Making Money d-36 Read online

  But that had been only the start. Harry King's men took away everything. You saw their carts everywhere, especially around dawn. Every rag-and-bone man and rubbish siever, every dunnikin diver, every gongfermor, every scrap-metal merchant… you worked for Harry King, they said, because a broken leg was bad for business, and Harry was all about business. They said that if a dog in the street looked even a bit strained a King's man would be there in a flash to hold a shovel under its arse, because prime dog muck fetched 9p a bucket from the high-class tanners. They paid Harry. The city paid Harry. Everyone paid Harry. And what he couldn't sell back to them in more fragrant form went to feed his giant compost heaps downriver, which on frosty days sent up such great plumes of steam that kids called them the cloud factories.

  Apart from his hired help, King was accompanied by a skinny young man clutching a briefcase.

  'Nice place you got here,' said Harry, sitting down in the chair opposite Moist. 'Very sound. The wife's been on at me to get curtains like that. I'm Harry King, Mr Lipwig. I've just put fifty thousand dollars in your bank.'

  'Thank you very much, Mr King. We shall do our best to look after it.'

  'You do that. And now I'd like to borrow one hundred thousand, thank you,' said Harry, pulling out a fat cigar.

  'Have you got any security, Mr King?' said Bent.

  Harry King didn't even look at him. He lit the cigar, puffed it into life, and waved it in the general direction of Bent.

  'Who's this, Mr Lipwig?'

  'Mr Bent is our chief cashier,' said Moist, not daring to look at Bent's face.

  'A clerk, then,' said Harry King dismissively, 'an' that was a clerk's question.'

  He leaned forward. 'My name is Harry King. That's your security, right there, an' it should be good for a hundred grand in these parts. Harry King. Everyone knows me. I pay what's owing an' I take what's owed, my word, don't I just. My handshake is my fortune. Harry King.'

  He slammed his huge hands down on the table. Except for the pinky of his left hand, which was missing, there was a heavy gold ring on each finger, and each ring was incised with a letter. If you saw them coming at you, as for instance in an alley because you'd been skimming something off the take, the last name you would see would be H*A*R*R*Y*K*I*N*G. It was a fact worth keeping in the forefront of your brain, in the interests of keeping the forefront of your brain.

  Moist looked up into the man's eyes.

  'We shall need a lot more than that,' growled Bent, from somewhere above Moist.

  Harry King didn't bother to look up. He said: 'I only talks to the organ grinder.'

  'Mr Bent, could you step outside for a few minutes,' said Moist brightly, 'and perhaps Mr King's… associates will do the same?'

  Harry King nodded almost imperceptibly.

  'Mr Lipwig, I really—'

  'Please, Mr Bent.'

  The chief cashier snorted, but followed the thugs out of the office. The young man with the briefcase made as if to leave, but Harry waved him back into his seat.

  'You want to watch that Bent,' he said. 'There's something funny about him.'

  'Odd, maybe, but he wouldn't like to be called funny,' said Moist. 'So why does Harry King need money, Mr King? Everyone knows you're rich. Has the bottom dropped out of the dog-muck business? Or vice versa?'

  'I'm cons-sol-id-ating,' said King. 'This Undertaking business… there's going to be a few opportunities for a man in the right place. There's land to buy, palms to grease… you know how it is. But them other banks, they won't lend to King of the Golden River, for all it's my lads what keeps their cesspits fragrant as a violet. Them stuck-up ponces'd be up to their ankles in their own piss if it weren't for me, but they holds their noses when I walks by, oh yeah.' He stopped, as if a thought had occurred, and went on: 'Well, most people do, o'course, it's not like a man can take a bath every five bloody minutes, but that bunch of bankers still gives me the cold shoulder even when the wife has scrubbed me raw. How dare they! I'm a better risk than most of their smarmy customers, you can bet on that. I employs a thousand people in this city, mister, one way or another. That's a thousand families lookin' to me for their dinner. I might be about muck, but I don't muck about.'

  He's not a crook, Moist reminded himself. He pulled himself out of the gutter and beat his way to the top in a world where a length of lead pipe was the standard negotiating tool. That world wouldn't trust paper. In that world, reputation was all.

