Going Postal - Terry Pratchett [37]
“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 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.
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, 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,