The Handsome Man's De Luxe Café

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “There is no husband,” she snapped. “I am going shopping.”

  Charlie smiled. “Shopping? I am a big expert in shopping. Let me take you.”

  She hesitated once more, but again not for long. She named a collection of stores near Kgale Hill. “Could you drive me there?”

  “Alice, I could take you wherever you wanted to go. Johannesburg, even. You name it—I can go there.”

  They moved towards the van. Alice opened the door and lowered herself into the passenger seat. From behind his dark glasses, Charlie inspected his new friend. She was about his age—perhaps slightly younger. The perfume she was wearing was quite strong, even after she had been walking out in the sun. He breathed it in—he knew that scent. It was called Miss Glamour, or something like that; he had seen it being promoted outside one of the clothes shops and he and his friends had laughingly insisted that a sample be dabbed on their wrists.

  “You’re wearing Miss Glamour,” he said. “That is very good.”

  She did not conceal her surprise. “Ow! How can you tell that?”

  Charlie affected a careless sophistication. “That is what I am trained to do. You see … I shouldn’t really tell you this, but I’m a detective—a private investigator.”

  Her expression was one of complete admiration. “A detective!”

  “Yes. I’m on a case at the moment, actually. Surveillance, you know.”

  Her eyes widened. “Surveillance?”

  “That means watching somebody. An international criminal.”

  Her eyes widened even further. “There are international criminals right here in Gaborone?”

  “You better believe it, doll,” said Charlie. “You want to watch with me? We can go to the shops a bit later.”

  She nodded enthusiastically.

  “You keep your head down,” he said. “If things get tough, just do as I say, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I use this van for cover. Nobody pays attention to it, you see. If I drove my Mercedes, they’d look at me.”

  Alice was impressed. “A sort of disguise, I suppose.”

  “Exactly,” said Charlie. “A disguise. You see, one of the things you learn when you’re a detective—” He broke off. The gate of the Sengupta house, operated by remote control, was beginning to slide open. A car was nosing out of the driveway—a green Mercedes-Benz. There was a woman at the wheel, and another woman beside her in the passenger seat. It could only be Miss Rose and Mrs.

  “Something’s happening,” he said to Alice.

  She gave a muffled gasp. “It’s them?”

  “Yes,” said Charlie. “We’re going to start following. Hold on tight, okay?”

  Swinging out onto the road, he began to follow the other car, his heart thumping within him at the thought of what he was doing. Those women in the office had said no car chases—well, what was this? This was a car chase, and he was participating in it! He adjusted his sunglasses and took a quick glance at Alice. It was clear that she was impressed.

  “We just drive normally,” he said. “We never draw attention to ourselves—never. You see these guys in the movies driving like they are crazy but that would alert the suspect. Easy does it—that’s what we pros say.”

  But the car carrying the two women had accelerated rapidly, and Charlie was obliged to speed up to ensure that he kept them in sight. The van’s engine strained as it was pushed to its limits, and an alarming rattle developed somewhere under the floor.

  “They’re going to get away,” said Alice. “We’re going to lose them.”

  “No chance,” said Charlie. “You haven’t seen anything yet, let me tell you.”

  At the end of the road, the other car slowed, but did not stop altogether. Charlie slowed down too, and then followed his quarry into its left turn. After a few hundred yards the car turned again, into another long residential road of whitewashed garden walls and high gates. He was aware of the fact that the brake lights of the car ahead were signalling another slowing down, this time before a driveway. He accelerated to keep up and did not see the large black car suddenly appear from a side road.

  “Watch out!” shouted Alice.

  He swerved and applied the brakes as hard as he could. The van jolted and came to a halt, but not before it had been dealt a glancing blow by the car. Now both vehicles were stationary.

  “We’ve crashed,” said Alice.

  Charlie sat quite still as he struggled to reconstruct in his mind what had happened. The other car seemed to have come from nowhere; he should have stopped—wasn’t there a stop sign there? He turned his head to look. Yes, there was a sign: the other driver was in the wrong. Not my fault, he thought. Not my fault.

  The other driver had opened his door and was coming towards the van. Charlie took a deep breath and got out of the cab. He looked at the man, trying to judge whether he was angry. People could become violent in such circumstances, even if they had caused the accident; he had seen it happen before.

  There was no question of that here, though. The other driver looked at Charlie anxiously. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Charlie nodded, but said nothing.

  “I’m very sorry,” said the man. “I know I should have stopped. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Charlie took a deep breath as he felt his anxiety evaporate. “That’s okay, Rra,” he said. “I don’t think the van is damaged very much. Just this dent here. Oh, and that dent over there, but that is a historical dent, that is not a new dent. And your car …” He peered over the man’s shoulder to take in the damage: it was negligible.

  The man bent down to examine the side of the van. “This is quite a dent,” he said. “I’ll get my insurance.”

  He turned round and went back to his car. A few moments later he came back with a blue plastic document. As he opened the folder, he looked towards Alice. “Is the young lady all right?” he asked.

  “She’s fine,” said Charlie.

  “I’m sorry about your van,” said the man.