  'A hundred thousand is a lot of money,' he said aloud.

  'You'll give it to me, though,' said King, grinning. 'I knows you will, 'cos you're a chancer, same as me. I can smell it on you. I smell a lad who's done a thing or two in his time, eh?'

  'We all have to eat, Mr King.'

  ' 'course we do. 'course we do. An' now we can sit back like a coupla judges an' be pillows of the community, eh? So we'll shake hands on it like the gentlemen we ain't. This here,' he went on, laying a huge hand on the shoulder of the young man, 'is Wallace, my clerk what does the sums for me. He's new, on account of the last one I had I caught fiddlin' me. That was a laugh, as you can imagine!' Wallace didn't smile.

  'I probably can,' said Moist. Harry King guarded his various premises with creatures that could only be called dogs because wolves aren't that insane. And they were kept hungry. There were rumours, and Harry King was probably happy about that. It paid to advertise. You didn't double-cross Harry King. But it worked both ways.

  'Wallace can talk numbers with your monkey,' said Harry, standing up. 'You'll want to squeeze me, right enough. Business is business, and don't I know it. What do you say?'

  'Well, I'd say we have an agreement, Mr King,' Moist said. Then he spat on his hand and held it out.

  It was worth it to see the look on the man's face.

  'I didn't know bankers did that,' said Harry.

  'They don't often shake hands with Harry King, then,' said Moist. That was probably overdoing it, but King winked, spat on his own hand, and grasped Moist's. Moist had been prepared, but even so the man's grip ground his finger bones together.

  'You're more full of bullshit than a frightened herd on fresh pasture, Mr Lipwig.'

  'Thank you, sir. I take that as a compliment.'

  'And just to keep your monkey happy, I'll deposit the deeds of the paper mill, the big yard and a few other properties,' said Harry. 'Give 'em to the man, Wallace.'

  'You should have said that in the first place, Mr King,' said Moist, as some impressive scrolls were handed over.

  'Yeah, but I didn't. Wanted to make sure of you. When can I have my money?'

  'Soon. When I've printed it.'

  Harry King wrinkled his nose. 'Oh, yeah, the paper stuff. Me, I like money that clinks, but Wallace here says paper's the coming thing.' He winked. 'And it's not like I can complain, since ol' Spools buys his paper off'f me these days. Can't turn me nose up at me own manufacture now, can I? Good day to you, sir!'

  Mr Bent strode back into the office twenty minutes later, his face like a tax demand, to find Moist vaguely staring at a sheet of paper on the worn green leather desk.

  'Sir, I must protest—'

  'Did you nail him down to a good rate?' said Moist.

  'I pride myself that I did, but the way you—'

  'We will do well out of Harry King, Mr Bent, and he will do well out of us.'

  'But you're turning my bank into some sort of—'

  'Not counting friend Harry, we took in more than four thousand dollars today. Most of them were from what you'd call poor people, but there's far more of them than rich people. We can set that money to work. And we won't lend to scoundrels this time, don't you worry about that. I'm a scoundrel, and I can spot them a mile off. Please pass on our compliments to the counter staff. And now, Mr Bent, Mr Fusspot and I are going to see a man about making money.'

  Teemer & Spools had gone up in the world because of the big stamp contract. They'd always done the best printing work in any case, but now they had the men and muscle to bid for all t
he big contracts. And you could trust them. Moist always felt rather guilty when he went into the place; Teemer & Spools seemed to represent everything that he only pretended to be.

  There were plenty of lights on when he went in. And Mr Spools was in his office, writing in a ledger. He looked up and when he saw Moist smiled the smile you save for your very best customer.

  'Mr Lipwig! What can I do for you? Do take a seat! We don't see so much of you these days!'

  Moist sat and chatted, because Mr Spools liked to chat.

  Things were difficult. Things are always difficult. There were a lot more presses around these days. T&S were staying ahead of the game by staying on top of it. Regrettably, said Mr Spools, with a straight face, their 'friendly' rivals, the wizards at Unseen University Press, had come a cropper with their talking books—

  'Talking books? That sounds a good idea,' said Moist.

  'Quite possibly,' said Spools with a sniff. 'But these weren't meant to, and certainly not to complain about the quality of their glue and the hamfistedness of the typesetter. And of course now the university can't pulp them.'

