The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (7 page)

“I am ready,” said Mma Makutsi, regaining her seat. “ ‘… in the list of locations set out below’ …”

“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Location number one, the office of the said husband …”

The knock, which came at the half-open door, was timid—barely audible. Mma Makutsi flipped her dictation pad shut and rose to her feet. “I shall deal with this, Mma,” she said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the visitor. “The important report can wait.”

She pushed the door fully open. Standing outside was a tall, solidly built man in middle age, rather square-faced, his blond hair in a crew cut. He was dressed entirely in khaki and wore sand-coloured desert boots—the standard outfit of the safari visitor. In his hands was a freshly purchased bush hat with wide brim.

“Please come in, Rra,” said Mma Makutsi, gesturing for the visitor to enter. “Do you have an appointment?”

Stepping into the room, the visitor shook his head. “No, I don’t have an appointment, but I was passing by and …”

Mma Ramotswe rose to greet him. “An appointment is not always necessary,” she said warmly. “My door is always open.”

“Until five o’clock,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “The office closes at five o’clock.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I meant that I am always happy to see people.” She gestured to the client chair. “Please sit down, Rra. And Mma Makutsi, perhaps you could take this gentleman’s hat.”

The visitor handed the hat over somewhat awkwardly. Noticing this, Mma Ramotswe said, “It is a very beautiful hat, Rra. Very beautiful.”

He looked up and bashfully returned her smile. “You think so? I had it with me up north, in the Delta, and I must say there were days when I was very happy I bought it.”

“It can get very hot up there,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe thought it time for introductions. “This is my assistant, Mma Makutsi.”

“Associate detective,” said Mma Makutsi.

“Yes. Associate detective. And my own name is Precious Ramotswe.
I am the owner of this agency.” She paused. “And what is your name, Rra?”

The visitor, who had been about to sit down, straightened up and offered his hand. “My name is Andersen.”

“You are very welcome, Rra Andersen.”

The visitor seemed to relax. Reaching into one of the copious pockets in his khaki safari shirt, he extracted a card and passed it over to Mma Ramotswe. “This is my card, Mma. You will see it states my profession.”

Mma Ramotswe took the card and began to examine it. She stopped, her eyes wide in astonishment. “You are …,” she stuttered. “You are Clovis Andersen?”

“Yes, that is my name. I am Clovis Andersen.”

There was complete silence. Mma Ramotswe looked across the room at Mma Makutsi, who was sitting bolt upright, the lenses of her glasses flashing signals of amazement.

Mma Ramotswe could barely speak. Her voice, when it came, was faltering. “Clovis Andersen? Who wrote the … the …”

Now it was the visitor’s turn to be surprised. “My book? You know my book?
The Principles of Private Detection
?”

Mma Makutsi could not contain herself. “We know that book very well, Rra!” she exclaimed. “It is here on my desk. Right here. Look.”

She picked up the now battered copy of the book and waved it in the air exultantly. A slip of paper marking a place fell out of the pages and fluttered down to the ground. Clovis Andersen watched it fall. “This is an extraordinary coincidence,” he said. “I had no idea that the book was read in Africa.”

“But we are always reading it,” shouted Mma Makutsi. “Mma Ramotswe was the first, and then I read it, and then she read it again. It is always in use. Every day.”

Clovis Andersen looked down at the floor. “Well, I must say I’m
very pleased by that. And I hope you find it useful. You never know when you write a book—often you don’t hear from the folks who have read it, and then …” He shrugged. “Then you think: ‘Well, I guess nobody’s read it after all.’ ”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head vigorously. “But of course people have read your book, Rra,” she said. “All over the world. That book is read all over the world. There are many detectives who have read it—I’m sure of that.”

“You’re very kind,” muttered Clovis Andersen.

Mma Makutsi now made another intervention. “God brought you here,” she said.

He turned round in his chair to look at her. “I beg your pardon, Mma?”

“God brought you here,” she repeated. “You have been brought to see us by God himself. That is very clear.”

Clovis Andersen looked nonplussed. “Well, actually, I was driving past and I saw your sign. I have a rental car, you see, and when I saw the sign I thought that as a matter of professional courtesy I might call in and introduce myself—since we are all in the same profession.”

“That is a very good thought,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And we are very glad that you did.” She looked over the room towards Mma Makutsi. “I think you should put on the kettle, Mma. Mr. Andersen is thirsty and would like some tea, I think.”

Mma Makutsi rose to her feet and picked up the kettle. She would not raise the subject now, since they had a visitor, and such an important visitor too, but it occurred to her that she was always the one to make the tea. That had been her lot, in a sense—to make the tea for other people; but why should it always be the case? She was now Mrs. Phuti Radiphuti, and it was about time that people started making tea for her.
Time for tea, Mma Ramotswe
.
Would you mind putting the kettle on?
It was a delicious, delicious thought, but not one to be expressed just yet.

THEY TALKED FOR
almost an hour, well into the lunch break. Most of the talking was done by Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, with Clovis Andersen making only the occasional intervention, nodding in agreement at some points, expressing surprise at others. From time to time Mma Makutsi picked up the copy of
The Principles of Private Detection
and read out a sentence to illustrate a point; Clovis Andersen, although he seemed flattered at these references to his work, was also reticent, making self-effacing gestures as if it embarrassed him to be considered an authority. Mma Ramotswe told him of the times they had relied on his advice and how his pithy comments had proved to be exactly the guidance needed, and Mma Makutsi added to this with examples of her own.

“You ladies are very kind,” Clovis Andersen muttered. “I had no idea that my rather ordinary thoughts on investigation should be taken so seriously. I never imagined …”

“We are not kind,” Mma Makutsi protested. “You are the kind one, Rra, to have given us all this … all this …”

“Inspiration,” prompted Mma Ramotswe.

