The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café (No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency)

by Alexander McCall Smith

  No, Charlie and Mma Makutsi were two peas in a pod. What did people say? Put two cats in a box and they will fight? It was probably true, as so many of these popular sayings were.

  Now she made an effort to smile at Charlie. ‘I am sure that you know a lot about women, Charlie, but now is not the time to talk about what you know —’

  ‘Or what you don’t know,’ interjected Mma Makutsi, adding, ‘And that will be quite a lot, I think.’

  Mma Ramotswe made an effort to reassert control of the conversation. ‘If you are to be a detective, Charlie, it is important to listen.’

  ‘I am listening,’ said Charlie. ‘That is what I am doing – I am sitting here and listening to you.’

  ‘Good. Well, there is a very unfortunate woman who does not know who she is.’

  Charlie frowned. ‘Then her friends can tell her. If I didn’t know who I was, you would be able to say to me “You are Charlie”. That is all you would need to say, and then I would know.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘This woman has lost her memory.’

  Charlie made a sympathetic sound.

  ‘Yes,’ went on Mma Ramotswe. ‘It is very sad for her, because she is in trouble with the immigration authorities. If she does not find out who she is, then they will send her out of the country.’

  ‘You want me to find out who she is?’ asked Charlie, rubbing his hands together with the air of one who cannot wait to get down to work. ‘That will be no problem.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ interjected Mma Makutsi. ‘So how would you find out, Charlie?’

  Charlie appeared to think for a moment. ‘I would put her photograph on a notice and stick it on a pole somewhere. The notice would say: Who is this woman? Big prizes for identification. Contact the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency if you have the answer.

  Mma Ramotswe was about to dismiss Charlie’s idea out of hand, but stopped herself. Actually, it was a perfectly reasonable idea, and could draw a response from somebody. But then it occurred to her that her clients had asked for discreet enquiries, and this would be anything but that.

  ‘I don’t think we can do that, Charlie,’ she said. ‘No, what I would like you to do is to follow her. See where she goes. Then give us a report.’

  Charlie’s eyes lit up. ‘Follow her, Mma? In a car chase?’

  ‘There will be no need to chase her,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘This lady will not be running away from you – in fact, she mustn’t know that you are there.’

  Charlie nodded enthusiastically. ‘I can do that. I have seen that sort of thing at the cinema.’

  ‘Be discreet,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘You can borrow my van. Park it in a place that is not too obvious, and wait to see who leaves the house she is staying in. Then follow her and see where she goes.’

  ‘What if she goes inside?’ asked Charlie. ‘What if she goes to somebody’s house? Can I creep up and look through the window?’

  ‘No, you may not,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘What you should do is find out who lives in the house. Ask somebody. People know who lives where.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then come back here and tell us.’ Mma Ramotswe paused. ‘Do you think you can do that, Charlie?’

  Charlie made an expansive gesture. ‘No problem,’ he said.

  Mma Ramotswe exchanged glances with Mma Makutsi. She could tell that Mma Makutsi was doubtful, but now that she had taken Charlie on in the agency, she had to put him to some use. And this, she thought, was not an unduly complicated thing to do. Following somebody, she had read in The Principles of Private Detection, was the first thing a detective should learn to do. If you can follow somebody without being spotted, wrote Clovis Andersen, then you are on your way to achieving what every private investigator wants above all else: invisibility.

  She looked at Charlie. Invisibility: she would have to have a word with him about the fancy sunglasses he had put on for his new job; and the white trousers and red shirt as well. But not quite yet, she thought. Progress in learning a job was made through encouragement, not censure. Charlie would get plenty of censure, she suspected, from Mma Makutsi, and so she should take charge of the encouragement side of things.

  ‘I am sure that you will do this very well, Charlie,’ she said. ‘You are a quick learner.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘I know that, Mma.’

  That evening, Mma Makutsi said to Phuti Radiphuti: ‘There’s something bad going to happen, Phuti. You know the feeling? You realise that something bad is going to happen but there’s nothing you can do to stop it.’

  ‘A bit like when you’re being stalked by a lion and you know he’s going to pounce, but you can’t do anything about it. If you start to run, it only makes it worse: a lion will always chase you when you start to run.’ He shuddered. ‘I hate that feeling.’

  ‘But have you ever been stalked by a lion, Phuti?’

  ‘Never, thank heavens. But I can imagine what it’s like.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, what is this bad thing, Grace?’

  ‘It’s Charlie.’

  Phuti Radiphuti knew Charlie. He sighed. ‘This is nothing new.’

  ‘But it is,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘Mma Ramotswe has taken him on because Mr J. L. B. Matekoni couldn’t employ him any more. And now that he’s with us in the office, I can see some bad developments looming.’ She shook her head. ‘She’s put him to work on a very sensitive case and there’s going to be big trouble.’

