The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (18 page)

“So I cannot say anything that would put my job at risk. Do you see that?”

Phuti stiffened. There was only one way in which this could be interpreted: this man, this bricklayer from over the border, knew something about Mr. Putumelo that Mr. Putumelo did not want anybody to know. And that could be anything, ranging from not declaring income for tax purposes, to using stolen materials, or building unsafe structures … He looked about the site. Was everything being built correctly, or was Mr. Putumelo cutting corners in exactly the way he condemned in others?

He decided to ask directly. “Please tell me, Rra; please tell me man to man, as one brother to another; tell me—is this house being built properly?”

Thomas seemed to be taken aback by the question. “But of course it is, Rra. Mr. Putumelo is a very good builder, and I can promise you that I am taking great care with the work I am doing. I would never build anything that was not solid.”

Phuti breathed a sigh of relief. So the disclosure, whatever it was, had nothing to do with his house. If Thomas did not want to make it, then he would not press him; he would not be at all surprised to learn that Mr. Putumelo was up to something, but what that might be was not really his business. Phuti himself was honest—scrupulously so—but one honest man could not make the
rest of the world honest, no matter how hard he tried: Where would he start?

Phuti bent down to examine one of the walls. They were in a part of the building where Thomas must have been working that day; the mortar around the bricks was wet to the touch, cool against the skin, soft too.
Our house
, thought Phuti.
Our house
.

And then he thought of something that Mr. Putumelo had said.
Your house has got my name on it
. That was strange, but there were many aspects of the building trade that Phuti found odd, just as he had no doubt others found aspects of the furniture business hard to fathom. He completed his examination of the incipient wall. “This is very well made,” he said. “This is very good work.” It was: the wall hugged the plumb line, set by a practised and conscientious eye.

He turned round. Thomas, who had been standing immediately behind him only a few moments before, had gone.

C
LOVIS ANDERSEN
returned from the far side of the country, exhausted by the journey, to receive the message that Mma Ramotswe had left for him. In this she gave him no news of the awful events that had occurred, but simply proposed that they meet for tea at the President Hotel, suggesting that if he telephoned her they could agree on a time. He did, and they met on the day after his return. It was a hot morning, but even though the air was heavy, it held a hint of what might come; somewhere, still far away, but building up, there were rain clouds. And the rain would bring relief from the heat and the dryness, and the earth would drink it up thirstily and suddenly be touched with the green of new growth.

“So hot,” said Clovis Andersen, as he sat down opposite Mma Ramotswe on the hotel verandah. “So awfully hot.”

“Then we shall have tea,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That will make you feel better.”

The tea did not take long to arrive, and as Mma Ramotswe poured it from the stout white pot she began to reveal to Clovis Andersen the troubles they were facing.

“I know these are not your problems, Rra,” she began, “but
we … that is, Mma Makutsi and I, feel that you will have some idea of what to do.”

Clovis Andersen stopped her. “Hold on, Mma Ramotswe. I may have written that book, but really I wouldn’t hold myself out as … as an expert.”

Mma Ramotswe could not believe that he was serious. “But, Rra, your book is famous. You have a rule for just about everything. Rule No. 6, for example …” She began to quote Rule No. 6; Clovis Andersen, barely concealing his surprise that there should be anybody who remembered that there was a Rule No. 6, let alone anybody who was capable of quoting it verbatim, listened in silence. Then: “Yes, Mma, that is indeed Rule No. 6, but all I’m saying is that I’m not necessarily able to sort everything out.” He stared at her, as if willing her to read something into his protestations.

Mma Ramotswe was not deterred. “Let me tell you, Rra,” she said. “Let me tell you about a very dreadful thing that has happened. We have a lady here who is the matron of an orphan farm. She is called Mma Potokwane, and she has many fine qualities. She is traditionally built, and she makes very famous fruit cake. She will do anything for those orphans—anything—and for many of them she is their mother. Mma Potokwane has more children than any other woman in Botswana—she is mother to many hundreds of children who are now grown up. That is what she is like, Rra.”

Clovis Andersen listened politely. “It sounds as if she must be much appreciated, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe replied that this was true, but it seemed to her that this appreciation did not extend to some members of her board. She told him of the dismissal, and of Mr. Ditso Ditso’s suspected role in it. “It must have been him, Rra,” she said. “Nobody else would think of such a thing. People like that think they should control
everything
—just because they are a success in business.”

“Indeed,” said Clovis Andersen, looking vaguely out over the
square. He had no idea who Mma Potokwane was, but it seemed to him that to dismiss a woman like that—if she was like that—was not only foolish, but perverse too. When Mma Ramotswe finished, he tapped the table thoughtfully. “This sounds very nasty,” he said. “I don’t like that sort of thing. It’s a form of bullying, isn’t it? Hounding somebody out of her job because she sees things differently.” He shook his head. “Not nice.”

Mma Ramotswe waited for him to say more, but he seemed to be thinking about something else altogether. For a few moments she felt uncertain: Should she really be asking the great Clovis Andersen for advice on something as small, as local—at least in his eyes—as the dismissal of Mma Potokwane? But then he turned to her and said, “Mma Ramotswe, I think you’re going to ask me what to do. Is that right?”

She answered him with relief. “Oh yes, Rra. That is quite right. You see, I cannot seem to think of anything that we can do to help Mma Potokwane, and I thought that since you had written that book, and we all know how—”

He held up a hand. “You misjudge me, Mma Ramotswe. I’m not the man you think I am.”

She shrugged.

“Anybody can write a book …”

She brushed his objections aside. “Rra, you are very modest—and that is good too. But we do not have to talk about that. The real question is what I should do.”