  'Why not?'

  'Think of the screaming! No, I pride myself that we are still riding the wave. Er… was there something special you wanted?'

  'What can you do with this?' said Moist, putting one of the new dollars on the table.

  Spools picked it up and read it carefully. Then, in a faraway voice, he said: 'I did hear something. Does Vetinari know you're planning this?'

  'Mr Spools, I'll bet he knows my shoe size and what I had for breakfast.'

  The printer put down the bill as if it was ticking. 'I can see what you're doing. Such a small thing, and yet so dangerous.'

  'Can you print them?' said Moist. 'Oh, not that one. I made up a batch just to test the idea. I mean high-quality banknotes, if I can find an artist to draw them.'

  'Oh, yes. We are a byword for quality. We're building a new press to keep pace with demand. But what about security?'

  'What, in here? No one has ever bothered you so far, have they?'

  'No, they haven't. But up until now we haven't had lots of money lying around, if you see what I mean.'

  Spools held up the note and let it go. It wafted gently from side to side until it landed on the desk. 'So light, too,' he went on. 'A few thousand dollars would be no problem to carry.'

  'But kind of hard to melt down. Look, build the new press in the Mint. There's a lot of space. End of problem,' said Moist.

  'Well, yes, that would make sense. But a press is a big thing to move, you know. It'll take days to shift it. Are you in a hurry? Of course you are.'

  'Hire some golems. Four golems will lift anything. Print me dollars by the day after tomorrow and the first thousand you print are a bonus.'

  'Why are you always in such a hurry, Mr Lipwig?'

  'Because people don't like change. But make the change happen fast enough and you go from one type of normal to another.'

  'Well, we could hire some golems, I suppose,' said the printer. 'But I fear there are other difficulties less easy to overcome. Do you realize that if you start printing money then you will get forgeries. It's not worth the trouble, maybe, for a twenty-pence stamp, but if you want, say, a ten-dollar note… ?' He raised his eyebrows.

  'Probably, yes. Problems?'

  'Big ones, my friend. Oh, we can help. Decent linen paper with a pattern of raised threads, watermarks, a good spirit ink, change the plates often to keep it sharp, little tricks with the design… and make it complex, too. That's important. Yes, we could do it for you. They will be expensive. I strongly suggest you find an engraver as good as this…' Mr Spools unlocked one of the lower drawers of his desk and tossed a sheet of 50p Green 'Tower of Art' stamps on to the blotter. Then he handed Moist a large magnifying glass.

  'That's top-quality paper, of course,' the printer said as Moist stared.

  'You're getting very good. I can see every detail,' Moist breathed, poring over the sheet.

  'No,' said Spools, with some satisfaction. 'In fact, you cannot. You might, though, with this.' He unlocked a cupboard and handed Moist a heavy brass microscope.

  'He's put in more detail than we did,' he said, as Moist focused. 'It's at the very limit of what metal and paper can be persuaded to do. It is, I declare, a work of genius. He would be your salvation.'

  'Amazing,' said Moist. 'Well, we've got to have him! Who does he work for now?'

  'No one, Mr Lipwig. He is in prison, awaiting the noose.'

  ' Owlswick Jenkins?'

  'You testified against him, Mr Lipwig,' said Spools mildly.

  'Well, yes, but only to confirm that they were our stamps he was copying, and how much we might be losing! I didn't expect he'd be hanged!'

  'His lordship is always touchy when it's a case of treason against the city, as he describes it. I think Jenkins was badly served by his lawyer. After all, his work made our stamps look like the real forgeries. You know, I got the impression the poor chap didn't really realize that what he was doing was wrong.'

  Moist recalled the watery frightened eyes and the expression of helpless puzzlement. 'Yes,' he said. 'You may be right.'

  'Could you perhaps use your influence with Vetinari't—'

  'No. It wouldn't work.'

  'Ah. Are you sure?'

  'Yes,' said Moist flatly.

  'Well, you see, there's only so much we can do. We can even number the bills automatically now. But the artwork must be of the finest kind. Oh dear. I'm sorry. I wish I could help. We owe you a great debt, Mr Lipwig. So much official work is coming in now that we'd need the space in the Mint. My word, we're practically the government's printer!'

