There was no point in arguing about Superman with Mma Makutsi. Whoever had opened this agency, even if they were really ex- New York, would hardly be Superman.

“We’ll go in and introduce ourselves,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I can see somebody inside. They are already at work.”

“On some big important case,” observed Mma Makutsi ruefully.

“Perhaps,” said Mma Ramotswe. “But then again, perhaps not. When people drive past the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency and see us inside, they may think that we’re working on a big important case. Yet most of the time, as you know, we are only sitting there drinking bush tea and reading the Botswana Daily News. So you see that appearances can be deceptive.”

Mma Makutsi thought that this was rather too self-effacing. It was true that they were not particularly busy at present, and it was also true that a fair amount of bush tea was consumed in the office, but it was not always like that. There were times when they were very busy and the passerby would have been quite correct in making the assumption that the office was a hive of activity. So Mma Ramotswe was wrong; but there was no point in arguing with Mma Ramotswe, who seemed to be in a rather defeatist mood. Something was happening at home, thought Mma Makutsi, because it was so unlike her to be anything but optimistic.

They crossed the road and approached the door of the small shop which now housed the Satisfaction Guaranteed Detective Agency. The front was largely taken up by a glass display window, behind which a screen prevented the passerby from seeing more than the heads of the people working within. In the window was a framed picture of a group of men standing together outside a rather impressive-looking official building. The men were all wearing wide-brimmed hats which shaded their faces and made it impossible to distinguish their features.

“Not a good photograph,” muttered Mma Ramotswe to Mma Makutsi. “Worse than useless.”

The door itself, which was half glass-fronted, bore a hand-written sign: Please Enter. No Need to Knock. But Mma Ramotswe, who believed in the traditional values-one of which was always to knock and call out Ko Ko! before one entered-knocked at the door before pushing it open.

“No need to knock, Mma,” said a man sitting behind a desk. “Just come in.”

“I always knock, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It is the right thing to do.”

The man smiled. “In my business,” he said, “it’s not always a good idea to knock. It warns people to stop whatever they’re doing.”

Mma Ramotswe laughed at the joke. “And one would not want that!”

“No, indeed,” said the man. “But as you see, I am doing nothing bad. What a pity! I am just sitting here waiting for two beautiful ladies like you to come in and see me.”

Mma Ramotswe glanced very quickly at Mma Makutsi before she replied. “You are a very kind man, Rra,” she said. “I am not called beautiful every day. It is nice when that happens.”

The man behind the desk made a self-deprecating gesture. “When you are a detective, Mma, you get used to observing things. I saw you coming in, and the first thing I said to myself was: Two very, very beautiful ladies coming in the door. This is your lucky day…” He stopped, and then, rising to his feet and sitting down again almost immediately, he put the palm of a hand to his forehead.

“But, Mma, what am I saying! You are Mma Ramotswe, aren’t you? The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency? I have seen your picture in the newspaper, and here I am telling you all about being a detective! And all the time it is you and Mma… Mma…”

“Makutsi,” said Mma Makutsi. “I am an assistant detective at the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. I was at the Botswana Secretarial College before-”

The man nodded, cutting her short. “Oh, that place. Yes.”

Mma Ramotswe noticed the effect which this had on Mma Makutsi. It was as if somebody had applied an electric wire to her skin.

“It is a fine college,” said Mma Ramotswe quickly, and then, to change the subject, “But what is your name, Rra?”

“I am Mr. Buthelezi,” said the man, reaching out to shake hands. “Cephas Buthelezi. Ex-CID.”

Mma Ramotswe took his hand and shook it, as did Mma Makutsi, reluctantly in her case. Then, invited to sit down by Mr. Buthelezi, they lowered themselves gingerly onto the shiny new chairs in front of his desk.

“Buthelezi is a famous name,” said Mma Ramotswe. “Are you of the same family as he is?”

Mr. Buthelezi laughed. “Or might one say, is he of the same family as I am? Ha, ha!”

Mma Ramotswe waited a moment. “Well, is he?” she asked.

Mr. Buthelezi reached for a packet of cigarettes on his desk and extracted one.

“Many people are called Buthelezi,” he said. “And many people are not. People are also called Nkomo or Ramaphosa or whatever. That does not make them a real Nkomo or a real Ramaphosa, does it? There are many names, are there not?”

Mma Ramotswe nodded her agreement. “That is true, Rra. There are many names.”

Mr. Buthelezi lit his cigarette. He had not offered his guests one-not that they smoked-but the lack of consideration had been noted, at least by Mma Makutsi, who, after the slighting reference to the Botswana Secretarial College, was looking for reasons to damn their newly discovered competitor.

Mma Ramotswe had been waiting for an answer to her question but now realised that one would not be forthcoming. “Of course,” she said, “that is a Zulu name, is it not? You are from that part of the world, Rra?”

Mr. Buthelezi picked a fragment of tobacco from his front teeth.

“My late father was a Zulu from Natal,” he said. “But my late mother was from here, a Motswana. She met my father when she was working over the border, in South Africa. She sent me to school in Botswana, and then, when I had finished school, I went back to live with them in South Africa. That is when I joined the CID in Johannesburg. Now I am back in my mother’s country.”

“And I see on your sign that you have lived in New York, too,” said Mma Ramotswe. “You have had a busy life, Rra!”

Mr. Buthelezi looked away, as if remembering a rich and varied life. “Yes, New York. I have been in New York.”

“Did you like living there, Rra?” asked Mma Makutsi. “I have always wanted to go to New York.”

“ New York is a very large city,” said Mr. Buthelezi. “My God! Wow! There are many buildings there.”

“But how long did you live there?” asked Mma Makutsi. “Were you there for many years?”

“Not many years,” said Mr. Buthelezi.

“How long?” asked Mma Makutsi.

“You are very interested in New York, Mma,” said Mr. Buthelezi. “You should go there yourself. Don’t just get my view of it. See the place with your own eyes. Wow!”

For a few moments there was a silence, with Mma Makutsi’s unanswered question hanging in the air: how long? Mr. Buthelezi drew on his cigarette and blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. He seemed comfortable enough with the silence, but after a while he reached forward and passed a small leaflet to Mma Ramotswe.

“This is my brochure, Mma,” he said. “I am happy for you to see it. I do not mind that there is more than one detective agency in this town. It’s growing so quickly, isn’t it? There is work for two of us.” And what about me? thought Mma Makutsi. What about me? Are there not three of us, or am I just a nothing in your eyes?

Mma Ramotswe took the cheaply printed brochure. There was a picture of Mr. Buthelezi on the front, sitting at a different desk and looking rather formal. She turned the page. Again there was a picture of Mr. Buthelezi, this time standing beside a black car, with indistinct tall buildings in the background. The middle ground, which was oddly hazy, appeared to be waste ground of some sort, and there were no other figures in the photograph, which was labelled underneath, New York.