Making Money

second floor. But I don’t think he’s in. He’s not in trouble, is he?”
    Moist explained the situation, aware all the while of doors opening a fraction in the shadows beyond the woman. The air was sharp with the smell of disinfectant; Mrs. Cake believed that cleanliness was more to be trusted than godliness and, besides, without that sharp note of pine half the clientele would be driven mad by the smell of the other half.
    And in the middle of all this was the silent, featureless room of Mr. Bent, chief cashier. The woman, who volunteered that her name was Ludmilla, let them in, very reluctantly, with a master key.
    “He’s always been a good guest,” she said. “Never a moment’s trouble.”
    One glance took in everything: the narrow room, the narrow bed, the clothes hanging neatly around the walls, the tiny jug-and-basin set, the incongruously large wardrobe. Lives collect clutter, but Mr. Bent’s did not. Unless, of course, it was all in the wardrobe.
    “Most of your long-term guests are unde—”
    “—differently alive,” said Ludmilla sharply.
    “Yes, of course, so I’m wondering why…Mr. Bent would stay here.”
    “Mr. Lipwick, what are you suggesting?” said Miss Drapes.
    “You must admit it’s rather unexpected,” said Moist. And, because she was already distraught enough, he didn’t add: I don’t have to suggest anything. It suggests itself. Tall. Dark. Gets in before dawn, leaves after dark. Mr. Fusspot growls at him. Compulsive counter. Obsessive over detail. Gives you a gentle attack of the creeps which makes you feel mildly ashamed. Sleeps on a long, thin bed. Stays at Mrs. Cake’s, where the vampires hang up. It’s not very hard to connect the dots.
    “This isn’t about the man who was here the other night, is it?” said Ludmilla.
    “What man would that be?”
    “Didn’t give a name. Just said he was a friend. All in black, had a black cane with a silver skull on it. Nasty piece of work, Mum said. Mind you,” Ludmilla added, “she says that about nearly everyone. He had a black coach.”
    “Not Lord Vetinari, surely.”
    “Oh, no, Mum’s all for him, except she thinks he ought to hang more people. No, this one was pretty stout, Mum said.”
    “Oh, really?” said Moist. “Well, thank you, ma’am. Well perhaps we should be going. By the way, do you by any chance have a key to that wardrobe?”
    “No key. He put a new lock on it years ago, but Mum didn’t complain because he’s never any trouble. It’s one of those magic ones they sell at the university,” Ludmilla went on, as Moist examined the lock. The trouble with the wretched magical ones was that just about anything could be a key, from a word to a touch.
    “It’s rather strange that he hangs all his clothes on the walls, isn’t it?” he said, straightening up.
    Ludmilla looked disapproving. “We don’t use the word strange in this household.”
    “Differently normal?” Moist suggested.
    “That’ll do.” There was a warning glint in Ludmilla’s eye. “Who can say who is truly normal in this world?”
    Well, being someone whose fingernails don’t visibly extend when they’re annoyed would be a definite candidate, thought Moist. “Well, we should get back to the bank,” he said. “If Mr. Bent turns up, do tell him that people are looking for him.”
    “And care about him,” said Miss Drapes quickly, and then put a hand over her mouth and blushed.
    I just want to make money, thought Moist, as he led the trembling Miss Drapes back to the area where cabs dared to go. I thought life in banking was profitable boredom punctuated by big cigars. Instead, it has turned out differently normal. The only really sane person in there is Igor, and possibly the turnip. And I’m not sure about the turnip.
    He dropped the snuffling Miss Drapes off at her lodgings in Welcome Soap, with a promise to let her know when the errant Mr. Bent broke cover, and took the cab onward to the bank. The night guards had already arrived, but quite a few clerks were still hanging around, apparently unable to come to terms with the new reality. Mr. Bent had been a fixture, like the pillars.
    Cosmo had been round to see him. It wouldn’t have been a social call.
    What had it been? A threat? Well, no one liked being beaten up. But perhaps it was more sophisticated. Perhaps it was we’ll tell people you are a vampire. To which a sensible person would reply: Stick it where the sun shineth not. That would have been a