THEY TOLD MMA POTOKWANE about what they had discovered. She listened carefully, then rushed forward and threw her arms around an astonished Clovis Andersen. “Oh, thank you, Rra! Thank you, thank you!” If, over the last few days, there had been signs of depression in her demeanour, these now disappeared with extraordinary rapidity.
Clovis Andersen extracted himself from the embrace. “It wasn’t me, Mma. You should thank Mma Ramotswe. She found this out.”
“You did,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It was your idea.”
He refused to accept the credit. “No, Mma, it was you.”
“Does it matter?” said Mma Potokwane. “Maybe it was the two of you.”
“It was definitely her,” said Clovis Andersen, pointing at Mma Ramotswe. “It was not me.”
They returned to Mma Potokwane’s office, where tea was poured and accompanied by liberal slices of fruit cake. Then Mma Ramotswe and Clovis Andersen travelled back to the agency.
“Paper,” said Clovis Andersen as they turned on to the Tlokweng Road. “You’d be surprised, Mma Ramotswe, by how often people leave a paper trail. It’s the undoing of so many malefactors—so many.”
Mma Ramotswe repeated the word malefactors. “That is a very interesting word, Rra. We do not use it very much here in Botswana. What exactly does it mean?”
Clovis Andersen explained. “It means people who do wrong—any sort of wrong.”
Mma Ramotswe repeated the word several times. “It is a good word,” she said. “I shall use it more often. Malefactors. Malefactors. There are many malefactors.”
“There are,” agreed Clovis Andersen.
“Are there many malefactors in Munchie?” asked Mma Ramotswe.
“Muncie. No, no more than anywhere else. In fact, maybe fewer. Muncie, Indiana, is not a bad place.”
“Like Gaborone?”
He smiled. “Yes, a bit like Gaborone. The human heart, you see, Mma Ramotswe, is pretty much the same wherever one goes.”
She nodded her agreement. “Yes, Rra, that is certainly true. All human hearts are the same, no matter how different we are on the outside.”
They travelled in silence for a short while. Then Clovis Andersen turned to Mma Ramotswe and said, “What now, Mma?”
“I have an idea,” she said. “I have an idea why Mr. Ditso gave the contract to that firm.”
“And why is that?”
She smiled. “Would you mind, Rra, if I didn’t tell you just yet? I think I’m right, but I’m not absolutely certain.”
“Not one hundred per cent certain?”
“No, not one hundred per cent. More like … more like ninety-seven per cent, I think.”
Clovis Andersen frowned. “Where have I heard that figure before? Where has ninety-seven per cent cropped up before?”
“It is just a guess, Rra. Ninety-seven per cent is a figure that I have also heard before. So it just came into my mind.”
MMA MAKUTSI WAS sitting at her desk drinking a cup of tea when they arrived back at the office. She glanced up at Mma Ramotswe and knew immediately that something important had happened.
“You have found something?” she asked. “You look very happy.”
“We sure do,” said Clovis Andersen. “We are feeling very happy, Mma Makutsi.”
Mma Makutsi gave him an encouraging smile. Star-struck, thought Mma Ramotswe. You are still star-struck.
“Mr. Ditso Ditso has not been behaving very well,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this means, I hope, that we shall be able to persuade him to drop his plans.”
Mma Makutsi clapped her hands together. “That is very good news, Mma—very good news.”
There was still a further step, though, and Mma Ramotswe now made the request that would make it possible for that step to be taken. “Mma Makutsi,” she began, “am I right in remembering that you have a picture of your graduation from the Botswana Secretarial College?”
Mma Makutsi seemed surprised, but was obviously pleased by the question. “As it happens, Mma, I do have that photograph in my drawer here. Would you like to see it?”
“It would be very useful, Mma.”
Mma Makutsi opened a drawer in her desk and took out a photograph that had been pasted onto a piece of stiff cardboard. “Here it is,” she said, dusting it reverentially. “There were fifteen ladies who graduated in my group. Here we all are, sitting with the Principal. And there, you see, is the college crest and the motto.” She turned to Clovis Andersen. “Ninety-seven per cent, Rra. That is what I got in the final examinations.”
“Ninety-seven per cent!” he said. “That’s almost impossible. Virtually flawless.”
She bobbed her head. “That is what some people said. I am very lucky.”
“Not luck, Mma Makutsi,” he said. “Talent.”
Mma Ramotswe took the proffered photograph and examined it. “Yes,” she said. “This is what I need.” She looked up. “May I borrow this photograph, Mma? Not for very long, and I will take very good care of it, I promise you.”
Mma Makutsi sounded puzzled. “Of course you may, Mma. But why do you need it?”
“I need a photograph of Violet Sephotho,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this is the only one we have, I think. This is her in the middle row, isn’t it?”
Mma Makutsi wrinkled her nose. “She looked the same then as she looks today. Look at all that lipstick. Look at it.”
“And the nails,” mused Mma Ramotswe. “Those nails. They have a lot to do with this.”
“With what?”
“With this enquiry,” said Mma Ramotswe.
“Nails, Mma?”
“I shall explain everything very soon, Mma Makutsi. In the meantime, Mr. Andersen and I need to go into town.”
There was something in Mma Makutsi’s look that made Mma Ramotswe hesitate. It was a look of disappointment, coupled, perhaps, with yearning.
“Unless you would like to come with us, Mma Makutsi?” she said.
Mma Makutsi blurted out her answer. “I think I would, Mma. Thank you very much.”
Mma Ramotswe picked up the keys to the van. “Of course, there is a bit of a problem about seats. The van only has two seats in the cab, which means that somebody will need to sit in the back. That will not be very comfortable.”
“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.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
BETTER NAILS, BETTER LIFE
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 ha
s 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.”