The Limpopo Academy of Private Detection: No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency (13) by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

that called itself The Second Home—a name that she felt was deliberately and cynically inflammatory to women. This bar advertised itself as a place where “those in need of entertainment they cannot find at home will be given a warm welcome.”
    “Those words make it very clear, don’t you think, Mma Makutsi?” said Mma Ramotswe, pointing an angry finger at the offending newspaper advertisement. “Why don’t they just come out in the open and say, ‘Married men: you come here to meet other ladies’? That’s what it should say, Mma, if they were being honest.”
    Mma Makutsi was in complete agreement. “As a married woman, I can only say that I agree one hundred per cent. Even if I know that Phuti would never go to a place like that, I know that there are many men who are far weaker and will do that. Shame on them, Mma Ramotswe! Shame on them!”
    It was not clear to Mma Ramotswe whether the shame should be heaped on the weak married men or on the bar, or on both, but she nodded her head. Their one trip to The Second Home had been an eye-opener, but had not resulted in any information on Mr. Kholisani Olesitsi. They had shown photographs to the barman, who had been perfectly obliging but who had shaken his head. “Never here, Mma Ramotswe. I have never seen this man. Not once. Are you sure that he has been here?”
    Mma Makutsi had been doubtful about the truthfulness of this barman. “I think he probably says that about anybody,” she said. “That is why he is the barman in a place like that. He is discreet. If you showed him a photograph of … of the Mayor of Gaborone himself, he would deny knowing who it was.”
    “But the Mayor does not go into bars like that,” said Mma Ramotswe.
    “You know what I mean, Mma. I did not say that the Mayor goes to bars. I do not think that he does. All I am saying is—”
    Mma Ramotswe raised a hand. “It’s all right, Mma Makutsi. I know what you’re saying. But we have drawn a blank; that is the important thing. Perhaps this man is not having an affair at all. Perhaps it is just another case of a wife who is too suspicious for her own good.”
    “Perhaps, Mma. But what now?”
    Mma Ramotswe had been unable to come up with any ideas for further investigation—at least not at that point—and had explained to Mma Makutsi that it was time for a report. “A report lets the client know what we are doing,” she said. “It shows that we are not just sitting around talking about a case; it shows that we are busy looking into possibilities.”
    “Leaving no stone unturned,” offered Mma Makutsi.
    “Yes, Mma. That is a good way of putting it.”
    Sitting at her desk that morning, as Mma Makutsi kept her shorthand pencil poised above her dictation pad, Mma Ramotswe cleared her throat. “Mr. Kholisani Olesitsi,” she began, “hereafter referred to as ‘the husband’—”
    “ ‘The said husband,’ ” interjected Mma Makutsi.
    “If you wish, Mma Makutsi, although I think that ‘the husband’ is clear enough.”
    Mma Makutsi stared across the room at Mma Ramotswe, her glasses catching the sunlight from the window and reflecting it inlittle dancing specks on to the wall. If she sat in direct sunlight, thought Mma Ramotswe, there might be a danger that she could involuntarily start a fire, in the same way as one risked starting a bush fire if one left a bottle in the grass; the glass could act as a lens and focus the sun’s rays down to a point of white incendiary heat. “It is more official to say ‘the said husband,’ ” Mma Makutsi intoned. “It means that you are talking about a husband you have already mentioned, rather than any other husband.”
    “As ‘the said husband,’ then,” continued Mma Ramotswe.
    Mma Makutsi’s pencil darted across the paper. She looked up. “I am ready, Mma.”
    “We have carried out exhaustive enquiries—”
    Again Mma Makutsi looked up from her pad. “Exhausting,” she said.
    Mma Ramotswe sighed. Mma