The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) (19 page)

There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the line.

“I don’t have another number for Rra Ditso, and he will be very sorry that we have not been able to speak.”

The hesitation was almost audible. “Why so, Mma? What is this in connection with?”

“I cannot tell you, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Other than to say that there is a very important visitor to this country who needs to speak to Mr. Ditso.”

“Who is this visitor? I can take a message.”

Mma Ramotswe’s tone now changed. “Oh, sorry, Mma. This name is too important to give over the telephone. Thank you anyway, it doesn’t matter all that much. Not to us.”

It was the
not to us
that worked.

“There is a number for his mobile phone,” said the secretary. “You can try that.”

“Will he answer, though?” asked Mma Ramotswe. “So often I have phoned those things and left a message, and nobody has ever listened to it. It is like talking to yourself. So maybe not, Mma. Some other time—but it’s a bit of a pity for Rra Ditso.”

“There is another number,” said the secretary. “I will give you a number that he will definitely answer, Mma.”

The number was provided and the call brought to an end.

“Who is this man?” said Clovis Andersen. “Thinks he’s the president, or something?”

“It is because he doesn’t want to be asked for money,” pronounced Mma Makutsi. “People are always asking other people for money in this country. It happens all the time. And if you’re rich, as he is, then every day there must be people who say they are his cousins or something, and want help with doctors’ bills or school fees or need new shoes. The cost of shoes these days—”

That’s right, blame us! Blame the shoes!

Mma Makutsi stopped midstream. She looked down at her feet, furtively, as did Mma Ramotswe, who also thought she had heard something. It was not clear whether Clovis Andersen had heard anything, but Mma Ramotswe did notice that he frowned slightly and cocked his head, as if straining to pick up something indistinct.

Mma Ramotswe laughed nervously. “Oh, there are many things that people want,” she said. “And people try to help, but it is sometimes difficult. So maybe we should understand why he does not want people to be able to phone him up all the time.”

“That is what I just said,” chipped in Mma Makutsi.

You’d think that—

The small voice from down below—if it really was a voice rather than a figment of the imagination—was cut short by Mma Ramotswe, who cleared her throat loudly and suggested that Mma Makutsi dial the number they had just been given and put her through to Mr. Ditso. Mma Makutsi did this, and Mma Ramotswe soon found herself on the line to Mr. Ditso Ditso himself.

The businessman was abrupt. “Who are you, Mma?” he enquired.

Mma Ramotswe gave her name.

“So that is who you are,” said Ditso. “I have seen your place. It’s on the Tlokweng Road, isn’t it?”

“That is me, Rra,” she said.

There was a brief silence at the other end of the line. Then he said, “So, you want to investigate me. On whose behalf, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe was momentarily taken aback. It was true that she had been trying to investigate him, but she had got nowhere. And since she was not calling him now as part of that abortive enquiry, then surely she could deny that she was investigating him. She did not have time, though, as Mr. Ditso continued, “If you’d like to see me, Mma, I’m in my office. You can come now, if you wish.”

This was even more surprising, but Mma Ramotswe accepted quickly. “That will suit me very well, Rra. May I bring somebody with me? A visitor.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Ditso. “You can bring anybody you like. I do not mind.”

With that he rang off, and Mma Ramotswe turned to face Clovis Andersen. “I had not expected it to be that easy.”

“Things that seem easy sometimes are not easy when you get up close to them,” chipped in Mma Makutsi. “That is in Mr. Andersen’s book. Page seventy-four.”

Clovis Andersen looked embarrassed. “I’m not always right, you know,” he said mildly.

Mma Makutsi laughed. “You are very modest, Rra. We have always found that you have been right, haven’t we, Mma Ramotswe?”

Mma Ramotswe agreed that this was so, but did not press the matter. She had the impression that Clovis Andersen was beginning to feel awkward over these constant references to his book. She would try to avoid mentioning it in future—at least when he
was with them—and she would have a quiet word to this effect with Mma Makutsi later on.

THE OFFICES OF DD
Industries proved easy enough to locate. Two large letters had been mounted on the side of an offshoot of the Lobatse Road. The first D was red, the second D a vivid green, and beneath them was a board on which a painted hand obligingly pointed in the direction of a large white building.

