'You want me to follow you?'
'No, just tell me what people are saying about me. Keep an eye on who else is following me. Watch my back, sort of thing.'
'Right!'
'Good. Just one more thing, Nobby . . .'
'Yes, sarge?' said Nobby, still spooning. 'Give me back my notebook, my handkerchief and the four pennies you whizzed from my pockets, will you?' Nobby opened his mouth to protest, dribbling slumgullet, but closed it when he saw the glint in Vimes's eye. Silently, he produced the items from various horrible pockets. 'Well done,' said Vimes, getting up. 'I'm sure I don't have to tell you what'll happen to you if you try the old dippitydoodah on me again, do I, Nobby?'
'No, sarge,' said Nobby, looking down. 'Want another bowl? Have fun. I've got to go to work.'
'You can rely on me, sarge!' Oddly enough, thought Vimes as he walked back to the Watch House, I probably can. Nobby would nick anything and dodge anything but he wasn't bad. You could trust him with your life, although you'd be daft to trust him with a dollar. He purchased a packet of Pantweed's Slim Panatellas from another street trader. Carrying them around in their cardboard packet didn't feel right at all. There was a buzz in the main office as he strolled in. Watchmen were standing around in little groups. Sergeant Knock spotted Vimes and trotted over. 'Bit of a do, sir. Had a break-in last night,' he reported, with just a hint of smirk. 'Really?' said Vimes. 'What did they steal?'
'Did I say they stole anything, sir?' said the sergeant innocently. 'Well, no, you didn't,' said Vimes. 'That was me jumping to what we call a conclusion. Did they steal anything, then, or did they break in to deliver a box of chocolates and a small complimentary basket of fruit?' They stole the captain's silver inkstand,' said Knock, impervious to sarcasm. 'And it was an inside job, if you want my opinion. The door upstairs was forced but the main doors weren't. Must've been a copper what done it!' Vimes was amazed at the forensic expertise shown here. 'My word, a copper stealing?' he said. 'Yes, a terrible thing,' said Knock earnestly. 'Especially since you showed us the way yesterday, about being honest and everything.' He glanced past Vimes, and shouted. 'Attention! Officer present!' Tilden was coming down the stairs. The room fell silent, except for his hesitant steps. 'No luck, sergeant?' he said. 'Not so far, sir,' said Knock. 'I was just telling Sergeant Keel here what a terrible thing has happened.'
'It was engraved, you know,' said Tilden mournfully. 'Everyone in the regiment chipped in what they could afford. This really is very . . . upsetting.'
'A man'd have to be a right bastard to steal something like that, eh, sergeant?' said Knock.
'Absolutely,' said Vimes. 'I see you're pretty well organized on this one, sergeant. Have you looked everywhere?'
'Everywhere except the lockers,' said Knock. 'That's not something we'd do lightly, rummaging through a man's locker. But we're all here now, and Captain Tilden's here to see fair play, so although it's very distasteful I'll ask you, captain, for permission to rummage.'
'Yes, yes, if you must,' said Tilden. 'I don't like the idea. It is really quite dishonourable, you know.'
'Then I think, sir, to show that we're doing this fairly,' said Knock, 'us sergeants ought to be searched first. That way no one can say we don't take it seriously.'
'Come now, sergeant,' said Tilden, with a little smile, 'I hardly think you are suspected.'
'No, sir, fair's fair,' said Knock. 'We'll set a good example, eh, Sergeant Keel?' Vimes shrugged. Knock grinned at him, pulled out a bundle of keys and beckoned to Lance-Corporal Coates. 'You do the honours, Ned,' he said, beaming. 'Me first, o'course.' The door was unlocked. The contents of Knock's locker were the usual unsavoury mess of lockers everywhere, but there was certainly no silver inkstand. If there were, it would have turned black after a single day. 'Well done. Now Sergeant Keel's, please, Ned.' Knock's friendly beam fixed on Vimes as the policeman fumbled with the lock. Vimes stared back, face blank as a slate, as the door creaked open. 'Oh dear, what have we here?' said Knock, without even bothering to look. 'It's a sack, sarge,' said Coates. 'Something heavy in it, too.'
'Oh dear me,' said Knock, still staring at Vimes. 'Open it up, lad. Gently. We don't want anything to get damaged, eh?' There was a rustle of hessian, and then: 'Er . . . it's half a brick,' Ned reported. 'What?'
'A half brick, sir.'
'I'm saving up for a house,' said Vimes. There were one or two sniggers from the assembled men, but some of the faster thinkers were suddenly looking worried. They know, thought Vimes. Well, lads, welcome to Vimes's Roulette. You spun the wheel and now you've got to guess where the ball is going to go ...'
'Are you sure?' said Knock, turning to the open locker. 'It's just a sack, sarge,' said Ned. 'And half a brick.'
'Is there a loose panel or something?' said Knock desperately. 'What, in a sack, sarge?'
