Making Money (Discworld 36)

He dropped the snuffling Miss Drapes at her lodgings in Welcome Soap, with a promise to let her know when the errant Mr Bent broke cover, and took the cab onwards 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 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 threat twenty years ago, but today? There were plenty of vampires in the city, neurotic as hell, wearing the Black Ribbon to show they'd signed the pledge, and in general getting on with, for want of a better word, their lives. Mostly, people just accepted it. Day after day went past with no trouble, and so the situation became regarded as normal. Differently normal, but still normal.

Okay, Mr Bent had kept quiet about his past, but that was hardly a pitchforking matter. He'd been sitting in a bank for forty years doing sums, for heavens' sake.

But perhaps he didn't see it that way. You measured common sense with a ruler, other people measured it with a potato.

He didn't hear Gladys's approach. He just became aware that she was standing behind him.

'I Have Been Very Worried About You, Mr Lipwig,' she rumbled.

'Thank you, Gladys,' he said cautiously.

'I Will Make You A Sandwich. You Like My Sandwiches.'

'That would be kind of you, Gladys, but Miss Dearheart will be joining me shortly for dinner upstairs.'

The glow in the golem's eyes faded for a moment and then grew brighter. 'Miss Dearheart.'

'Yes, she was here this morning.'

'A Lady'

'She's my fiancee, Gladys. She will be here quite a lot, I expect.'

'Fiancee,' said Gladys. 'Ah, Yes. I Am Reading Twenty Tips To Make Your Wedding Go With A Swing.'

Her eyes dimmed. She turned round and plodded towards the stairs.

Moist felt like a heel. Of course he was a heel. But that didn't make feeling like one feel any better. On the other hand, she -  damn, he... it... Gladys was the fault of misplaced female solidarity. What could he hope to achieve against that? Adora Belle would have to do something about it.

He was aware that one of the senior clerks was hovering politely.

'Yes?' he said. 'Can I help you?'

'What do you want us to do, sir?'

'What's your name?'

'Spittle, sir. Robert Spittle.'

'Why are you asking me, Bob?'

'Because the chairman goes woof, sir. Safes need locking up. So does the ledger room. Mr Bent had all the keys. It's Robert, sir, if you don't mind.'

'Are there any spare keys?'

'They might be in the chairman's office, sir,' said Spittle.

'Look... Robert, I want you to go home and get a good night's sleep, okay? And I'll find the keys and turn every lock I can find. I'm sure Mr Bent will be with us tomorrow, but if he's not, I'll call a meeting of the senior clerks. I mean, hah, you must know how it all works!'

'Well, yes. Of course. Only... well... but...' The clerk's voice faded into silence.

But there's no Mr Bent, thought Moist. And he delegated with the same ease that oysters tango. What the hell are we going to do?

'There's people here? So much for bankers' hours,' said a voice from the doorway. 'In trouble again I hear.'