The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (30 page)

“Me,” said Clovis Andersen.

“No,” snapped Mma Makutsi. “I will sit in the back, Mma.”

“I won’t hear of that,” said Clovis Andersen.

“But we cannot let you do that, Rra. You are a visitor to our country.”

“I insist,” said Clovis Andersen.

Mma Ramotswe drew Mma Makutsi aside. “You must let him,” she said. “Mr. Andersen is a gentleman, and he is thinking of the comfort of ladies. You must let him.”

Mma Makutsi yielded. It was a small thing, she knew, but a small thing that was, in its way, a big thing. And in the van, on the way into town, with Clovis Andersen bumping around in the back and unable to hear them, she said to Mma Ramotswe: “It is good that there are still gentlemen, Mma. Mr. Andersen, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, and Phuti. All gentlemen.”

“Yes, all of those are gentlemen,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And it is good that they are still there. Not only for ladies who want to ride in the front, but for all sorts of other reasons as well.”

Mma Makutsi pondered this. “Why are there fewer and fewer gentlemen, Mma Ramotswe?”

“It is our fault, Mma. It is the fault of ladies.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we have allowed men to stop behaving as gentlemen, and when you allow people to do what they wish, then that is what they do. They stop doing the things they need to do.” She looked at Mma Makutsi across the steering wheel. “That is well known, I think, Mma. That is well known.”

I
NEVER WORRY
about my nails,” said Mma Makutsi as they passed the Princess Marina Hospital. “We were taught at the Botswana Secretarial College that long nails were not a good thing if you have to do typing. We were told some very alarming stories.”

Mma Ramotswe was intrigued. “Alarming stories about nails?”

“Yes, Mma. There was one case, in the days of electric typewriters, of a secretary who got a shock when one of her nails went through the space between the keys. She became late as a result.”

Mma Ramotswe swerved the van slightly at the thought. But could you get a shock through a nail? A finger, certainly, but a nail? “Are you sure, Mma? Would electricity go through a fingernail?”

Mma Makutsi pursed her lips before answering. “It is true, Mma. Electricity can go through many things, not just wires. And there’s another thing—you can get long nails stuck in a filing cabinet when you close it. I have seen that happen, Mma.”

They negotiated the traffic circle at the end of the central square before parking behind the President Hotel. Clovis Andersen appeared to have enjoyed his ride in the back of the van, and jumped down with a smile. “The best way to see a town,”
he said. “With the sun on your face.” He patted down his dishevelled hair. “Now then, Mma Ramotswe, where are you taking us?”

“To a nail parlour,” said Mma Ramotswe, leading them past the entrance to the hotel and into the busy open marketplace beyond.

Clovis Andersen laughed. “I’m not sure whether I need—”

“Not as clients,” Mma Ramotswe interrupted.

“These people are always good sources of information,” said Mma Makutsi. “Hairdressers, barmen, nail ladies—they always know what’s going on. As you say, Rra, in your own book: always ask the people who know.”

Clovis Andersen looked pensive. “I said that, did I? Well, it sounds reasonable enough to me.”

It was a short walk to the Better Nails, Better Life nail parlour. This was a hole-in-the-wall shop advertising its presence with a large picture of a hand sporting long nails painted in various bright colours.

“If you tried to type with a hand like that, you wouldn’t get very far,” said Mma Makutsi dismissively.

“I don’t think it would be much good trying to do
anything
with a hand like that,” said Clovis Andersen.

“People who have nails like that usually don’t want to do anything,” said Mma Makutsi. “That is not a working hand. That is the hand of an idle, useless person.”

“I don’t think it’s meant to be a real hand,” suggested Mma Ramotswe. “I think it’s intended just to give you an idea of what they can do.”

“A bad idea of what they can do,” snorted Mma Makutsi.

