Making Money

hinge. A scrap of black-and-yellow rope indicated, for those who hadn’t spotted the clue of the door, that the place had come to the recent attention of the Watch.
    The door fell off the hinge when Moist pushed at it, and landed in the stream of water that was gushing down the alley.
    It wasn’t much of a search, because Owlswick hadn’t bothered to hide. He was in a room on the first floor, surrounded by mirrors and candles, a dreamy look on his face, peacefully painting.
    He dropped the brush when he saw Moist, grabbed a tube that lay on a bench, and held it in front of his mouth, ready to swallow.
    “Don’t make me use this! Don’t make me use this!” he warbled, his whole body trembling.
    “Is it some kind of toothpaste?” said Moist. He sniffed the very lived-in air of the studio and added: “That could help, you know.”
    “This is Uba Yellow, the most poisonous paint in the world! Stand back or I will die horribly!” said the forger. “Er…in fact, the most poisonous paint is probably Agatean White, but I’ve run out of that, it is most vexing.” It occurred to Owlswick that he had lost the tone slightly, and he quickly raised his voice again. “But this is pretty poisonous, all the same!”
    A gifted amateur picks up a lot, and Moist had always found poisons interesting.
    “An arsenical compound, eh?” said Moist. Everyone knew about Agatean White. He hadn’t heard of Uba Yellow, but arsenic came in many inviting shades. Just don’t lick your brush.
    “It’s a horrible way to die,” he said. “You more or less melt over several days.”
    “I’m not going back! I’m not going back!” squeaked Owlswick.
    “They used to use it to make skin whiter,” said Moist, moving a little closer.
    “Get back! I’ll use it! I swear I’ll use it!”
    “That’s where we get the phrase ‘drop-dead gorgeous,’” said Moist, closing in.
    He snatched at Owlswick, who rammed the tube in his mouth. Moist tugged it out, pushing the forger’s clammy little hands out of the way, and examined it.
    “Just as I thought,” he said, pocketing the tube. “You forgot to take the cap off. It’s the kind of mistake amateurs always make!”
    Owlswick hesitated, and then said: “You mean there’s people who commit suicide professionally?”
    “Look, Mr. Jenkins, I’m here to—” Moist began.
    “I’m not going back to that jail! I’m not going back!” said the little man, backing away.
    “That’s fine by me. I want to offer you a—”
    “They watch me, you know,” Owlswick volunteered. “All the time.”
    Ah. This was slightly better than suicide by paint, but only just.
    “Er…you mean in jail?” said Moist, just to make sure.
    “They watch me everywhere! There’s one of Them right behind you!”
    Moist stopped himself from turning, because that way madness lay. Mind you, quite a lot of it was standing right here in front of him.
    “I’m sorry to hear that, Owlswick,” said Moist. “That’s why—”
    Moist hesitated, and thought:—not? It had worked on him.
    “That’s why I’m going to tell you about angels,” he said.

    PEOPLE SAID THERE were more thunderstorms now that Igors were living in the city. There was no more thunder now, but the rain fell as if it had got all night.
    Some of it swirled over the top of Moist’s boots as he stood in front of the bank’s unobtrusive side door and tried to remember the barber-surgeon’s knock.
    Oh, yes. It was the old one that went rat tat a tat-tat TAT TAT!
    Or, to put it another way: Shave and a haircut—no legs!
    The door opened instantly.
    “I would like to apologithe about the lack of creak, thur, but the hingeth jutht don’t theem to—”
    “Just give me a hand with this lot, will you?” said Moist, bent under the weight of two heavy boxes. “This is Mr. Jenkins. Can you make up a bed for him down here? And is there any chance you could change what he looks like?”
    “More than you could poththibly imagine, thur,” said Igor happily.
    “I was thinking of, well, a shave and a haircut. You can do that, can’t you?”
    Igor gave Moist a pained look.
    “It is true that technically thurgeonth can perform tonthorial operations—”
    “No no, don’t touch his throat, please.”
    “That meanth yeth, I can give him a haircut, thur,” Igor sighed.
    “I have had my tonsils out when I was ten,” said Owlswick.
    “Would you like thome more?” said Igor, looking for some bright edge to the situation.
    “This is