He moved towards the door. “I am right. She is a warthog. I do not understand why that Radiphuti wants to marry a warthog. Maybe he is a warthog too.”
BY THREE O’CLOCK in the afternoon, Mma Ramotswe had taken to looking at her watch anxiously.
She wondered now whether the premise upon which she had based her letter to Aunty Emang was entirely wrong. She had no proof that Aunty Emang was the blackmailer—it was no more than surmise. The facts fitted, of course, but facts could fit many situations and still not be the full explanation. If Aunty Emang was not the blackmailer, then she would treat her letter simply as any other one which she received from her readers, and would be unlikely to put herself out by coming to the office. She looked at her watch again. The excitement of Charlie’s outburst earlier on had dissipated, and now there was nothing more to look forward to but a couple of hours of fruitless waiting.
Shortly before five, when Mma Ramotswe had reluctantly decided that she had been mistaken, Mma Makutsi, who had a better view from her desk of what was happening outside, hissed across to her, “A car, Mma Ramotswe, a car!”
Mma Ramotswe immediately tidied the magazines off her desk and carefully placed her half-finished cup of bush tea into her top drawer. “You go outside and meet her,” she said to Mma Makutsi. “But first tell Mr Polopetsi to come in.”
Mma Makutsi did as she was asked and walked out to where the car was parked under the acacia tree. It was an expensive car, she noticed, not a Mercedes-Benz, but close enough. As she approached, a remarkably small woman, tiny indeed, stepped out of the vehicle and approached her. Mma Ramotswe, craning her neck, saw this from within the office, and watched intently as Mma Makutsi bent to talk to the woman.
“She’s very small,” Mma Ramotswe whispered to Mr Polopetsi. “Look at her!”
Mr Polopetsi’s jaw had opened with surprise. “Look at her,” he echoed. “Look at her.”
Aunty Emang was ushered into the office by Mma Makutsi. Mma Ramotswe stood up to greet her, and did so politely, with the traditional Setswana courtesies. After all, she was her guest, even if she was a blackmailer.
Aunty Emang glanced about the office casually, almost scornfully.
“So this is the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” she said. “I have heard of this place. I did not think it would be so small.”
Mma Ramotswe said nothing, but indicated the client’s chair. “Please sit down,” she said. “I think you are Aunty Emang. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said the woman. “I am Aunty Emang. That is me. And you are this lady, Precious Ramotswe?” Her voice was high-pitched and nasal, like the voice of a child. It was not a voice that was comforting to listen to, and the fact that it emanated from such a tiny person made it all the more disconcerting.
“I am, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “And this is Mma Makutsi and Mr Polopetsi. They both work here.”
Aunty Emang looked briefly in the direction of Mma Makutsi and Mr Polopetsi, who was standing beside her. She nodded abruptly. Mma Ramotswe watched her, fascinated by the fact that she was so small. She was like a doll, she thought; a small, malignant doll.
“Now this letter you wrote to me,” said Aunty Emang. “I came to see you because I do not like the thought of anybody being worried. It is my job to help people in their difficulties.”
Mma Ramotswe looked at her. Her visitor’s small face, with its darting, slightly hooded eyes, was impassive, but there was something in the eyes which disturbed her. Evil, she thought. That is what I see. Evil. She had seen it only once or twice in her life, and on each occasion she had known it. Most human failings were no more than that—failings—but evil went beyond that.
“This person who says that she knows somebody who is a blackmailer is just talking nonsense,” went on Aunty Emang. “I do not think that you should take the allegation seriously. People are always inventing stories, you know. I see it every day.”
“Are they?” said Mma Ramotswe. “Well, I hear lots of stories in my work too, and some of them are true.”
Aunty Emang sat quite still. She had not expected quite so confident a response. This woman, this fat woman, would have to be handled differently.
“Of course,” Aunty Emang said. “Of course you’re right. Some stories are true. But why would you think this one is?”
“Because I trust the person who told me,” said Mma Ramotswe. “I think that this person is telling the truth. She is not a person to make anything up.”
“If you thought that,” said Aunty Emang, “then why did you write to me for my advice?”
Mma Ramotswe reached for a pencil in front of her and twisted it gently through her fingers. Mma Makutsi saw this and recognised the mannerism. It was what Mma Ramotswe always did before she was about to make a revelation. She nudged Mr Polopetsi discreetly.
“I wrote to you,” said Mma Ramotswe, “because you are the blackmailer. That is why.”
Mr Polopetsi, watching intently, swayed slightly and thought for a moment that he was going to faint. This was the sort of moment that he had imagined would arise in detective work: the moment of denouement when the guilty person faced exposure, when the elaborate reasoning of detection was revealed.Oh, Mma Ramotswe , he thought,what a splendid woman you are!
Aunty Emang did not move, but sat staring impassively at her accuser. When she spoke, her voice sounded higher than before, and there was a strange clicking when she started talking, like the clicking of a valve. “You are speaking lies, fat woman,” she said.
“Oh, am I?” retorted Mma Ramotswe. “Well, here are some details. Mma Tsau. She was the one who was stealing food. You blackmailed her because she would lose her job if she was found out. Then there is Dr Lubega. You found out about him, about what happened in Uganda. And a man who was having an affair and was worried that his wife would find out.” She paused. “I have the details of many cases here in this file.”
Aunty Emang snorted. “Dr Lubega? Who is this Dr Lubega? I do not know anybody of that name.”
Mma Ramotswe glanced at Mma Makutsi and smiled. “You have just shown me that I was right,” she said. “You have confirmed it.”
Aunty Emang rose from her chair. “You cannot prove anything, Mma. The police will laugh at you.”
Mma Ramotswe sat back in her chair. She put the pencil down. And she thought, How might I think if I were in this woman’s shoes? How do you think if you are so heartless as to blackmail those who are frightened and guilty? And the answer that came back to her was this: hate. Somewhere some wrong had been done, a wrong connected with who she was perhaps, a wrong which turned her to despair and to hate. And hate had made it possible for her to do all this.
“No, I cannot prove it. Not yet. But I want to tell you one thing, Mma, and I want you to think very carefully about what I tell you. No more Aunty Emang for you. You will have to earn your living some other way. If Aunty Emang continues, then I will make it my business—all of us here in this room, Mma Makutsi over there, who is a very hard-working detective, and Mr Polopetsi there, who is a very intelligent man—we shall all make it our business to find the proof that we don’t have at the moment. Do you understand me?”
Aunty Emang turned slightly, and it seemed for a moment that she was going to storm out of the room without saying anything further. Yet she did not leave immediately, but glanced at Mma Makutsi and Mr Polopetsi and then back at Mma Ramotswe.
“Yes,” she said.
“YOU LET HER GO,” said Mma Makutsi afterwards, as they sat in the office, discussing what had happened. They had been joined by Mr J.L.B. Matekoni, who had finished work in the garage and who had witnessed the angry departure of Aunty Emang, or the former Aunty Emang, in her expensive car.
“I had no alternative,” said Mma Ramotswe. “She was right when she said that we had no proof. I don’t think we could have done much more.”