Jingo

“Isn't this fun?” said Vimes. “I don't want you to get in Fred's way. Just… ask around. Try Done It Duncan, or Sidney Lopsides, hah, there's a man with his ear to the ground all right. Or the Agony Aunts, or Lily Goodtime. Or Mr Slider, haven't seen him around for a while, but—”

“He's dead, sir,” said Carrot.

“What, Smelly Slider? When?”

“Last month, sir. He got hit by a falling bedstead. Freak accident, sir.”

“No one told me.”

“You were busy, sir. But you put some money in the envelope when Fred brought it round, sir. Ten dollars, which Fred remarked was very generous.”

Vimes sighed. Oh, yes, the envelopes. Fred was always wandering around with an envelope these days. Someone was always leaving, or some friend of the Watch was in trouble, or there was a raffle, or the tea money was low again, or some complicated explanation… so Vimes just put some money in. Simplest way.

Old Smelly Slider…

“You should've mentioned it,” he said reproachfully.

“You've been working hard, sir.”

“Any other street news you haven't mentioned, captain?”

“Not that I can think of, sir.”

“All right. Well… see which way the wind is blowing. Very carefully. And — trust no one.”

Carrot looked worried.

“Er… I can trust Angua, can't I?” he said.

“Well, of course you—”

“And you, presumably.”

“Me, well, obviously. That goes without say—”

“Corporal Littlebottom? She can be very helpful—”

“Cheery, yes, certainly you can trust—”

“Sergeant Detritus? I always thought he was very trust—”

“Detritus, oh yes, he—”

“Nobby? Should I—”

“Carrot, I understand what he means,” said Angua, tugging his arm.

Carrot looked a little crestfallen. “I've never liked… you know, underhand things,” he mumbled.

“I don't want any written reports,” said Vimes, grateful for that small mercy. “This is… unofficial. But officially unofficial, if you see what I mean.”

Angua nodded. Carrot just stayed looking dismal.

She's a werewolf, thought Vimes, of course she understands. And you'd think a man who is technically a dwarf'd be able to fold his head around the idea of subterfuge.

“Look, just… listen to the streets,” said Vimes. “The streets know everything. Talk to… Blind Hugh—”

“I'm afraid he passed away last month,” said Carrot.

“Did he? No one told me!”

“I thought I sent you a memo, sir.”

Vimes glanced guiltily at his overloaded desk, and then shrugged.

“Have a quiet look at things. Get to the bottom of things. And trust no— Trust practically no one. All right? Except trustworthy people.”

“Come on, open up! Watch business!”

Corporal Nobbs pulled at Sergeant Colon's sleeve and whispered in his ear.

“Not Watch business!” said Colon, pounding the door again. “Nothing to do with the Watch at all! We are just civilians, all right?”

The door opened a crack.

“Yes?” said a voice that counted its small change.

“We have to ask you some questions, missus.”

“Are you the Watch?” said the voice.

“No! I think I just made that clear—”

“Piss off, copper!”

The door slammed.

“You sure this is the right place, sarge?”

“Harry Chestnuts said he saw Ossie going in here. Come on, open up!”

“Everyone's looking at us, sarge,” said Nobby. Doors and windows had opened all along the street.

“And don't call me sarge when we're in plain clothes!”

“Right you are, Fred.”

“That's—” Colon hesitated in an agony of status. “Well, that's Frederick to you, Nobby.”

“And they're giggling Fred… er… crick.”

“We don't want to make a cock-up of this, Nobby.”

“Right, Frederick. And that's Cecil, thank you.”

“Cecil?”

“That is my name,” said Nobby coldly.

“Have it your way,” said Colon. “Just remember who's the superior civilian around here, all right?”

He hammered on the door again.

“We hear you've got a room to let, missus!” he yelled.

“Brilliant, Frederick,” said Nobby. “That was bloody brilliant!”

“Well, I am the sergeant, right?” Colon whispered.

“No.”

“Er… yeah… right… well, just you remember that, right?”

The door snapped open.

The woman within had one of those faces that had settled over the years, as though it had been made of butter and then left in the sun. But age hadn't been able to do much with her hair. It was a violent ginger and piled up like a threatening thunderhead.

“Room? You shoulda said,” she said. “Two dollars a week, no pets, no cookin', no wimmin after 6 a.m., if you don't want it thousands do, are you with the circus? You look like you're with the circus.”5

“We're—” Colon began, and then stopped. There were undoubtedly a large number of things to be apart from policemen, but there and then he couldn't think of any of them.

“—actors,” said Nobby.

“Then it's payment a week in advance,” said the woman. “And no filthy foreign habits. This is a respectable house,” she added, in defiance of evidence so far.

“We ought to see the room first,” said Colon.

“Oh, the choosy sort, eh?”

She led them upstairs.

The room vacated so terminally by Ossie was small and bare. A few items of clothing hung on nails in the wall, and a heap of wrappers and greasy bags indicated that Ossie had been a man who ate, as it were, off the street.

“Whose is this stuff?” said Sergeant Colon.

“Oh, he's gone now. I told him he'd be out if he didn't pay up. I'll throw it out afore you settle in.”

“We'll get rid of it for you,” said Sergeant Colon. He fumbled in his pouch and produced a couple of dollars. “Here you are, Miss—?”

“Mrs Spent,” said Mrs Spent. She gave them a lopsided look. “Are you both stopping here or what?”

“Nah, I've just come along as his chaperon,” said Colon, giving her a friendly grin. “He has to fight women off