Clovis Andersen sighed. “Somewhere in the book I say something about going to the source of a problem. I forget …”

“It is on page one hundred twenty-six,” said Mma Ramotswe. “The chapter is called ‘Seeing the Wood from the Trees.’ ”

Clovis Andersen nodded. “Yes, I think it’s there. I think I said something about finding out where a problem originates and then going directly there.”

“Yes, Rra. That is what you said.” She looked at him expectantly. “The source of the problem here is Mr. Ditso.”

Clovis Andersen nodded. “Yes. So you ask the question: Why is he doing this?”

Mma Ramotswe looked up at the sky. There were so many reasons for bad behaviour, for meanness and unkindness. Sometimes the explanation of such things was very simple; people caused harm to others because they were of malevolent disposition. That was sheer human wickedness, something that had always existed and always would. Some people, it seemed, derived pleasure from inflicting suffering on others, and any enquiry as to why they did it could stop there. But then there were those other cases where the real explanation lay elsewhere, where there was some quite different motive in play—greed, ambition, a grudge … There was so much to choose from.

“He wants to build a new hall at the orphan farm,” she said. “He wants the children to eat in one place and save money. It’s cheaper, you see, to cook all the meals in one place.”

Clovis Andersen considered this. “Is he a frugal man, this Mr. Ditso? Does he live simply?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni’s words were coming back to her. “My husband could answer that, I think, Rra. He says that you can tell what a person is like by looking at his car.”

This seemed to interest Clovis Andersen. “He’s got something there, Mma Ramotswe. Yes, he’s certainly got something there.” He paused. “So, what sort of car has our friend got? Something simple?”

“No, Rra. It is very fancy. Fancy and shiny.”

Clovis Andersen absorbed this. “So maybe he doesn’t want just to save money. Maybe he wants to spend it.”

Mma Ramotswe pointed out that it was not Mr. Ditso’s money that would be spent: it would be the orphan farm’s.

“Sure,” said Clovis Andersen. “But who’s getting the money? Where’s it being spent? Remember what I said in the book.
Follow the money
. It always works, Mma Ramotswe.”

She looked at him. Of course he was right. And it had never occurred to her to ask herself this question, not once in the course of all the pondering and worrying of the last few days. And now this man who was so modest, who seemed reluctant to discuss
The Principles of Private Detection
unless pressed to do so, this
nice
man had gone right to the nub of the matter, and had done it effortlessly, as if he had hardly had to think about it at all.

She struggled to contain her excitement. “I think you are right, Rra. That is the very question we should be asking ourselves.”

Clovis Andersen made a gesture with his hand—a turning movement that suggested the reframing of the question. “Ask ourselves, or ask him?”

“You think we should speak to him, Rra?”

Clovis Andersen nodded. “Yes. Let’s go and talk to him about the building project. And while you’re talking to him, I’ll watch him.”

“You’ll watch?”

“Yes. Because in my experience, Mma Ramotswe, people give themselves away. Even if he doesn’t say anything, he’ll tell us.”

They drank their tea. Mma Ramotswe felt almost euphoric. As far as she was concerned, the investigation was now in the hands of one who must, on any view of it, be one of the most highly regarded private detectives in the world. And he was here, in Botswana, with her, working on a case in which they were, without the slightest shadow of doubt, on the right side. If the last few days had been difficult ones, that was now almost completely forgotten. She now felt optimistic that they would come up with something that might bring about a reversal of Mma Potokwane’s dismissal. And that had to happen, because if it did not, then there would be no justice left
in the country—and that was a thought that Mma Ramotswe was not willing to entertain for anywhere, least of all for the place she loved so much, her Botswana.

IT DID NOT
prove easy to track down Ditso Ditso, who was not listed under his own name in the telephone directory. It was Mma Makutsi who remembered the name of one of his companies and found a number for that. “It is here,” she said proudly, pointing to an entry in the directory. “DD Industries. That is what he calls himself. It is his initials, you see.”

They had gone back to the office, where Mma Makutsi, excited by the presence of Clovis Andersen, had made a great show of finding the telephone number. Mma Ramotswe complimented her, and had drawn their guest’s attention to Mma Makutsi’s framed certificate on the wall. “The Botswana Secretarial College,” she had said. “My assistant is one of their most distinguished graduates.”

“
The
most distinguished graduate,” corrected Mma Makutsi, smiling at Clovis Andersen as she spoke.

“Ninety-seven per cent,” said Mma Ramotswe hurriedly, before Mma Makutsi could say it. She did not want Clovis Andersen to think Mma Makutsi boastful.

Clovis Andersen glanced at the certificate. “Very good, Mma Makutsi. It is a very good training for detection, you know. I’ve come across several people who trained in office administration before they went into the profession. They did well. Very methodical.”

Mma Makutsi beamed with pleasure. “Thank you, Rra. They always stressed method at the college. They said that if you follow a method, you’ll never get lost. That is what they taught us.”

Clovis Andersen nodded his agreement. “There’s a lot to be said for that approach.”

“And they also taught us a great deal about filing,” Mma Makutsi continued. “You see, if you have a good system for filing, then—”

Mma Ramotswe cut her short, looking apologetically at Clovis Andersen. “That number, Mma. That Ditso number, if you don’t mind.”

At first the number was busy, but at the third try Mma Ramotswe found herself talking to a secretary. “This is not the right number of Rra Ditso,” she said. “You will have to phone another number. I’m sorry, Mma. Goodbye.”

“But, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe blurted out. “That is very sad. Very sad.”