They entered the shop. In front of them was a table with a box covered in some soft material. That, thought Mma Ramotswe, was where you rested your hand while your nails were being painted. It
looked rather comfortable, she decided. There were several chairs, a stack of well-thumbed magazines, and a shelf along which numerous bottles of nail varnish were lined. As they came in, a curtain at the back of the room was pulled aside and a well-dressed young woman came out to greet them.

“Have you made an appointment?” she asked. Her voice was friendly.

Mma Ramotswe greeted her in the traditional way before asking: “Are you Mma Soleti’s sister, Mma?”

The woman smiled warmly. “Yes, we are sisters, Mma. I am called Soleti too. They call her Mma Soleti (Face) and me Mma Soleti (Nails). You know her?”

Mma Ramotswe explained that she had only visited the Minor Adjustment Beauty Salon once, but that she had enjoyed a long conversation with Mma Soleti. “I am a private detective, Mma,” she went on. “I am looking into a troubling matter and I need some information. It will be very confidential and nobody else will know about it.”

Mma Soleti (Nails) looked at Mma Makutsi and Clovis Andersen. “And these people, Mma? What about them? Are they nobody?”

Mma Ramotswe was quick to explain. “Mma Makutsi here is my assistant—”

“Associate,” corrected Mma Makutsi.

“Associate,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this is Rra Clovis Andersen, who is one of the most famous detectives in the United States of America. They are both very good at keeping secrets, Mma. Their lips are permanently closed.”

“Forever,” confirmed Mma Makutsi.

Mma Soleti seemed reassured. “In that case, Mma, what is it you wish to know?”

Mma Ramotswe took the photograph out of the brown envelope in which she had placed it. “There is somebody in this picture who you may know, Mma. Please, will you look at it?”

Mma Soleti (Nails) took the photograph and examined it. She looked up at Mma Makutsi. “Her. Your assistant—”

“Associate,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, your associate. It is you, Mma, standing in the centre.”

“I was standing in the centre because I had the highest mark, Mma. That is why.”

Mma Soleti (Nails) looked at the photograph again. “And …” She looked up, a glint in her eye. “And this lady here. Oh yes! There she is. There she is.”

“So that is the lady who comes here, is it, Mma?” coaxed Mma Ramotswe. “The lady who is the mistress of a certain man called Ditso Ditso who also has a wife who comes here to have her nails done?”

“Ow!” exclaimed Mma Soleti (Nails). “You know everything, Mma. No wonder you’re a detective. Yes, that is all true.”

“Her name is Violet Sephotho,” said Mma Ramotswe.

There was a silence as the name was mentioned, and it seemed that it hung in the air for some time, a chilling presence in the room. Violet Sephotho.

Eventually Mma Soleti (Nails) spoke. “I shall remember that,” she said. “She is a very rude woman. She speaks on her telephone while I am doing her nails and she never says anything to me. She thinks I am just a … a nail lady of no importance.”

Mma Ramotswe reached forward and touched her gently on the arm. “The work you do is good work, Mma. You help people to feel good about themselves. That is good work, my sister.”

Mma Soleti (Nails) patted Mma Ramotswe’s hand, casting an eye on her nails as she did so. “Thank you, Mma. And if there’s
anything I can do …” She looked down at Mma Ramotswe’s nails again. “I would be very happy to help, Mma.”

Intercepting the glance, Mma Ramotswe laughed. “It would be wasted on me, Mma. I am always washing up and doing things like that. Fancy nails would not suit me, I’m afraid.”

“Nor me,” said Clovis Andersen. “I don’t think much about my nails.”

Mma Soleti (Nails) looked disapproving. “But that’s a great pity, Rra. These days it is quite all right for men to look after their nails. We are living in an equal society, you see, and that means that nails are equal too.” She paused. “So I think we could do something with your nails, Rra. In fact, I am sure we can.”

WE NOW HAVE
all the information we need,” said Mma Ramotswe.

They were standing about the tiny white van, ready to embark on the next stage of the investigation, which was to confront Mr. Ditso Ditso with the truth.

