The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (6 page)

Mma Makutsi seethed. Nothing was as simple as one, two, three—even one, two, three itself was rarely that straightforward—you could miss something when counting things, even a child understood that. And who was this ill-behaved Putumelo, anyway? Who was he to arrive like this and pay no attention to the wife—the
wife
—of his client? It was a breathtaking display of arrogance, she thought, and she could just imagine what Mma Ramotswe would say when she told her about it. Or Mma Potokwane … Mma Potokwane might have her faults, but she would know how to deal with a man like this with a few well-chosen words, such that he would be decisively and deftly put in his place.

“I’ll walk around with you, Rra,” said Mr. Putumelo. “We can see how it looks close up.”

“And me,” said Mma Makutsi. “And me too.”

Clarkson Putumelo frowned, as if he had suddenly heard something quite unexpected. He looked at Phuti Radiphuti for confirmation. “Everybody can come,” he said briskly.

They began their inspection. Mma Makutsi said nothing, but glowered with resentment. She had rarely come across so ill-mannered a man as this Clarkson Putumelo, and she wondered how Phuti Radiphuti could possibly have selected him. But then men do not see things the same way we do, she thought. They have different eyes.
Men have different eyes
. It was a very appropriate observation, she decided, and she would write it down and pass it on to Mma Ramotswe for future use, perhaps, when sayings of this nature would be required, which she knew from experience could be at any time.

M
MA MAKUTSI GAVE
Mma Ramotswe a full account of her meeting with Mr. Clarkson Putumelo, sparing no detail of the insulting way in which he had treated her.

“He was very attentive to Phuti,” she said. “All the time, he looked at Phuti and not at me. He never noticed nor spoke to me. I am not exaggerating this, Mma Ramotswe—it is as if I wasn’t there.” She paused, her anger mounting at the recollection of the humiliating encounter. “It was as if I was … some nothing, just some nothing.”

Mma Ramotswe looked sympathetic. “There have always been men like that, Mma. Fortunately, there are fewer of them than there used to be. But there are still some, and this Putumelo must be one of them.”

Mma Makutsi now asked what made these men behave in such a way. Were they like that because they had been badly treated by a woman at some point? Or were they like that because … She tried to think of another explanation, but could not. How could anybody ignore the other half of humanity? And did they behave like that to their wives? she asked Mma Ramotswe.
Phuti had met Mma Putumelo when she had come into the furniture store to test the sofa, so she knew that Mr. Putumelo was married. Did the poor woman have to put up with being ignored in that astonishingly rude manner? What would it be like to sit down for breakfast with a man who never spoke to you but instead looked over your shoulder as if you were not even there?

“He will be a small man inside,” said Mma Ramotswe. “He will feel small and unimportant. That is why he needs to put ladies down, Mma. Men who are big inside never feel the need to do that.”

She was right, thought Mma Makutsi. Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was one of those men who were large inside—kind and generous, and strong too—and he was never anything but courteous in his dealings with women, and with men too, for that matter.

“So what I suggest, Mma,” Mma Ramotswe continued, “is that you don’t let this man annoy you. Just ignore his bad manners.”

Mma Makutsi nodded enthusiastically. “I shall ignore him altogether,” she said. “It will be as if he is not there. When he talks I shall simply look up in the sky—like this—as if I can hear something but am not sure what it is.”

Mma Ramotswe gently explained that this was not what she had in mind. “Don’t repay rudeness with rudeness, Mma. It is much better to show a rude person how to behave. Have you not seen how well that works?”

“I have not seen that, Mma.”

Mma Ramotswe knew she would not persuade Mma Makutsi, but she continued nonetheless. “Well, it does work. A rude person wants you to be rude back to him. He really likes that. But if you just smile and are very polite, then he will realise that his rudeness has not hurt you. He has achieved nothing.”

This was greeted with silence, and Mma Ramotswe decided
that it would be best to move on to another subject. There was work to do: a report to be typed up and sent off to a client, which would keep them busy for the hour or so before lunch time. Both she and Mma Makutsi went home for lunch now—Mma Ramotswe in her van and Mma Makutsi in the car sent for her by Phuti. This car, which had
The Double Comfort Furniture Store
emblazoned on its side, had been the subject of some remark by the two junior mechanics. “She is very grand now,” Charlie had said. “Too grand to go on public transport, like the rest of us. You may have to sit next to some poor person in a minibus. She is now too big for that.”

Fanwell, who had at last qualified—though Charlie had not done so, and was still an apprentice—was more charitable. “It must be very nice to have a car with a driver,” he said. “Maybe if I marry a girl who has a furniture store that will happen to me.”

“That will never happen,” said Charlie. “Girls with furniture stores are looking for someone more exciting than you, Fanwell. Sorry about that.”

The inference was clear: these furniture-store girls, whoever they were, would be more satisfied with Charlie than they would be with Fanwell. That was probably true, thought Mma Ramotswe, who had overheard this conversation, but the fact that something was true was not always justification for saying it.

Now there was the report to compile, and she and Mma Makutsi began to busy themselves with the task of writing it. The matter to be reported was a routine one—the bread-and-butter, or bread-and-gravy as Mma Makutsi put it, of a detective agency: marital infidelity. This case, however, was rather more sensitive than the usual run-of-the-mill investigation, as the client was a prominent politician, Mma Helen Olesitsi, a former government minister in charge of the police. She had developed suspicions about the conduct of her husband, Kholisani, who was a businessman.
She was sure that he was having an affair, but had been unable to find out the identity of her rival; could Mma Ramotswe help?