  In his euphoria over the fact that he was not being blamed for anything, Charlie spoke freely. “Actually, it isn’t mine,” he said. “It belongs to my boss, Mma Ramotswe.”

  He knew the moment he spoke that he had said something he should not have. The man looked up sharply. “Mma Ramotswe? The detective lady?”

  Charlie swallowed. It was too late to retract. “Yes,” he said. “That is her.”

  “I know her,” said the man, straightening up. He extended a hand towards Charlie. “My name is Sengupta.”

  Charlie froze. “You are Mr. Sengupta?”

  “That’s what I said. And your name, Rra?”

  “I’m Charlie. I work for Mma Ramotswe.”

  Mr. Sengupta nodded. “If you let me know what the cost of fixing that dent is, I’ll pay Mma Ramotswe directly. I can claim it back from my insurance later—if it’s above my excess.” He paused. “Sometimes it’s cheaper not to get the insurance people involved at all—bunch of crooks.”

  “I shall let you know,” said Charlie. He was on dangerous ground. What if Mr. Sengupta told Mma Ramotswe that there had been a young woman in the van with him at the time of the accident? He might let this information slip casually, and then she would think that he had been picking up girls rather than carrying out his task of surveillance. And then Mma Makutsi would add her contribution, and he would have his knuckles rapped in front of everybody, Cool Jules or not. He could hardly keep the incident from Mma Ramotswe—the dent was too obvious for that—but he would have to try to handle the matter himself as much as possible without bringing Mma Ramotswe and Mr. Sengupta together. It was so unfair! Everything was unfair, he felt—everything, without exception.

  Mr. Sengupta gave him his telephone number and the name of his insurance company, just in case. “We can sort this out,” he said. “And I am sorry, you know. These stop signs—it’s so easy to forget about them.”

  “Of course it is,” said Charlie, and tried to smile. Stop signs
were unfair as well.

  They returned to their respective vehicles.

  “It was his fault, wasn’t it?” said Alice as he got into the driver’s seat.

  “Yes,” said Charlie. “All his fault.”

  He looked down the road. Miss Rose’s car had disappeared, and he was not sure through which gate it had entered. Somewhere down on the right, he thought; about halfway, or not quite halfway. Well, there was nothing he could do about that now.

  Alice was looking at her watch. “I think we should go,” she said. “I have to get to the shops.”

  Charlie sighed. “All right,” he said. “I’ll take you.”

  “Pity about the international criminals,” said Alice. Her tone was that of one who did not believe in international criminals.

  Charlie did not reply, but concentrated on starting the van.

  “Let’s not hang about,” said Alice. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

  She was beginning to irritate him, and she irritated him more as they drove back past the Sun Hotel.

  “I was offered a job there once,” she said. “But I didn’t take it. I don’t want to be stuck in this place forever. I want to go to Johannesburg—that’s where people move to who are really going to make a go of it.”

  The implication was clear: a private detective who remained in Gaborone was obviously one who was not going to make the grade. The international criminals in Gaborone were small beer indeed compared with international criminals elsewhere.

  Charlie fumed. He was doing her a favour and she seemed to be entirely unimpressed, and ungrateful. Who did she think she was?

  He was thinking these thoughts as he drew up at the red lights at an intersection. Delayed shock from the accident was now having its effect, and he felt himself shaking. He breathed in deeply and for a moment closed his eyes. That helped to calm him down, but when he opened them and the lights turned green, he saw, stopped on the other side of the intersection, a familiar truck. It was Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni—and he had seen him.

  Charlie pretended not to notice the truck as he pulled away from the intersection, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni wave, and he saw the look of surprise on his face.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NINETY-EIGHT PER CENT

  PHUTI RADIPHUTI had expressed reservations about the speed with which the various tradesmen claimed they would be able to prepare the premises of the Handsome Man’s De Luxe Café.

  “You have to watch these people,” he said. “They always claim they can do the work in a very short time, but that’s just to get you to give them the job.” He shook his head sadly, in contemplation of the ways of the building trade. “So you accept their quote and then you discover that they have another four or five jobs on the go—all of them urgent.”

  Mma Makutsi had had similar misgivings herself, and Phuti was an experienced businessman who knew about these things. But when it came to the start date for the works on her café, the tradesmen were there at seven in the morning, their various vans loaded with all the supplies they needed. Work had started by eight, and that evening when she visited the site with Phuti, they were both astonished at the speed with which the transformation was being effected.

  “These men are amazing,” Phuti conceded. “Maybe it is your manner, Grace. Maybe they take you seriously.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled modestly. “I told them that I’d be taking a close interest in the work,” she said. “They know that.”

  Phuti touched her arm playfully. “You know how to deal with men,” he said.

  She laughed. “That is something I have had to teach myself,” she said. “Perhaps they should introduce a new subject at the Botswana Secretarial College on how to cope with men and their ways—in the office, of course. ‘How to deal with a difficult boss,’ perhaps. Or ‘How to explain things so that a man can understand them.’ ”

  Phuti smiled at that. “That is very funny,” he said.

