They had spent a further half hour discussing cupboards—these were to be plentiful and deep enough to accommodate a vacuum cleaner as well as a full set of brooms and brushes. They also discussed the bedroom windows; these had to be of a sufficient size to let in enough light but not so large as to invite passers-by on the road to stare in at the occupants. “I cannot stand people staring in through your windows,” said Mma Makutsi. “What happens in a house is none of the business of people outside that house. Inside is inside; outside is outside. That is what I always say.” It was true that she did not like to be looked in on from outside, but what she did not mention was the fact that she herself frequently yielded to the temptation to glance through another’s window if the opportunity presented itself. But she was a private detective, and such glances were not prompted by mere idle curiosity, or even nosiness; they were … a professional matter, an assessment—akin perhaps to the surreptitious clinical glance a doctor cannot help himself but give at a manifestly unhealthy person he passes on the street.

Armed with these requirements, Phuti met the builder at the headquarters of the This Way Up Building Company. He had stipulated that the meeting should be there, turning down Mr. Putumelo’s offer to come to the furniture shop, so that he could cast an eye over the builder’s office before he signed the contract. In doing this he was following advice imparted to him by his father, who had always recommended doing business on the home ground of the other side. “If they are no good,” he had said, “you will be able to tell that immediately. Look at their furniture. A man who has a rickety chair is a rickety businessman. A man whose table is not straight is himself not straight. These signs will never let you down, Phuti.” It was an experienced furniture-seller’s view of the world, but it had proved an accurate guide and had on more than one occasion prevented the signing of contracts that would have led to trouble and loss.

Mr. Clarkson Putumelo’s office passed the Radiphuti test with no difficulty at all. The company had an impressive office on its own lot, not far from a cluster of prosperous shops off the old Francistown Road. There was an office building on which the company name was painted in large lettering, a garage in which several vehicles, working and otherwise, were parked, and a large yard in which piles of brick and timber were neatly stored under tarpaulins or standing corrugated-iron covers. There was nothing sloppy about the scene, and Phuti was immediately reassured.