Mma Ramotswe, assisted by Mma Makutsi, had done her best. Long hours had been spent parked outside houses and in the lobbies of hotels; and more than one evening wasted in bars known to be popular with married men on the lookout for a mistress. Mma Ramotswe disapproved of these bars, which, she said, knew exactly what they were doing. One, in particular, was the object of her derision, a bar that called itself The Second Home—a name that she felt was deliberately and cynically inflammatory to women. This bar advertised itself as a place where “those in need of entertainment they cannot find at home will be given a warm welcome.”

“Those words make it very clear, don’t you think, Mma Makutsi?” said Mma Ramotswe, pointing an angry finger at the offending newspaper advertisement. “Why don’t they just come out in the open and say, ‘Married men: you come here to meet other ladies’? That’s what it should say, Mma, if they were being honest.”

Mma Makutsi was in complete agreement. “As a married woman, I can only say that I agree one hundred per cent. Even if I know that Phuti would never go to a place like that, I know that there are many men who are far weaker and will do that. Shame on them, Mma Ramotswe! Shame on them!”

It was not clear to Mma Ramotswe whether the shame should be heaped on the weak married men or on the bar, or on both, but she nodded her head. Their one trip to The Second Home had been an eye-opener, but had not resulted in any information on Mr. Kholisani Olesitsi. They had shown photographs to the barman, who had been perfectly obliging but who had shaken his head. “Never here, Mma Ramotswe. I have never seen this man. Not once. Are you sure that he has been here?”

Mma Makutsi had been doubtful about the truthfulness of this barman. “I think he probably says that about anybody,” she said. “That is why he is the barman in a place like that. He is discreet. If you showed him a photograph of … of the Mayor of Gaborone himself, he would deny knowing who it was.”

“But the Mayor does not go into bars like that,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“You know what I mean, Mma. I did not say that the Mayor goes to bars. I do not think that he does. All I am saying is—”

Mma Ramotswe raised a hand. “It’s all right, Mma Makutsi. I know what you’re saying. But we have drawn a blank; that is the important thing. Perhaps this man is not having an affair at all. Perhaps it is just another case of a wife who is too suspicious for her own good.”

“Perhaps, Mma. But what now?”

Mma Ramotswe had been unable to come up with any ideas for further investigation—at least not at that point—and had explained to Mma Makutsi that it was time for a report. “A report lets the client know what we are doing,” she said. “It shows that we are not just sitting around talking about a case; it shows that we are busy looking into possibilities.”

“Leaving no stone unturned,” offered Mma Makutsi.

“Yes, Mma. That is a good way of putting it.”

Sitting at her desk that morning, as Mma Makutsi kept her shorthand pencil poised above her dictation pad, Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “Mr. Kholisani Olesitsi,” she began, “hereafter referred to as ‘the husband’—”

“ ‘The said husband,’ ” interjected Mma Makutsi.

“If you wish, Mma Makutsi, although I think that ‘the husband’ is clear enough.”

Mma Makutsi stared across the room at Mma Ramotswe, her glasses catching the sunlight from the window and reflecting it in
little dancing specks on to the wall. If she sat in direct sunlight, thought Mma Ramotswe, there might be a danger that she could involuntarily start a fire, in the same way as one risked starting a bush fire if one left a bottle in the grass; the glass could act as a lens and focus the sun’s rays down to a point of white incendiary heat. “It is more official to say ‘the said husband,’ ” Mma Makutsi intoned. “It means that you are talking about a husband you have already mentioned, rather than any other husband.”

“As ‘the said husband,’ then,” continued Mma Ramotswe.

Mma Makutsi’s pencil darted across the paper. She looked up. “I am ready, Mma.”

“We have carried out exhaustive enquiries—”

Again Mma Makutsi looked up from her pad. “Exhausting,” she said.

Mma Ramotswe sighed. Mma Makutsi did tend to interrupt dictation with the occasional suggestion, but not usually as frequently as she was now doing. Could it be, she wondered, that her new status as Mrs. Phuti Radiphuti was going to her head? “No, Mma Makutsi, exhaustive means many. It means doing everything you can. Exhausting means tiring.”

Mma Makutsi bit her lip. “I know that, Mma,” she muttered. “I am not some ignorant lady who has never been to a college …”

Mma Ramotswe said nothing. By one interpretation, this was a dig at her; she had never been to a college of any sort, even the Botswana Secretarial College, which was not all that academically distinguished, she thought; not that she would ever say so.

“Let’s continue,” said Mma Ramotswe. “We have carried out exhaustive … no, say, extensive enquiries throughout Gaborone. We have interviewed relevant persons in the list of locations set out below—”

She was interrupted again, this time not by Mma Makutsi with
some suggested improvement to the text of the report, but by Charlie’s appearance at the door.

“It is not tea time,” said Mma Makutsi.

Charlie smiled unconcernedly. “I am not looking for tea. I have come to tell you that there is a man sitting in a car outside. He’s staring at this building.”

Mma Makutsi put down her dictation pad and crossed the room to look out of the window, standing to one side so as not to be seen from outside. “You’re right,” she said. “How long has he been there, Charlie?”

Charlie joined her in staring out of the window. “Maybe about half an hour,” he said. “I wasn’t really paying attention until Fanwell said something about it. Then I looked and I thought,
That man is staring
. That’s when I came in to tell you.”

Mma Makutsi screwed up her eyes. “I cannot see him very well,” she said. “He is wearing a hat.”

“He is a white man,” said Charlie. “I’ve noticed that they like to wear hats.”

“The sun can be unkind to them,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“He’s getting out,” said Mma Makutsi. “I think he’s coming in.”

“He will be a client then,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Thank you, Charlie. You go back to work, and we will get ready to welcome our visitor.”

Mma Makutsi knew what this meant. Mma Ramotswe had never liked it when clients arrived to find them unoccupied, staring out of the window, perhaps, or drinking tea. It was far better, she said, if the client came upon a scene of reassuring activity.