“No, not that I know of. It’s just that these big men—they can make ordinary people seem very small.” She paused. “And there is another thing: Why was he so quick to suggest that I come and see him? Why would he do that, Rra?”

Clovis Andersen thought for a moment. “Because he has something to hide,” he said. “He knows that you’re a detective, doesn’t he? He has assumed, then, that you’re looking into his affairs. And then he has decided, quite wisely, that the best way of dealing with somebody who is investigating you is to go out to meet them. Make the running yourself, and that will put them off. I’ve seen this sort of thing before.”

She sought reassurance. “Do you think so, Rra?”

“I think so, Mma Ramotswe.”

She pointed to the glass door of the building behind which could be made out the figure of a guard slouched on a chair. “We should go in,” she said. “And I shall remember what you had to say.”

The guard, who was sitting somnolently staring out across the parched earth at the front of the building, seemed barely to register their arrival. “That way,” he muttered, pointing down a corridor behind him. “Second door on the right. That is where he is.”

Clovis Andersen exchanged a quizzical glance with Mma Ramotswe.

“That man is very lazy,” she whispered, as they made their way in the direction the guard had indicated. “I have always found that guards are not very wide awake. I think it is a good job for a sleepy person.”

Clovis Andersen chuckled. “It’s probably better for them to be doing that job than driving buses or planes,” he said.

“That is very true, Rra,” said Mma Ramotswe.

They were now in front of Mr. Ditso’s door, which was simply labelled MANAGING DIRECTOR NO ADMISSION.

“No admissions, plural,” said Clovis Andersen.

Mma Ramotswe knocked, and they entered when a voice from within called out. Inside, seated behind a large expanse of desk, was Mr. Ditso Ditso, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his left wrist dominated by what seemed an impossibly large wristwatch. A beam of sunlight, slanting in from the wide plateglass window behind him, caught the dial of the watch and flashed rays back across the wall in dancing points of light.

It was the office of a wealthy man and a public citizen: anybody could see that immediately. On the wall to the side of Mr. Ditso’s desk there were several framed photographs and letters: Mr. Ditso Ditso shaking hands with a former president; Mr. Ditso Ditso at a charity function, handing over an outsized cheque; Mr. Ditso Ditso presenting the prizes at Gaborone Secondary School. On a shelf there was a series of what looked like business awards: a trophy in the shape of a cash register, an engraved glass bowl.