Chapter Text
These things start slow. That’s what old Johnny Keel used to say. Down by where the river rats moor and two-thirds through an Agatean bold. He smoked worse than me and that’s saying he was worse than Ankh-Morpork as a whole. He said that they start out slow – real slow then slap you across the face harder than a broad three sheets to the wind at high noon. Big cases are like beautiful women, he’d say, they’re like a fine malt and a hand rolled smoke – slow but gods when they knock you flat there’s no where to go but down.
It is raining when this one starts. One of those soft rains. Run off buildings like bathwater off a pair of legs. I’m wrapping up the Dragon Affair, the one with Lupy “Dragon Keeper” Wonse. It’s halfway through a midnight cigar when there comes a knock at the door.
It’s not the time for clients and I’m in shirtsleeves and dirty breeches with boots dripping by the cold fire. But the knocking ain’t stopping so I holler for them to enter. My secretary, Ms Sybil, would have been cool and all raised-eyebrows about it but I’m not a crooner like her.
The door opens and in walks a tall, thin wall of dusty black. The man is Quirmian suited and booted – a bit old fashioned but nothing out of the ordinary. Ginned up, the younger boys would say. A ginned up mac looking swell for such a miserable night. He’s lookin’ meaner than a bull dog on a short leash and with the slicked back hair and blue-as-the-ankh-if-the-ankh-were-clean stare he’s quite the force. Artists would kill for his profile.
I blow out a cloud of smoke as he sits.
‘Sam Vimes,’ I say. He nods. His stare is fixed and doing things to my gut I don’t rightly like. He could stare down a dragon and then some. Coulda used a man like him last month.
‘I’ve got a case for you,’ he says. He lays a file on my desk. I offer him a smoke but he says ‘I think not’. Never trust a man who freely turns down a Genuan long. Hand rolled, to boot.
‘What’s it on?’
‘It’s dirty –‘
‘M’not a clean man.’
‘No.’ He drawls it out and I’m thinkin’ he might mean something else by it but can’t guess what. ‘I heard you were the best.’
‘Am the best.’
‘To be sure.’
‘But I don’t do clean up.’ I point at him with the Genuan. His suit may be Quirmian cut but it’s Pseudoplian tailored. An international man, then. Ms Sybil said that you could tell a man by the cut of his suit. ‘Bogus’ll be your man. Or Bobbie.’
‘Bobbie?’ he hums. ‘Oh yes, Mr Downey. We’re acquainted. No, this isn’t their sort of business. In fact I rather think it’ll be dry for you. Run of the mill. Especially after the Wonse debacle.’
This mac is ginned up with that slick smile and Nobby would say that he prolly thinks he’s too cool for school and knows it. I don’t like him and even though Old Keel said to never go for gut feelings with a man like this, I can’t help it. He’s all clocks and gears. I could set my watch by his blinks. But it’s a case and to be honest, after Wonse and the Dragon cartel, I could use something more tame. The man continues.
‘My aunt has recently received a letter of some concern.’ He motions to the folder. ‘Feel free to read at your own leisure. I’ll relate the pertinent points for the sake of efficiency.
A few years ago there was a bit of a to-do.’ He sort of twitches his mouth. I assume it’s a smile. ‘Over a friend. A male friend and there was a bit of jewellery involved, a young woman’s virtue (such as it was), a missing cache of opium and the crown jewels of Lancre. I won’t bore you with the details. It was a tawdry affair.
Anyway, certain details of this have recently resurfaced and are playing havoc with my aunt’s life. She’s all nerves and has taken to bed. Terrible business.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I want you to look into it. Rather, look into the gentleman who is writing the letters.’
Sweeping the folder over I open it to find a small profile in traditional Sto Helit ink. It’s brown, faded, and beginning to wear at the edges. The woman in the profile is glancing at the viewer, a rarity in such pictures, and her lips look like sin. I put it aside. Underneath it is the letter. Card stock instead of regular heavyweight writing paper. No watermark. Unique.
The letter opens, “Madame, I am your most humble servant…etc. etc. etc.” I skim and there is the demand, tucked between the third and fourth paragraph. ‘He’s asking for an ample sum of money.’ The man in black merely nods and looks perfunctory if a person could possibly manage it. ‘Why can’t she just pay the man off? I may hazard a guess to say that neither of you are short of the gold stuff.’
‘No,’ it’s drawled again. ‘But these things do tend to continue. And the bolder the requests become the more intolerable it is. Also, Mr Vimes, it’s not really a life is it? Always hanging under the shadow of the blackmailer. My aunt should not be subjected to it longer than strictly necessary.’
‘So you want me to look into this,’ I find the name slipping off the bottom of the page. ‘Mr Dragon, KA.’
‘Hm. Quite. You and dragons, it seems.’ Standing he brandishes his hand for a shake, ‘when you have gathered information please bring it directly to me. My card. Now, I must bid you good evening, sir. I won’t detain you any longer.’
When he leaves it’s akin to a weight being taken off a sheet. A mystery, that man. I find his card resting face up in my palm and it reads Havelock Vetinari and a discreet address on Welcome Soap. I sit back down and light another cigar and turn it over in my head. What sort of man gives you card that leaves you less informed than before? What sort of man dresses like he does, expensively but unnoticeably, and lives on Welcome Soap? I try to picture him next to haberdashers and butchers and other small tradesmen and can’t.
“Madame, I am your most humble servant…” all signed with a flourish of Mr Dragon, KA. Well, best start with the obvious.