Seated on the passenger side of Mma Ramotswe’s tiny white van, Clovis Andersen surveyed the sign. “Ego,” he said.

“What was that, Rra?”

“I said
ego
, Mma Ramotswe. That man has a large ego. Why else would he choose his initials for the name of his business? And then put them up on great big cut-outs?”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “There are many businessmen who are a bit like that. They say
look at me
. I have often thought that would be a good name for a business: The Look at Me Company.”

Clovis Andersen agreed.

“What is your own business called, Rra?” Mma Ramotswe asked as she steered the van towards a patch of shade afforded by a couple of jacaranda trees.

Clovis Andersen stared out of the window. “It is called Muncie Investigations.”

“That is a nice name, Rra. Who is this Muncie? Is he your colleague?”

“Muncie is a place,” Clovis Andersen explained. “It is a place in the United States. In Indiana.”

“It sounds very nice, Rra. Muncie sounds like Gaborone. Is it like Gaborone at all?”

Clovis Andersen considered this as the van was parked. “Maybe a bit. Some things are different, though. We have a river,
and we make glass jars. We make some very famous glass jars for pickling fruit.”

“That is very useful,” said Mma Ramotswe, turning off the engine. “Rra, I must tell you something. I am a bit nervous of this Ditso Ditso.”

“Why is that, Mma Ramotswe? Has he a reputation for violence?”

“No, not that I know of. It’s just that these big men—they can make ordinary people seem very small.” She paused. “And there is another thing: Why was he so quick to suggest that I come and see him? Why would he do that, Rra?”

Clovis Andersen thought for a moment. “Because he has something to hide,” he said. “He knows that you’re a detective, doesn’t he? He has assumed, then, that you’re looking into his affairs. And then he has decided, quite wisely, that the best way of dealing with somebody who is investigating you is to go out to meet them. Make the running yourself, and that will put them off. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.”

She sought reassurance. “Do you think so, Rra?”

“I think so, Mma Ramotswe.”

She pointed to the glass door of the building behind which could be made out the figure of a guard slouched on a chair. “We should go in,” she said. “And I shall remember what you had to say.”

The guard, who was sitting somnolently staring out across the parched earth at the front of the building, seemed barely to register their arrival. “That way,” he muttered, pointing down a corridor behind him. “Second door on the right. That is where he is.”

Clovis Andersen exchanged a quizzical glance with Mma Ramotswe.

“That man is very lazy,” she whispered, as they made their way in the direction the guard had indicated. “I have always found that
guards are not very wide awake. I think it is a good job for a sleepy person.”

Clovis Andersen chuckled. “It’s probably better for them to be doing that job than driving buses or planes,” he said.

“That is very true, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe.

They were now in front of Mr. Ditso’s door, which was simply labelled
MANAGING DIRECTOR NO ADMISSION
.

“No admissions, plural,” said Clovis Andersen.

Mma Ramotswe knocked, and they entered when a voice from within called out. Inside, seated behind a large expanse of desk, was Mr. Ditso Ditso, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his left wrist dominated by what seemed an impossibly large wristwatch. A beam of sunlight, slanting in from the wide plateglass window behind him, caught the dial of the watch and flashed rays back across the wall in dancing points of light.

It was the office of a wealthy man and a public citizen: anybody could see that immediately. On the wall to the side of Mr. Ditso’s desk there were several framed photographs and letters: Mr. Ditso Ditso shaking hands with a former president; Mr. Ditso Ditso at a charity function, handing over an outsized cheque; Mr. Ditso Ditso presenting the prizes at Gaborone Secondary School. On a shelf there was a series of what looked like business awards: a trophy in the shape of a cash register, an engraved glass bowl.

Mma Ramotswe introduced Clovis Andersen. “Mr. Andersen is a visitor to Botswana,” she said. “He is spending some time in my office, seeing how we work.”

Mr. Ditso inclined his head politely in the direction of Clovis Andersen. “You are very welcome, sir.” Then he turned to Mma Ramotswe. “What is it, Mma? Who is wanting to investigate me? Is this to do with tax? Some people think I do not pay my taxes, but I do. Every pula.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “It’s nothing to do with tax,
Rra. I have come here to speak to you about a friend,” she said. “A certain Mma Potokwane.”