  Mma Makutsi took off her glasses and polished them. Then, replacing them, she said quite evenly, “No, it is not meant to be funny. There are many things that men have difficulty in understanding, Phuti. I could make a long list of them.”

  Phuti gestured towards the works. “Well, it is almost ready. It will not be long now.”

  The foreman came to talk to them, and the subject of men and their limitations was dropped. Then Phuti went off with one of the electricians to inspect the new power points that were being installed in the kitchen area. Mma Makutsi wandered over to a window, where a man in blue overalls was busy applying putty to the seating of a pane of glass. They greeted one another before Mma Makutsi leaned forward to examine his handiwork. “I could not do that, Rra,” she said. “I would not be as neat as you.”

  The man smiled. “I am a glazier,” he said. “That is what I do. And when you do something for long enough, you learn how to do it without making a mess.”

  She asked him how long he had been putting glass into windows.

  “I have been doing this for twenty years.”

  “That is a long time, Rra.”

  “Yes, it is. And I have only broken ten panes of glass in that time.”

  He spoke with pride, and Mma Makutsi made sure to show her admiration. The man beamed with pleasure.

  “It is good to like your work,” she said. “I can tell that you are happy in what you do.”

  The man applied a final squeeze of putty and then smoothed it elegantly with his knife. “Yes, I think that it must be sad to have to do something you hate. That is what I say to my children. Choose something that you like to do. Do not be a bus driver if you do not like driving. Do not be a nurse if you can’t stand the sight of blood. Do not be a person who fixes roofs if you get dizzy when you climb a ladder.”

  “That is called vertigo,” said Mma Makutsi.

  “Vertigo,” said the man. “I should not like to have that disease.”

  She asked after his children.

  “I have seven,” he said. “And one who is late, who did not live long—only a few days. But all the others are healthy.”

  “I have one son,” said Mma Makutsi. “He is called Itumelang.”

  The man stood up from his work and laid down his putty-knife. “That is the name of one of my sons. He is the second-born. The first-born is a girl called Tebogo. She is nineteen now and is at a special college.”

  Mma Makutsi smiled encouragingly. “What college is that, Rra?”

  The man took a cloth out of his pocket and wiped his hands. “She is at that college at the moment, but I’m afraid that we may not be able to keep her there.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, with seven children there are always many things to pay for. My wife used to work, but now she has hurt her shoulder and she cannot do the work that she did. She worked for one of the hotels, and they have said that if she cannot carry the laundry in and out of the room with her bad shoulder, then she cannot stay. So she has no job now.”

  Mma Makutsi made a sympathetic noise with the tip of her tongue and her teeth. “And what is this college, Rra? What is your daughter studying?”

  The glazier sighed. “She was doing something very useful. It is the Botswana Secretarial College.”

  This answer was greeted with silence. The man looked at Mma Makutsi and saw himself reflected in her large round glasses.

  Now she muttered the name, lingering on each word, as if to savour its power. “The Botswana Secretarial College.”

  “Yes, Mma. It is a good college, I think.”

  Mma Makutsi recovered. “Oh, it is a very good college indeed, Rra,” she said forcefully. “That is one of the finest colleges in the country. I was there, you know. I was at that college. I was there, at that very college.”

  “Ah,” said the man. “Then you are a secretary yourself, Mma.”

  “No; I was at one time, but I am no longer a secretary. Now I am a partner in a detective agency—the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.” She pointed out of t
he window. “You may know it—it is on the Tlokweng Road.”

  The man nodded. “I have seen the sign, Mma. That is the place that they say is run by that large lady.”

  “Traditionally built,” corrected Mma Makutsi. “That is Mma Ramotswe. She is a traditionally built lady.”

  “Of course. Traditionally built.” He looked at her admiringly. “So that is where you work. You are the first detective I have met, you know that? The very first. I have met bank people and people in the diamond trade—people like that, but never a detective, Mma. Never once.”

  She made a self-deprecatory gesture. “Your daughter,” she said. “Your Tebogo—you cannot find the money for her fees?”

  The man lowered his eyes. “There are nine mouths, Mma, if you count mine. Seven children, one mother and one father—nine altogether.”

  “But this is her big chance.”

  He looked miserable. “That is so. But then we cannot always take the chances we get. That is a hard lesson that children have to learn. Sometimes there is just no money.”

  Yes, thought Mma Makutsi, it is a hard lesson. She remembered when she had been at school up in Bobonong and there had been a trip to Gaborone arranged by the pupils. The parents had been required to find the money for their children’s bus fare, and even if it was not very much, there were some who could not afford it. She had been one of those who could not go, and they had watched their classmates—the fortunate ones—pile into the bus and wave as they left; not cruelly, not to crow over their good fortune in being on the bus, but simply to wave goodbye, as children will do, without realising the disappointment of others.

  “How much does she need, Rra? Can she not work part-time? There are jobs, surely.”

  The man sighed. “She is already doing that. She has a job at the hospital—in the kitchen. She works there for three hours every evening. It is very hard for her, because she has her college work during the day and then the hospital.”

  “So how much does she need?”

  “About three thousand pula.”