Making Money - Terry Pratchett [105]
Moist felt like a heel. Of course, he was a heel. But that didn’t make feeling like one feel any better. On the other hand, shedamn, he…it…Gladys was the fault of misplaced female solidarity. What could he hope to achieve against that? Adora Belle would have to do something about it.
He was aware that one of the senior clerks was hovering politely.
“Yes?” he said. “Can I help you?”
“What do you want us to do, sir?”
“What’s your name?”
“Spittle, sir. Robert Spittle.”
“Why are you asking me, Bob?”
“Because the chairman goes woof, sir. Safes need locking up. So does the ledger room. Mr. Bent had all the keys. It’s Robert, sir, if you don’t mind.”
“Are there any spare keys?”
“There might be in the chairman’s office, sir,” said Spittle.
“Look…Robert, I want you to go home and get a good night’s sleep, okay? And I’ll find the keys and turn every lock I can find. I’m sure Mr. Bent will be with us tomorrow, but if he’s not, I’ll call a meeting of the senior clerks. I mean, hah, you must know how it all works!”
“Well, yes. Of course. Only…well…but…” The clerk’s voice faded into silence.
But there’s no Mr. Bent, thought Moist. And he delegated with the same ease that oysters tango. What the hell are we going to do?
“There’s people here? So much for banker’s hours,” said a voice from the doorway. “In trouble again I hear.”
It was Adora Belle, and of course she meant “Hello! It’s good to see you.”
“You look stunning,” said Moist.
“Yes, I know,” said Adora Belle. “What’s happening? The cabbie told me all the staff had walked out of your bank.”
Later Moist thought: That was when it all went wrong. You have to leap on the stallion of rumor before he’s out of the yard, so that you might be able to pull on the reins. You should have thought: What did it look like, with staff running out of the bank? You should have run to the Times office. You should have got in the saddle and turned it right around, there and then.
But Adora Belle did look stunning. Besides, all that had happened was that a member of staff had a funny turn and left the building. What could anyone make of that?
And the answer, of course, was: Anything they wanted to.
He was aware of someone else behind him.
“Mr. Lipwig, thur?”
Moist turned. It was even less fun looking at Igor when you’d just been looking at Adora Belle.
“Igor, this is really not the time—” Moist began.
“I know I’m not thupothed to come upthairth, thur, but Mr. Clamp thayth he hath finithed hith drawing. It ith very good.”
“What was all that about?” said Adora Belle. “I think I nearly got two of the words.”
“Oh, there’s a man down in the forni—the cellar, who is designing a dollar note for me. Paper money, in fact.”
“Really? I’d love to see that.”
“You would?”
IT WAS TRULY wonderful. Moist looked at the back and the front of the dollar-note designs. Under Igor’s brilliant white lights they looked rich as plum pudding and more complicated than a dwarf contract.
“We’re going to make so much money,” he said aloud. “Wonderful job, Owls—Mr. Clamp!”
“I’m going to hold on to the Owlswick,” said the artist nervously. “It’s the Jenkins that matters, after all.”
“Well, yes,” said Moist, “there must be dozens of Owlswicks around.” He looked at Hubert, who was on a stepladder and peering hopelessly at the tubing.
“How’s it going, Hubert?” he said. “The money’s still rushing around okay, is it?”
“What? Oh, fine. Fine. Fine,” said Hubert, almost knocking over the ladder in his haste to get down. He looked at Adora Belle with an expression of uncertain dread.
“This is Adora Belle Dearheart, Hubert,” said Moist, in case the man was about to flee. “She is my fiancée. She’s a woman,” he added, in view of the worried look.
Adora Belle held out her hand and said: “Hello, Hubert.”
Hubert stared.
“It’s okay to shake hands, Hubert,” said Moist carefully. “Hubert’s an economist. That’s like an alchemist, but less messy.”
“So you know how the money moves around, do you, Hubert?” said Adora Belle, shaking an unresisting hand.
At last the notion of speech dawned