Making Money

Moist joined her. There was already a crowd in front of the bank, and coaches were pulling up as he watched. There were a fair number of guards around, too. A brief flash indicated that Otto Chriek of the Times was already taking pictures. Ah, yes, a deputation was now forming. People wanted to be in at the death. Sooner or later, someone would hammer at the door. Blow that. He couldn’t let that happen.

Wash, shave, trim errant nose hairs, clean teeth. Comb hair, shine boots. Don hat, walk down stairs, unlock door very slowly so that the click is unlikely to be heard outside, wait until you hear a tread getting louder—

Moist opened the door, sharply.

‘Well, gentlemen?’

Cosmo Lavish wobbled as the knock failed to connect, but recovered and thrust a sheet of paper at him.

‘Emergency audit,’ he said. ‘These gentlemen’ — and here he indicated a number of worthy-looking men behind him — ‘are representatives of the major guilds and some of the other banks. This is standard procedure and you can’t stand in their way. You will note that we have brought Commander Vimes of the Watch. When we have established that there is indeed no gold in the vault, I shall instruct him to arrest you on suspicion of theft.’

Moist glanced at the commander. He did not like the man much, and was certain that Vimes did not like him at all. He was even more certain, though, that Vimes did not readily take orders from the likes of Cosmo Lavish.

‘I’m sure that the commander will do as he sees fit,’ said Moist meekly. ‘You know the way to the vault. I am sorry it’s a bit of a mess at the moment.’

Cosmo half-turned to make certain the crowd heard everything he said. ‘You are a thief, Mr Lipwig. A cheat and a liar, an embezzler and you have no dress sense whatsoever.’

‘I say, that’s a bit on the harsh side,’ said Moist as the men swept through. ‘I happen to think I dress rather snappily!’

Now he was alone on the steps, facing the crowd. They weren’t a mob yet, but it could only be a matter of time.

‘Can I help anyone else?’ he said.

‘What about our money?’ someone said.

‘What about it?’ said Moist.

‘Says in the paper you’ve got no gold,’ said the enquirer.

He pushed a damp copy of the Times towards Moist. The newspaper had, on the whole, been quite restrained. He had expected bad headlines, but the story was a single column on the front page and it was full of ‘we understand that’ and ‘we believe that’ and ‘the Times has been informed that’ and all the phrases that journalists use when they are dealing with facts about large sums of money they don’t fully understand and are not quite certain that what they have been told is true.

He looked up into the face of Sacharissa Cripslock.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘but there were watchmen and guards all round the place last night and we didn’t have much time. And frankly, Mr Bent’s … attack was enough of a story in its own right. Everyone knows he runs the bank.’

‘The chairman runs the bank,’ said Moist stiffly.

‘No, Moist, the chairman goes woof,’ said Sacharissa. ‘Look, didn’t you sign anything when you took over the job? A receipt or something?’

‘Well, maybe. There was a mass of paperwork. I just signed where I was told. So did Mr Fusspot.’

‘Ye gods, the lawyers would have fun with that,’ said Sacharissa, her notebook magically appearing in her hand. ‘And it’s no joke, either.[11] He could end up in debtor’s prison!’

‘Kennel,’ said Moist. ‘He goes woof, remember? And that’s not going to happen.’

Sacharissa bent down to pat Mr Fusspot on his little head, and froze in mid-bend. ‘What has he got in his—?’ she began.

‘Sacharissa, can we go into this later? I really have not got time for it right now. I swear by any three gods you believe in, even though you are a journalist, that when this is over I will give you a story that will tax even the Times’s ability to avoid inelegant and suggestive subjects. Trust me.’

‘Yes, but it looks like a—’ she began.

‘Ah, so you do know what it is and I don’t need to explain,’ said Moist briskly.

He handed the newspaper back to its worried owner. ‘You are Mr Cusper, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You have a balance of AM$7 with us, I believe?’ For a moment the man looked impressed. Moist was really good at faces. ‘I told you we aren’t bothered about gold here,’ said Moist.

‘Yeah, but …’ the man began. ‘Well, it’s not much of a bank if people can take the gold out of it, is it?’ he said.

‘But it doesn’t make any difference,’ said Moist. ‘I did tell you all.’