Going Postal (10 page)

“HUGOS,” said Groat. “And?”

“Yes, HUGO’S,” said Moist. “No apostrophe present, in fact, and the reason for this is…you could work
with
me a little here, perhaps…?”

“Er…” Groat stared frantically at the letters, defying them to reveal their meaning.

“Close enough,” said Moist. “There is no apostrophe there because there was and is no apostrophe on the uplifting slogan that adorns our beloved Post Office, Mr. Groat.” He waited for light to dawn. “Those big metal letters were stolen from our facade, Mr. Groat. I mean, the front of the building. They’re the reason for GLOM OF NIT, Mr. Groat.”

It took a little time for Mr. Groat’s mental sunrise to take place, but Moist was ready when it did.

“No, no, no!” he said, grabbing the old man’s greasy collar as he lurched forward, and almost pulling Groat off his feet. “That’s not how we deal with this, is it?”

“That’s Post Office property! That’s worse’n stealing, that is! That’s treason!” Groat yelled.

“Quite so,” said Moist. “Mr. Pump, if you would just hold on to our friend here, I will go and…discuss the matter.” Moist handed over the furious junior postman and brushed himself off. He looked a bit rumpled but it would have to do.

“What are you going to do, then?” said Groat.

Moist smiled his sunshine smile. “Something I’m good at, Mr. Groat. I’m going to talk to people.”

Moist crossed the road and opened the shop door. The bell jangled.

Inside the hairdresser’s shop was an array of little booths, and the air smelled sweet and cloying and, somehow, pink; right by the door was a little desk with a big, open diary. There were lots of flowers around, and the young woman at the desk gave him a haughty look that was going to cost her employer a lot of money. She was waiting for
him
to speak.

Moist put on a grave expression, leaned down, and said in a voice that had all the characteristics of a whisper but also seemed to be able to carry quite a long way: “Can I see Mr. Hugo, please? It is very important.”

“On what business would that be?”

“Well…it’s a little delicate…” said Moist. He could see the tops of permed heads turning. “But you can tell him it’s good news.”

“Well, if it’s good news—”

“Tell him I think I can persuade Lord Vetinari that this can be settled without charges being brought. Probably,” said Moist, lowering his voice just enough to increase the curiosity of the customers while not so much as to be inaudible.

The woman stared at him in horror.

“You can? Er…” She groped for an ornate speaking tube, but Moist took it gently from her hand, whistled expertly down it, lifted it to his ear, and flashed her a smile.

“Thank you,” he said. For
what
did not matter; smile, say the right kind of words in the right kind of voice, and always, always radiate confidence like a supernova.

A voice in his ear, faint as a spider trapped in a matchbox, said: “Scitich wabble nabnab?”

“Hugo?” said Moist. “It’s good of you to make time for me. It’s Moist, Moist von Lipwig. Postmaster General.” He glanced at the speaking tube. It disappeared into the ceiling. “So kind of you to assist us, Hugo. It’s these missing letters.
Five
missing letters, to be exact.”

“Scrik? Shabadatwik? Scritch vit bottofix!”

“Don’t really carry that kind of thing, Hugo, but if you’d care to look out of your window you’ll see my personal assistant, Mr. Pump. He’s standing on the other side of the street.”

And he’s eight feet tall and carrying a huge crowbar
, Moist added mentally. He winked at the lady sitting at the desk, who was watching him in a kind of awe. You had to keep people skills polished at all times.

He heard the muffled expletive through the floor. Via the speaking tube it became “Vugrs nickbibble!”

“Yes,” said Moist, “perhaps I should come up and speak to you directly—”

T
EN MINUTES LATER
Moist crossed the road with care and smiled at his staff. “Mr. Pump, if you would be so good as to step over there and pry out our letters, please?” he said. “Try not to damage anything. Mr. Hugo has been very cooperative. And Tolliver, you’ve lived here a long time, haven’t you? You’ll know where to hire men with ropes, steeplejacks, that sort of thing? I want those letters back on our building by midday, okay?”

“That’ll cost a lot of money, Mr. Lipwig,” said Groat, staring at him in amazement. Moist pulled a bag out of his pocket and jingled it.

