He did so, as much out of the current field of the bows as possible, and the dog leapt down from the desk and on to his lap with happy, scrotum-crushing enthusiasm.
It was the smallest and ugliest dog Moist had ever seen. It resembled those goldfish with the huge bulging eyes that look as though they are about to explode. Its nose, on the other hand, looked staved in. It wheezed, and its legs were so bandy that it must sometimes trip over its own feet.
'That's Mr Fusspot,' said the old woman. 'He doesn't normally take to people, Mr Lipwig. I am impressed.'
'Hello, Mr Fusspot,' said Moist. The dog gave a little yappy bark and then covered Moist's face in all that was best in dog slobber.
'He likes you, Mr Lipwig,' said Mrs Lavish approvingly. 'Can you guess at the breed?'
Moist had grown up with dogs and was pretty good at breeds, but with Mr Fusspot there was no place to start. He plumped for honesty. 'All of them?' he suggested.
Mrs Lavish laughed, and the laugh sounded at least sixty years younger than she was.
'Quite right! His mother was a spoon hound, very popular in royal palaces in the olden days. But she got out one night and there was an awful lot of barking and I fear Mr Fusspot is the son of many fathers, poor thing.'
Mr Fusspot turned two soulful eyes on Moist, and his expression began to become a little strained.
'Bent, Mr Fusspot is looking rather uncomfortable,' said Mrs Lavish. 'Please take him for his little walk in the garden, will you? I really don't think the young clerks give him enough time.'
A brief spell of thundery weather passed across the chief cashier's face, but he obediently took a red leash from a hook.
The little dog began to growl.
Bent also took down a pair of heavy leather gloves and deftly put them on. As the growling increased he picked up the dog very carefully and held it under one arm. Without uttering a word, he left the room.
'So you are the famous Postmaster General,' said Mrs Lavish. 'The man in the golden suit, no less. But not this morning, I note. Come here, dear boy. Let me look at you in the light.'
Moist advanced, and the old lady got awkwardly to her feet by means of a pair of ivory-handled walking sticks. Then she dropped one and grabbed Moist's chin. She stared intently at him, turning his head this way and that.
'Hmm,' she said, stepping back. 'It's as I thought…' The remaining walking stick caught Moist a whack across the back of the legs, scything him over like a straw. As he lay stunned on the thick carpet Mrs Lavish went on, triumphantly: 'You're a thief, a trickster, a charlie artful and all-round bunco artist! Admit it!'
'I'm not!' Moist protested weakly.
'Liar, too,' said Mrs Lavish cheerfully. 'And probably an impostor! Oh, don't waste that innocent look on me! I said you are a rogue, sir! I wouldn't trust you with a bucket of water if my knickers were on fire!'
Then she prodded Moist in the chest, hard. 'Well, are you going to lie there all day?' she snapped. 'Get up, man. I didn't say I didn't like you!'
Head spinning, Moist got cautiously to his feet.
'Give me your hand, Mr Lipwig,' said Mrs Lavish. 'Postmaster General? You are a work of art! Put it here!'
'What? Oh…' Moist grasped the old woman's hand. It was like shaking hands with cold parchment.
Mrs Lavish laughed. 'Ah, yes. Just like the forthright and reassuring grasp of my late husband. No honest man has a handshake as honest as that. How in the world has it taken you so long to find the financial sector?'
Moist looked around. They were alone, his calves were sore, and there was no fooling some people. What we have here, he told himself, is a Mkl Feisty Old Lady: turkey neck, embarrassing sense of humour, a gleeful pleasure in mild cruelty, direct way of speaking that flirts with rudeness and, more importantly, also flirts with flirting. Likes to think she's no 'lady'. Game for anything that doesn't carry the risk of falling over and with a look in her eye that says 'I can do what I like, because I am old. And I have a soft spot for rascals.' Old ladies like that were hard to fool, but there was no need to. He relaxed. Sometimes it was a sheer relief to drop the mask.
'I'm not an impostor, at least,' he said. 'Moist von Lipwig is my given name.'
'Yes, I can't imagine that you would have had any choice in the matter,' said Mrs Lavish, heading back to her seat. 'However, you seem to be fooling all of the people all of the time. Sit down, Mr Lipwig. I shall not bite.' This last was said with a look that transmitted: 'But give me half a bottle of gin and five minutes to find my teeth and we shall see!' She indicated a chair next to her.
'What? I thought I was being dismissed!' said Moist, playing along.
'Really? Why?'
'For being all those things you said?'
