Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [36]
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 rundown 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.
“Voilà,” 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 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