Making Money

knew, was any kind of ventilation. It looked as though the vault had been built before the idea of breathing caught on. It was a man-made cave, built to contain something you never intended to take out. Gold didn’t choke.
    “I don’t think we have the option,” he said, “because sixthly, he’s running out of air. He may even be dead!”
    “If he’s dead, can we leave him until tomorrow? It’s freezing down here.”
    Tap-tap tap-tap.
    Moist looked up at the ceiling. It was made of ancient oak beams, strapped together with iron bands. He knew what old oak could be like. It could be like steel, only nastier. It blunted axes and bounced hammers back in their owners’ faces.
    “Can’t the guards help?” Adora Belle ventured.
    “I doubt it,” said Moist. “Anyway, I don’t particularly want to encourage the idea that they can spend the night breaking into the vault.”
    “But they’re mostly City Watch, aren’t they?”
    “So? When a man is legging it for the horizon with as much gold as he can carry he doesn’t worry much about what his old job was. I’m a criminal. Trust me.”
    He walked toward the stairs, counting under his breath.
    “And now what are you doing?”
    “Working out which part of the bank is directly over the gold,” said Moist. “But you know what? I think I already know. The gold room is right under his desk.”

    THE LAMP HAD burned low, and oily smoke swirled and settled on the sacks where Mr. Bent lay curled up in a tight ball.
    There was sound above, and voices muffled by the ancient ceiling. One of them said: “I can’t budge it. All right, Gladys, over to you.”
    “Is This Ladylike Behavior?” a second voice rumbled.
    “Oh yes, it counts as moving furniture,” said a voice that was clearly female.
    “Very Well. I Shall Lift It Up And Dust Underneath It.”
    There was the thunder of wood being scraped on wood, and a little dust fell onto the piled bullion.
    “Very Dusty Indeed. I Shall Fetch A Broom.”
    “Actually, Gladys, I’d like you to lift up the floor now,” said the first voice.
    “There May Be Dust Underneath That Too?”
    “I’m certain of it.”
    “Very Well.”
    There were several thumps that made the beams creak, and then a rumble of: “It Does Not Say Anything About Dusting Under The Floor In Lady Waggon’s Book Of Household Management.”
    “Gladys, a man may be dying under there!”
    “I See. That Would Be Untidy.” The beams rattled under a blow. “Lady Waggon Says That Any Bodies Found During A Weekend Party Should Be Disposed Of Discreetly, In Case Of Scandal.”
    Three more blows, and a beam shattered.
    “Lady Waggon Says Watchmen Are Disrespectful And Do Not Wipe Their Dirty Boots.”
    Another beam cracked. Light lanced down. A hand the size of a shovel appeared, grabbed one of the iron straps, and snapped it—
    Moist peered into the gloom, while smoke poured up past him.
    “He’s down there! Ye gods, this reeks!”
    Adora Belle looked over his shoulder.
    “Is he alive?”
    “I certainly hope so.” Moist eased himself between the beams and dropped onto the bullion boxes.
    After a moment he called up: “There’s a pulse. And there’s a key in the lock, too. Can you come down the stairs and give me a hand?”
    “Er…we have visitors,” Adora Belle called down.
    A couple of helmeted heads were now outlined against the light. Damn it! Using off-duty watchmen was all very well, but they tended to take their badges everywhere with them, and were just the sort of people who’d jump to conclusions merely because they’d found a man standing in the wreckage of a bank vault after hours. The words “Look, I can explain” presented themselves for utterance, but Moist strangled them just in time. It was his bank, after all.
    “Well, what do you want?” he demanded.
    This was sufficiently unexpected to throw the men, but one of them rallied.
    “Is this your bank vault, sir?” he said.
    “I’m the deputy chairman, you idiot! And there’s a sick man down here!”
    “Did he fall when you were breaking into the vault, sir?”
    Oh gods, you just couldn’t budge a born copper. They just kept going, in that patient, grinding tone. When you were a policeman, everything was a crime.
    “Officer—you are a copper, right?”
    “Constable Haddock, sir.”
    “Well, constable, can we get my colleague into the fresh air? He’s wheezing. I’ll unlock the door down here.”
    Haddock nodded to the other guard, who hurried away