He laughed. “You are right, Rra! I would not like to see a leopard tonight.”
“Then we will take you to your place. Is it far?”
“No. It is not far. It is just over there. That way.”
THE DRIVER opened the door and got out, leaving the engine running, to allow the boy to slide in over the bench seat. Then he got back in, closed the door and engaged the gears. The boy drew his feet up—there was some animal on the floor and he had touched a soft wet nose—a dog perhaps, or a goat.
He glanced at the man to his left, the older man. It would be rude to stare and it was difficult to see much in the darkness. But he did notice the thing that was wrong with the man’s lip and he saw his eyes too. He turned away. A boy should never stare at an old man like this. But why were these people here? What were they doing?
“There it is. There is my father’s place. You see—over there. Those lights.”
“We can see it.”
“I can walk from here if you like. If you stop, I can walk. There is a path.”
“We are not stopping. You have something to do for us. You can help us with something.”
“They are expecting me back. They will be waiting.”
“There is always somebody waiting for somebody. Always.”
He suddenly felt frightened, and he turned to look at the driver. The younger man smiled at him.
“Don’t worry. Just sit still. You are going somewhere else tonight.”
“Where are you taking me, Rra? Why are you taking me away?”
The older man reached out and touched the boy on the shoulder.
“You will not be harmed. You can go home some other time. They will know that you are not being harmed. We are kind men, you see. We are kind men. Listen, I’m going to tell you a little story while we travel. That will make you happy and keep you quiet.
“There were some herd boys who looked after the cattle of their rich uncle. He was a rich man that one! He had more cattle than anybody else in that part of Botswana and his cattle were big, big, like this, only bigger.
“Now these boys found that one day a calf had appeared on the edge of the herd. It was a strange calf, with many colours on it, unlike any other calf they had ever seen. And, ow! they were pleased that this calf had come.
“This calf was very unusual in another way. This calf could sing a cattle song that the boys heard whenever they went near it. They could not hear the words which this calf was using, but they were something about cattle matters.
“The boys loved this calf, and because they loved it so much they did not notice that some of the other cattle were straying away. By the time that they did notice, it was only after two of the cattle had gone for good that they saw what had happened.
“Their uncle came out. Here he comes, a tall, tall man with a stick. He shouts at the boys and he hits their calf with his stick, saying that strange calves never brought any luck.
“So the calf died, but before it died it whispered something to the boys and they were able to hear it this time. It was very special, and when the boys told their uncle what the calf had said he fell to his knees and wailed.
“The calf was his brother, you see, who had been eaten by a lion a long time before and had come back. Now this man had killed his brother and he was never happy again. He was sad. Very sad.”
The boy watched the man’s face as he told the story. If he had been unaware of what was happening until that moment, now he knew. He knew what was going to happen.
“Hold that boy! Take his arms! He’s going to make me go off the road if you don’t hold him.”
“I’m trying. He is struggling like a devil.”
“Just hold him.
I’ll stop the truck.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MMA MAKUTSI DEALS WITH THE MAIL
THE SUCCESS of the first case heartened Mma Ramotswe. She had now sent off for, and received, a manual on private detection and was going through it chapter by chapter, taking copious notes. She had made no mistakes in that first case, she thought. She had found out what information there was to be had by a simple process of listing the likely sources and seeking them out. That did not take a great deal of doing. Provided that one was methodical, there was hardly any way in which one could go wrong.
Then she had had a hunch about the crocodile and had followed it up. Again, the manual endorsed this as perfectly acceptable practice. “Don’t disregard a hunch,” it advised. “Hunches are another form of knowledge.” Mma Ramotswe had liked that phrase and had mentioned it to Mma Makutsi. Her secretary had listened carefully, and then typed the sentence out on her typewriter and handed it to Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Makutsi was pleasant company and could type quite well. She had typed out a report which Mma Ramotswe had dictated on the Malatsi case and had typed out the bill for sending to Mma Malatsi. But apart from that she had not really been called on to do anything else and Mma Ramotswe wondered whether the business could really justify employing a secretary.
And yet one had to. What sort of private detective agency had no secretary? She would be a laughingstock without one, and clients—if there were really going to be any more, which was doubtful—could well be frightened away.
Mma Makutsi had the mail to open, of course. There was no mail for the first three days. On the fourth day, a catalogue was received, and a property tax demand, and on the fifth day a letter which was intended for the previous owner.
Then, at the beginning of the second week, she opened a white envelope dirty with finger marks and read the letter out to Mma Ramotswe.
Dear Mma Ramotswe,
I read about you in the newspaper and about how you have opened this big new agency down there in town. I am very proud for Botswana that we now have a person like you in this country.
I am the teacher at the small school at Katsana Village, thirty miles from Gaborone, which is near the place where I was born. I went to Teachers’ College many years ago and I passed with a double distinction. My wife and I have two daughters and we have a son of eleven. This boy to which I am referring has recently vanished and has not been seen for two months.
