Making Money

this sort of thing goes, sir.”
    See? Moist told himself, this is what happens when you get too comfortable. You lose the edge. Even a copper can outsmart you.
    The captain looked up. “I will tell you, Mr. Lipwig, that some of what you say has been corroborated by an unbiased witness who could not possibly be an accomplice.”
    “You talked to Gladys?” said Moist.
    “Gladys being?”
    “She’s the one going on about dirty boots.”
    “How can a golem be a ‘she,’ sir?”
    “Ah, I know this one. The correct answer is: How can a golem be a ‘he’?”
    “An interesting point, sir. That explains the dress, then. Out of interest, how much weight would you say a golem can carry?”
    “I don’t know. A couple of tons, maybe. What are you getting at?”
    “I don’t know, sir,” said Carrot cheerfully. “Commander Vimes says that when life hands you a mess of spaghetti, just keep pulling until you find the meatball. In fact, your story agrees, insofar as he understood events, with what we have been told by a Mr. Fusspot.”
    “You talked to the dog?”
    “Well, he is the chairman of the bank, sir,” said the captain.
    “How did you understand what—Ah, you have a werewolf, right?” said Moist, grinning.
    “We don’t confirm that, sir.”
    “Everyone knows it’s Nobby Nobbs, you know.”
    “Do they, sir? Gosh. Anyway, your movements this evening are accounted for.”
    “Good. Thank you.” Moist started to rise.
    “However, your movements earlier this week, sir, are not.” Moist sat down again.
    “Well? I don’t have to account for them, do I?”
    “It might help us, sir.”
    “How would it help you?”
    “It might help us understand why there is no gold in the vault, sir. It’s a small detail in the great scheme of things, but it is something of a puzzler.”
    At which point, somewhere close at hand, Mr. Fusspot began to bark…

    COSMO LAVISH SAT at his desk with his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, watching Cribbins eat. Not many people in a state to make a choice had ever done this for more than thirty seconds.
    “The soup is good?” he said.
    Cribbins lowered the bowl after one lengthy final gurgle.
    “Champion, Your Lordship.” Cribbins removed a gray rag from his pocket and—
    He’s going to take his teeth out, right now, here at the table, thought Cosmo. Amazing. Ah, yes, and there’s still bits of carrot in them…
    “Don’t hesitate to repair your teeth,” he said, as Cribbins removed a bent fork from a pocket.
    “I’m a martyr to them, shir,” said Cribbins. “I’ll shwear they’re out to get me.” Springs twanged as he fought them with the fork and then, apparently satisfied, he wrestled them back onto his gray gums and champed them into place.
    “That’s better,” he announced.
    “Good,” said Cosmo. “And now, in view of the nature of your allegations, which Drumknott here has carefully transcribed and you have signed, let me ask you: why have you not gone to Lord Vetinari?”
    “I’ve knowed men escape the noose, sir,” said Cribbins. “It ain’t too hard if you’ve got the readies. But I never heard of one get a big plum job the very next day. Gov’ment job, too. Then suddenly he’s a banker, no leshsh. Shomeone’s watching over him, and I don’t think it’s a bleeding fairy. If I wash to go to Vetinari, then I’d be a bit silly, right. But he’s got your bank, and you ain’t, which is a shame. Sho I’m your man, shir.”
    “At a price, I have no doubt.”
    “Well, yes, something in the way of expenses would help, yesh.”
    “And you are sure that Lipwig and Spangler are one and the same?”
    “It’s the smile, shir. You never forget it. And he has this gift of chatting to people, he makes people want to do things his way. It’s like magic, the little ingrate.”
    Cosmo stared at him and then said, “Give the reverend fifty dollars, Drum—Heretofore, and direct him to a good hotel. One where they might have a hot tub available.”
    “Fifty dollarsh?” growled Cribbins.
    “And then please go ahead with that little acquisition, will you?”
    “Yes, sir. Of course.”
    Cosmo pulled a piece of paper toward him, dipped a pen in the inkwell, and began to write furiously.
    “Fifty dollarsh?” said Cribbins again, appalled at the minimum wage of sin.
    Cosmo looked up and stared at the man as if seeing him for the first time and not enjoying the novelty.
    “Hh, yes. Fifty dollars indeed for now, Reverend,” said Cosmo