The lawyer looked interested. “What sort of business? A store? I can give you advice, you know.”
“A detective agency.”
The lawyer looked blank.
“There are none for sale. There are none of those.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “I know that. I am going to have to start from scratch.”
The lawyer winced as she spoke. “It’s easy to lose money in business,” he said. “Especially when you don’t know anything about what you’re doing.” He stared at her hard. “Especially then. And anyway, can women be detectives? Do you think they can?”
“Why not?” said Mma Ramotswe. She had heard that people did not like lawyers, and now she thought she could see why. This man was so certain of himself, so utterly convinced. What had it to do with him what she did? It was her money, her future. And how dare he say that about women, when he didn’t even know that his zip was half undone! Should she tell him?
“Women are the ones who know what’s going on,” she said quietly. “They are the ones with eyes. Have you not heard of Agatha Christie?”
The lawyer looked taken aback. “Agatha Christie? Of course I know her. Yes, that is true. A woman sees more than a man sees. That is well-known.”
“So,” said Mma Ramotswe, “when people see a sign saying NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY, what will they think? They’ll think those ladies will know what’s going on. They’re the ones.”
The lawyer stroked his chin. “Maybe.”
“Yes,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Maybe.” Adding, “Your zip, Rra. I think you may not have noticed …”
SHE FOUND the house first, on a corner plot in Zebra Drive. It was expensive, and she decided to take out a bond on part of it, so that she could afford to buy somewhere for the business too. That was more difficult, but at last she found a small place near Kgale Hill, on the edge of town, where she could set up. It was a good place, because a lot of people walked down that road every day and would see the sign. It would be almost as effective as having an advertisement in the Daily News or the Botswana Guardian. Everybody would soon know about her.
The building she bought had originally been a general dealer’s shop, but had been converted into a dry cleaners and finally a bottle store. For a year or so it had lain empty, and had been lived in by squatters. They had made fires inside, and in each of the rooms there was a part of the wall where the plaster had been charred and burned. The owner had eventually returned from Francistown and had driven out the squatters and placed the dejected-looking building on the market. There had been one or two prospective purchasers, but they had been repelled by its condition and the price had dropped. When Mma Ramotswe had offered cash, the seller had leapt at her offer and she received the deeds within days.
There was a lot to do. A builder was called in to replace the damaged plaster and to repair the tin roof and, again with the offer of cash, this was accomplished within a week. Then Mma Ramotswe set to the task of painting, and she had soon completed the outside in ochre and the inside in white. She bought fresh yellow curtains for the windows and, in an unusual moment of extravagance, splashed out on a brand new office set of two desks and two chairs. Her friend, Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors, brought her an old typewriter which was surplus to his own requirements and which worked quite well, and with that the office was ready to open—once she had a secretary.
This was the easiest part of all. A telephone call to the Botswana College of Secretarial and Office Skills brought an immediate response. They had just the woman, they said. Mma Makutsi was the widow of a teacher and had just passed their general typing and secretarial examinations with an average grade of 97 percent; she would be ideal—they were certain of it.
Mma Ramotswe liked her immediately. She was a thin woman with a rather long face and braided hair in which she had rubbed copious quantities of henna. She wore oval glasses with wide plastic frames, and she had a fixed, but apparently quite sincere smile.
They opened the office on a Monday. Mma Ramotswe sat at her desk and Mma Makutsi sat at hers, behind the typewriter. She looked at Mma Ramotswe and smiled even more broadly.
“I am ready for work,” she said. “I am ready to start.”
“Mmm,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It’s early days yet. We’ve only just opened. We will have to wait for a client to come.”
In her heart of hearts, she knew there would be no clients. The whole idea was a ghastly mistake. Nobody wanted a private detective, and certainly nobody would want her. Who was she, after all? She was just Precious Ramotswe from Mochudi. She had never been to London or wherever detectives went to find out how to be private detectives. She had never even been to Johannesburg. What if somebody came in and said “You know Johannesburg of course,” she would have to lie, or just say nothing.
Mma Makutsi looked at her, and then looked down at the typewriter keyboard. She opened a drawer, peered inside, and then closed it. At that moment a hen came into the room from the yard outside and pecked at something on the floor.
“Get out,” shouted Mma Makutsi. “No chickens in here!”
At ten o’clock Mma Makutsi got up from her desk and went into the back room to make the tea. She had been asked to make bush tea, which was Mma Ramotswe’s favourite, and she soon brought two cups back. She had a tin of condensed milk in her handbag, and she took this out and poured a small amount into each cup. Then they drank their tea, watching a small boy at the edge of the road throwing stones at a skeletal dog.
At eleven o’clock they had another cup of tea, and at twelve Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet and announced that she was going to walk down the road to the shops to buy herself some perfume. Mma Makutsi was to stay behind and answer the telephone and welcome any clients who might come. Mma Ramotswe smiled as she said this. There would be no clients, of course, and she would be closed at the end of the month. Did Mma Makutsi understand what a parlous job she had obtained for herself? A woman with an average of 97 percent deserved better than this.
Mma Ramotswe was standing at the counter of the shop looking at a bottle of perfume when Mma Makutsi hurtled through the door.
“Mma Ramotswe,” she panted. “A client. There is a client in the office. It is a big case. A missing man. Come quickly. There is no time to lose.”
THE WIVES of missing men are all the same, thought Mma Ramotswe. At first they feel anxiety, and are convinced that something dreadful has happened. Then doubt begins to creep in, and they wonder whether he’s gone off with another woman (which he usually has), and then finally they become angry. At the anger stage, most of them don’t want him back anymore, even if he’s found. They just want to have a good chance to shout at him.
Mma Malatsi was in the second stage, she thought. She has begun to suspect that he is off somewhere having a good time, while she’s left at home, and of course it’s beginning to rankle. Perhaps there are debts to be paid, even if she looks as if she’s got a fair bit of money.
“Maybe you should tell me a little bit more about your husband,” she said, as Mma Malatsi began to drink the cup of strong bush tea which Mma Makutsi had brewed for her.
“His name is Peter Malatsi,” Mma Malatsi said. “He’s forty and he has—had—has a business selling furniture. It’s a good business and he did well. So he hasn’t run away from any creditors.”
Mma Ramotswe nodded. “There must be another reason,” she began, and then, cautiously: “You know what men are like, Mma. What about another woman? Do you think …”
Mma Malatsi shook her head vigorously.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Maybe a year ago that would have been possible, but then he became a Christian and took up with some Church that was always singing and marching around the place in white uniforms.”
Mma Ramotswe noted this down. Church. Singing. Got religion badly? Lady preacher lured him away?
“Who were these people?” she said. “Maybe they know something about him?”
Mma Malatsi shrugged. “I’m not sure,” she said, slightly irritably. “In fact, I don’t know. He asked me to come with him once or twice, but I refused. So he just used to go off by himself on Sundays. In fact, he disappeared on a Sunday. I thought he’d gone off to his Church.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at the ceiling. This was not going to be as hard as some of these cases. Peter Malatsi had gone off with one of the Christians; that was pretty clear. All she had to do now was find which group it was and she would be on his trail. It was the old predictable story; it would be a younger Christian, she was sure of that.