'I didn't say I thought you were a bad person,' said Mrs Lavish. 'And Mr Fusspot likes you and he is a remarkably good judge of people. Besides, you've done wonders with our Post Office, just as Havelock says.' Mrs Lavish reached down beside her and pulled a large bottle of gin on to the desktop. 'A drink, Mr Lipwig?'
'Er, not at this time.'
Mrs Lavish sniffed. 'I don't have much time, sir, but fortunately I have a lot of gin.' Moist watched her pour a marginally sub-lethal measure into a tumbler. 'Do you have a young lady?' she asked, raising the glass.
'Yes.'
'Does she know what you're like?'
'Yes. I keep telling her.'
'Doesn't believe you, eh? Ah, such is the way of a woman in love,' sighed Mrs Lavish.
'I don't think it worries her, actually. She's not your average girl.'
'Ah, and she sees your inner self? Or, perhaps, the carefully constructed inner self you keep around for people to find? People like you…' She paused and went on:'… people like us always keep at least one inner self for inquisitive visitors, don't we?'
Moist didn't rise to this. Talking to Mrs Lavish was like standing in front of a magic mirror that stripped you to your marrow. He just said: 'Most of the people she knows are golems.'
'Oh? Great big clay men who are utterly trustworthy and don't have anything to declare in the trouser department? What does she see in you, Mr Lipwig?' She prodded him with a finger like a cheese straw.
Moist's mouth dropped open.
'A contrast, I trust,' said Mrs Lavish, patting him on the arm. 'And now Havelock has sent you here to tell me how to run my bank. You may call me Topsy.'
'Well, I—' Tell her how to run her bank? It hadn't been put like that.
Topsy leaned forward. 'I never minded about Honey, you know,' she said, slightly lowering her voice. 'Quite a nice girl, but thick as a yard of lard. She wasn't the first, either. Not by a long way. I was Joshua's mistress once myself.'
'Really?' He knew he was going to hear it all, whether he wanted to or not.
'Oh, yes,' said Mrs Lavish. 'People understood more then. It was all quite acceptable. I used to take tea with his wife once a month to sort out his schedule, and she always said she was glad to have him out from under her feet. Of course, a mistress was expected to be a woman of some accomplishment in those days.' She sighed. 'Now, of course, the ability to spin upside down around a pole seems to be sufficient.'
'Standards are falling everywhere,' said Moist. It was a pretty good bet. They always were.
'Banking is really rather similar,' said Topsy, as though thinking aloud.
'Pardon?'
'I mean the mere physical end in view is going to be the same, but style should count for something, don't you think? There should be flair. There should be inventiveness. There should be an experience rather than a mere function. Havelock says you understand these tilings.' She gave Moist a questioning look. 'After all, you have made the Post Office an almost heroic enterprise, yes? People set their watches by the arrival of the Genua express. They used to set their calendars!'
'The clacks still makes a loss,' said Moist.
'A marvellously small one, while enriching the commonality of mankind in all sorts of ways, and I've no doubt that Havelock
's tax men take their share of that. You have the gift of enthusing people, Mr Lipwig.'
'Well, I… well, I suppose I do,' he managed. 'I know if you want to sell the sausage you have to know how to sell the sizzle.'
'Well and good, well and good,' said Topsy, 'but I hope you know that however gifted you are as a sizzle salesman, sooner or later you must be able to produce the sausage, hmm?' She gave him a wink which would have got a younger woman jailed.
'Incidentally,' she went on, 'I recall hearing that the gods led you to the treasure trove that helped you to rebuild the Post Office. What really happened? You can tell Topsy.'
He probably could, he decided, and noticed that although her hair was indeed thinning and almost white, it still held a pale trace of orange that hinted of more vivid reds in the past. 'It was my stashed loot from years of swindling,' he said.
Mrs Lavish clapped her hands. 'Wonderful! A sausage indeed! That is so… satisfying. Havelock has always had an instinct for people. He has plans for the city, you know.'
'The Undertaking,' said Moist. 'Yes, I know.'
'Underground streets and new docks and everything,' said Topsy, 'and for that a government needs money, and money needs banks. Unfortunately, people have rather lost their faith in banks.'
'Why?'
'Because we lost their money, usually. Mostly not on purpose. We have been badly buffeted in recent years. The Crash of '88, the Crash of '93, the Crash of '98… although that one was more of a ding. My late husband was a man who loaned unwisely, so we must carry bad debts and the other results of questionable decisions. Now we're where little old ladies keep their money because they always have done and the nice young clerks are still polite and there's still a brass bowl by the door for their little dogs to drink out of. Could you do anything about this? The supply of old ladies is running out, as I'm well aware.'
