Mma Makutsi took over. “Because burglars aren’t stupid, Mma. They know that you’re a detective. What burglar would steal from a detective’s house? Only a very stupid one, Mma.”

“Yes,” said Fanwell hurriedly. “That’s what I meant, Mma. That’s exactly what I meant.”

Mma Ramotswe looked at her watch. “Get your dog ready, Fanwell,” she said. Then, to Mma Makutsi, she said, “Mma, have you talked to Mr. Polopetsi recently? He hasn’t been in for a while.”

Mma Makutsi made a vague gesture. “He’s been teaching, I think. You know what he’s like—he never tells anybody what he’s doing. The school calls him up at short notice.”

“But have you spoken to him?”

Mma Makutsi replied that she had seen him the previous week. “He was very excited. He came to my place.”

Mma Ramotswe was interested. “Specially to see you?”

Mma Makutsi smiled. “Yes. You know about his scheme? You know he has a business scheme, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe caught her breath. “Yes,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve heard about it.”

“It’s a very good scheme, apparently,” said Mma Makutsi.

Mma Ramotswe hardly dared ask. “And did you…”

She did not finish. Mma Makutsi looked pleased. “You know something, Mma? He let me in on very preferential terms.”

Mma Ramotswe sighed. “He did, did he?”

“Yes. Phuti gives me a bit of money now and then for my own savings—you know how kind he is. Well, I put some of that into Mr. Polopetsi’s scheme. He wanted ten thousand, but I didn’t give him that. I put in three thousand pula, though, and I believe that I shall be getting—”

“Twenty-five per cent return,” supplied Mma Ramotswe.

“Exactly. How did you know, Mma? Are you in on it too?”

Mma Ramotswe sighed again. “I heard about it,” she said.

“Word gets out,” mused Mma Makutsi. “Have a good idea, and word gets out. It always does.”

CHAPTER SIX

MR. TWENTY-FIVE PER CENT

MMA RAMOTSWE had been confronted with cases like this before, where the client wanted to find out something but could provide very little information. The fallibility of human memory, its vague and impressionistic nature, meant that the details that would enable a reconstruction of the past were simply not there. Sometimes the vagueness was extreme, as where a woman searching for the father of her child, conceived twenty-five years previously, remembered only the nickname by which she and his friends knew him. As if this were not difficult enough, she had then produced a photograph of him in which his face had been cut out, leaving only torso and limbs for identification.

“I was cross with him,” she said, “and so I cut out his face and threw it down the toilet.”