“Exactly,” said Mma Makutsi.

Clovis Andersen looked down at the floor. He did not say anything. From the garage on the other side of the wall there drifted the sound of metal on metal; something being knocked into place, or loosened; the clanging of a spanner allowed to fall to the floor; the nagging whine of a reluctant starter motor.

“They are busy through there,” commented Mma Ramotswe.

Clovis Andersen said nothing.

Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi, and then back at Clovis Andersen. “Is there something wrong, Rra?”

He looked up. His hands were folded in his lap; large, chapped hands, the skin made angry and reddened by exposure to the sun. He moved his head almost imperceptibly. A nod.

T
HAT EVENING
, Fanwell left the garage at his usual time, which was five minutes past five. Work ended officially at five o’clock, and Fanwell, being conscientious, insisted on working until the very last moment; Charlie, by contrast, took the view that an eight-to-five day entitled him to leave the building at five o’clock exactly. This meant that work itself should stop a good fifteen minutes earlier, to give him time to put tools away, wash his hands, and spend a vital few moments in front of the mirror in the washroom. Charlie had installed that mirror himself, after the denial of his request that one be provided. “That is a washroom for the use of men,” said Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni. “It is a place to wash your hands and attend to other necessary matters. It is not a grooming parlour or a beauty salon. Men do not need mirrors, Charlie.”

Charlie had shaken his head. “Oh, Boss, that is a very old-fashioned thing to say. I do not expect to hear that sort of thing in this modern Botswana.”

The effect of this remark was to cause entirely understandable irritation. “What is this nonsense?” asked Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, his voice rising slightly. He was the most temperate of
men, but there were occasions when Charlie tested even him. “Men do not need mirrors. Most men know what they look like. I do not need to look into a piece of shiny glass and say, ‘Oh, look, there’s Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni.’ What other use is there for a mirror?”

Charlie grinned. “These days there are new men, Boss. They are more like their sisters.” As he spoke, he watched Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, assessing his reaction. “Boys and girls, Rra—they are all the same today.”

Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni was unmoved. “If you think that, Charlie, you’re in for a big surprise.”

“Hah!” said Fanwell, who had been following this exchange with interest. “A very big surprise! Maybe you need to tell him about some things, Boss. Maybe Charlie doesn’t know yet!”

Charlie had been bettered, and he left the subject at that. But the following day, armed with a screwdriver and drill, he had installed a cheap wall mirror directly above the washbasin.
For the use of modern men
, he had written underneath. Some time later that day, Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had taken a pen to the notice and altered the wording to read,
NOT For the use of mod
ern
est men
. Fanwell particularly appreciated this: “That will show him, Rra,” he said. “That will teach him to think he’s so big and handsome!”

The mirror remained, though, and was regularly used by Charlie, even if neither Fanwell nor Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni made any use of it—or admitted to doing so. Vanity was one of Charlie’s shortcomings, but it had always been tolerated by Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni, who also put up with Charlie’s early stopping of work and unseemly dash for the door, while Fanwell continued at his post until five and then took five minutes to put away his tools and tidy up. Then it was time for him to board one of the swaying, overloaded minibuses that plied the Old Naledi route. If he was lucky, he would not have to wait long before one of these minibuses arrived, and then the journey never took more than fifteen minutes, depending
on traffic. Jumping off at his stop, he would cross the road, leap across the storm drain, and walk down the unpaved road that disappeared into the heart of the informal suburb.

Old Naledi was the one scar on the neat landscape of Gaborone. While there were other places that had cheap housing, none was as cheap as this, with its rickety houses made half of breeze-block, half of mud daub, their roofs consisting of tarpaulins, odd sheets of corrugated tin, and such other bits of building material as could be scavenged from here and there. It was not quite a shanty town, but at times it seemed to be not far off that, so great was the contrast between its evident poverty and the well-found prosperity of the other parts of the town.

The people who lived there did so because they had no choice. As often as not it was the only place that new arrivals could find—people who came into Gaborone from remote villages, lured by the promise of work and payment they could never find at home. Then there were people from over the border, from countries less fortunate—people for whom the small comforts that Old Naledi afforded, and its comparative safety, were paradise found. These people took what jobs they could, and were often exploited. They painted houses, fixed pipes, patched up roofs. They worked without complaint, and at the end of each month sent home what money they could spare, aware of the fact that every pula, every thebe they wired back to Bulawayo or beyond might be the crucial one that separated a full stomach from an empty one; that meant that a child could stay in school rather than be excluded for nonpayment of the tiny fee the schools required.

Fanwell lived in this place, but his lot was infinitely better than that of the migrants. He was a Motswana, a citizen, and thus entitled to the benefits that came with citizenship. He had been well schooled and had—eventually—completed his apprenticeship. He had a trade; he could get a job anywhere now, as there was
always a call for qualified mechanics, even for those who did not have a great deal of experience. If he chose to continue working with cars, the fact that he had trained with Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni would stand him in good stead; already he had had an indirect, somewhat veiled offer from one of the big garages. “Ever wondered what it would be like to work in a
proper
garage?” they had asked. “Think about it, Fanwell. Good conditions. Big pay cheque. Latest tools. The lot.”

He had turned this approach down, resenting the implication that working at Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors was somehow inferior. “I’m working with the finest mechanic in Botswana,” he said. “That is enough.” And it was—at least in the professional sense. From the monetary point of view, though, it was true that he could be earning more elsewhere, although Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni had raised his salary as much as he could. And it would certainly be useful for Fanwell to have more money at his disposal, given his family obligations.