“One hundred dollars should more than cover it,” he said. “Mr. Hugo was very apologetic and very, very inclined to be helpful. Says he bought them years ago off a man in a pub and is only too happy to pay for them to be returned. It’s amazing how nice people can be, if approached in the right way.”

There was a clang from the other side of the street. Mr. Pump had already removed the H, without any apparent effort.

Speak softly and employ a huge man with a crowbar
, thought Moist.
This might be bearable after all
.

T
HE WEAK SUNLIGHT
glinted on the S as it was swung into position. There was quite a crowd. People in Ankh-Morpork always paid attention to people on rooftops, in case there was a chance of an interesting suicide. There was a cheer, just on general principles, when the last letter was hammered back into place.

Four dead men
, Moist thought, looking up at the roof.
I wonder if the Watch would talk to me? Do they
know
about me? Do they think I’m dead? Do I want to speak to policemen? No! Damn! The only way I can get out of this is by running forward, not going back. Bloody, bloody Vetinari
, he thought.
But there’s a way to win
.

He could make money!

He was part of the government, wasn’t he? Governments took money off people. That’s what they were
for
.

He had people skills, didn’t he? He could persuade people that brass was gold that had got a bit tarnished, that glass was diamond, that tomorrow there was going to be free beer.

He’d outfox them all! He
wouldn’t
try to escape, not yet! If a golem could buy its freedom, then so could he! He’d buckle down and bustle and look busy and he’d send all the bills to Vetinari, because this was
government work
! How could the man object?

And if Moist von Lipwig couldn’t cream a little somethi—a
big
something off the top, and the bottom, and maybe a little off the sides, then he didn’t deserve to! And then, when it was all going well and the cash was rolling in…well, then there’d be time to make plans for the big one. Enough money bought a lot of men with sledgehammers.

The workmen pulled themselves back onto the flat roof. There was another ragged cheer from a crowd that reckoned it hadn’t been bad entertainment even if no one had fallen off.

“What do you think, Mr. Groat?” he said.

“Looks nice, sir, looks nice,” said Groat, as the crowd dispersed and they walked back to the Post Office building.

“Not disturbing anything, then?” said Moist.

Groat patted the surprised Moist on the arm. “I don’t know why his lordship sent you, sir, really I don’t,” he whispered. “You mean well, I can see. But take my advice, sir, and get out of here.”

Moist glanced toward the building’s doors. Mr. Pump was standing beside them. Just standing, with his arms hanging down. The fire in his eyes was a banked glow.

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“Nice of you to say so, sir, but this place isn’t for a young man with a future,” said Groat. “Now, Stanley, he’s all right if he’s got his pins, but you, sir, you could go far.”

“No-o, I don’t think I can,” said Moist. “Honestly. My place, Mr. Groat, is here.”

“Gods
bless
you for saying that, sir, gods
bless
you,” said Groat. Tears were beginning to roll down his face.

“We used to be heroes,” he said. “People
wanted
us. Everyone watched out for us. Everyone knew us. This was a great place, once. Once, we were
postmen
.”

“Mister!”

Moist turned. Three people were hurrying toward him, and he had to quell an automatic urge to turn and run, especially when one of them shouted, “Yes, that’s him!”

He recognized the greengrocer from this morning. An elderly couple were trailing behind him. The older man, who had the determined face and upright bearing of one who subdued cabbages daily, stopped an inch in front of Moist and bellowed: “Are you the po’stman, young man?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose I am,” said Moist. “How can I—”

“You delivered me this’ letter from Aggie here! I’m Antimony Parker!” the man roared. “Now, there’s s’ome people’d say it wa’s a little bit on the late side!”

“Oh,” said Moist. “Well, I—”

“That took a bit of nerve, young man!”

“I’m very sorry that—” Moist began. People skills weren’t much good in the face of Mr. Parker. He was one of the impervious people, whose grasp of volume control was about as good as his understanding of personal space.

“S’orry?” Parker shouted. “What’ve you got to be s’orry about? Not your fault, lad. You weren’t even born! More fool me for thinking she didn’t care, eh? Hah, I wa’s so downhearted, lad, I went right out and joined the…” His red face wrinkled. “You know…camel’s, funny hat’s, sand, where you go to forget—”

“The Klatchian Foreign Legion?” said Moist.

