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Feet of Clay

Feet of Clay

Titel: Feet of Clay Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Terry Pratchett
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nowhere, and he’d traveled a long way to get there. He’d got a cartload of facts and he’d done all the right logical things, and to someone, somewhere, he must look like a fool.
    He probably looked like a fool to Carrot already. He’d kept coming up with bright ideas—proper policeman’s ideas—and each one had turned out to be a joke. He’d bullied and shouted and done all the proper things, and none of it had worked. They hadn’t found a thing. They’d merely increased their amount of ignorance.
    The ghost of old Mrs. Easy rose up in his inner vision. He couldn’t remember much about her. He’d been just another snotty kid in a crowd of snotty kids, and she’d been just another worried face somewhere on top of a pinny. One of Cockbill Street’s people. She’d taken in needlework to make ends meet and kept up appearances and, like everyone else in the street, had crept through life never asking for anything and getting even less.
    What else could he have done? They’d practically scraped the damn wallpaper off the wall…
    He stopped.
    There was the same wallpaper in both rooms. In every room on that floor. That horrible green wallpaper.
    But…no, that couldn’t be it. Vetinari had slept in that room for years, if he slept at all. You can’t sneak in and redecorate without someone noticing.
    In front of him, the fog rolled aside. He caught a glimpse of a candlelit room in a nearby building before the cloud flowed back.
    The fog. Yes. Dampness. Creeping in, brushing against the wallpaper. The old, dusty, musty wallpaper…
    Would Cheery have tested the wallpaper? After all, in a way you didn’t actually see it. It wasn’t in the room because it was defining what the room was. Could you actually be poisoned by the walls?
    He hardly dared think the thought. If he let his mind settle on the suspicion it’d twist and fly away, like all the others.
    But…this was it, said his secret soul. All the messing around with suspects and Clues…that was just something to keep the body amused while the back of the brain toiled away. Every real copper knew you didn’t go around looking for Clues so that you could find out Who Done It. No, you started out with a pretty good idea of Who Done It. That way, you knew what Clues to look for.
    He wasn’t going to have another day of bafflement interspersed with desperately bright ideas, was he? It was bad enough looking at Corporal Littlebottom’s expression, which seemed to be getting a little more colorful every time he saw it.
    He’d said, “Ah, arsenic’s a metal, right, so maybe the cutlery has been made of it?” He wouldn’t forget the look on the dwarf’s face as Cheery tried to explain that, yes, it might be possible to do that, provided you were sure that no one would notice the way it dissolved in the soup almost instantly.
    This time he was going to think first.

    “The Earl of Ankh, Corporal the Rt. Hon. Lord C. W. St. J. Nobbs!”
    The buzz of conversation stopped. Heads turned. Somewhere in the crowd someone started to laugh and was hurriedly shushed into silence by their neighbors.
    Lady Selachii came forward. She was a tall, angular woman, with the sharp features and aquiline nose that were the hallmarks of the family. The impression was that an axe was being thrown at you.
    Then she curtsied.
    There were gasps of surprise around her, but she glared at the assembled guests and there was a smattering of bows and curtsies. Somewhere at the back of the room someone started to say, “But the man’s an absolute oik—” and was cut off.
    “Has someone dropped something?” said Nobby nervously. “I’ll help you look, if you like.”
    The footman appeared at his elbow, bearing a tray. “A drink, m’lord?” he said.
    “Yeah, OK, a pint of Winkles,” said Nobby.
    Jaws fell. But Lady Selachii rose to the occasion. “Winkles?” she said.
    “A type of beer, your ladyship,” said the footman.
    Her ladyship hesitated only a moment. “I believe the butler drinks beer,” she said. “See to it, man. And I’ll have a pint of Winkles, too. What a novel idea.”
    This caused a certain effect among those guests who knew on which side of the biscuit their pâté was spread.
    “Indeed! Capital suggestion! A pint of Winkles here, too!”
    “Hawhaw! Great! Winkles for me!”
    “Winkles all round!”
    “ But the man’s an absolute ti— ”
    “ Shut up! ”

    Vimes crossed the Brass Bridge with care, counting the hippos. There was a

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