  'Really?' said Moist. 'That's very… interesting.'

  It rained ungracefully. The gutters gargled, and tried to spit. Occasionally the wind caught the cascading overflow from the rooftops and slapped a sheet of water across the face of anyone who looked up. But this was not a night to look up. This was a night to scurry, bent double, for home.

  Raindrops hit the windows of Mrs Cake's boarding house, specifically the one in the rear room occupied by Mavolio Bent, at the rate of twenty-seven a second, plus or minus fifteen per cent.

  Mr Bent liked counting. You could trust numbers, except perhaps for pi, but he was working on that in his spare time and it was bound to give in sooner or later.

  He sat on his bed, watching the numbers dance in his head. They'd always danced for him, even in the bad times. And the bad times had been so very bad. Now, perhaps, there were more ahead.

  Someone knocked at his door. He said, 'Come in, Mrs Cake.'

  The landlady pushed open the door.

  'You always know it's me, don't you, Mr Bent,' said Mrs Cake, who was more than a trifle nervous of her best lodger. He paid his rent on time — exactly on time — and he kept his room scrupulously clean and, of course, he was a professional gentleman. All right, he had a haunted look about him and there was that odd business with his carefully adjusting the clock before he went to work every day, but she was prepared to put up with that. There was no shortage of lodgers in this crowded city, but clean ones who paid regularly and never complained about the food were thin enough on the ground to be worth cherishing, and if they put a strange padlock on their wardrobe, well, least said soonest mended.

  'Yes, Mrs Cake,' said Bent. 'I always know it's you because there is a distinctive one point four seconds between the knocks.'

  'Really? Fancy!' said Mrs Cake, who rather liked the sound of 'distinctive'. 'I always say you're the man for the adding-up. Er, there is going to be three gentlemen downstairs asking after you…'

  'When?'

  'In about two minutes,' said Mrs Cake.

  Bent stood up in one unfolding movement, like a Jack-in-the-box. 'Men? What will they be wearing?'

  'Well, er, just, you know, clothes?' said Mrs Cake uncertainly. 'Black clothes. One of them will hand me his card, but I won't be able to read it because I'll have my wrong spectacles on
. Of course, I could go and put the right ones on, obviously, but I get such a headache if I don't let a premonition go properly. Er… and now you're going to say "Please let me know when they arrive, Mrs Cake".' She looked at him expectantly. 'Sorry, but I had a premonition that I'd come up to tell you I had a premonition, so thought I'd better. It's a bit silly, but none of us can change how we're made, I always say.'

  'Please let me know when they arrive, Mrs Cake,' said Bent. Mrs Cake gave him a grateful look before hurrying away.

  Mr Bent sat down again. Life with Mrs Cake's premonitions could get a little intricate at times, especially now they were becoming recursive, but it was part of the Elm Street ethos that you were charitable towards the foibles of others in the hope of a similar attitude to your own. He liked Mrs Cake, but she was wrong. You could change how you were made. If you couldn't, there was no hope.

  After a couple of minutes he heard the ring of the bell, the muted conversation, and went through the motions of surprise when she knocked on his door.

  Bent inspected the visiting card.

  'Mr Cosmo? Oh. How strange. You had better send them up.' He paused, and looked around. Subdivision was rife in the city now. The room was exactly twice the size of the bed, and it was a narrow bed. Three people in here would have to know one another well. Four would know one another well whether they wanted to or not. There was a small chair, but Bent kept it on top of the wardrobe, out of the way.

  'Perhaps just Mr Cosmo,' he suggested.

  The man was proudly escorted in a minute later.

  'Well, this is a wonderful little hideaway, Mr Bent,' Cosmo began. 'So handy for, um—'

  'Nearby places,' said Bent, lifting the chair off the wardrobe. 'There you are, sir. I don't often have visitors.'

  'I'll come straight to the point, Mr Bent,' said Cosmo, sitting down. 'The directors do not like the, ha, direction things are going. I'm sure you don't, either.'

  'I could wish for them to be otherwise, sir, yes.'

  'He should have held a directors' meeting!'

  'Yes, sir, but bank rules say he needn't do so for a week, I'm afraid.'