Making Money

shock. I don’t really understand how banks work.”
    “You’ve never put money in a bank?”
    “Not in, no.”
    “How do you think they work?”
    “Well, you take rich people’s money and lend it to suitable people at interest, and give as little as possible of the interest back.”
    “Yes, and what is a suitable person?”
    “Someone who can prove they don’t need the money?”
    “Oh, you cynic. But you have got the general idea.”
    “No poor people, then?”
    “Not in banks, Mr. Lipwig. No one with an income under a hundred and fifty dollars a year. That is why socks and mattresses were invented. My late husband always said that the only way to make money out of poor people is by keeping them poor. He was not, in his business life, a very nice man. Do you have any more questions?”
    “How did you become the bank’s chairman?” said Moist.
    “Chairman and manager,” said Topsy proudly. “Joshua liked to be in control.
    “Oh, yes, didn’t he just,” she added, as if to herself. “And I am now both of them because of a little bit of ancient magic called ‘being left fifty percent of the shares.’”
    “I thought that bit of magic was fifty-one percent of the shares,” said Moist. “Couldn’t the other shareholders force—”
    An inner door opened at the far side of the room and a tall woman in white entered, carrying a tray with its contents concealed by a cloth.
    “It really is time for your medicine, Mrs. Lavish,” she said.
    “It does me no good at all, Sister!” snapped the old woman.
    “Now, you know the doctor said no more alcohol,” said the nurse. She looked accusingly at Moist. “She’s to have no more alcohol,” she repeated, on the apparent assumption that he had a few bottles on his person.
    “Well I say no more doctor!” said Mrs. Lavish, winking conspiratorially at Moist. “My so-called stepchildren are paying for this, can you believe it? They’re out to poison me! And they tell everyone I’ve gone mad—”
    There was a knock at the door, less a request to enter than a declaration of intent. Mrs. Lavish moved with impressive speed and the bows were already swiveling when the door swung open.
    Mr. Bent came in, with Mr. Fusspot under his arm, still growling.
    “I said five times, Mr. Bent!” Mrs. Lavish yelled. “I might have shot Mr. Fusspot! Can’t you count?”
    “I do beg your pardon,” said Bent, placing Mr. Fusspot carefully in the in tray. “And I can count.”
    “Who’s a little fusspot then?” said Mrs. Lavish, as the little dog almost exploded with mad excitement at seeing someone he’d last seen at least ten minutes ago. “Has oo been a good boy? Has he been a good boy, Mr. Bent?”
    “Yes, madam. Excessively.” The venom of a snake ice cream could not have been chillier. “May I return to my duties now?”
    “Mr. Bent thinks I don’t know how to run a bank, doesn’t he, Mr. Fusspot,” Mrs. Lavish crooned to the dog. “He’s a silly Mr. Bent, isn’t he? Yes, Mr. Bent, you may go.”
    Moist recalled an old BhangBhangduc proverb: “When old ladies talk maliciously to their dog, that dog is lunch.” It seemed amazingly appropriate at a time like this, and a time like this was not a good time to be around.
    “Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Mrs. Lavish,” he said, standing up. “I shall…think things over.”
    “Has he been to see Hubert?” said Mrs. Lavish, apparently to the dog. “He must see Hubert before he goes. I think he is a little confused about finance. Take him to see Hubert, Mr. Bent. Hubert is so good at explaining.”
    “As you wish, madam,” said Bent, glaring at Mr. Fusspot. “I’m certain that having heard Hubert explain the flow of money he will no longer be a little confused. Please follow me, Mr. Lipwig.”
    Bent was silent as they walked downstairs. He lifted his oversized feet with care, like a man walking across a floor strewn with pins.
    “Mrs. Lavish is a jolly old stick, isn’t she?” Moist ventured.
    “I believe she is what is known as a ‘character,’ sir,” said Bent somberly.
    “A bit tiresome at times?”
    “I will not comment, sir. Mrs. Lavish owns fifty-one percent of the shares in my bank.”
    His bank, Moist noted.
    “That’s strange,” he said. “She just told me she owned only fifty percent.”
    “And the dog,” said Bent. “The dog owns one share, a legacy from the late Sir Joshua, and Mrs. Lavish owns the dog. The late Sir Joshua had what I understand is