CHAPTER SIXTEEN. CHARLIE LOOKS AT BEDS

BIG MAN TAFA'S WIFE, Mmakeletso, had said that her husband had said-so much of what Mma Ramotswe was picking up was second-hand information, hearsay as Clovis Andersen would put it-that Mr. Molofololo was, amongst other things, impatient. Well, he is, thought Mma Ramotswe, as she listened to him on the telephone the next morning.

“Have you found this man, Mma Ramotswe? You have had quite a few days now. Which one is it?”

Mma Ramotswe raised an eyebrow, silently mouthing the liquid syllables of his name to let Mma Makutsi know who was on the other end of the line: Molofololo.

“We have been making good progress, Rra,” she assured him. “My assistant and I are actively interviewing the players on that list you gave us. We are uncovering a considerable amount of information. Many interesting things.”

“Such as?” Mr. Molofololo snapped.

Mma Ramotswe hesitated. She could hardly tell him-at this stage at least-that some of the players, possibly most of them, found him an irritation. Nor did she want to tell him that Big Man Tafa was in debt and that he wanted Rops out of the way, or that Oteng Bolelang was arrogant and considered Big Man Tafa to be in need of glasses. So she simply said, “Many interesting things, Rra, that I shall be using to build up a picture of what's going on.”

“But I know what's going on,” said Mr. Molofololo. “What's going on is that one of my players is throwing the matches. We have a traitor, Mma, and that is why I'm paying you good money to find out who it is.”

Mma Ramotswe thought that she might point out that he had paid nothing so far. She had asked for a small sum on account, but her request had been ignored.

“I think we should meet soon, Rra,” she said. “Then we can have a good talk about the case. It's not easy to talk about these things on the telephone.”

Mr. Molofololo was quick to accept the offer. “You could come to the match on Saturday,” he said. “We're playing the Molepolole Squibs. Come to that and we can talk then.”

Mma Ramotswe thought of her weekend. She had already sacrificed one precious Saturday afternoon to sit watching an unintelligible set of events unfolding on the pitch, and she did not see any point in doing that again. Puso, on the other hand, would very much see the point.

“I think that it is best to talk somewhere else,” she said. “There is always too much going on at a football match and… and I must be discreet, you know.”

“Ah yes,” said Mr. Molofololo. This was how he imagined detectives operated-discreetly. “You're right, Mma. Keep a low profile. But what about Puso-that is his name, isn't it? He is a good little boy-would he like to come to the match?”

“He would like that very much, Rra. You are very kind.”

“And then we can talk on Monday?”

“On Monday, Rra. And by then, I hope, I shall have something for you.”

She regretted that remark the moment she had made it. It was a bad mistake to tie yourself down to deadlines-it was a bad mistake to make promises in general-but there was something about Mr. Molofololo's manner-his pushy, rather hectoring style-that led to this. Was this what the players objected to, she wondered, and could it have triggered sufficient resentment in some breast to motivate treachery?

She replaced the receiver after her conversation with Mr. Molofololo and exchanged glances with Mma Makutsi.

“More interviews, I'm afraid, Mma,” she said.

Mma Makutsi shrugged. “We will know a lot about football at the end of it all, Mma. We will be able to talk to men about it.”

Mma Ramotswe chuckled. “I believe that there are some ladies who learn about football in order to do just that. They know that that is what men like to talk about. It helps them find men.”

“Violet Sephotho,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe kept a tactful silence.

“Yes, Violet Sephotho is the sort who would do that,” Mma Makutsi went on. “Football, furniture-she'll do anything to get her hands on a man.”

“Are you still worried?” asked Mma Ramotswe.

“Of course I'm worried, Mma. Phuti is a good man, and I trust him. But even a good man can sometimes be… not so good.”

Mma Ramotswe had to agree. She had come across so many different types of people in her job, and she knew that even those who were strong could find times when they were weak. It was not really their fault, because we were all human and being human made us weak. But it happened.

“Have you heard anything else?”

Mma Makutsi did not reply immediately, and Mma Ramotswe knew from her silence that there had been something else.

“I have heard something,” Mma Makutsi said eventually. “I met one of the ladies who works in Phuti's shop. It was in the supermarket. She told me that over the last few days, Violet has sold even more beds. Apparently Phuti is so pleased that he has been talking about promoting her to…” She paused. It clearly cost some effort just to say it. “Assistant manager.”

Mma Ramotswe was shocked. “Of the whole store?”

Mma Makutsi shook her head. “No, not the whole store. But of that floor. Assistant floor manager.”

Mma Ramotswe whistled. “That is very bad, Mma. But how has she been selling all these beds? Is she really such a great saleslady?”

“It is a mystery,” said Mma Makutsi. “Maybe she is persuasive. I don't know. But one thing she did tell me, Mma-that other woman-she said that all the customers, except for one, were men.”

Mma Ramotswe had been sitting back in her chair during this conversation; now she sat bolt upright.

“Men, Mma?”

“Men.”

Mma Ramotswe rose to her feet. She did not go anywhere- she simply rose to her feet, and Mma Makutsi knew this for the signal that it was. Mma Ramotswe had experienced a moment of insight.

“Mma Makutsi,” she said, her voice quiet, but tense with excitement. “Please go and see if Charlie is free. Even if he isn't free, ask him to come in here and talk to me.”

Mma Makutsi headed for the door. “What do you want to ask him to do, Mma?”

“He needs to buy a bed,” said Mma Ramotswe.

CHARLIE CAME IN BEAMING. There had been an increasing jauntiness about him recently, noticed by both Mma Ramotswe and Mma Makutsi, but commented upon by only one of them.

“He's up to something, Mma,” said Mma Makutsi. “See the way he's walking? See the way his legs go up and down like that?”

“But everybody's legs go up and down,” Mma Ramotswe pointed out mildly.

It was as if Mma Makutsi had not heard. “And his bottom, Mma. I do not wish to be indelicate, but see how his bottom sticks out.”

“Everybody's bottom sticks out,” said Mma Ramotswe. “That is normal, Mma.” She paused. There were exceptions, of course. Those thin, modern people who spent all their energy on reducing the size of their clothing-they must have a most uncomfortable time of it sitting down, with very little padding.

And now here was Charlie sauntering into the office, wiping his hands on one of the pieces of lint that Mr. J.L.B. Matekoni insisted on using, in spite of the ubiquity of paper towels.

“What is it, Mma Ramotswe?” he asked. “Are you ladies having difficulty adding figures or something like that? I'm your man for that. Best in class for mathematics at the Botswana Automotive Trades College -two years running. One, two, three, four-I'm your man.”

“Excuse me,” said Mma Makutsi as she made her way back to her desk. “If you were best in class at that college of yours, then why have you not finished your apprenticeship? Answer that, Mr. Charlie.”

Charlie did not look at Mma Makutsi, but addressed Mma Ramotswe in the tone of one unjustly attacked. “You hear that, Mma Ramotswe? You hear what that lady over there has said? Not everyone finishes their apprenticeship in double-quick time. It is sometimes better to do things thoroughly. You should not rush.”