Snuff

of the Laws and Ordinances of Ankh-Morpork, generally considered a model for police procedure,” he added confidently, knowing that no one present would have ever clapped eyes on them and would quite likely not be able to read them even if they had.
    Inside Vimes winced. He’d got away with having dwarfs, trolls and finally even werewolves and vampires in the Watch, albeit on certain obvious conditions, but that had been the result of leverage over the years. Vetinari always said, “What is normal? Normal is yesterday and last week and last month taken together.” And, Vimes supposed, they had slipped things in one at a time to allow normal to gradually evolve—although Mr. Stinky, or rather Probationary Special Constable Stinky, had really better confine his policing activities to the cave. Yes, not such a bad idea at that, indeed if only he could get them to leave chickens alone maybe normal would have a chance. After all, people seemed quite easy about having their rights and liberties taken away by those they looked up to, but somehow a space on the perch was a slap in the face, and treated as such.
    And now Feeney, getting out of breath, was nearly talked out. “I can’t force any of you to tell me anything, but is there any one of you anxious to help me with my inquiries?”
    Vimes tried not to let anyone see his expression, least of all Feeney. Of course, Captain Carrot had once been like that and—was it possible?—maybe even young Sam Vimes had been like that too, but surely anyone could see that you never expect people who are part of a crowd to put up their hand and pipe up, “Yes, constable! I’d be very happy to tell you everything I know, and I’d like these fine gentlemen here to be my witnesses.”
    What you did do after a performance like that was just wait, wait until somebody sidles up and whispers something when you are alone, or just tilts his head in the right direction, or, and this had happened to Vimes, writes three initials in the spilled beer on a bar top and industriously wipes it clean within two seconds. Some bright spark would think: you never know your luck; after all, Feeney could be a coming man, right? And a happy relationship might come in handy, one day.
    Vimes blew away the pink cloud of embarrassment. “Well, gentlemen, speaking as commander of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, it seems to me that your senior police officer is being considerably lenient with you. I would not be, so be grateful for him. How many of these…” and here Vimes inserted a sneer, “ gentlemen do you really know, Chief Constable Upshot?”
    â€œOh, about half of them, commander, that’s to say their names, families, home addresses and similar. The rest of them are from other places. I can’t say that they’re all angels, but they’re mostly not too bad.”
    This sensible little speech in the circumstances earned Feeney a few smirks and a certain relieved look all round, and, happily, an opening for Vimes, who said, “So which one of them had an arrow ready in his crossbow, do you think, Mr. Feeney?”
    But before Feeney had time to open his mouth Vimes had spun round to confront the returning Mr. Stoner, whose digestion had let him down. Willikins, whose instincts seldom failed, was still keeping an eye on him. Loudly and cheerfully Vimes said, “I see that my good friend Mr. Stoner is back, and he’s a lawyer and I’m a policeman and we know how to talk to one another. Do come this way, Mr. Stoner.”
    He grabbed the unwilling lawyer gently but firmly by the arm and led him some way from the crowd, who watched, Vimes was pleased to see, with immediate deep suspicion.
    â€œYou are a lawyer, are you not, Mr. Stoner? Not a criminal lawyer by any chance?”
    â€œNo, your grace, I specialize mostly in land and property matters.”
    â€œAh, far less dangerous,” said Vimes, “and I suppose you’re a member of the Ankh-Morpork bar, presided over by my old chum Mr. Slant?” He had said it convivially, but Vimes knew that the name of the old zombie would strike terror into any lawyer’s heart—although whether Mr. Slant still had one of his own was questionable. And now Mr. Stoner must be thinking quite quickly. If he had any sense, and read his Law Journal between the lines, he would be aware that while Mr. Slant would bow (rather stiffly) to the rich and