Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [140]
Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea…
He reached the house eight minutes later, and hammered on the door. To his relief, she opened it, and stared at him.
She said: “How?”
He said: “Tobacconists. Not many women around here have a hundred-a-day habit.”
“Well, what do you want, Mister Clever?”
“If you help me, I can take Gilt for everything he’s got,” said Moist. “Help me. Please? On my honor as a totally untrustworthy man?”
That at least got a brief smile, to be replaced almost immediately by the default expression of deep suspicion. Then some inner struggle resolved itself.
“You’d better come into the parlor,” she said, opening the door all the way.
That room was small, dark, and crowded with respectability. Moist sat on the edge of a chair, trying not to disturb anything, while he strained to hear women’s voices along the hallway. Then Miss Dearheart slipped in and shut the door behind her.
“I hope this is all right with your family,” said Moist. “I—”
“I told them we were courting,” said Miss Dearheart. “That’s what parlors are for. The tears of joy and hope in my mother’s eyes were a sight to see. Now, what do you want?”
“Tell me about your father,” said Moist. “I’ve got to know how the Grand Trunk was taken over. Have you still got any paperwork?”
“It won’t do any good. A lawyer looked at them and said it would be very hard to make a case—”
“I intend to appeal to a higher court,” said Moist.
“I mean, we can’t prove a lot of things, not actually prove—” Miss Dearheart protested.
“I don’t have to,” said Moist.
“The lawyer said it would take months and months of work to—” she went on, determined to find a snag.
“I’ll make someone else pay for it,” said Moist. “Have you got books? Ledgers? Anything like that?”
“What are you intending to do?” Miss Dearheart demanded.
“It’s better if you don’t know. It really is. I know what I’m doing, Spike. But you shouldn’t.”
“Well, there’s a big box of papers,” said Miss Dearheart uncertainly. “I suppose I could just sort of…leave it in here while I’m tidying up…”
“Good.”
“But can I trust you?”
“On this? My gods, no! Your father trusted Gilt, and look at what happened! I wouldn’t trust me if I was you. But I would if I was me.”
“The funny thing is, Mr. Lipwig, that I find myself trusting you all the more when you tell me how untrustworthy you are,” said Miss Dearheart.
Moist sighed. “Yes, I know, Spike. Wretched, isn’t it. It’s a people thing. Could you fetch the box, please?”
She did so, with a puzzled frown.
It took all afternoon, and even then Moist wasn’t sure, but he’d filled a small notebook with scribbles. It was like looking for piranhas in a river choked with weeds. There were a lot of bones on the bottom. But, although sometimes you thought you’d glimpsed a flash of silver, you could never be sure you’d seen a fish. The only way to be sure was to jump in.
BY HALF PAST FOUR, Sator Square was packed.
The wonderful thing about the golden suit and the hat with wings was that, if Moist took them off, he wasn’t him anymore. He was just a nondescript person in unmemorable clothes and a face you might vaguely think you’d seen before.
He wandered through the crowd, heading toward the Post Office. No one gave him a second glance. Most didn’t bother with a first glance.
In a way he’d never realized until now, he was alone. He’d always been alone. It was the only way to be safe.
The trouble was, he missed the golden suit. Everything was an act, really. But the Man in the Golden Suit was a good act. He didn’t want to be a person you forgot, someone who was one step above a shadow. Underneath the wingéd hat, he could perform miracles or, at least, make it appear that miracles had been performed, which is nearly as good.
He’d have to perform one in an hour or two, that was certain.
Oh well…
He went around the back