For Mma Makutsi, the investigation of Teenie’s problem with her dishonest employee was less clear-cut. It might well be that one of the employees at the printing works looked shifty, but she very much doubted that his shifty looks alone meant that he was the thief. He might be, of course, and she would keep an open mind on that, but she could certainly not allow her investigation to be skewed by any presumption of guilt. Or that, at least, is what she told herself as she paid off the taxi that she had hired to take her from the agency office to the premises of Teenie’s printing company. Thirty pula! She tucked the receipt carefully into the pocket of her cardigan; it would have cost two pula, at the most, to make the journey by minibus, but the exorbitant cost of the taxi could properly be passed on to the client, and anyway, she told herself, it would be quite inappropriate for her to arrive at the printing works in a battered and over-loaded vehicle, complete with hands and feet sticking out of the windows. People noted how people travelled, and if she was going to pass herself off as a potential client of the company, then she should arrive in fitting style. Clovis Andersen probably said something about this in The Principles of Private Detection, but even if he did not, common sense dictated it.

The Good Impression Printing Company occupied half of a largish building in the industrial site that lay beyond the diamond-sorting building. It was not a very impressive building—one of those structures that look like cheap warehouses and which have few windows. Above their door was a sign saying Words mean business. Business means money. Make a good impression with the Good Impression Printing Company! And below that was a picture of a glossy brochure out of which, as from a cornucopia, banknotes cascaded. It was a powerful message, thought Mma Makutsi, and it made her think that perhaps it was time to speak to Mma Ramotswe about a new sign for the agency. That might also have an illustration of some sort to brighten the signboard, but what might it be? A tea-pot was the image that most immediately sprang to mind, but that would hardly do: there was no particular association in the public mind between private detection and tea, even if tea-drinking was an important part of their day’s activities. Mma Ramotswe drank six cups a day—at the office; she had no idea how much bush tea was consumed at home—and she herself drank four, or perhaps five, if one counted the occasional top-up. But this was no time to think about such things, she decided; this was a delicate enquiry, conducted under cover, and she would have to think herself into the part she was about to play—a client inspecting a potential supplier.