Making Money

‘Only for trifling sums, a few dollars here and there,’ he said dismissively. ‘It would appear that they think you have “something up your sleeve”.’ The inverted commas shuddered like a well-bred girl picking up a dead vole.

Some of Moist recoiled. But part of him began to feel the wind on his face.

‘Well, let’s not disappoint them, shall we?’ he said, picking up the gold top hat, which was still a bit sticky. Bent glared at it.

‘The other banks are furious, you know,’ he said, high-stepping hurriedly after Moist as the Master of the Mint headed for the stairs.

‘Is that good or bad?’ said Moist over his shoulder. ‘Listen, what’s the rule about bank lending? I heard it once. It’s about interest.’

‘Do you mean “Borrow at one-half, lend at two, go home at three”?’ said Bent.

‘Right! I’ve been thinking about that. We could shave those numbers, couldn’t we?’

‘This is Ankh-Morpork! A bank has to be a fortress! That is expensive!’

‘But we could alter them a bit, couldn’t we? And we don’t pay interest on balances of less than a hundred dollars, correct?’

‘Yes, that is so.’

‘Well, from now on anyone can open an account with five dollars and we’ll start paying interest a lot earlier. That’ll smooth out the lumps in the mattresses, won’t it?’

‘Master, I protest! Banking is not a game!’

‘Dear Mr Bent, it is a game, and it’s an old game called “What can we get away with?”.’

A cheer went up. They had reached an open landing that overlooked the hall of the bank as a pulpit overlooks the sinners, and a field of faces stared up at Moist in silence for a moment. Then someone called out: ‘Are you going to make us all rich, Mr Lipwig?’

Oh damn, thought Moist. Why are they all here?

‘Well, I’m going to do my best to get my hands on your money!’ he promised.

This got a cheer. Moist wasn’t surprised. Tell someone you were going to rob them and all that happened was that you got a reputation as a truthful man.

The waiting ears sucked at his tongue, and his common sense went and hid. It heard his mouth add: ‘And so I can get more of it, I think — that is to say, the chairman thinks — that we should be looking at one per cent interest on all accounts that have five dollars in them for a whole year.’

There was a choking sound from the chief cashier, but no great stir from the crowd, most of whom were of the Sock Under The Mattress persuasion. In fact, the news did not appear to please. Then someone raised his hand and said: ‘That’s a lot to pay just to have you stick our money in your cellar, isn’t it?’

‘No, it’s what I’ll pay you to let me stick your money in my cellar for a year,’ said Moist.

‘You will?’

‘Certainly. Trust me.’

The enquirer’s face twisted into the familiar mask of a slow thinker trying to speed up. ‘So where’s the catch?’ he managed.

Everywhere, thought Moist. For one thing, I won’t be storing it in my cellar, I’ll be storing it in someone else’s pocket. But you really don’t need to know that right now.

‘No catch,’ he said. ‘If you put a hundred dollars on deposit, then after a year it’ll be worth one hundred and one dollars.’

‘That’s all very well for you to say, but where would the likes of me get a hundred dollars?’

‘Right here, if you invest just one dollar and wait for — how long, Mr Bent?’

The chief cashier snorted. ‘Four hundred and sixty-one years!’

‘Okay, it’s a bit of a wait, but your great-great-great-et cetera grandchildren will be proud of you,’ said Moist, above the laughter. ‘But I’ll tell you what I’ll do: if you open an account here today for, oh, five dollars, we’ll give you a free dollar on Monday. A free dollar to take away, ladies and gentlemen, and where are you going to get a better deal than—’

‘A real dollar, pray, or one of these fakes?’

There was a commotion near the door, and Pucci Lavish swept in. Or, at least, tried to sweep. But a good sweep needs planning, and probably a rehearsal. You shouldn’t just go for it and hope. All you get is a lot of shoving.

The two heavies there to clear a way through the press of people were defeated by sheer numbers, which meant that the rather slimmer young men leading her exquisitely bred blond hounds got stuck behind them. Pucci had to shoulder her way through.

It could have been so good, Moist felt. It had all the right ingredients: the black-clad bruisers so menacing, the dogs so sleek and blond. But Pucci herself had been blessed with beady, suspicious little eyes and a generous upper lip which combined with the long neck to put the honest observer in mind of a duck who’d just been offended by a passing trout.