Going Postal

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 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—”

    T EN 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