Mma Makutsi’s face registered a rapidly changing range of emotions as Mma Ramotswe gave this account. No venom had been injected—relief; a tiny amount—mouth in a tiny O; sit in my chair—nodded agreement; developed any symptoms—renewed anxiety; one hundred per cent—a smile of encouragement, tempered with slight concern over the non-following of medical advice. At the end of it all, she said, “You have been very lucky, Mma. And we are lucky too, aren’t we, Fanwell? If that snake had injected its poison then you could be dead by now, and we could have lost our dear friend.”
“And colleague,” said Fanwell. He thought for a moment, looking at Mma Makutsi. “You would now be the managing director, Mma.”
“We do not like to think about that sort of thing,” said Mma Makutsi firmly. “Mma Ramotswe has survived this great danger.”
“She is still with us,” said Fanwell. “That is very clear. She is still with us.” He paused before delivering the final verdict. “The head of that snake was turned aside by the hand of God. That is the only conclusion we can reach. God was present in Gaborone last night, and his divine intervention on behalf of the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency bore the result we see before us. That is all I can say on this.”
Mma Ramotswe felt that enough had now been said. She was aware of how differently things might have turned out, but she did not think there was much to be gained by further dwelling on the whole matter. It was time, she felt, to put what had happened behind her and get on with her day. The bandage, which was anyway quite unnecessary in her view, had slipped, exposing what now seemed to be a quite unharmed ankle. She noticed that both Mma Makutsi and Fanwell had their eyes firmly fixed on the freshly exposed site, and that they seemed surprised, perhaps even disappointed, that there was no more spectacular injury to be seen.
“I think this bandage is not needed,” said Mma Ramotswe, bending down to remove it. “Hospitals feel they have to put a bandage on anybody who goes there—just in case. Sometimes you get a bandage even if you are just visiting somebody.”
It was a joke, but Fanwell did not see it as such. “I will be careful next time I visit somebody in the hospital. I would not want a bandage.”
“Well,” said Mma Ramotswe briskly, rising to her feet. “That is the end of all that.” She looked at her watch. “I think I shall meet Mma Potokwane for lunch at the President Hotel. She said that she would be in town today. I shall catch her there, and then I shall come into the office, Mma Makutsi, and tell you about some progress I have made in the case of the Canadian lady.”
“That is a very difficult case,” said Mma Makutsi. “There are now four more ladies who say their name is Rosie. I shall be interviewing two more of them tomorrow.”
“I think those interviews can be cancelled,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I shall explain why when I come to the office.”
Mma Makutsi looked doubtful. “Are you sure, Mma?”
“I am very sure,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that we have already met our Rosie.” She paused, and then added, “And I think that the house in which Mma Susan lived is closer than we think.”
—
THE RAISED VERANDAH of the President Hotel, reached by an open staircase from the public square below, was busy when Mma Ramotswe arrived. The hotel was known for its lunchtime curries, and these had now been laid out on the buffet table for those wanting to fit in an early lunch before the official lunch hour began at one o’clock. Over that hour, the hotel was popular with civil servants from the government departments just a short walk away. The permanent secretaries of various ministries—men and women burdened with responsibility and importance—would meet one another to exchange the gossip that is so important a part of the life of all officials throughout the world: who is next in line for promotion; who has overspent his or her departmental budget; which minister can be given just the right amount of unhelpful advice so as to hasten an inevitable departure from the Cabinet; and which ministerial mouth to put words into, if necessary, in order to thwart the objectives of new ministers who did not recognise just who should run the country, which everybody knew should be permanent secretaries.
At less senior, and less official, tables, the conversation might follow different lines. Here business might be discussed, or children, or affairs of the heart, or any of the day-to-day matters that were the stuff of ordinary life. At such a table, a sought-after one because of the view it commanded over the square below, sat Mma Ramotswe and Mma Potokwane, contemplating, with evident pleasure, the ample helping of curry that each had on the plate in front of her. They had been given the table in the face of stiff competition because of Mma Ramotswe’s friendship with the head waiter. His father had known her father—indeed he had bought a bull from him many years ago. That bull had been the founder of a dynasty of particularly fine cattle, and all of his progeny called to reproductive duty had been named Obed in his honour. That was a connection that could hardly be forgotten, and it was a perfectly valid reason for allocating the best table to Mma Ramotswe, even if one or two senior civil servants felt that by rights it should be theirs. It was also grounds for larger helpings of everything and for a complimentary pot of tea at the end of the meal.
