Free The Handsome Man's Deluxe Cafe by Alexander McCall Smith

What she wanted to talk about was what she had seen.
    â€œDid you notice something, Mma?” she asked. “When Mrs. was standing next to Mr. Sengupta back there, she brushed a piece of fluff off the shoulder of his blazer.”
    â€œI did not see that,” said Mma Makutsi. “And I don’t see why that should be important.”
    Mma Ramotswe wanted to ask: What does Clovis Andersen say? What does he write about observing the little, apparently unimportant things?
    â€œIt might tell us something,” said Mma Ramotswe. “It might tell us that Mr. Sengupta and Mrs. know one another quite well.”
    â€œWell, she is staying with them, after all,” pointed out Mma Makutsi.
    â€œYes, I know,” Mma Ramotswe said. “But don’t you think you only take fluff off the shoulders of somebody you have known for some time?”
    â€œNo,” said Mma Makutsi. “I don’t think that, Mma.”

CHAPTER FIVE

MEN OFTEN FAIL TO TAKE FINER POINTS
    M MA MAKUTSI ’ S LAWYER was a small man, a wearer of hornrimmed spectacles and a carrier of a neat leather attaché case with the initials
KD
on the flap: Karabo Disang. She was already standing outside her newly acquired premises when he drove up and parked under one of the several acacia trees that dotted the yard surrounding the building.
    â€œWell, Mma Makutsi,” Karabo Disang said briskly, in his rather loud voice. “Here you are in front of your new domain.” He waved a hand towards the building. “The subjects of your lease, as we lawyers call it.”
    â€œI’m very pleased, Rra,” she said. “It’s a very important moment for me.” She looked at him expectantly. “You have the keys, Rra?”
    The lawyer smiled as he flipped open the attaché case. Pulling out a bunch of keys, he dangled them ceremoniously before handing them over to Mma Makutsi. “I hope I’ve brought the right ones,” he said dryly. “My office is full of keys, as I’m sure you will understand.”
    The keys bore no label, which offended Mma Makutsi’s secretarial soul. One of the first things they had been taught at the Botswana Secretarial College was to attach labels to things. “Never forget,” said the lecturer, “that things themselves have no idea what they are. Afile cannot tell you what is in it.” This witticism was greeted with laughter. “So label it, ladies! One little label now can prevent a lot of head-scratching in the future.”
    And Mma Makutsi, sitting in the front row and thrilled to be at college at last, had written on the first page of her virginal notebook:
One little label now can prevent a lot of head-scratching in the future.
And here was a lawyer—of all people—failing to label a client’s keys.
    â€œIt might be an idea to tie a tag to your keys, Rra,” she suggested. “You know those brown tags with little pieces of string attached to them? You know those ones?”
    The lawyer frowned. “I am too busy for such things, Mma. That is a secretary’s work.”
    Mma Makutsi stared at him. She reached out, almost reluctantly, to take the proffered keys.
    â€œWe lawyers are very busy,” he went on. “We have to charge our time, you see. And if we sat about tying tags to keys, how could we charge that? You would have to work out whose key was which and then charge for that small amount of time that you spent tying a tag to it. It would be complex, Mma.” He looked at her, as if to ascertain whether his point was understood.
    Mma Makutsi’s eyes narrowed. “So secretaries are only for unimportant work? Is that your view, Rra?”
    Mr. Disang smelled danger. “Oh no, Mma. I would never say that. They are very important people. Without my secretary, do you know where I would be, Mma?”
    She held him in her gaze. “Where is that, Rra?”
    â€œNowhere, Mma,” said Mr.