Making Money

asking?”
    “I’m the—I’m his owner,” said Moist, as haughtily as he could manage.
    The chef removed his white hat. “Sorry, sir, of course you are. The gold suit and everything. This is Peggy, my daughter. I’m Aimsbury, sir.”
    Moist had managed to calm down a little. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just worried that someone might try to poison Mr. Fusspot…”
    “We were just talking about that,” said Aimsbury. “I thought that—hold on, you don’t mean me, do you?”
    “No, no, certainly not!” said Moist to the man still holding a knife.
    “Well, all right,” said Aimsbury, mollified. “You’re new, sir, you’re not to know. That Cosmo kicked Mr. Fusspot once!”
    “He’d poison anyone, he would,” said Peggy.
    “But I go down to the market every day, sir, and select the little dog’s food myself. And it’s stored downstairs in the cool room, and I have the only key.”
    Moist relaxed. “You couldn’t knock out an omelet for me, could you?” he said.
    The chef looked panicky.
    “That’s eggs, right?” he said nervously. “Never really got involved with cooking eggs, sir. He has a raw one in his steak tartare on Fridays and Mrs. Lavish used to have two raw ones in her gin and orange juice every morning, and that is about it between me n’ eggs. I’ve got a pig’s head sousing if you’d fancy some of that. Got tongue, hearts, marrowbone, sheep’s head, nice bit o’ dewlap, melts, slaps, lights, liver, kidneys, beccles—”
    In his youth, Moist had been served a lot off that menu. It was exactly the sort of food that one should serve to kids if one wanted them to grow up skilled in the arts of bare-faced lying, sleight of hand, and camouflage. As a matter of course, Moist had hidden those strange, wobbly meats under his vegetables, on one occasion achieving a potato twelve inches high.
    Light dawned.
    “Did you cook much for Mrs. Lavish?” said Moist.
    “Nossir. She lived on gin, vegetable soup, her morning pick-me-up, and—”
    “Gin,” said Peggy firmly.
    “So you’re basically a dog chef?”
    “Canine, sir, if it’s all the same to you. You may have read my book? Cooking with Brains?” Aimsbury said this rather hopelessly, and rightly so.
    “Unusual path to follow,” said Moist.
    “Well, sir, it enables me to…it’s safer…well, the truth is, I have an allergy, sir.” The chef sighed. “Show him, Peggy.”
    The girl nodded, and pulled a grubby card out of her pocket.
    “Please don’t say this word, sir,” she said, and held it up.
    Moist stared.
    “You just can’t avoid it in the catering business, sir,” said Aimsbury miserably.
    This wasn’t the time, really wasn’t the time. But if you weren’t interested in people, then you didn’t have the heart of a trickster.
    “You’re allergic to g—this stuff?” he said, correcting himself just in time.
    “No, sir. The word, sir. I can handle the actual alium in question, I can even eat it, but the sound of it, well…”
    Moist looked at the word again, and shook his head sadly.
    “So I have to shun restaurants, sir.”
    “I can see that. How are you with the word…leek?”
    “Yes, sir, I know where you’re going, I’ve been there. Far leek, tar lick…no effect at all.”
    “Just garlic, then—oh, sorry…”
    Aimsbury froze, with a distant expression on his face.
    “Gods, I’m so sorry, I honestly didn’t mean—” Moist began.
    “I know,” said Peggy wearily, “the word just forces its way out, doesn’t it? He’ll be like this for fifteen seconds, then he’ll throw the knife straight ahead of him, and then he’ll speak in fluent Quirmian for about four seconds, and then he’ll be fine. Here—” she handed Moist a bowl containing a large brown lump “—you go back in there with the sticky-toffee pudding and I’ll hide in the pantry. I’m used to it. And I can do you an omelet, too.” She pushed Moist through the door and shut it behind him.
    He put down the bowl, to the immediate and fully focused interest of Mr. Fusspot.
    Watching a dog try to chew a large piece of toffee is a pastime fit for gods. Mr. Fusspot’s mixed ancestry had given him a dexterity of jaw that was truly awesome. He somersaulted happily around the floor, making faces like a rubber gargoyle in a washing machine.
    After a few seconds Moist distinctly heard the twang of a knife vibrating in woodwork, followed by a scream of: “Nom d’une bouilloire! Pourquoi est-ce que je suis hardiment ri