Mma Ramotswe told Mma Potokwane about her brush with disaster. Her friend shook her head at the mention of puff adders, and told her own story of finding one on the steps of her office only two months previously. “It was sitting there, Mma—or lying there, should I say…” She stopped, and lowered her voice. “There he is, Mma Ramotswe. There’s Mr. Polopetsi. See him—helping himself to curry?”
Mr. Polopetsi had his back to them, but when he turned round, holding his plate, he saw them, and waved with his free hand. Mouthing a greeting, he returned to his table, where a companion, a man in a loud checked jacket, was awaiting him.
“Have you seen him here before?” asked Mma Potokwane. “Is this a place he likes to come to?”
“Once or twice,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I’ve seen him eating with his wife here. She’s—”
But she did not have to explain. “I know who she is,” said Mma Potokwane. “I’ve seen her photograph in the papers. She’s going places, I think.”
“She’s already there,” said Mma Ramotswe.
Mma Potokwane was staring thoughtfully at Mr. Polopetsi on the other side of the verandah. “You know, Mma,” she began, “Mr. Polopetsi is such a…such a modest man, even perhaps a bit mousy.” She transferred her gaze to Mma Ramotswe. “Not that I want to be rude, Mma.”
Mma Ramotswe reassured her that she would never imagine her friend being rude. “You’re right,” she said. “Mr. Polopetsi is a bit on the timid side—in fact, he’s very much on the timid side. He’s not one to chase the lions away, is he?” She could not help but imagine Mr. Polopetsi encountering a lion, and smiled. The lion would open its mouth to roar and Mr. Polopetsi would quiver with fear. And so would she, come to think of it; so perhaps one should not use that picture to diminish Mr. Polopetsi. Sometimes the most unlikely people could turn out to be brave; and again she brought Mr. Polopetsi to mind for a few moments, although this time he was in hot pursuit of the lion, rather like one of those tall, red-blanketed Masai warriors who killed lions as a rite of passage to manhood. How would Mr. Polopetsi look in a Masai blanket? How would he look carrying one of those long spears with which Masai warriors armed themselves? Somehow it was hard to envision it.
Mma Potokwane tackled her curry. It was just the right strength, she said. Those people over in India, how did they manage to eat those extremely hot curries? What did they do to their stomachs? Mma Ramotswe was not sure. She covered her curry with butter, which quickly melted and took some of the heat out of it.
They talked easily and without any real interruption. Two old friends having lunch together; what could be more relaxing and therapeutic than that, especially if one of them had recently had a close encounter with a deadly puff adder? Although Mma Potokwane did make one tactless remark, and that was to enquire of Mma Ramotswe whe
ther she had ever made a will. The trigger for this was not so much her friend’s recent brush with death as her ambition to ensure that all her friends considered a legacy for the Orphan Farm. The issue, though, was not pursued, and Mma Potokwane remained uncertain whether Mma Ramotswe was testate or intestate.
As the two women were enjoying a cup of tea after their meal, Mr. Polopetsi’s lunch came to an end. Mma Ramotswe saw him stand up and shake hands with his lunch companion. Then the other man made his way from the verandah, turning to follow the staircase to the square below. Mr. Polopetsi watched him go before bending, picking up a small briefcase, and making his way over to Mma Ramotswe’s table, a broad smile on his face.
“I had not expected to see you ladies here,” he said as he approached them. “But I suppose this is a good place for ladies to have lunch.”
Mma Potokwane laughed. “And men too, if they behave.”
“I never misbehave,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “I wouldn’t dare—with Mma Ramotswe there to bring me into line.”
Mma Potokwane laughed again. “And Mma Makutsi too,” she said.
