Thud!

by Terry Pratchett

  Inside, Vimes sighed. As stupid, lame excuses went, it wasn’t actually a bad one. For one thing, it had the virtue of being completely unbelievable. No dwarf would come close to picking up a mug of troll expresso, which was a molten chemical stew with rust sprinkled on the top. Everyone knew this, just as everyone knew that Vimes could see that Brakensheild was holding an axe over his head and Constable Bluejohn was still frozen in the act of wrenching a club off Mica. And everyone knew, too, that Vimes was in the mood to sack the first bloody idiot to make a wrong move, and probably anyone standing near him.

  “That’s what it was, was it?” said Vimes. “So it wasn’t, as it might be, someone making a nasty remark about a fellow officer and others of his race, perhaps? Some little bit of stupidity to add to the mess of it that’s floating around the streets right now?”

  “Oh, nothing like that, sir,” said Nobby. “Just one of them…things.”

  “Nearly a nasty accident, was it?” said Vimes.

  “Yessir!”

  “Well, we don’t want any nasty accidents, do we, Nobby…”

  “Nosir!”

  “None of us want nasty accidents, I expect,” said Vimes, looking around the room. Some of the constables, he was grimly glad to see, were sweating with the effort of not moving. “And it’s so easy to have ’em, when your mind isn’t firmly on the job. Understood?”

  There was a general muttering.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  This time there were audible riffs on the theme of “Yessir!”

  “Right,” snapped Vimes. “Now get out there and keep the peace, because as sure as hell you won’t do it in here!” He directed a special glare at Constables Brakenshield and Mica, and strode back to the main office, where he almost bumped into Sergeant Angua.

  “Sorry, sir, I was just fetching—” she began.

  “I sorted it out, don’t worry,” said Vimes. “But it was that close.”

  “Some of the dwarfs are really on edge, sir. I can smell it,” said Angua.

  “You and Fred Colon,” said Vimes.

  “I don’t think it’s just the Hamcrusher thing, sir. It’s something…dwarfish.”

  “Well, I can’t beat it out of them. And just when the day couldn’t get any worse, I’ve got to interview a damned vampire.”

  Too late Vimes saw the urgent look in Angua’s eyes.

  “Ah…I think that would be me,” said a small voice behind him.

  Fred Colon and Nobby Nobbs, having been rousted from their lengthy coffee break, proceeded gently up Broad Way, giving the ol’ uniform an airing. What with one thing or another, it was probably a good idea not to be back at the Yard for a while.

  They walked like men who had all day. They did have all day. They had chosen this particular street because it was busy and wide and you didn’t get too many trolls and dwarfs in this part of town. The reasoning was faultless. In lots of areas, right now, dwarfs or trolls were wandering around in groups or, alternatively, staying still in groups in case any of those wandering bastards tried any trouble in this neighborhood. There had been little flare-ups for weeks. In these areas, Nobby and Fred considered, there wasn’t much peace, so it was a waste of effort to keep what little was left of it, right? You wouldn’t try keeping sheep in places where all the sheep got eaten by wolves, right? It stood to reason. It would look silly. Whereas in big streets like Broad Way there was lots of peace, which, obviously, needed keeping. Common sense told them this was true. It was as plain as the nose on your face, and especially the one on Nobby’s face.

  “Bad business,” said Colon, as they strolled. “I’ve never seen the dwarfs like this.”

  “It always gets tricky, Sarge, just before Koom Valley Day,” Nobby observed.

  “Yeah, but Hamcrusher’s really got them on the boil and no mistake.” Colon removed his helmet and wiped his brow. “I told Sam about my water, and he was impressed.”

  “Well, he would be,” Nobby agreed. “It would impress anyone.”

  Colon tapped his nose. “There’s a storm coming, Nobby.”

  “Not a cloud in the sky, Sarge,” Nobby observed.

  “Figure of speech, Nobby, figure of speech.” Colon sighed and glanced sideways at his friend. When he continued, it was in the hesitant tones of a man with something on his mind. “As a matter of fact, Nobby, there was another matter about which, per say, I wanted to speak to you about, man to—” there was only the tiniest hesitation, “—man.”

  “Yes, Sarge?”

