“Oh no, it isn’t,” came the quick rebuttal. “One of the men who worked for Phuti—one of the men who loaded furniture—he fell over in his own house and broke his leg. They took him to hospital, but that stuff you have in the middle of your bones …”

“Bone marrow.”

“Yes, that stuff. It leaked into his blood and blocked one of his pipes …”

“Blood vessels.”

Mma Makutsi shook her head solemnly. “Exactly. It blocked it up and now he is late too.”

There was a silence. Mma Ramotswe looked at the clock. She had things to do outside the office, and she thought that it was a good time, perhaps, to get out and about and leave Mma Makutsi to attend to the office tasks. By the time she got back, Mma Makutsi might be in a less difficult mood.

“I have to go and see Mma Potokwane,” Mma Ramotswe announced, rising from her chair. “This business with Mr. Ditso. I must get some more details from her.”

“That one’s not going to end well,” said Mma Makutsi. “We’ll never find out anything about that man, Mma. He’s far too clever for us …” She looked across the room at Mma Ramotswe. “I’ll tell you something, Mma. You know how they say money talks? Well, I say the opposite is true: money doesn’t talk. And I say that because money never tells you where it has come from. Never. So if Mma Potokwane thinks that she will find out that this rich man of hers has got his money from some bad place, she is going to be very disappointed. Money has no mouth, Mma. It cannot speak.”

Mma Ramotswe shook her head. “Don’t give up before we’ve started, Mma.” She paused. “And remember: we have a secret weapon.”

Mma Makutsi frowned. “And what would that be, Mma?”

Mma Ramotswe waited for a few moments before she answered. “Clovis Andersen,” she said simply.

The large round glasses caught the light; flashed. The contrariness evaporated—at least to an extent. Yes. Clovis Andersen. Oh yes!