'How did you do it so quickly?'
'Well, a lot of it is just geometry,' said Mr Clamp. 'Mr Igor here was kind enough to make me a little device which was a great help there. It's not finished, of course, and I haven't even started on the other side yet. I think I'll make a start on that now, in fact, while I'm still fresh.'
'You think you can do better?' said Moist, awed in the presence of genius.
'I feel so... full of energy!' said Clamp.
'That would be the elecktrical fluid, I expect,' said Moist.
'No, I mean I can see so clearly what needs to be done! Before, it was all like some horrible weight I had to lift, but now everything is clear and light!'
'Well, I'm glad to hear it,' said Moist, not totally certain that he was. 'Do excuse me, I have a bank to run.'
He hurried through the arches and entered the main hall via the unassuming door in time to very nearly collide with Bent.
'Ah, Mr Lipwig, I wondered where you were - '
'Is this going to be important, Mr Bent?'
The chief cashier looked offended - as if he'd ever trouble Moist about anything that was not important.
'There are lots of men outside the Mint,' he said. 'With trolls and carts. They say you want them to install a' - Bent shuddered - 'a printing engine!'
'That's right,' said Moist. 'They're from Teemer & Spools. We must print the money here. It'll look more official and we can control what goes out of the doors.'
'Mr Lipwig. You are turning the bank into a... a circus!'
'Well, I'm the man with the top hat, Mr Bent, so I suppose I'm the ringmaster!' He said it with a laugh, to lighten the mood a little, but Bent's face was a sudden thundercloud.
'Really, Mr Lipwig? And whoever told you the ringmaster runs the circus? You are very much mistaken, sir! Why are you cutting out the other shareholders?'
'Because they don't know what a bank is about. Come with me to the Mint, will you?' He strode through the main hall, having to dodge and weave between the queues.
'And you know what a bank is about, do you, sir?' said Bent, following behind with his jerky flamingo step.
'I'm learning. Why do we have one queue in front of each clerk?' Moist demanded. 'It means that if one customer takes up a lot of time, the whole queue has to wait. Then they'll start hopping sideways from one queue to another and the next thing you know someone has a nasty head wound. Have one big queue and tell people to go to the next clerk free. People don't mind a long queue if they can see that it's moving - Sorry, sir!'
This was to a customer he'd collided with, who steadied himself, grinned at Moist and said, in a voice from a past that should have stayed buried: 'Why, if it isn't my old friend Albert. You're doin' well for yourself, ain't you?' The stranger spluttered his words through ill-fitting teeth: 'You in your shuit o' lightsh!'
Moist's past life flashed before his eyes. He didn't even need to go to the bother of dying, although he felt as though he was going to.
It was Cribbins! It could only be Cribbins!
Moist's memory sandbagged him, one bag after another. The teeth! Those damn false teeth! They were that man's pride and joy. He'd prised them out of the mouth of an old man he'd robbed, while the poor devil lay dying of fear! He'd joked that they had a mind of their own! And they spluttered and popped and slurped and fitted so badly that they once turned round in his mouth and bit him in the throat!
He used to take them out and talk to them! And, aargh, they were so old, and the stained teeth had been carved from walrus ivory and the spring was so strong that sometimes it'd force the top of his head back so that you could see right up his nose!!
It all came back like a bad oyster.
He was just Cribbins. No one knew his first name. Moist had teamed up with him, oh, ten years ago and they'd run the old legacy con in Uberwald one winter. He was much older than Moist and still had the serious personal problem that made him smell of bananas.
And he was a nasty piece of work. Professionals had their pride. There had to be some people you wouldn't rob, some things you didn't steal. And you had to have style. If you didn't have style, you'd never fly.
Cribbins didn't have style. He wasn't violent, unless there was absolutely no chance of retaliation, but there was some generalized, wretched, wheedling malice about the man that had got on Moist's soul.
'Is there a problem, Mr Lipwig?' said Bent, glaring at Cribbins.
'What? Oh... no...' said Moist. It's a shakedown, he thought. That bloody picture in the paper. But he can't prove a thing, not a thing.