  “Now you know, Nobby, that I’ve always taken a pers’nal interest in your moral well-being, what with you havin’ no dad to put your feet on the proper path…”

  “That’s right, Sarge. I would have strayed no end if you hadn’t,” said Nobby virtuously.

  “Well, you know you was telling me about that girl you’re goin’ out with, what was her name, now…”

  “Tawneee, Sarge?”

  “That’s the…bunny. The one you said worked in a club, right?”

  “That’s right. Is there a problem, Sarge?” said Nobby anxiously.

  “Not as such. But when you was on your day off last week, me an’ Constable Jolson got called into the Pink PussyCat Club, Nobby. You know? There’s pole-dancing and table dancing and stuff of that nature? And you know ol’ Mrs. Spudding what lives in New Cobblers?”

  “Ol’ Mrs. Spudding with the wooden teeth, Sarge?”

  “The very same, Nobby,” said Colon magisterially. “She does the cleaning in there. And it appears that when she come in at eight o’clock in the morning ae-em, with no one else about, Nobby, well, I hardly like to say this, but it appears she took it into her head to have a twirl on the pole.”

  They shared a moment of silence as Nobby ran this image in the cinema of his imagination and hastily consigned much of it to the cutting-room floor.

  “But she must be seventy-five, Sarge!” he said, staring at nothing in fascinated horror.

  “A girl can dream, Nobby, a girl can dream. O’course, she forgot she wasn’t as limber as she used to be, plus she got her foot caught in her long drawers and panicked when her dress fell over her head. She was in a bad way when the manager came in, having been upside down for three hours, with her false teeth fallen out on the floor. Wouldn’t let go of the pole, too. Not a pretty sight, I trust I do not have to draw you a picture. Come the finish, Precious Jolson had to rip the pole out top and bottom and we slid her off. That girl’s got the muscles of a troll, Nobby, I’ll swear it. And then, Nobby, when we was bringing her ’round behind the scenes, this young lady wearing two sequins and a bootlace comes up and says she’s a friend of yours! I did not know where to put my face!”

  “You’re not supposed to put it anywhere, Sarge. They throw you out for that sort of thing,” observed Nobby.

  “You never told me she was a pole dancer, Nobby!” Fred wailed.

  “Don’t say it like that, Sarge.” Nobby sounded a little hurt. “This is modern times. And she’s got class, Tawneee has. She even brings her own pole. No hanky-panky.”

  “But, I mean…showin’ her body off in lewd ways, Nobby! Dancing around without her vest and practic’ly no drawers on. Is that any way to behave?”

  Nobby considered this deep metaphysical question from various angles.

  “Er…yes?” he ventured.

  “Anyway, I thought you were still walking out with Verity Pushpram? That’s a handy little seafood stall she runs,” Colon said, sounding as though he was pleading a case.

  “Oh, Hammerhead’s a nice girl if you catch her on a good day, Sarge,” Nobby conceded.

  “You mean those days when she doesn’t tell you to bugger off and chases you down the street throwing crabs at you?”

  “Exactly those days, Sarge. But good or bad, you can never get rid of the smell of fish. And her eyes are too far apart. I mean, it’s hard to get a relationship goin’ with a girl who can’t see you if you stand right in front of her.”

  “I shouldn’t think T
awneee can see you if you’re up close, either!” Colon burst out. “She’s nearly six feet tall and she’s got a bosom like…well, she’s a big girl, Nobby.” Fred Colon was at a loss. Nobby Nobbs and a dancer with big hair, a big smile, and…general bigitigy? Look upon this picture, and on this! It did your head in, it really did.

  He struggled on. “She told me, Nobby, that she’d been Miss May on the centerfold of Girls, Giggles and Garters! Well, I mean…!”

  “What do you mean, Sarge? Anyway, she wasn’t just Miss May, she was the first week in June as well,” Nobby pointed out. “It was the only way they had room.”

  “Err…well, I ask you,” Fred floundered, “is a girl who displays her body for money the kind of wife for a copper? Ask yourself that!”

  For the second time in five minutes, what passed for Nobby’s face wrinkled up in deep thought.

  “Is this a trick question, Sarge?” he said at last. “’Cos I know for a fact that Haddock has got that picture pinned up in his locker and every time he opens it he goes, ‘Pwaor, will you look at th—’ ”

  “How did you meet her, anyway?” said Colon quickly.