The effect of this was immediate. Mr. Ditso, who had been tense, appearing to want to be in command of the situation, now visibly relaxed. He had indicated to his visitors that they should sit down; now he stretched out in his own chair, his hands folded loosely on his lap. “Oh yes? That lady. You have come to ask me to give her her job back, I assume. You know her, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe bit her lip. “I know her, Rra. She is my old friend.”

Mr. Ditso reached for a matchstick that was lying on the desk in front of him. Splitting the top with a fingernail, he began to use the stick as a toothpick; a gesture of calculated unconcern. Mma Ramotswe drew in her breath. She was as much embarrassed as angered by this display; what would Clovis Andersen think of people in Botswana if this was how they behaved?

She fixed Ditso with an intense stare. “I am talking to you, Rra,” she said. “And this man with me is a visitor.”

Mr. Ditso’s hand came away from his mouth. The toothpick was held up, as if it were a tiny baton. “So, Mma? If I have something in between my teeth, can I not remove it? In my own office. Or do I need your permission to do that?”

She looked down at her shoes. She knew that she should try to control herself; nothing was to be gained by falling out with the man who held Mma Potokwane’s fate in his hands. But I have already fallen out with him, she thought; I have already said too much.

She made a supreme effort. “I beg you to reconsider your decision, Rra. Mma Potokwane has done a wonderful job as matron. Maybe they haven’t told you about that. She is a very great lady.”

Mr. Ditso lowered the toothpick. “She has certainly done a very
good job, Mma. Yes, that is quite true. But …” He paused, looking at Clovis Andersen as if for support. “But there comes a time when things must move on. The same person shouldn’t run a business forever. That is not good business practice, Mma, as I’m sure our friend here will tell you.”

She tried to keep her voice even, but it rose in spite of her efforts. “It is not a business, Rra. It is a home for children. That is not a business.”

Mr. Ditso laughed. “Mma Ramotswe,
everything
is a business these days. Even countries. They are businesses too. Churches. Look at how careful churches are with their money. They have accountants running them. Even the Pope—I have heard that he has trained as an accountant.”

Clovis Andersen could not let that pass. “That is surely not true, sir,” he said.

Ditso Ditso did not look at him as he replied. “What is true?” he said airily. “Who can tell? One man says something is true; another says it is not. How can any of us tell?”

This comment brought silence. Clovis Andersen looked at Mma Ramotswe and frowned. She stared down at her hands. “You won’t reconsider, Rra?” she said quietly. “There are many people who would be very happy if you did.”

Mr. Ditso shook his head. “Sorry, Mma, but the decision has been taken. I’m sure that Mma Potokwane will find something else. As you say, she has many talents, and there are these hotels looking for good housekeepers. How about that? She’d probably make much more money doing that.”

“It is not about money,” retorted Mma Ramotswe. “She does not do what she does for money. The children need her.”

Mr. Ditso smiled. “The hotels have their needs too, Mma. It is good work. If there were not good hotels, then where would visitors sleep? They need people like Mma Potokwane.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “It is such a small thing, Rra: to have an argument over a building. Why is a building that important?”

Mr. Ditso stiffened.

“It is not about a building,” he said. “It is not about that.” Then he added, “The building contract has been awarded on tender. There is no reason for disagreement there.”

For a moment Mma Ramotswe said nothing, and sat quite still. Then she rose to her feet. “What you are doing is wrong, Rra. You do know that, don’t you?”

He held her gaze. “That is your view, Mma. But you are the one who is wrong. And please do not be cross with me for saying this, but this has nothing to do with you. I do not wish to be rude to a lady like you, but I have to say that. This is not your business, Mma. That is all there is to it. It is not your business.”

THE FIRST PART
of their journey back to the office was completed in silence. Mma Ramotswe felt raw after the encounter with Ditso Ditso, and did not want to speak; but then, almost at the same moment, as Mma Ramotswe negotiated the traffic circle near the automotive trades training centre, they both poured out their feelings over what had happened.