A/N: English native language not. Please, if you finds mistakes, correct me.
Chapter 1: The mysterious thief
The papers on Sam Vimes's desk were leading their own life.
There were conflicts, wars, love affairs and vile conspiracies going on between them. They lived, developed and died in that small, isolated world that was the desk. Reports, forms and notes just piled up as the years passed, forming hills upon hills of paper, slowly but gradually rotting into layers of some suspicious semi-organic matter, under which lay buried what some of the oldest policemen from the City Watch claimed to be plates with half-eaten food in them. Despite that, no one actually knew with certainty what was hidden in the depths of this mysterious world.
There was one tiny corner of this desk however, that was periodically updated and was cherished above all by the Commander of the Watch. It was, as he had said many times, his collection of masterpieces. When he started reading it, the door of his cabinet was locked so that no one could disturb him, but he often disturbed others with loud laughing and remarks. A new guy at the Watch would ask what was going on in the Commander's office—and then someone, often corporal Nobbs, would tell him that he was reading sergeant Fred Colon's reports.
That one particular day was gloomy and cloudy, and so was Vimes's mood. He had a new pile of reports to read, and by a strange coincidence Fred's was first.
Knowing that if it didn't cheer him up, it would at least provide him with someone he could be angry at, he took a cup of tea, took a sip of it, and started reading.
(Unreadable blot of ink, probably a word that has been scratched and rewritten too many times)…took corporal Nobbs with me and went to inve (scratched) to inva (scratched) to hav a look at the crime sciin. It was dark, because of the reeson that it was night, but we had a torchlite. The owner of the shop for clothes on the Curious Street that was robbed was waiting for us in front of the crime sceen, which was his shop. He too was holding a torch(scratched)lait.
There was a note in the left margin next to it that was written in Nobby's cramped handwriting. It said torchlight.
Vimes stopped for a moment at that point, trying to imagine the argument that Nobbs and Colon had had over the spelling of the word. A small smile crept on his lips. Then he lowered his eyes to continue reading.
It was souspicius, since he had to know that we from the City Wathc woud take our own torchli (scratched) lite, but we said nothing and went insiad the shop, which was the crime scine.
The ink was smeared on several places, probably from Colon's sweat drops. It put him under a lot of stress, to write a report.
It was obvious from the begining that there had been a confr(scratch) a confor (scratched) a fight. Numerous clothes were scattered all around the plaice and the shop owner said that he had found the theef breaking into the shop and steeling some of his clothes, along with his waif and littel douter. He tried to stop him by throwing clothes at him, but the theef ran away with his waif from the crime sceen, which was his shop. I asked him wat had hapend to his dauter and he answered, that the theef had dropped her wail he was runing.
We carefully checkd, and we found no clothes missing.
The shop owner insisted that he had an insurance for the shop and wanted his money.
Wen we asked him who was that woman with a very massiv body, standing rite next to him, he answered with a frown that this was his aunt.
So we left the crime sceen, searching for mor clews about the crime that had been don in the shop, which was the crime sceen. But we didn't find any, so we went to the Broken Drum and carefully inter— (scratched) int (scratched) asked the innkeeper if he had seen anything souspicius, wail drinking the mugs of beer he had been so kind to give us for a small paymant.
Our final conclusion is that—
Vimes put down the report.
"Sergeant Angua!" he called.
The door opened and a blond woman entered, carrying another pile of documents.
"What are these?" asked Vimes suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.
She put them down carefully on his desk and answered, "More forms and notes. You have one from the Patrician, I think."
Vimes rolled his eyes.
"Anyway, I want you to send someone to the Curious Street and arrest the owner of the clothes shop for an attempt to lie to the insurance company. Let him and his wife, who will try to convince you that she is his aunt, spend one night in our cells."
Angua nodded.
"Anything else?"
"No, that's all."
After she closed the door behind her, Vimes looked through the window.
Yes indeed, such people were precious in certain situations.
