The Kalahari Typing School For Men

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WITH SUCH a profusion of positive developments, they had given little thought to the rival agency, and perhaps they would have forgotten about it completely had it not been for two developments which reminded them of Mr. Buthelezi. The first of these was an interview published in the Botswana Gazette, an interview which took up the entire features page and was headed by a picture of Mr. Buthelezi sitting at his desk, a cigarette in one hand and the telephone hand-piece in the other. The article was spotted by Mma Ramotswe, who read it out to Mma Makutsi while the latter sipped thoughtfully, but with increasing astonishment, at a mug of bush tea.

“From New York to Gaborone, via Johannesburg,” ran the caption at the top of the page. “A detective from different worlds: we spoke to the charming Mr. Buthelezi in his well-appointed office, and asked him what it was like to be a private detective in Gaborone.

“‘It is quite hard being the first proper detective,’ he said. ‘There are, as people know, one or two ladies who have been dabbling in this for a little while, but they have no background in detection. I am not saying that there is not a job for them to do. There will always be jobs relating to children and the like. I am sure that they will do those very well. But for the real work, you need a proper detective.

“‘I was trained with the CID in Johannesburg. That was a very tough training, with all those gangsters and all those murders, but I soon learned to be tough. You have to be tough in this business. That’s why men are best at it. They’re tougher than women.

“‘I had many cases in the CID. Well-known murders. Jewel thefts. Ow! Millions of rands gone, just like that! Kidnappings, too. All of that was my daily bread, and I soon found that I understood the criminal mind very well. That’s experience for you.

“‘I have been very busy since I opened up. There are obviously many problems here in this city, and so if any readers have something that needs looking into, I am their man. I repeat, I am their man.

“‘You ask what are the best qualities for a private detective? I would say that an understanding of how human psychology works is one of the best. Then a good eye for detail. We have to notice things-often very little things-in order to find out the truth for our clients. So a private detective is like a camera, always taking photographs in his mind and always trying to understand what is going on. That is the secret.

“‘You ask how you become a private detective? The answer is that you have to be trained, preferably in the CID. You cannot just set up your sign and say that you are a private detective. Some people have tried that, even here in Gaborone, but that will never work. You have to have been trained.

“‘It’s also helpful if you’ve been to London or New York, or to some of those places. If you’ve done that, then you know the world, and nobody will be able to pull the wool over your eyes. I have been in New York, and I know all about the private detection side of things there. I know many of the men working in this area. They are very clever men, these New York detectives, and we were close friends.

“‘But at the end of the day, I always say, East West, Home’s Best! That is why I am back here in Gaborone, which was my mother’s place and which was where I went to school. I am a Motswana detective with a strange name. I know a lot, and what I don’t know, I’ll soon find out. Give me a call. Anytime!’”

Mma Ramotswe finished reading and then tossed the newspaper down with disgust. She was used to bragging men, and was tolerant of them, but these words from Mr. Buthelezi went too far. All those references to the superiority of men over women in detection were unambiguously aimed at her and her agency, and while it was obvious that an attack of this sort could only be the result of insecurity on his part, it could hardly be left unanswered. And yet an answer was probably what he wanted, as it would merely draw further attention to his business. Moreover-and this was worrying-what he said would probably strike a chord with many of the newspaper’s readers. She suspected that there were plenty of people who did believe that the work which she did was better done by a man. They believed this of driving and flying aeroplanes, in spite of the fact that she had read-and others surely had read, too-of the evidence that women are simply safer drivers and pilots than men. The reason for this, apparently, is that they are more cautious and less given to flamboyant risk-taking. That is why women, on the whole, drive more slowly than men. Yet many men refused to acknowledge this fact and made belittling remarks about women’s driving.

“I’m going to do a little bit of research,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “Could you go and fetch Charlie, Mma. I want him to read this.”

Mma Makutsi looked puzzled. “Why?” she asked. “You know that he’s only interested in girls. He won’t be interested in this.”

“An experiment,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You wait and see.”

Mma Makutsi left the office and came back a few minutes later with the older apprentice, who was wiping his hands on the cotton lint that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni provided in his battle against grease.

“Yes, Mma,” said the apprentice. “Mma Makutsi says you need my advice. I am always happy to give advice. Ha!”

Mma Ramotswe ignored the comment.

“You read this, please,” she said. “I would like to get your opinion on it.”

She handed him the newspaper, pointing to the article, and the apprentice sat down on the chair in front of her desk. As he read, his lips moved, and Mma Ramotswe watched the look of concentration on his face. He never reads a newspaper, she thought. There really is nothing in that head but thoughts of girls and cars.