'Well, that seems to be our lockers,' said Vimes, rubbing his hands together. 'Who's next, Sergeant Knock?' Round and round the little ball goes, and where it stops, nobody knows . . . 'Y'know, person'ly, I think the captain's right, I don't think any of the men would-' Knock began, and faltered. Vimes's stare could have hammered rivets. 'I believe, sergeant, that since we have begun this, it should be concluded,' said Tilden. That is only fair.' Vimes took a couple of steps towards Coates and held out his hand. 'Keys,' he said. Coates glared at him. 'The keys, lance-corporal,' said Vimes. He snatched them from Coates's hand, and turned to the line of lockers. 'Right,' he said. 'Let's start with the well-known arch-criminal, Lance- Constable Vimes . . .' Door after door was opened. The lockers, while possibly of interest to anyone studying the smells of unwashed clothing and the things that could grow on neglected socks, failed to produce a single silver inkstand. It did turn up The Amorous Adventurs of Molly Clapper in Corporal Colon's locker, however. Vimes stared at the crude and grubby engravings like a long-lost friend. He remembered that book; it had gone around the Watch House for years, and as a young man he had learned a lot from some of the illustrations, although a good deal of what he'd learned had turned out to be wrong. Fortunately, Captain Tilden's view was blocked and Vimes shoved the greasy book back on the shelf and said to the red-eared Colon: 'Studying theory, eh, Fred? Good man. Practice makes perfect.' Then he turned, at last, to Coates's locker. The man was watching him like a hawk. The scratched door creaked open. Every neck craned to see. There was a stack of old notebooks, some civilian clothing and a small sack of what, when it was tipped out on to the floor, turned out to be laundry. 'Surprised?' said the lance-corporal. Not half as much as you, Vimes thought.
He winked at Coates, and turned away. 'Can I have a word with you in your office, captain?'
'Yes, sergeant, I suppose so,' said Tilden, looking around. 'Oh, dear . . .' Vimes gave the man some time to climb the stairs, then followed him into his office and tactfully closed the door. 'Well, sergeant?' said Tilden, collapsing into his chair. 'Have you looked everywhere, sir?' said Vimes. 'Of course, man!'
'I mean, sir, perhaps you put it in a desk drawer? Or the safe, perhaps?'
'Certainly not! I sometimes put it in the safe at weekends, but I'm . . . sure I didn't do that last night.' Vimes noted the subtle uncertainty. He was doing a bad thing, he knew. Tilden was nearly seventy. At a time like that, a man learned to treat his memory as only a rough guide to events. 'I find, sir, that when a busy man has a lot on his plate he can do things that subsequently slip his mind,' he said. I know I do, he added to himself. I could put my house keys down in a bare room and not find them thirty seconds later. 'We've all been under a lot of pressure lately,' he added, knowing that Tilden frequently fell asleep during the afternoon until Snouty coughed very loudly outside the door before taking him his cocoa. 'Well, that's true,' said Tilden, turning desperate eyes to him. 'All this curfew business. Very . . . unsettling. Forget my own head if it wasn't nailed on, what?' He turned and looked at the green safe. 'Only had it a couple of months,' he muttered. 'I suppose I... look the other way, will you, sergeant? May as well sort this out.' Vimes obligingly turned his back. There was some clicking, and a creak, and then an intake of breath. Tilden got to his feet, holding the silver inkstand. 'I believe I've made a fool of myself, sergeant,' he said. No, I've made a fool of you, thought Vimes, fervently wishing' he hadn't. I'd intended to drop it into Coates's locker, but I couldn't... . . . not after what I found in there. 'Tell you what, sir,' he volunteered, 'we could say it was a kind of test.'
'I don't tell lies as a rule, Keel!' said the captain, but added, 'I appreciate the suggestion, nevertheless. Anyway, I know I'm not as young as I was. Perhaps it's time to retire,' he sighed. 'I have to say I've been considering it for some time.'
'Oh, don't talk like that, sir,' said Vimes, far more jovially than he felt. 'I can't see you retiring.'
'Yes, I suppose I should see things through,' Tilden mumbled, walking back to his desk. 'Do you know, sergeant, that some of the men think you are a spy?'
'Who for?' said Vimes, reflecting that Snouty delivered more than cocoa. 'Lord Winder, I assume,' said Tilden. 'Well, we all work for him, sir. But I don't report to anyone but you, if that's any help.' Tilden looked up at him and shook his head sadly. 'Spy or not, Keel, I don't mind telling you that some of the orders we've been getting lately have . . . not been thought out properly, in my opinion, what?' He gave Vimes a glare as if defying him to produce the red-hot thumbscrews there and then. Vimes could see how much the admission that abduction and torture and conspiracy to criminalize honest citizens might not be acceptable government policy was costing the old man. Tilden hadn't been brought up to think like that. He'd ridden off under the flag of Ankh-Morpork to fight the Cheese-Eaters of Quirm or Johnny Klatchian or whatever enemies had been selected by those higher up the chain of command with never a second thought about the Tightness of the cause, because that sort of thinking could slow a soldier down. Tilden had grown up knowing that the people at the top were right. That was why they were at the top. He didn't have the mental vocabulary to think like a traitor, because only traitors thought like that. 'Haven't been here long enough to comment, sir,' said Vimes. 'Don't know how you do things here.'