Mma Ramotswe gestured to the empty chair at their table. “I know you have had your lunch, Rra, but there is always room for an extra cup of tea, I think.”
Mr. Polopetsi glanced at his watch. “I mustn’t stay too long,” he said. “I have an appointment with somebody.”
Mma Potokwane and Mma Ramotswe exchanged glances.
“A business appointment?” asked Mma Potokwane.
Mr. Polopetsi, now seated, nodded. “It is to do with an enterprise I am involved in,” he said. “That man I was having lunch with—that man who has now gone—he is my business partner.”
Mma Ramotswe poured Mr. Polopetsi a cup of tea. “Ah yes, your cattle business.”
“The Fat Cattle Investment Club,” said Mr. Polopetsi, a note of pride in his voice. “Or the Fat Cattle Club, as we call it informally. I think I’ve spoken to you about it.”
“Not to me,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You’ve spoken to others. Not to me. For some reason.” She watched to see if Mr. Polopetsi reacted to this, but he seemed unfazed.
“I can tell you all about it,” he said. “If you wish to hear.”
Mma Potokwane sat back in her chair. “Before you do, Rra,” she said, “maybe you could answer a question I have. Do you think you could?”
“If I can,” said Mr. Polopetsi confidently. “I do not know everything about the club, but I know a certain amount.”
“Enough to persuade people to give you their money,” observed Mma Ramotswe.
If Mr. Polopetsi had not picked up a critical note before this, he now did. He looked hurt. “I do not persuade people, Mma Ramotswe. I give them the opportunity. There is a big difference, you know.”
Mma Potokwane agreed. “Oh yes, there is a big difference, Mr. Polopetsi. Just as there is a big difference between a thin cow and a fat one. There is a very important difference, I think.”
He looked bemused. “But of course there is, Mma Potokwane. It’s the same difference as between a fat child and a thin child—you know that very well, in your line of business, I think.”
Mma Potokwane made much of taking this remark lightly. “Hah, yes! Perhaps I need to choose my words more carefully.” But then she added, “The difference I was talking about was the value of a thin cow and that of a fat cow. Many pula, Rra.” She paused. “Mma Ramotswe here knows that only too well, you know. Her father was a big expert on cattle—one of the best in the country. You know that, don’t you, Mr. Polopetsi?”
Mr. Polopetsi shot an anxious glance at Mma Ramotswe. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve always known that, Mma.”
There was a brief silence before Mma Potokwane continued. “And that difference in value, Rra, is because of the cost of feed. How much does it take to fatten up a cattle beast if the grazing is bad because of the drought? Four hundred pula? Five hundred? Maybe even more. Cattle feed is never cheap, is it?”
Mr. Polopetsi frowned. “I never said it was, Mma. Everything is expensive these days—even lunch at the President Hotel.”
Nobody laughed.
“So what interests me,” Mma Potokwane continued, “is how it’s possible to make much of a profit on fattening up livestock when the cost of feed is high. When it’s cheap and plentiful—yes, I can understand it then. But when it’s very high and it has to come a long way…How can you make a big profit in those conditions, Rra?”
Mma Potokwane turned to Mma Ramotswe. “Do you understand it, Mma Ramotswe? How can this Fat Cattle Club give such good returns when nobody else can make much of a profit on fattened cattle?”
Mma Ramotswe had begun to feel sorry for Mr. Polopetsi, who had started to squirm under Mma Potokwane’s gaze. “We’re not trying to catch you out, Rra,” she said. “It’s just that we’re concerned—”
“But there are others,” interjected Mma Potokwane. “There are plenty of others who will be interested in catching you out. They will ask the same question, but not over a cup of tea in the President Hotel.”
Mr. Polopetsi’s eyes were fixed on the floor. “But it works, Mma Potokwane. I put in some money and within a few months I had it back, plus twenty-five per cent.”
Mma Ramotswe was gentle. “Yes, Mr. Polopetsi, I’m sure you did get all that. And I would never accuse you of dishonesty. But you have to ask yourself: Where did your profit come from?”
“From the sale of the fat cattle.”
Mma Potokwane shook her head. “I don’t think so, Rra. I think it probably came from the investment of the next person who joined.”