When he had finished, the apprentice looked up at Mma Ramotswe.

“I have read it now, Mma,” he said, handing the paper back to her. She saw the greasy fingerprints on the edges and delicately avoided touching them.

“What do you think of it, Charlie?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I am sorry, Mma,” he said. “I am sorry for

you.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes,” he expanded. “I am sorry that this is going to make it difficult for your business. Everybody will go to that man now.”

“So you were impressed?”

He smiled. “Of course. That is a very clever man there. New York. Did you see that? And Johannesburg. All those places. He knows what is happening, and he will deal with many things. I am sorry, because I do not want the business to go to him.”

“You are very loyal,” said Mma Ramotswe. And then, as the apprentice rose to his feet and left the room, she thought: Exactly!

“Well, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That shows us something, doesn’t it?”

Mma Makutsi made a dismissive gesture. “That boy is stupid. We all know that. Don’t believe anything he says.”

“He’s not that stupid,” said Mma Ramotswe. “To get the apprenticeship, he had to pass exams. He is probably a fairly average young man. So, you see, many, many people will be impressed by this Mr. Buthelezi. We cannot change that fact.”

MANY PEOPLE, perhaps, but not all. That afternoon, when Mma Makutsi had been dispatched to the births, deaths, and marriages registry to pursue some routine enquiries on behalf of a client, Mma Ramotswe was visited, unannounced, by a woman whose view of the Satisfaction Guaranteed Agency and its boastful proprietor was quite the opposite of the view held by the apprentice. She arrived in a smart new car, which she parked directly outside the agency door, and waited politely for Mma Ramotswe to acknowledge her presence before she entered the office. This always pleased Mma Ramotswe; she could not abide the modern habit of entering a room before being asked to do so, or, even worse, the assumption that some people made that they could come into your office uninvited and actually sit on your desk while they spoke. If that happened to her, she would refrain from speaking at all but would look pointedly at the bottom planted upon her desk until her disapproval registered and it was removed.

Her visitor was a woman somewhere in her late thirties, about Mma Ramotswe’s own age, even slightly younger. She was dressed well but not flashily, and her clothing, together with the new car outside, told Mma Ramotswe all that she needed to know about her economic circumstances. This woman, she imagined, was a well-paid senior civil servant, or even a businesswoman.

“I have no appointment, Mma,” said the woman, “but I hoped that you would be able to see me anyway.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I am always happy to see people, Mma. An appointment is not necessary. I am happy to talk at any time,” adding: “within reason.”

The woman accepted Mma Ramotswe’s invitation to sit down. She had not given her name, although she had used the correct greeting; doubtless, the name would emerge later.

“I must be truthful, Mma,” she said. “I have no confidence in private detectives. I must tell you that.”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow. If she had no confidence in private detectives, then why would she come to the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, the name of which was sufficiently self-explanatory, she would have thought.

“I am sorry to hear that, Mma,” she said. “Maybe you would tell me why.”

The woman now looked slightly apologetic. “Not that I mean to be rude, Mma. It’s just that I have had a very unpleasant experience with a detective agency. That is why I feel as I do.”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. “The Satisfaction Guranteed Agency? Mr. Buthele-”

She did not have the time to finish. “Yes,” said the woman. “That man! How he thinks that he can call himself a private detective, I do not know.”

Mma Ramotswe was intrigued. She wished that Mma Makutsi had been present, as it would have been good to share with her whatever was about to be disclosed. And it was going to be choice, she thought. But before she allowed her visitor to explain, the idea occurred to her that she should make an offer, on behalf of the entire profession. Yes, it was just the right thing to do in the circumstances.

“Let me say one thing, Mma,” she said, raising her hand. “If you have suffered at the hands of a fellow member of my profession-and I must say that I am not surprised to hear this-then the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency will undertake to complete the enquiry which Mr. Buthe… which that man has obviously not done properly. That is my offer.”

The woman was clearly impressed. “You are very good, Mma. I did not come expecting that, but I am happy to accept your offer. I can tell that things are different in this place.”

“They are,” said Mma Ramotswe quietly. “We do not make claims that we cannot live up to. We are not like that.”

“Good,” said the woman. “Now, let me tell you what happened.”

SHE HAD gone to see Mr. Buthelezi after seeing his advertisement in the newspaper. He had been very polite to her, although she had found his manner rather overwhelming.