  “What? Oh, our eyes met when I shoved an IOU in her garter, Sarge,” said Nobby happily.

  “And…she hadn’t just been hit on the head, or something?”

  “I don’t think so, Sarge.”

  “She’s not…ill, is she?” said Fred Colon, exploring every likelihood.

  “No, Sarge!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “She says perhaps we’re two halves of the same soul, Sarge,” said Nobby dreamily.

  Colon stopped with one foot raised above the pavement. He stared at nothing, his lips moving.

  “Sarge?” said Nobby, puzzled by this.

  “Yeah…yeah,” said Colon, more or less to himself. “Yeah. I can see that. Not the same stuff in each half, obviously. Sort of…sieved…”

  The foot landed.

  “I say!”

  It was more of a bleat than a cry, and it came from the door of the Royal Art Museum. A tall, thin figure was beckoning to the watchmen, who strolled over.

  “Yessir?” said Colon, touching his helmet.

  “We’ve had a burglareah, officer!”

  “Burglar rear?” said Nobby.

  “Oh dear, sir,” said Colon, putting a warning hand on the corporal’s shoulders. “Anything taken?”

  “Years. I rather think that’s hwhy it was a burglareah, you see?” said the man. He had the attitude of a preoccupied chicken, but Fred Colon was impressed. You could barely understand the man, he was that posh. It was not so much speech as modulated yawning. “I’m Sir Reynold Stitched, the curator of Fine Art, and I was hwalking through the Long Gallereah and…oh, dear, they took the Rascal!”

  The man looked at two blank faces.

  “Methodia Rascal?” he tried. “The Battle of Koom Valley?” It is a priceless work of art!”

  Colon hitched up his stomach. “Ah,” he said, “that’s serious. We’d better take a look at it. Er…I mean, the locale where it was situated in.”

  “Years, years, of course,” said Sir Reynold. “Do come this hway. I am given to understand that the modern hWatch can learn a lot just by looking at the place where a thing was, is that not so?”

  “Like, that it’s gone?” said Nobby. “Oh, years. We’re good at that.”

  “Er…Quite so,” said Sir Reynold. “Do come this way.”

  The watchmen followed. They had been inside the museum before, of course. Most citizens had, on days when no better entertainment presented itself. Under the governance of Lord Vetinari it hosted fewer modern exhibitions these days, since his lordship held Views, but a gentle stroll among the ancient tapestries and rather brown and dusty paintings was a pleasant way of spending an afternoon. Plus, it was always nice to look at the pictures of big pink women with no clothes on.

  Nobby was having a problem. “Here, Sarge, what’s he going on about?” he whispered. “It sounds like he’s yawning all the time. What a galler rear?”

  “A gallery, Nobby. That’s very high-class talkin,’ that is.”

  “I can hardly understand him!”

  “Shows it’s high class, Nobby. It wouldn’t be much good if people like you could understand, right?”

  “Good point, Sarge,” Nobby conceded. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “You found it missing this morning, sir?” said Colon, as they trailed after the curator into a gallery still littered with ladders and dust sheets.

  “Years indeed!”

  “So it was stolen last night, then?”

  Sir Reynold hesitated.

  “Er…not necessarileah, I’m afraid. We have been refurbishing the Long Gallereah. The picture was too big to move, of course, so hwe had it covered in heavy dust sheets for the past month. But when we took them down this morning, there hwas only the frame! Observe!”

  The Rascal occupied—or rather, had occupied—an actual frame some ten feet high and fifty feet long, which, as such, was pretty close to being a work of art in its own right. It was still there, framing nothing but uneven, dusty plaster.

  “I suppose some rich private collector has it now,” Sir Reynold moaned. “But how could he keep it a secret? The mural is one of the most recognizable paintings in the hworld! Every civilized person hwould spot it in an instant!”

  “What did it look like?” said Fred Colon.

  Sir Reynold performed that downshift of assumptions that was the normal response to any conversation with Ankh-Morpork’s Finest.

  “I can probableah find you a copy,” he said weakly. “But the original is fifty feet long! Have you never seen it?”

  “Well, I remember being brought to see it when I was a kiddie, but it’s a bit long, really. You can’t really see it, anyway. I mean, by the time you get to the other end you’ve forgotten what was happening back up the line, as it were.”

