Boys liked to kick one another—and I think they still do. Do you remember when Charlie put that notice on Fanwell’s back? When they were junior apprentices? Remember?”

  Mma Ramotswe laughed. “I will not forget that, Rra. Mma Makutsi was so cross because he kicked poor Fanwell when he was looking for something in the office. He’d stuck a piece of paper on his back saying Kick Me.”