Mr. Polopetsi looked at her blankly. “But that money would be used to buy more cattle.”
“Some of it might be,” said Mma Potokwane. “But the rest of it would be used to repay earlier investors. So at the end of the day, the people at the beginning make money, while those at the end find their money has disappeared and there are no cattle for them—nor any profits.” She waited for what seemed like an unduly long time, and then said, “There’s a special name for this sort of thing. It’s called a pyramid scheme.”
Mr. Polopetsi sat quite still. When he spoke, his voice was faltering. “He said that everything was all right. He said there were many people doing these things.”
“Who said this?” asked Mma Potokwane.
Mr. Polopetsi gestured towards the table at which he had been sitting. “My business associate.”
“That great financial magician,” said Mma Potokwane.
Mr. Polopetsi, defeated and crumpled though he was, suddenly seemed to acquire the strength to defend himself. “He is a good man,” said Mr. Polopetsi. “He said that he would be helping the farmers from the drought areas. That is a good thing to do, don’t you think?”
Mma Ramotswe sighed. “Oh, Mr. Polopetsi! You are a good man, Rra—I’ve always known that. But you are not the sort to get mixed up in this sort of thing. You may want to help the farmers suffering from the drought, but I really don’t think your friend has that in mind. I think he’s using you, Rra.”
Mma Potokwane nodded her agreement. “Yes, Rra—you are being used.”
“So now,” went on Mma Ramotswe, “you need to tell us how many people you have persuaded to invest in the Fat Cattle Club.”
“Not very many,” muttered Mr. Polopetsi.
“How many?” pressed Mma Ramotswe.
Mr. Polopetsi swallowed hard. “Four,” he said.
“Including Mma Makutsi?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“Five,” said Mr. Polopetsi.
Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. “We shall have to make a plan,” she said. “Don’t approach anybody else. Do you understand? Not one more person—not one.”
He lowered his head. “I am a very foolish man,” he said.
“I think so too,” said Mma Potokwane.
Mma Ramotswe, though, reached out and placed a hand on Mr. Polopetsi’s shoulder. “Listen to me, Mr. Polopetsi,” she said, her voice lowered. “Who among us has no
t done something stupid?” Her gaze fell on Mma Potokwane before returning to Mr. Polopetsi. “I have done some very foolish things in my life. Everybody has.” She was thinking of her earlier marriage to Note Mokoti, that dangerous, seductive trumpeter; that violent and unpleasant man who thought nothing of breaking hearts one after the other; that wasteful and grasping man who had come back to wheedle money out of her and whom, in spite of everything, she had forgiven even as she told him never to come back into her life.
Her words seemed to cheer Mr. Polopetsi. “Do you think you can sort it out, Mma Ramotswe?” he asked, his voice rising in hope. “Do you really think so?”
Mma Ramotswe pursed her lips. “I shall try,” she said. “And we shall start with Mma Makutsi.”
At the mention of Mma Makutsi, Mr. Polopetsi gave a nervous start. It was an open secret that he had always been a bit frightened of Mma Makutsi, even if he admired her greatly. “I won’t have to speak to her by myself, will I?” he asked.
Mma Ramotswe looked thoughtful. “I think it’s best for us to face up to our own mistakes,” she said.
His face fell, and seeing this, she added, “Except sometimes. So, yes, Rra, I’ll help you. I’m not frightened of Mma Makutsi.” She was tempted to add except sometimes, but she decided enough had been said and anything further might simply make the situation more difficult than it already was. So she said nothing, which is what Clovis Andersen said is often exactly the right thing to say.
Least said, soonest ended, he had written. Mma Ramotswe had studied this aphorism very closely. Something was not quite right. Had a letter dropped out back in Muncie, Indiana, and did it make any difference?
She looked again at Mr. Polopetsi. He was a good man, she thought, even if he could be rather naïve. But then she reflected on the fact that of all the failings that any of us might have, naïvety was far from being the worst.
There was something she wanted to ask him. “Mr. Polopetsi,” she began, “you say that you made twenty-five per cent on your investment in the Fat Cattle Club. Did you actually get the money?”