'Well, er, I may have a few ideas,' said Moist. 'But it's all still a bit of a 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 bit of ancient magic called "being left fifty per cent of the shares".'
'I thought that bit of magic was fifty-one per cent of the shares,' said Moist. 'Couldn't the other shareholders force—'
A 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 swivelling 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 most 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 sombrely.
'A bit tiresome at times?'
'I will not comment, sir. Mrs Lavish owns fifty-one per cent of the shares in my bank.'
His bank, Moist noted.
'That's strange,' he said. 'She just told me she owned only fifty per cent.'
'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 called a puckish sense of humour, Mr Lipwig.'
And the dog owns a piece of the bank, thought Moist. What jolly people the Lavishes are, indeed. 'I can see that you might not find it very funny, Mr Bent,' he said.
'I am pleased to say I find nothing funny, sir,' Bent replied, as they reached the bottom of the stairs. 'I have no sense of humour whatsoever. None at all. It has been proved by phrenology. I have Nichtlachen-Keinwortz Syndrome, which for some curious reason is considered a lamentable affliction. I, on the other hand, consider it a gift. I am happy to say that I regard the sight of a fat man slipping on a banana skin as nothing more than an unfortunate accident that highlights the need for care in the disposal of household waste.'
'Have you tried—' Moist began, but Bent held up a hand.
'Please! I repeat, I do not regard it as a burden! And may I say it annoys me when people assume it is such! Do not feel impelled to try to make me laugh, sir! If I had no legs, would you try to make me run? I am quite happy, thank you!'
He paused by another pair of doors, calmed down a little and gripped the handles.
'And now, perhaps, I should take this opportunity to show you where the… may I say serious work is done, Mr Lipwig. This used to be called the counting house, but I prefer to think of it as' — he pulled at the doors, which swung open majestically — 'my world.'
It was impressive. And the first impression it gave Moist was: this is Hell on the day they couldn't find the matches.
He stared at the rows of bent backs, scribbling frantically. No one looked up.
'I will not have abacuses, Calculating Bones or other inhuman devices under this roof, Mr Lipwig,' said Bent, leading the way down the central aisle. 'Th
e human brain is capable of infallibility in the world of numbers. Since we invented them, how should it be otherwise? We are rigorous here, rigorous—' In one swift movement Bent pulled a sheet of paper from the out-tray of the nearest desk, scanned it briefly and dropped it back again with a little grunt that signified either his approval that the clerk had got things right or his own disappointment that he had not found anything wrong.
The sheet had been crammed with calculations, and surely no mortal could have followed them at a glance. But Moist would not have bet a penny that Bent hadn't accounted for every line.
'Here in this room we are at the heart of the bank,' said the chief cashier proudly.
'The heart,' said Moist blankly.
'Here we calculate interest and charges and mortgages and costs and — everything, in fact. And we do not make mistakes.'
'What, never?'
'Well, hardly ever. Oh, some individuals occasionally make an error,' Bent conceded, with distaste. 'Fortunately, I check every calculation. No errors get past me, you may depend upon it. An error, sir, is worse than a sin, the reason being that a sin is often a matter of opinion or viewpoint or even of timing but an error is a fact and it cries out for correction. I see you are carefully not sneering, Mr Lipwig.'
'I'm not? I mean, no. I'm not!' said Moist. Damn. He'd forgotten the ancient wisdom: take care, when you are closely observing, that you are not closely observed.
'But you are appalled, nevertheless,' said Bent. 'You use words, and I'm told you do it well, but words are soft and can be pummelled into different meanings by a skilled tongue. Numbers are hard. Oh, you can cheat with them but you cannot change their nature. Three is three. You cannot persuade it to be four, even if you give it a great big kiss.' There was a very faint snigger from somewhere in the hall, but Mr Bent apparently did not notice. 'And they are not very forgiving. We work very hard here, at things that must be done,' he said. 'And this is where I sit, at the very centre…'
They'd reached the big stepped dais in the centre of the room. As they did so, a skinny woman in a white blouse and long black skirt edged respectfully past them and carefully placed a wad of paper in a tray that was already piled high. She glanced at Mr Bent, who said Thank you, Miss Drapes'. He was too busy pointing out the marvels of the dais, on which a semicircular desk of complex design had been mounted, to notice the expression that passed across her pale little face. But Moist did, and read a thousand words, probably written in her diary and never ever shown to anyone.
Making Money d-36 Page 5