IT WAS three days after the satisfactory resolution of the Patel case. Mma Ramotswe had put in her bill for two thousand pula, plus expenses, and had been paid by return of post. This astonished her. She could not believe that she would be paid such a sum without protest, and the readiness, and apparent cheerfulness with which Mr Patel had settled the bill induced pangs of guilt over the sheer size of the fee.

It was curious how some people had a highly developed sense of guilt, she thought, while others had none. Some people would agonise over minor slips or mistakes on their part, while others would feel quite unmoved by their own gross acts of betrayal or dishonesty. Mma Pekwane fell into the former category, thought Mma Ramotswe. Note Mokoti fell into the latter.

Mma Pekwane had seemed anxious when she had come into the office of the No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency. Mma Ramotswe had given her a strong cup of bush tea, as shealways did with nervous clients, and had waited for her to be ready to speak. She was anxious about a man, she thought; there were all the signs. What would it be? Some piece of masculine bad behaviour, of course, but what?

"I'm worried that my husband has done a dreadful thing," said Mma Pekwane eventually. "I feel very ashamed for him."

Mma Ramotswe nodded her head gently. Masculine bad behaviour.

"Men do terrible things," she said. "All wives are worried about their husbands. You are not alone."

Mma Pekwane sighed. "But my husband has done a terrible thing," she said. "A very terrible thing."

Mma Ramotswe stiffened. If Rra Pekwane had killed somebody she would have to make it quite clear that the police should be called in. She would never dream of helping anybody conceal a murderer.

"What is this terrible thing?" she asked. Mma Pekwane lowered her voice. "He has a stolen car." Mma Ramotswe was relieved. Car theft was rife, almost unremarkable, and there must be many women driving around the town in their husbands' stolen cars. Mma Ramotswe could never imagine herself doing that, of course, and nor, it seemed, could Mma Pekwane.

"Did he tell you it's stolen?" she asked. "Are you sure of it?" Mma Pekwane shook her head. "He said a man gave it to him. He said that this man had two Mercedes-Benzes and only needed one."

Mma Ramotswe laughed. "Do men really think they can fool us that easily?" she said. "Do they think we're fools?" "I think they do," said Mma Pekwane. Mma Ramotswe picked up her pencil and drew several lines on her blotter. Looking at the scribbles, she saw that she had drawn a car.

She looked at Mma Pekwane. "Do you want me to tell you what to do?" she asked. "Is that what you want?"

Mma Pekwane looked thoughtful. "No," she replied. "I don't want that. I've decided what I want to do."

"And that is?"

"I want to give the car back. I want to give it back to its owner."

Mma Ramotswe sat up straight. "You want to go to the police then? You want to inform on your husband?"

"No. I don't want to do that. I just want the car to get back to its owner without the police knowing. I want the Lord to know that the car's back where it belongs."

Mma Ramotswe stared at her client. It was, she had to admit, a perfectly reasonable thing to want. If the car were to be returned to the owner, then Mma Pekwane's conscience would be clear, and she would still have her husband. On mature reflection, it seemed to Mma Ramotswe to be a very good way of dealing with a difficult situation.

"But why come to me about this?" asked Mma Ramotswe. "How can I help?"

Mma Pekwane gave her answer without hesitation.

"I want you to find out who owns that car," she said. "Then I want you to steal it from my husband and give it back to the rightful owner. That's all I want you to do."

LATER THAT evening, as she drove home in her little white van, Mma Ramotswe thought that she should never have agreed to help Mma Pekwane; but she had, and now she was committed. Yet it was not going to be a simple matter-unless, of course, one went to the police, which she clearly could not do. It may be that Rra Pekwane deserved to be handed over, but her client had asked that this should not happen, and her first loyalty was to the client. So some other way would have to be found.

That evening, after her supper of chicken and pumpkin, Mma Ramotswe telephoned Mr J.L.B. Matekoni.

"Where do stolen Mercedes-Benzes come from?" asked Mma Ramotswe.

"From over the border," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "They steal them in South Africa, bring them over here, respray them, file off the original engine number, and then sell them cheaply or send them up to Zambia. I know who does all this, by the way. We all know."

"I don't need to know that," said Mma Ramotswe. "What I need to know is how you identify them after all this has happened."

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni paused. "You have to know where to look," he said. "There's usually another serial number somewhere-on the chassis-or under the bonnet. You can usually find it if you know what you're doing."

"You know what you're doing," said Mma Ramotswe. "Can you help me?"

Mr J.L.B. Matekoni sighed. He did not like stolen cars. He preferred to have nothing to do with them, but this was a request from Mma Ramotswe, and so there was only one answer to give.

"Tell me where and when," he said.

THEY ENTERED the Pekwane garden the following evening, by arrangement with Mma Pekwane, who had promised that at the agreed time she would make sure that the dogs were inside and her husband would be busy eating a special meal she would prepare for him. So there was nothing to stop Mr J.L.B. Matekoni from wriggling under the Mercedes-Benz parked in the yard and flashing his torch up into the bodywork. Mma Ramotswe offered to go under the car as well, but Mr J.L.B. Matekoni doubted whether she would fit and declined her offer. Ten minutes later, he had a serial number written on a piece of paper and the two of them slipped out of the Pekwane yard and made their way to the small white van parked down the road.

"Are you sure that's all I'll need?" asked Mma Ramotswe. "Will they know from that?"

"Yes," said Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "They'll know." She dropped him off outside his gate and he waved goodbye in the darkness. She would be able to repay him soon, she knew.

THAT WEEKEND, Mma Ramotswe drove her tiny white van over the border to Mafikeng and went straight to the Railway Cafe. She bought a copy of theJohannesburg Star and sat at a table near the window reading the news. It was all bad, she decided, and so she laid the paper to one side and passed the time by looking at her fellow customers.

"Mma Ramotswe!"

She looked up. There he was, the same old Billy Pilani, older now, of course, but otherwise the same. She could just see him at the Mochudi Government School, sitting at his desk, dreaming.

She bought him a cup of coffee and a large doughnut and explained to him what she needed.

"I want you to find out who owns this car," she said, passing the slip of paper with the serial number written on it in the handwriting of Mr J.L.B. Matekoni. "Then, when you've found out, I want you to tell the owner, or the insurance company, or whoever, that they can come up to Gaborone and they will find their car ready for them in an agreed place. All they have to do is to bring South African number plates with the original number on them. Then they can drive the car home."

Billy Pilani looked surprised. "All for nothing?" he asked. "Nothing to be paid?"

"Nothing," said Mma Ramotswe. "It's just a question of returning property to its rightful owner. That's all. You believe in that, don't you Billy?"