  Phuti Radiphuti gazed out of the window into the African night. ‘I hope not,’ he said.

  ‘So do I,’ said Mma Makutsi. ‘But I’m afraid it’s going to happen. Charlie is going to get himself – and the agency – into big, big trouble. Definite. Guaranteed. One hundred per cent guaranteed.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Phuti.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mma Makutsi.

  ‘But I thought that Mma Ramotswe was usually right.’

  Mma Makutsi shook her head. ‘She is usually right – except when she is wrong. Her problem is that she is too kind. You have to be careful about being too kind in this life, Phuti.’

  ‘That is probably true… and yet…’

  ‘And yet nothing. If you are too kind, then there are people waiting round every corner ready to take advantage of you. You can be kind to some people, yes, but you cannot be kind to everybody. If you are kind to everybody, then you end up being kind to nobody.’

  Phuti Radiphuti was confused. ‘I’m not sure that I understand,’ he muttered.

  Mma Makutsi explained. ‘What I meant to say is this: Mma Ramotswe has given Charlie a job out of kindness. Charlie is hopeless, Phuti, everybody knows that – probably even his mother. They probably said to his mother: Throw this one away, Mma – he is no good and will be trouble. And she refused, which is what mothers often do, because that is what mothers are like with their boys – they do not see how bad their sons are. They are ready to see the faults in their daughters – oh yes, they see those clearly enough – but when it comes to their sons they will not see the faults.’

  Phuti looked thoughtful. ‘Will you see Itumelang’s faults?’ he asked.

  Mma Makutsi fixed him with a discouraging stare. ‘What faults?’ she asked.

  Chapter Ten

  Cool Jules Is on the Case

  Charlie had spent his end of service payment from Mr J. L. B. Matekoni on the purchase of new sunglasses, a blue jacket, a red shirt, and a pair of tight-fitting jeans that had not one, but two designer labels displayed on the pockets. One of these labels said Town Man and the other said Cool Jules. He liked both of these, but had a slight preference for Cool Jules, which he thought more accurately reflected his overall image. In such a pair of jeans, he felt, might anything be possible.

  To have clothes like this and to be an ‘auxiliary detective’ – which was the title he had decided on for himself, having rejected, on reflection, Mma Makutsi’s belittling title of ‘apprentice detective’ – to be so attired and so employed was surely greater good fortune than any young
man could realistically wish for. He thought of the greasy overalls that he had exchanged for this new outfit – how had he put up with those for so long? And how had he tolerated being told to do this and that all the time: fix that ignition, Charlie; change that rear tyre, Charlie; check the suspension on this car, Charlie. It had been the same thing day after day. Where was the pleasure in spending one’s time under a car, with oil dripping onto your face and the curious dusty smell of the underside of a vehicle strong in your nostrils? And all for what? For a pay packet that left very little for any purchases or entertainment after you had paid your rent and given money to your uncle’s girlfriend for the food of which your little cousins ate more than their fair share? It was true that Mma Ramotswe was proposing to pay him what he had received for his work in the garage, but at least there was the prospect of advancement in this job: being an auxiliary detective was just the beginning, and his likely success in the role would almost certainly lead to some more senior, better-paid post – or even to his own business. There was an idea: the No. 1 Men’s Detective Agency – that would be a name to conjure with! That would be the place where all the important investigations would be brought, because everybody knew, thought Charlie, that you could not entrust a really serious investigation to a firm made up of women, even to one led by such a kind and generous woman as Mma Ramotswe.

  Of course he could invite Mma Ramotswe to join him if her agency went under as a result of the success of the No. 1 Men’s Detective Agency – he would certainly be magnanimous in that respect, although if Mma Makutsi came too she would have to content herself with the role of secretary. For a moment he imagined himself asking Mma Makutsi to take dictation; she would sit there while he strolled about the room dictating important letters to clients. I refer to yours of the twelfth inst… That is how one should begin an official letter. And then he would say, ‘Am I going too fast, Mma? Perhaps you need to brush up your shorthand skills – you might have got ninety-seven per cent in the final examinations of the Botswana Secretarial College, but that was a long time ago, Mma, and nothing stands still in this world…’ Hah! That would teach Mma Makutsi to push him around and belittle him with those comments of hers. But at the end of the day he would be kind. He would say to her that, although he could easily get a younger and more glamorous secretary, he would still keep her on for old times’ sake, so to speak. She would appreciate that.

  Of course, fashionable clothes of the sort he was wearing deserved a better vehicle than Mma Ramotswe’s white van that she was lending him for the task of watching the Sengupta house. Even an auxiliary detective deserved something better than that, with its compromised suspension – on the driver’s side – and battered appearance. But it was better than nothing, and it would not do to have to carry out such an assignment on a bicycle.

