There was a longer pause, and Heretofore said: 'Yes. But I'll have to come back with the rest.'
'You do that, mister. I'll be here waiting. There, that wasn't too hard, was it? Nothing personal, it's just business.'
The ring went back in the box, the box went back in the drawer. At a signal from the young man the troll dropped the bags on the floor and, job done, wandered off into the night.
Heretofore turned suddenly, and the seemer's right hand flew down behind the desk. It relaxed when the young man said: 'You'll be here later, yes?'
'Me? I'm always here. See yourself out.'
'You'll be here?'
'I just said yes, didn't I?'
In the darkness of the stinking hallway the young man opened the door, his heart thumping. A black-clad figure stepped inside. He couldn't see the face behind the mask, but he whispered: 'Box is in the top left drawer. Some kind of weapon on the right side. Keep the money. Just don't... hurt him, okay?'
'Hurt? That's not why I'm here!' hissed the dark figure.
'I know, but... do it neatly, all right?'
And then Heretofore was shutting the door behind him.
It was raining. He went and stood in the doorway opposite. It was hard to hear noises above the rain and the sound of overflowing gutters, but he fancied he heard, above all this, a faint thump. It may have been his imagination, because he did not hear the door open or the approach of the killer, and he nearly swallowed his tongue when the man loomed in front of him, pressed the box into his hand and vanished into the rain.
A smell of peppermint drifted out on to the street; the man was thorough, and he used a peppermint bomb to cover his scent.
You stupid, stupid old fool! Heretofore said, in the turmoil of his skull. Why didn't you take the money and shut up! I had no choice! He wouldn't risk you telling anyone!
Heretofore felt his stomach heave. He'd never meant it to be like this! He'd never meant for anyone to die! And then he threw up.
That was last week. Things hadn't got any better.
Lord Vetinari has a black coach.
Other people also have black coaches.
Therefore, not everyone in a black coach is Lord Vetinari.
It was an important philosophical insight that Moist, to his regret, had forgotten in the heat of the moment.
There was no heat now. Cosmo Lavish was cool, or at least making a spirited effort to be so. He wore black, of course, as people do to show how rich they are, but the real giveaway was the beard.
It was, technically, a goatee similar to that of Lord Vetinari. A thin line of black hair came down each cheek, made a detour to loop equally thinly under the nose, and met in a black triangle just below the lip, thus giving what Cosmo must have thought was a look of menacing elegance. And indeed, on Vetinari it was. On Cosmo the elegant facial topiary floated unhappily on blue jowls glistening with little tiny beads of sweat, and gave the effect of a pubic chin.
Some master barber had to deal with it hair by hair every day, and his job wouldn't have been made any easier by the fact that Cosmo had inflated somewhat since the day he had adopted the style. There is a time in a thoughtless young man's life when his six-pack becomes a keg, but for Cosmo it had become a tub of lard.
And then you saw the eyes, and they made up for everything. They had the faraway look of a man who can already see you dead...
But probably not those of a killer himself, Moist hazarded. He probably bought death when he needed it. True, on fingers that were slightly too podgy for them were ostensibly knobbly poison rings, but surely anyone really in the business wouldn't have so many, would they? Real killers didn't bother to advertise. And why was the elegant black glove on the other hand? That was an Assassins' Guild affectation. Yep, guild-school trained, then. Lots of upper-class kids went there for the education but didn't do the Black Syllabus. He probably had a note from his mother saying he was excused stabbing.
Mr Fusspot was trembling with fear or, perhaps, rage. In Moist's arms he was growling like a leopard.
'Ah, my stepmother's little dog,' said Cosmo as the coach began to move. 'How sweet. I do not waste words. I will give you ten thousand dollars for him, Mr Lipwig.' He held out a piece of paper in the ungloved hand. 'My note of hand for the money. Anyone in this city will accept it.'
The voice of Cosmo was a kind of modulated sigh, as if talking was somehow painful. Moist read:
Please pay the sum of Ten Thousand Dollars to Moist von Lipwig
And it was signed across a One Penny stamp by Cosmo Lavish, with many a flourish.