“This is always the best stage of a case,” said Clovis Andersen. “I call it the denouement. It’s when you reveal who is responsible for whatever it is you’re investigating.”

“But we know that already,” said Mma Makutsi.

Clovis Andersen raised a finger. “But Mr. Ditso doesn’t know that we know. Now we tell him. This is the good part.”

Mma Ramotswe looked doubtful. “You have to be careful not to count on anything,” she said.

Clovis Andersen agreed. “Of course. A case is not closed until it’s closed.”

They considered the force of this. It was most impressive to both Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi how Clovis Andersen
spoke in short, pithy aphorisms—just like his book. It was, they thought, a great gift.

“I look forward to seeing his face,” said Mma Makutsi. “Big Mr. Ditso shown to be a corrupt bully. Should we invite Mma Potokwane to come with us?”

Mma Ramotswe did not think this a good idea. “You should not rub a person’s nose in it, Mma. Let him think about what he has done. Let him reach his own conclusion—it is always better that way.”

“As long as he reinstates Mma Potokwane,” cautioned Clovis Andersen.

“Of course,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is the most important thing of all.”

They had not notified Mr. Ditso Ditso of their arrival, but encountered no obstruction at the offices of DD Industries. Yes, Mr. Ditso would see them if they did not mind waiting for ten minutes or so. Would they like tea?

Eventually an assistant showed them into the office of the man himself. He stood up politely as they entered and gestured for them to sit down. “Last time there were two of you,” he said. “Now there are three. Am I becoming more important all of a sudden?”

They laughed at the pleasantry. Then Ditso Ditso looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I only have five minutes, Mma Ramotswe. So what is it, Mma?”

“I’ve come about Mma Potokwane—”

He raised a hand to interrupt her. “Look, Mma, we’ve discussed that, and I’ve told you already. Do I need to spell it out again? Mma Potokwane has resigned, and that’s the end of that.”

“She did not resign,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She was dismissed.”

Ditso Ditso shrugged. “What’s in a word, Mma? Resigned, dismissed,
retired; jumped, pushed, shoved out? All the same at the end of the day.”

“You can add to that list of words, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “Add: betrayed, destroyed, tricked.”

Ditso Ditso’s manner changed abruptly; gone was the earlier joviality. “Be careful what you say, Mma.”

“You be careful what you write, sir,” said Clovis Andersen.

Ditso Ditso spun his chair round. “You said something, Rra?”

“I said: be careful what you write. For instance, when you make a list of contractors’ estimates, make sure that you put on that list the name of the firm you eventually give the work to—otherwise it looks odd.” He paused. “More than that, Rra. It looks criminal.”

Ditso Ditso froze.

“So,” Clovis Andersen continued. “So you should be careful when you give a contract to your mistress’s brother. Especially if there’s one million pula difference between the prices. That looks like corruption, I’m afraid.”

“Yes,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “That looks very like corruption, and corruption is something we don’t like in Botswana. Have you noticed that, Rra? Have you read in the papers about what happens to people who practise corruption? There are not many of them around because they are mostly in another place. And that is that place at the edge of the Village. You know that place, Rra? The place with the big fence around it?”

For a few moments Ditso Ditso was silent. He had now shrunk back in his chair and was looking down at his desktop. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “What do you want me to do, Mma Ramotswe?”

“I want you to look at me, Rra.”

He raised his eyes. It was clearly difficult for him to look directly at her, but she waited until he did so.

“Now, Rra, you have to call a meeting of the board. You have to
tell them that you have let them down and you are resigning. You will say that you will be making a generous gift to the orphan farm to mark your time with them. Then you will withdraw your support for the hall project and tell them that it must be cancelled. You will then ask them to reinstate Mma Potokwane with immediate effect.”

He nodded. “I will do all that, Mma.”

“And there’s another thing,” Mma Ramotswe went on. “You will also say sorry, Rra. And don’t forget to do that—maybe it is the biggest thing of all.”