“That wa’s it! And when I came back I met Sadie, and Aggie had met her Frederick, and we both got ’settled and forgot the other one was alive and then blow me down if this letter didn’t arrive from Aggie! Me and my lad have s’pent half the morning tracking her down! And to cut a long s’tory short, lad, we’re getting married Sat’day! ’Co’s of you, boy!”

Mr. Parker was one of those men who turned into teak with age. When he slapped Moist on the back it was like being hit with a chair.

“Won’t Frederick and Sadie object—” Moist wheezed.

“I doubt it! Frederick pas’sed away ten years ago and Sadie’s been buried up in S’mall God’s for the last five!” Mr. Parker bellowed cheerfully. “And we were s’orry to see them go but, as Aggie say’s, it was all meant to be and you wa’s sent by a higher power. And
I
say it took a man with real backbone to come and deliver that letter after all thi’s time. There’s many that would have tos’sed it aside like it was of no account! You’d do me and the future second Mrs. Parker a great favor if you wa’s to be a guest of honor at our wedding, and I for one won’t take no for an ans’wer! I’m Grandma’ster of the Guild of Merchant’s this year, too! We might not be pos’h like the Assassins of the Alchemists but there’s a lot of u’s and I shall put in a word on your behalf, you can depend on that! My lad George here will be down later on with the invitation’s for you to deliver, now you’re back in busines’s! It will be a great honor for me, my boy, if you would s’hake me by the hand…”

He thrust out a huge hand. Moist took it, and old habits died hard. Firm grip, steady gaze…

“Ah, you’re an honest man, all right,” said Parker. “I’m never mis’taken!” He clapped his hand on Moist’s shoulder, causing a knee joint to crunch. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Lipwig, sir. Moist von Lipwig,” Moist said. He was afraid he’d gone deaf in one ear.

“A von, eh,” said Parker. “Well, you’re doing damn well for a foreigner, and I don’t care who know’s it! Got to be going now, Aggie want’s to buy fripperie’s!”

The woman came up to Moist, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him on the cheek.

“And I know a good man when I see one,” she said. “Do you have a young lady?”

“What? No! Not at all! Er…no!” said Moist.

“I’m sure you shall,” she said, smiling sweetly. “And while we’re very grateful to you, I would advise you to propose in person. We do so much look forward to seeing you on Saturday!”

Moist watched her scurry away after her long-lost swain.

“You delivered a letter?” said Groat, horrified.

“Yes, Mr. Groat. I didn’t mean to, but I just happened to be—”

“You took one of the old letters and you
delivered
it?” said Groat, as if the concept was something he could not fit into his head—

His head was all over the wall…

Moist blinked.

“We are
supposed
to deliver the mail, man! That’s our job! Remember?”

“You delivered a letter…” breathed Groat. “What was the date on it?”

“I can’t remember! More than forty years ago?”

“What was it like? Was it in good condition?” Groat insisted.

Moist glared at the little postman. A small crowd was forming around them, as was the Ankh-Morpork way.

“It was a forty-year-old letter in a cheap envelope!” he snarled. “And that’s what it looked like! It never got delivered and it upset the lives of two people. I delivered it and it’s made two people very happy. What is the
problem
, Mr. Groat— Yes, what is it?”

This was to a woman who was tugging at this sleeve.

“I said is it true you’re opening the old place again?” she repeated. “My grandad used to work there!”

“Well done him,” said Moist.

“He said there was a curse!” said the woman, as if the idea was rather pleasing.

“Really?” said Moist. “Well, I could do with a good curse right now, as a matter of fact.”

“It lives under the floor and drives you maaad!” she went on, enjoying the syllable so much that she seemed loath to let it go. “Maaad!”

“Really,” said Moist. “Well, we do not believe in going crazy in the postal service, do we, Mr. Gro—” He stopped. Mr. Groat had the expression of one who did believe in going crazy.

“You daft old woman!” Groat yelled. “What did you have to tell him that for?”

“Mr. Groat!” snapped Moist. “I wish to speak to you inside!”

He grabbed the old man by the shoulder and very nearly carried him through the amused crowd, dragged him into the building and slammed the door.

“I’ve had enough of this!” he said. “Enough of dark comments and mutterings, do you understand? What’s going on here? What went on here? You tell me right now or—”