‘Then at least one of us has been made a fool of, Mr Lipwig,’ said Gilt. ‘But tell me . . . are you truly Mr Moist von Lipwig the postmaster?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Without your hat?’
Moist coughed. ‘It’s not actually compulsory,’ he said.
The big face observed him in silence, and then a hand like a steel-worker’s glove was thrust forward.
‘I am very pleased to meet you at last, Mr Lipwig. I trust your good luck will continue.’
Moist took the hand and, instead of the bone-crushing grip he was expecting, felt the firm handshake of an honourable man and looked into the steady, honest, one-eyed gaze of Reacher Gilt.
Moist had worked hard at his profession and considered himself pretty good at it but, if he had been wearing his hat, he would have taken it off right now. He was in the presence of a master. He could feel it in the hand, see it in that one commanding eye. Were things otherwise, he would have humbly begged to be taken on as an apprentice, scrub the man’s floors, cook his food, just to sit at the feet of greatness and learn how to do the three card trick using whole banks. If Moist was any judge, any judge at all, the man in front of him was the biggest fraud he’d ever met. And he advertised it. That was . . . style. The pirate curls, the eyepatch, even the damn parrot. Twelve and a half per cent, for heavens’ sake, didn’t anyone spot that? He told them what he was, and they laughed and loved him for it. It was breathtaking. If Moist von Lipwig had been a career killer, it would have been like meeting a man who’d devised a way to destroy civilizations.
All this came in an instant, in one bolt of understanding, in the glint of an eye. But something ran in front of it as fast as a little fish ahead of a shark.
Gilt was shocked, not surprised. That tiny moment was barely measurable on any clock but just for an instant the world had gone wrong for Reacher Gilt. That moment had been wiped out so competently that all that remained of it was Moist’s certainty that it had happened, but the certainty was rigid.
He was loath to let go of the hand in case there was a flash that might broil him alive. After all, he had recognized the nature of Gilt, so the man must certainly have spotted him.
‘Thank you, Mr Gilt,’ he said.
‘I gather you were kind enough to carry some of our messages today,’ Gilt rumbled.
‘It was a pleasure, sir. If ever you need our help, you only have to ask.’
‘Hmm,’ said Gilt. ‘But the least I can do is buy you dinner, Postmaster. The bill will come to my table. Choose whatever you wish. And now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my . . . other guests.’
He bowed to the simmering Miss Dearheart and walked back.
‘The management would like to thank you for not killing the guests,’ said Moist, sitting down. ‘Now we should—’
He stopped, and stared.
Miss Dearheart, who had been saving up to hiss at him, took one look at his face and hesitated.
‘Are you ill?’ she said.
‘They’re . . . burning,’ said Moist, his eyes widening.
‘Ye gods, you’ve gone white!’
‘The writing . . . they’re screaming . . . I can smell burning!’
‘Someone over there is having crepes,’ said Miss Dearheart. ‘It’s just—’ She stopped, and sniffed. ‘It smells like paper, though . . .’
People looked round as Moist’s chair crashed backwards.
‘The Post Office is on fire! I know it is!’ he shouted, and turned and ran.
Miss Dearheart caught up just as he was in the hall, where one of Gilt’s bodyguards had grabbed him. She tapped the man on the shoulder and, as he turned to push her away, stamped down heavily. While he screamed she dragged the bewildered Moist away.
‘Water . . . we’ve got to get water,’ he groaned. ‘They’re burning! They’re all burning!’
Chapter Ten
The Burning of Words
In which Stanley remains Calm – Moist the Hero – Searching for a Cat,
never a good idea – Something in the Dark – Mr Gryle is encountered –
Fire and Water – Mr Lipwig Helps the Watch – Dancing on the edge
— Mr Lipwig Gets Religion — Opportunity Time – Miss Maccalariat’s
hairgrip – The Miracle
The letters burned.
Part of the ceiling fell down, showering more letters on to the flames. The fire was already reaching for the upper floors. As Stanley dragged Mr Groat across the floor another slab of plaster smashed on the tiles and the old mail that poured down after it was already burning. Smoke, thick as soup, rolled across the distant ceiling.
Stanley pulled the old man into the locker room and laid him on his bed. He rescued the golden hat, too, because Mr Lipwig would be bound to be angry if he didn’t. Then he shut the door and took down, from the shelf over Groat’s desk, the Book of Regulations. He turned the pages methodically until he came to the bookmark he’d put in a minute ago, on the page What To Do In Case Of Fire.
Stanley always followed the rules. All sorts of things could go wrong if you didn’t.
So far he’d done 1: Upon Discovery of the Fire, Remain Calm.
Now he came to 2: Shout ‘Fire!’ in a Loud, Clear Voice.
‘Fire!’ he shouted, and then ticked off 2 with his pencil.
Next was: 3: Endeavour to Extinguish Fire If Possible.
Stanley went to the door and opened it. Flames and smoke billowed in. He stared at them for a moment, shook his head, and shut the door.
Paragraph 4 said: If Trapped by Fire, Endeavour to Escape. Do Not Open Doors If Warm. Do Not Use Stairs If Burning. If No Exit Presents Itself Remain Calm and Await a) Rescue or b) Death.
This seemed to cover it. The world of pins was simple and Stanley knew his way around it as a goldfish knows its tank, but everything else was very complicated and only worked if you followed the rules.
He glanced up at the grubby little windows. They were far too small to climb through and had been welded shut by many applications of official paint, so he broke one pane as neatly as possible to allow some fresh air in. He made a note of this in the breakages book.
Mr Groat was still breathing, although with an unpleasant bubbling sound. There was a First Aid kit in the locker room, because Regulations demanded it, but it contained only a small length of bandage, a bottle of something black and sticky, and Mr Groat’s spare teeth. Mr Groat had told him never to touch his home-made medicines, and since it was not unusual for bottles to explode during the night Stanley had always observed this rule very carefully.
It did not say in the Regulations: If Attacked by Huge Swooping Screaming Creature Hit Hard in the Mouth with Sack of Pins, and Stanley wondered if he should pencil this in. But that would be Defacing Post Office Property, and he could get into trouble for that.
All avenues of further activity being therefore closed, Stanley remained calm.
It was a gentle snow of letters. Some landed still burning, fountaining out of the column of crackling fire that had already broken through the Post Office roof. Some were blackened ashes on which sparks travelled in mockery of the dying ink. Some – many – had sailed up and over the city unscathed, zigzagging down gently like communications from an excessively formal sort of god.
Moist tore off his jacket as he pushed through the crowd.
‘The people probably got out,’ said Miss Dear heart, clattering along beside him.
‘Do you really think so?’ said Moist.
‘Really? No. Not if Gilt set this up. Sorry, I’m not very good at being comforting any more.’
Moist paused, and tried to think. The flames were coming out of the roof at one end of the building. The main door and the whole left side looked untouched. But fire was sneaky stuff, he knew. It sat there and smouldered until you opened the door to see how it was getting on, and then the fire caught its breath and your eyeballs got soldered to your skull.
‘I’d better go in,’ he said. ‘Er . . . you wouldn’t care to say “No, no, don’t do it, you’re being far too brave!” would you?’ he added. Some people were organizing a bucket chain from a nearby fountain; it would be as effective as spitting at the sun.
Miss Dearheart caught a burning letter, lit a cigarette with it, and took a drag. ‘No, no, don’t do it, you’re being far too brave!’ she said. ‘How was that for you? But if you do, the left side looks pretty clear. Watch out, though. There are rumours Gilt employs a vampire. One of the wild ones.’