“But I thought that this might be something to do with the name,” she said, glancing at Mma Ramotswe, who nodded, almost imperceptibly. One had to be careful about what one said, but people understood, and they knew what Zulu people could be like. Perhaps the word was… well, pushy or, if one were a bit more charitable, self-confident. Not that one liked to make such remarks openly, of course. Mr. Buthelezi said that he was a Motswana and not a Zulu, but you could not ignore paternal ancestry that easily, especially if you were a man. It stood to reason, Mma Ramotswe thought, that boys took more after their father than their mother; could people seriously doubt that? Some did, apparently, but they were obviously wrong.

The woman went on to explain why she had been to see Mr. Buthelezi in the first place.

“I live in Mochudi,” she said, “although I am originally from Francistown. I am a physiotherapist at the hospital there. I work with people who have broken limbs or who have been very ill and need help in getting back on their feet. That is one of the things we do, but there are others. It is a very good job.”

“And very important,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You must be proud to be a physiotherapist, Mma.”

The woman nodded. “I am. Anyway, I live up there because that is where the job is. I also have four children, and they are happy at the school there. The only problem is that my husband has a job in town here and he did not like driving in from Mochudi every morning and back again. We put our savings into a small flat. I get my house in Mochudi with the job, so this seemed like a good thing to do.”

It was at this point that Mma Ramotswe realised what was coming. Ever since she had opened the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency, she had received a regular stream of requests to deal with errant husbands, or husbands suspected of being errant. These wifely fears were usually well founded, and Mma Ramotswe had been obliged to be the bearer of news of infidelity rather more often than she might have wished. But that was part of the job, and she did it with dignity and compassion. She was sure that this was what her new client was about to disclose; husbands working away from home rarely behaved themselves, although some, a small number, did.

Mma Ramotswe was right. The woman now described her fears about her husband and how she was sure that he was seeing somebody else.

“I usually telephone him in the evenings,” she said. “We talk about things that have happened during the day, and the children also speak to him. It is expensive, but it is important for the children to talk to their daddy. But now he is never in when I call. He says that this is because he is now enjoying walking, and he goes for a lot of walks, but that is nonsense. I can tell that this is a lie.”

“It sounds like it,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Some men cannot lie very well.”

The woman had consulted Mr. Buthelezi about her concerns, and he had promised to look into the matter, telling her to get back in touch with him after a day or so. He said that he would follow the husband and let her know what he was up to.

“And did he?” asked Mma Ramotswe. She was eager to hear how her rival operated.

“He says that he did,” said the woman. “But I do not believe him. He says that he followed him and that he is going to church. That is just ridiculous. My husband does not go to church. I have tried and tried to make him go, but he is lazy about it. And when he came home last weekend, I said to him on Sunday: ‘Let’s go to church.’ And he said that he did not want to go. Now, if he had become a great churchgoer, then surely he would want to go on a Sunday. But he did not. That proves it, in my mind.”

Mma Ramotswe had to agree.

“But there is something more,” said the woman. “I had paid a very large fee in advance, and when I said that I thought I should get some of it back, Mr. Buthe… that man just refused. He said that the money was his now. So I came to you.”

Mma Ramotswe smiled. “I will do my best. I will see whether this churchgoing is true, and, if it isn’t-and I agree with you that it does not sound likely-then I shall find out what he really is doing, and I shall tell you all about it.”

They discussed one or two further details, including the name and address of the husband, and the address of the place where he worked.

“I have brought you a photograph, too,” the woman said. “It will help you to recognize him.”

She passed over a black-and-white photograph of a man looking into the camera. Mma Ramotswe glanced at it and saw a neatly attired man with an engaging smile, a carefully tended centre parting, and a moustache. She had never seen him before, but he would be easily picked out from a crowd.

“This will be very useful, Mma,” she said. “When clients do not provide photographs, our work can be more difficult.”

Mma Selelipeng rose to her feet.

“I am very cross with him,” she said. “But I know that once I find this lady who is trying to steal my husband, I shall be able to deal with her. I shall teach her a lesson.”

Mma Ramotswe frowned.

“You must not do anything illegal,” she said. “I will not help you if that is what you are planning.”

Mma Selelipeng raised her hands in horror. “No, nothing like that, Mma. I would just be planning to speak to her. To warn her. That is all. Don’t you think that any woman has a right to do that?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded. She had no time for husband stealers, and no time for deceiving men. People had the right to protect what was theirs, but she was a kind woman and understood human weakness. This Mr. Bernard Selelipeng probably needed no more than a gentle reminder of his duties as a husband and a father. Looking at the photograph again, she suspected that this would suffice. It was not a strong face, she thought; it was not the face of a man who would leave his wife for good. He would go back like a naughty boy who has been caught stealing melons. She was sure of it.