  “Alas, that is regrettableah true, Sergeant,” said Sir Reynold. “And hwhat is so vexing is that the hwhole point of this refurbishment hwas to build a special circular room to hold the Rascal. His ideah, you know, hwas that the viewer should be hwholly encircled by the mural and feel right in the thick of the action, as it hwere. You hwould be there in Koom Valleah! He called it panoscopic art. Say hwhat you like about the current interest, but the extra visitors hwould have made it possible to display the picture as hwe believe he intended it to be displayed. And now this!”

  “If you were going to move it, why didn’t you just take it down and put it away nice and safe, sir?”

  “You mean roll it up?” said Sir Reynold, horrified. “That could cause such a lot of damage. Oh, the horror! No, hwe had a very careful exercise planned for next wheek, to be done with the utmost diligence.” He shuddered. “hWhen I think of someone just hacking it out of the frame I feel quite faint—”

  “Hey, this must be a clue, Sarge!” said Nobby, who had returned to his default activity of mooching about and poking at things to see if they were valuable. “Look, someone dumped a load of stinking ol’ rubbish here!”

  He’d wandered across to a plinth, which did, indeed, appear to be piled high with rags.

  “Don’t touch that, please!” said Sir Reynold, rushing over. “That’s Don’t Talk to Me About Mondays! It’s Daniellarina Pouter’s most controversial hwork! You didn’t move anything, did you?” he added nervously. “It’s literalleah priceless, and she’s got a sharp tongue on her!”

  “It’s only a lot of old rubbish,” Nobby protested, backing away.

  “Art is greater than the sum of its mere mechanical components, Corporal,” said the curator. “Surely you hwould not say that Caravati’s Three Large Pink Women and One Piece of Gauze is just, ahem, ‘a lot of old pigment’?”

  “What about this one, then?” said Nobby, pointing to the adjacent plinth. “It’s just a big stake with a nail in it! Is this art, too?”

  “Freedom? If it hwas ever on the market, it hwould probableah fetch
thirty thousand dollars,” said Sir Reynold.

  “For a bit of wood with a nail in it?” said Fred Colon. “Who did it?”

  “After he viewed Don’t Talk to Me About Mondays!, Lord Vetinari graciousleah had Ms. Pouter nailed to the stake by her ear,” said Stitched. “However, she did manage to pull free during the afternoon.”

  “I bet she was mad!” said Nobby.

  “Not after she hwon several awards for it. I believe she’s planning to nail herself to several other things. It could be a very exciting exhibition.”

  “Tell you what, then, sir,” said Nobby cheerfully. “Why don’t you leave the ol’ big frame where it is and give it a new name, like Art Theft?”

  “No,” said Sir Reynold coldly. “That would be foolish.”

  Shaking his head at the way of the world, Fred Colon walked right up to the wall so cruelly—or cruelleah—denuded of its covering. The painting had been crudely cut from its frame. Sergeant Colon was not a high-speed thinker, but that point struck him as odd. If you’ve got a month to pinch a painting, why botch the job? Fred had a copper’s view of humanity that differed in some respects from that of the curator. Never say that people wouldn’t do something, no matter how strange it was. Probably there were some mad rich people out there who would buy the painting, even if it meant only ever viewing it in the privacy of their own mansion. People could be like that. In fact, knowing that this was their big secret probably gave them a lonely, tight little shiver inside.

  But the thieves had slashed the painting out as if they didn’t care about making a sale. There were several ragged inches all along the—just a moment…

  Fred stood back. A Clue. There it was, right there. He got lovely, tight little shiver inside.

  “This painting,” he declared, “this painting…this painting which isn’t here, I mean, obviously, was stolen by a…troll.”

  “My goodness, how can you tell?” said Sir Reynold.

  “I’m very glad you asked me that question, sir,” said Fred Colon, who was. “I have detected, you see, that the top of the circular muriel was cut really close to the frame.” He pointed. “Now, your troll would easily be able to reach up with his knife, right, and cut along the edge of the frame at the top and down a bit on each side, see? But your average troll don’t bend that well, so when it come to cutting along the bottom, right, he made a bit of a mess of the job and left it all jagged. Plus, only a troll could carry it away. A stair carpet’s bad enough, and a rolled-up muriel would be a lot heavier than that!”