Going Postal Read online

  ‘And Mr Whobblebury?’ he said. ‘He was investigating for Vetinari, eh? What happened to him?’

  Stanley was shaking like a bush in a high wind.

  ‘Er, you did get given the big keyring, sir?’ Groat enquired, his voice trembling with innocence.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I bet there is one key missing,’ said Groat. ‘The Watch took it. It was the only one. Some doors ought to stay closed, sir. It’s all over and done with, sir. Mr Whobblebury died of an industrial accident, they said. Nobody near him. You don’t want to go there, sir. Sometimes things get so broke it’s best to walk away, sir.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Moist. ‘I am the Postmaster General. And this is my building, isn’t it? I’ll decide where I go, Junior Postman Groat.’

  Stanley shut his eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Groat, as if talking to a child. ‘But you don’t want to go there-, sir.’

  ‘His head was all over the wall !’ Stanley quavered.

  ‘Oh dear, now you’ve set him off, sir,’ said Groat, scuttling across to the boy. ‘It’s all right, lad, I’ll just get you your pills—’

  ‘What is the most expensive pin ever made commercially, Stanley?’ said Moist quickly.

  It was like pulling a lever. Stanley’s expression went from agonized grief to scholarly cogitation in an instant.

  ‘Commercially? Leaving aside those special pins made for exhibitions and trade shows, including the Great Pin of 1899, then probably it is the Number Three Broad-headed “Chicken” Extra Long made for the lace-making market by the noted pinner Josiah Doldrum, I would say. They were hand-drawn and had his trademark silver head with a microscopic engraving of a cockerel. It’s believed that fewer than a hundred were made before his death, sir. According to Hubert Spider’s Pin Catalogue, examples can fetch between fifty and sixty-five dollars, depending on condition. A Number Three Broad-headed Extra Long would grace any true pinhead’s collection.’

  ‘Only… I spotted this in the street,’ said Moist, extracting one of that morning’s purchases from his lapel. ‘I was walking down Market Street and there it was, between two cobblestones. I thought it looked unusual. For a pin.’

  Stanley pushed away the fussing Groat and carefully took the pin from Moist’s fingers. A very large magnifying glass appeared as if by magic in his other hand.

  The room held its breath as the pin was subjected to serious scrutiny. Then Stanley looked up at Moist in amazement.

  ‘You knew ?’ he said. ‘And you spotted this in the street ? I thought you didn’t know anything about pins!’

  ‘Oh, not really, but I dabbled a bit as a boy,’ said Moist, waving a hand deprecatingly to suggest that he had been too foolish to turn a schoolboy hobby into a lifetime’s obsession. ‘You know… a few of the old brass Imperials, one or two oddities like an unbroken pair or a double-header, the occasional cheap packet of mixed pins on approval… ’ Thank the gods, he thought, for the skill of speed-reading.

  ‘Oh, there’s never anything worthwhile in those,’ said Stanley, and slid again into the voice of the academic: ‘While most pinheads do indeed begin with a casually acquired flashy novelty pin, followed by the contents of their grandmothers’ pincushions, haha, the path to a truly worthwhile collection lies not in the simple disbursement of money in the nearest pin emporium, oh no. Any dilettante can become “king pin” with enough expenditure, but for the true pinhead the real pleasure is in the joy of the chase, the pin fairs, the house clearances and, who knows, a casual glint in the gutter that turns out to be a well-preserved Doublefast or an unbroken two-pointer. Well is it said: “See a pin and pick it up, and all day long you’ll have a pin”.’

  Moist nearly applauded. It was word for word what J. Lanugo Owlsbury had written in the introduction to his work. And, much more important, he now had an unshakable friend in Stanley. That was to say, his darker regions added, Stanley was friends with him . The boy, his panic subsumed by the joy of pins, was holding his new acquisition up to the light.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he breathed, all terrors fled. ‘Clean as a new pin! I have a place ready and waiting for this in my pin folder, sir!’

  ‘Yes, I thought you might.’

