The Fifth Elephant

weighing bridge.
    “What a mess,” he said. “Locked-room mysteries are even worse when they leave the room unlocked.”
    “You’re thinking that Dozy might have worn bags of sand under his robes, aren’t you, sir,” said Cheery.
    No, thought Vimes. I wasn’t. But now I know how a dwarf would solve this.
    “Possibly,” he said aloud. “Grubby white sand can’t be uncommon. You’d add a bit of sand every day, yes? Just enough not to trigger the scales. Finally you’ve got…how much does the Scone weigh?”
    “About sixteen pounds, sir.”
    “All right. Dump the sand on the floor, shove the Scone under your robes, and…it might just work.”
    “Risky, sir.”
    “But no one thinks anyone is really going to try to steal the Scone. Would you try to tell me that four guards sitting in that little guardhouse on a twelve-hour shift will be alert all the time? That’s enough for a hand of poker!”
    “I suppose they rely on the fact that they’d know when a boat came up, sir.”
    “Right. Big mistake. And you know what? I bet that when a boat’s just gone down, that’s the time they’re least alert. Cheery, if a human could get in here, they could get into the Scone room. They’d have to be nimble and a good swimmer, but they could do it.”
    “The guards on the gates were pretty keen, sir.”
    “Well, yes . Guards always are, just after a theft. Smart as foxes and sharp as knives, just in case anyone wonders if it was them who dropped off to sleep at the wrong time. I’m a copper , Cheery. I know how dull guarding can be. Especially when you know that no one is ever going to steal what you’re guarding.”
    He scuffed the sand with his boot.
    “They were looking hard at every cart that went in or out this morning. But that was because the Scone had been stolen. It’s at times like this you get very official, very efficient and very pointless activity. Don’t try to tell me that last week they opened every barrel and prodded every load of hay. Even the stuff coming in ? Can you see Dee? Is he looking at me?”
    Cheery peered around Vimes.
    “No, sir.”
    “Good.”
    Vimes walked over to the tunnel, pressed his back against a wall, took a deep breath, and walked his legs up the opposite wall. Then he eased his way out over the plates of the weigh-bridge, inched along with feet and shoulder blades and, wincing at every protest from his knees, eventually dropped down. He strolled over to Dee, who was talking to the guards.
    “How did—”
    “Never mind,” said Vimes. “Let’s just say I’m longer than a dwarf, shall we?”
    “Have you solved it?”
    “No. But I have an idea.”
    “Really? Already?” said Dee. “And what is that?”
    “I’m still working it out,” said Vimes. “But it’s lucky the king told you to ask me, Dee. One thing I have found out is that no dwarf will give you the right answer.”

    The opera was just ending as Vimes slipped into the seat beside Sybil.
    “Have I missed anything?” he said.
    “It’s very good. Where have you been?”
    “You wouldn’t believe me.”
    He stared, unseeing, at the stage. A couple of dwarfs were engaged in a very careful mock battle.
    All right, then. If it was politics it was…well, politics. There was nothing he could do about politics. So…think about it as a crime…
    What was the simple solution? Best to start with the first rule of policing: Suspect the victim. Vimes wasn’t quite sure who the victim was here, though. So…suspect the witness. That was another good rule. That meant the late Dozy. He could have walked out with the Scone days before he “discovered” the loss. He could have done just about anything. The way the thing was guarded was a joke. Nobby and Colon could have done it better. Much better, he corrected himself, because they had devious little minds and that was what made them coppers…the guards on the Scone were honorable dwarfs, the last people you wanted to entrust with anything. You wanted sneaky people for a job like this.
    But…it made no sense . He’d be the prime suspect. Vimes wasn’t well up on dwarf law, but he suspected that there was not a huge friendly future in store for a prime suspect, especially if no other solution was forthcoming.
    Maybe he’d snapped after sixty years of changing candles? That didn’t sound right. Anyone who could put up with a job like that for ten years would probably run in their groove for the rest of eternity. Anyway, Dozy had now gone to