Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [121]
An awed silence followed this.
“And thus we bounce back,” said Gilt.
“But you said several hundr—”
Gilt sighed. “I said that,” he said. “Trust me. It’s a game, gentlemen, and a good player is one who can turn a bad situation to their advantage. I have brought you this far, haven’t I? A little cash and the right attitude will take us the rest of the way. I’m sure you can find some more money,” he added, “from somewhere it won’t be missed.”
This wasn’t silence. It went beyond silence.
“What are you suggesting?” said Nutmeg.
“Embezzlement, theft, breach of trust, misappropriation of funds…people can be so harsh,” said Gilt. He threw open his arms again, and a big, friendly smile emerged like the sun breaking through storm clouds. “Gentlemen! I understand! Money was made to work, to move, to grow, not to be locked up in some vault. Poor Mr. Horsefry, I believe, did not really understand that. So much on his mind, poor fellow. But we…we are businessmen. We understand these things, my friends.”
He surveyed the faces of men who now knew that they were riding a tiger. It had been a good ride up until a week or so ago. It wasn’t a case of not being able to get off. They could get off. That was not the problem. The problem was that the tiger knew where they lived.
Poor Mr. Horsefry…there had been rumors. In fact, they were completely unsubstantiated rumors, because Mr. Gryle had been excessively good at his job when pigeons weren’t involved, had moved like a shadow with claws, and while he’d left a faint scent, it had been masked by the blood. In the nose of a werewolf, blood trumps everything. But rumor rose in the streets of Ankh-Morpork like mists from a midden.
And then it occurred to one or two of the board that the jovial “my friends” in the mouth of Reacher Gilt, so generous with his invitations, his little tips, his advice, and his champagne, was beginning, in its harmonics and overtones, to sound just like the word “pal” in the mouth of a man in an alley who was offering cosmetic surgery with a broken bottle in exchange for not being given any money. On the other hand, they’d been safe so far, maybe it was worth following the tiger to the kill. Better to follow at the beast’s heel than be its prey…
“And now I realize that I am inexcusably keeping you from your beds,” said Gilt. “Good night to you, gentlemen. You may safely leave everything to me. Igor!”
“Yeth, marthter,” said Igor, behind him.
“Do see these gentlemen out, and ask Mr. Pony to come in…”
Gilt watched them go with a smile of satisfaction, which became a bright and happy face when Pony was ushered in.
The interview with the engineer went like this:
“Mr. Pony,” said Gilt, “I am very pleased to tell you that the board, impressed by your dedication and the hard work you have been putting in, have voted unanimously to increase your salary by five hundred dollars a year.”
Pony brightened up. “Thank you very much, sir. That will certainly come in—”
“However, Mr. Pony, as part of the management of the Grand Trunk Company—and we do think of you as part of the team—we must ask you to bear in mind our cash flow. We cannot authorize more than $25,000 for repairs this year.”
“That’s only about seventy dollars a tower, sir!” the engineer protested.
“Tch, is it really? I told them you wouldn’t accept that,” said Gilt. “Mr. Pony is an engineer of integrity, I said. He won’t accept a penny less than $50,000, I told them!”
Pony looked hunted. “Couldn’t really do much of a job, sir, even for that. I could get some walking-tower teams out there, yes, but most of the mountain towers are living on borrowed time as it is—”
“We’re counting on you, George,” said Gilt.
“Well, I suppose…could we have the Hour of the Dead back, Mr. Gilt?”
“I really wish you wouldn’t use that fanciful term,” said Gilt. “It really does not present the right image.”
“Sorry, sir,” said Pony. “But I still need it.”
Gilt drummed his fingers on the table. “You’re asking a lot, George, you really are. That’s revenue