  His head was all over the wall…

  Somewhere there was a locked door, and Moist didn’t have the key. Four of his predecessors had predeceased in this very building. And there was no escape . Being Postmaster General was a job for life - one way or the other. That was why Vetinari had put him here. He needed a man who couldn’t walk away, and who was incidentally completely expendable. It didn’t matter if Moist von Lipwig died. He was already dead.

  And then he tried not to think about Mr Pump.

  How many other golems had worked their way to freedom in the service of the city? Had there been a Mr Saw, fresh from a hundred years in a pit of sawdust? Or Mr Shovel? Mr Axe, maybe?

  And had there been one here when the last poor guy had found the key to the locked door, or a good lockpick, and was about to open it when behind him someone called maybe Mr Hammer, yes, oh gods, yes , raised his fist for one sudden, terminal blow?

  No one had been near him? But they weren’t people, were they… they were tools. It’d be an industrial accident.

  His head was all over the wall…

  I’m going to find out about this. I have to, otherwise it’ll lie in wait for me. And everyone will tell me lies. But I am the fibbermeister.

  ‘Hmm?’ he said, aware that he’d missed something.

  ‘I said, could I go and put this in my collection, Postmaster?’ said Stanley.

  ‘What? Oh. Yes. Fine. Yes. Give it a really good polish, too.’

  As the boy gangled off to his end of the locker room, and he did gangle, Moist caught Groat looking at him shrewdly.

  ‘Well done, Mr Lipwig,’ he said. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Groat.’

  ‘Good eyesight you’ve got there,’ the old man went on.

  ‘Well, the light was shining off it—’

  ‘Nah, I meant to see cobbles in Market Street, it being all brick-paving up there.’

  Moist returned his blank stare with one even blanker. ‘Bricks, cobbles, who cares?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, right. Not important, really,’ said Groat.

  ‘And now,’ said Moist, feeling the need for some fresh air, ‘there’s a little errand I have to run. I’d like you to come with me, Mr Groat. Can you find a crowbar anywhere? Bring it, please. And I’ll need you, too, Mr Pump.’

  Werewolves and golems, golems and werewolves, Moist thought. I’m stuck here. I might as well take it seriously.

  I will show them a sign.

  ‘There’s a little habit I have,’ said Moist, as he led the way through the streets. ‘It’s to do with signs.’

  ‘Signs, sir?’ said Groat, trying to keep close to the walls.

  ‘Yes, Junior Postman Groat, signs,’ said Moist, noticing the way the man winced at ‘Junior’. ‘Particularly signs with missing letters. When I see one, I automatically read what the missing letters say.’

  ‘And how can you do that, sir, when they’re missing?’ said Groat.

  Ah, so there’s a clue as to why you’re still sitting in a run-down old building making tea from rocks and weeds all day, Moist thought. Aloud he said: ‘It’s a knack. Now, I could be wrong, of course, but— Ah, we turn left here… ’

  This was quite a busy street, and the shop was in front of them. It was everything that Moist had hoped.

  ‘Voila,’ he said and, remembering his audience, he added: ‘That is to say, there we have it.’

  ‘It’s a barber’s shop,’ said Groat uncertainly. ‘For ladies.’

  ‘Ah, you’re a man of the world, Tolliver, there’s no fooling you,’ said Moist. And the name over the window, in those large, blue-green letters, is… ?’

  ‘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 in 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.’

  He 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 waited for Moist 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 kinds 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… ’

  Ten 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 co-operative. 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.

  The 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. 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, hadn’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 on to 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 towards 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 towards 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 a man 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 Tim 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 s’ettled 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 turn into teak with age. When he slapped Moist on the back it was like being hit with a chair.

  ‘Won’t Frederick and Aggie 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 Barker 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 this 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 favour if you wa’s to be a guest of honour at our wedding, and I for one won’t take no for an ans’wer! I’m Grand Ma’ster of the Guild of Merchant’s this year, too! We might not be posh like the Assassins or the Alchemists but there’s a lot of us 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 honour for me, my boy, if you would shake me by the hand… ’