  ‘I do not need the van while I am here in the office,’ Mma Ramotswe had said, ‘as long as it is back by four-thirty every afternoon.’

  ‘But what if I am in the middle of a car chase, Mma?’ complained Charlie. ‘A detective cannot suddenly look at his watch and say, “Oh, it’s time for me to get back home,” and then turn round. He cannot do that, Mma.’

  ‘There will be no car chases, Charlie,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘There will be no need for a car chase.’

  ‘But if she is going somewhere – slowly – just before four-thirty…’

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. ‘Every rule has its exceptions, Charlie. In that case I shall know that you are busy and I shall not expect you back at the normal time. If I need to get home, I shall ask Mma Makutsi to take me in that Radiphuti car that comes to collect her. Or Fanwell can drive me back in Mr J. L. B. Matekoni’s truck.’

  ‘Fanwell is a bad driver,’ said Charlie. ‘He has never been able to tell left from right.’

  Mma Ramotswe remembered a conversation. ‘Mr J. L. B. Matekoni says that he has become much better. He said that some people take a little time to mature as drivers. Maybe Fanwell is one of those people.’

  ‘And some people cannot drive at all,’ Charlie countered, looking across the room towards Mma Makutsi behind her desk.

  Mma Makutsi appeared to ignore the comment, but then, without raising her eyes from the document she was perusing, she said, ‘Some people do not need to drive, of course. When the Lord made people, he did not make cars for them, I believe. He made them legs. Some people know that and use their legs so that they won’t fall off.’ She paused. ‘Some people appear not to know that. They are the ones who will end up having no legs.’

  Mma Ramotswe reached for the keys of the van and handed them to Charlie. ‘Never mind all that, Charlie. Never mind about Fanwell and his problem with left and right. You have a job to do, so go and do it. Watch carefully. Be patient. Rome was not built in a day.’

  Charlie was puzzled. ‘What is this about Rome? That is the Pope’s place – what about it, Mma?’

  Mma Makutsi looked up. ‘She said that it was not built in a day, Charlie,’ she repeated. ‘It is an expression that people use.’

  ‘I have never heard it,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Well, it’s all about taking time to do things,’ explained Mma Ramotswe. ‘So don’t rush this. Don’t give yourself away on the first day. Park far enough away so that they do not see you, or, if they see you, they think There is a young man waiting for his girlfriend – something like that.’

  ‘I shall be very discreet, Mma. Very.’ He looked down at his feet, and then added under his breath: ‘What does discreet actually mean, Mma?’

  ‘It means not doing things that will get you noticed,’ said Mma Ramotswe.

  ‘Or dressing loudly,’ offered Mma Makutsi.

  Charlie nodded. ‘I shall be very discreet, Mma. I promise.’

  Mma Ramotswe smiled at him. ‘Then good luck, Charlie.’

  After he had left the room, Mma Makutsi sat back in her chair and rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Well, I would hardly call that discreet. Those glasses. Those jeans. That is not discreet, Mma.’

  ‘He is a young man,’ said Mma Ramotswe. ‘Young men are like that, Mma. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, but this is a young man wanting to be a detective.’

  Mma Ramotswe sighed. ‘We all have to start somewhere, Mma. Even you. You must remember your first case? You must remember how worried you were that you were doing the right thing? And you must remember all the mistakes you made – just as I do, Mma.’

  Mma Makutsi bit her lip. ‘Possibly,’ she said.

  ‘Well, there you are, Mma. That is Charlie, too. We all have to be Charlie at some time in our lives.’

  Mma Makutsi looked thoughtful. ‘Do you think this woman will stay in the house? Do you think Charlie will see her go out?’

  Mma Ramotswe shrugged. ‘I am not sure, Mma. No, maybe I am. Surely she will go out because nobody likes to stay in the house for days on end. She will go out, Mma, and Charlie will see her.’

  Mma Makutsi considered this. ‘What do you think is really going on, Mma?’

  Mma Ramotswe reached for her pencil and began to play with it, passing it from one hand to the other. It was something that she did when she was thinking very hard, and Mma Makutsi, recognising the sign, waited attentively for the answer.

  ‘I have been thinking about this case a lot recently,’ she said. ‘I am changing my mind.’ She spoke hesitantly, but then appeared to become more convinced. ‘I think that she is lying, Mma. I think that Miss Rose is lying, too, and Mr Sengupta. I fear they are all telling lies.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Mma Makutsi.

  ‘Because they are trying to conceal the truth about Mrs.’

  ‘But why?’

  Mma Ramotswe hesitated once again. ‘I think that Mrs is their sister. They want her to live with them, but perhaps she has not received a residence permit. You know how difficult it can be. They say: not everyone can come to Botswana, don’t they? It is hard for people. Of course she knows who she is.’