Alexander McCall Smith - Tears of the Giraffe

NOW, THOUGHT Florence, I have obtained a gun. This gun must now be put into the place that I have planned for it, which is a certain house in Zebra Drive.

To do this, another favour had to be called in. A man known to her simply as Paul, a man who came to her for conversation and affection, had borrowed money from her two years previously. It was not a large sum, but he had never paid it back. He might have forgotten about it, but she had not, and now he would be reminded. And if he proved difficult, he, too, had a wife who did not know about the social visits that her husband paid to Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's house. A threat to reveal these might encourage compliance.

It was money, though, that had secured agreement. She mentioned the loan, and he stuttered out his inability to pay.

"Every pula I have has to be accounted for," he said. "We have to pay the hospital for one of the children. He keeps getting ill. I cannot spare any money. I will pay you back one day."

She nodded her understanding. "It will be easy to forget," she said. "I shall forget this money if you do something for me."

He had stared at her suspiciously. "You go to an empty house-nobody will be there. You break a window in the kitchen and you get in."

"I am not a thief," he interrupted. "I do not steal."

"But I am not asking you to steal," she said. "What kind of thief goes into a house and puts something into it? That is not a thief!"

She explained that she wanted a parcel left in a cupboard somewhere, tucked away where it could not be found.

"I want to keep something safe," she said. "This thing will be safe there."

He had cavilled at the idea, but she mentioned the loan again, and he capitulated. He would go the following afternoon, at a time when everybody was at work. She had done her homework: there would not even be a maid at the house, and there was no dog.

"It couldn't be easier," she promised him. 'You will get it done in fifteen minutes. In. Out."

She handed him the parcel. The gun had been replaced in its wax-proof paper and this had been itself wrapped in a further layer of plain brown paper. The wrapping disguised the nature of the contents, but the parcel was still weighty and he was suspicious.

"Don't ask," she said. "Don't ask and then you won't know."

It's a gun, he thought. She wants me to plant a gun in that house in Zebra Drive.

"I don't want to carry this thing about with me," he said. "It is very dangerous. I know that it's a gun and I know what happens to you if the police find you with a gun. I do not want to go to jail. I will fetch it from you at the Matekoni house tomorrow.

She thought for a moment. She could take the gun with her to work, tucked away in a plastic bag. If he wished to fetch it from her from there, then she had no objection. The important thing was to get it into the Ramotswe house and then, two days later, to make that telephone call to the police.

"All right," she said. "I will put it back in its bag and take it with me. You come at 2:30. He will have gone back to his garage by then."

He watched her replace the parcel in the OK Bazaars bag in which it had first arrived.

"Now," she said. "You have been a good man and I want to make you happy."

He shook his head. "I am too nervous to be happy. Maybe some other time."

THE FOLLOWING afternoon, shortly after two o'clock, Paul Mon-sopati, a senior clerk at the Gaborone Sun Hotel, and a man marked by the hotel management for further promotion, slipped into the office of one of the hotel secretaries and asked her to leave the room for a few minutes.

"I have an important telephone call to make," he said. "It is a private matter. To do with a funeral."

The secretary nodded, and left the room. People were always dying and funerals, which were eagerly attended by every distant relative who was able to do so, and by almost every casual acquaintance, required a great deal of planning.

Paul picked up the telephone receiver and dialled a number which he had written out on a piece of paper.

"I wish to speak to an Inspector," he said. "Not a sergeant. I want an Inspector."

"Who are you, Rra?"

"That is not important. You get me an Inspector, or you will be in trouble."

Nothing was said, and, after a few minutes, a new voice came on the line.

"Now listen to me, please, Rra," said Paul. "I cannot speak for long. I am a loyal citizen of Botswana. I am against crime."

"Good," said the Inspector. "That is what we like to hear."

"Well," said Paul. "If you go to a certain house you will find that there is a lady there who has an illegal firearm. She is one who sells these weapons. It will be in a white OK Bazaars bag. You will catch her if you go right now. She is the one, not the man who lives in that house. It is in her bag, and she will have it with her in the kitchen. That is all I have to say."

He gave the address of the house and then rang off. At the other end of the line, the Inspector smiled with satisfaction. This would be an easy arrest, and he would be congratulated for doing something about illegal weapons. One might complain about the public and about their lack of a sense of duty, but every so often something like this happened and a conscientious citizen restored one's faith in ordinary members of the public. There should be awards for these people. Awards and a cash prize. Five hundred pula at least.

MR J.L.B. Matekoni was aware of the fact that he was standing directly under the branch of an acacia tree. He looked up, and saw for a moment, in utter clarity, the details of the leaves against the emptiness of the sky. Drawn in upon themselves for the midday heat, the leaves were like tiny hands clasped in prayer; a bird, a common butcher bird, scruffy and undistinguished, was perched farther up the branch, claws clasped tight, black eyes darting. It was the sheer enormity of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni's plight that made this perception so vivid; as a condemned man might peep out of his cell on his last morning and see the familiar, fading world. He looked down, and saw that Mma Ramotswe was still there, standing some ten feet away, her expression one of bemused puzzlement. She knew that he worked for the orphan farm, and she was aware of Mma Silvia Potokwane's persuasive ways. She would be imagining, he thought, that here was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni taking two of the orphans out for the day and arranging for them to have their photographs taken. She would not be imagining that here was Mr J.L.B. Matekoni with his two new foster children, soon to be her foster children too.

Mma Ramotswe broke the silence. "What are you doing?" she said simply. It was an entirely reasonable question-the sort of question that any friend or indeed fiancee may ask of another. Mr J.L.B. Matekoni looked down at the children. The girl had placed her photograph in a plastic carrier bag that was attached to the side of her wheelchair; the boy was clutching his photograph to his chest, as if Mma Ramotswe might wish to take it from him.

"These are two children from the orphan farm," stuttered Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "This one is the girl and this one is the boy."

Mma Ramotswe laughed. "Well!" she said. "So that is it. That is very helpful."

The girl smiled and greeted Mma Ramotswe politely.

"I am called Motholeli," she said. "My brother is called Puso. These are the names that we have been given at the orphan farm."

Mma Ramotswe nodded. "I hope that they are looking after you well, there. Mma Potokwane is a kind lady."

"She is kind," said the girl. "Very kind."

She looked as if she was about to say something else, and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni broke in rapidly.

"I have had the children's photographs taken," he explained, and turning to the girl, he said: "Show them to Mma Ramotswe, Motholeli."