Making Money

said Moist. “‘Get off the pot’ is the alternative when—”
    “Half the chief cashiers in the Plains have worked in this room,” said Miss Drapes. “And quite a few managers, now. And Miss Lee, who’s deputy manager of Apsly’s Commercial Bank in Sto Lat, she got the job because of the letter Mr. Bent wrote. Bent-trained, you see. That counts for a lot. If you’ve got a reference from Mr. Bent, you can walk into any bank and get a job with a snap of your fingers.”
    “And if you stay, the pay here is better than anywhere,” a clerk put in. “He told the Board, if they want the best, they’d have to pay for it!”
    “Oh, he’s demanding,” said another clerk, “but I hear they’re all working for a human resources manager at Pipeworth’s Bank now, and if it comes to that I’ll take Mr. Bent any day of the week. At least he thinks I’m a person. I was hearing where she was timing how long people spent in the privy!”
    “They call it time-and-motion study,” said Moist. “Look, I expect Mr. Bent just wants to be alone for a while. Who was he yelling at, the lad who’d made a mistake?…Or didn’t make it, I mean.”
    “That was young Hammersmith,” said Miss Drapes. “We sent him home because he was in a bit of a state. And no, he wasn’t really shouting at him. He wasn’t really shouting at anybody. He was—” she paused, searching for a word.
    “Gibbering,” said the clerk who had spoken out of turn, giving the turn another twist, “and you don’t all have to look at me like that. You all heard him. And he looked as though he’d seen a ghost.”
    Clerks were wandering back into the counting house in ones and twos. They’d searched everywhere, was the general agreement, and there was strong support for the theory that he’d gone out through the Mint, it being rather busy in there with all the work still going on. Moist doubted it. The bank was old, and old buildings have all sorts of crannies, and Mr. Bent had been here for—
    “How long has he been here?” he wondered aloud.
    The general consensus was “since the mind of man can remember” but Miss Drapes, who seemed for some reason to have made herself well informed on the subject of Mavolio Bent, volunteered that it was thirty-nine years and he got a job when he was thirteen by sitting on the steps all night until the chairman came to work and impressing him with his command of numbers. He went from messenger boy to chief cashier in twenty years.
    “Speedy!” said Moist.
    “Never had a day off for illness, either,” Miss Drapes concluded.
    “Well. Perhaps he’s entitled to some now,” said Moist. “Do you know where he lives, Miss Drapes?”
    “Mrs. Cake’s boardinghouse.”
    “Really? That’s a bit—” Moist stopped and chose from a number of options “—low rent, isn’t it?”
    “He says that as a bachelor it meets his needs,” said Miss Drapes, and avoided Moist’s gaze.
    Moist could feel the day slipping away from him. But they were all staring at him. There was only one thing he could say if he was to maintain his image.
    “Then I think I ought to see if he’s gone there,” said Moist. Their faces broke into smiles of relief. He added: “But I think that one of you should come with me. After all, you know him.” It looks as though I don’t, he thought.
    “I’ll fetch my coat,” said Miss Drapes. The only reason that her words came out at the speed of sound was that she couldn’t make them go any faster.

CHAPTER 8

    As below, so above No pain without gain A mind for puzzles Mr. Bent’s sad past Something in the wardrobe Wonderful money Thoughts on madness, by Igor A pot thickens

    HUBERT TAPPED thoughtfully on one of the Glooper’s tubes.
    “Igor?” he said.
    “Yeth, marthter?” said Igor, behind him.
    Hubert jumped.
    “I thought you were over by your lightning cells!” he managed.
    “I wath, thur, but I am here now.
    What wath it you wanted?”
    “You’ve wired up all the valves, Igor. I can’t make any changes!”
    “Yeth, thur,” said Igor calmly. “There would be amathingly dire conthequentheth, thur.”
    “But I want to change some parameters, Igor,” said Hubert, absentmindedly taking a rain hat off the peg.
    “I am afraid there ith a problem, thur. You athked me to make the Glooper ath accurate ath poththible.”
    “Well, of course. Accuracy is vital.”
    “It ith…extremely accurate, thur,” said Igor, looking uncomfortable. “Poththibly too accurate,