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.