Liquid Death And Other Stories

by John Russell Fearn

  The elderly man reflected, then the young man gave a shrug.

  "Might as well, grandpa. Whoever you take these coins to, they'd have to examine them as Mr. Goldstein wishes to do. Only to be expected."

  "Ah, well—I suppose so. I so dislike delays. Very well, Mr. Goldstein; give me your receipt and I will return this time tomorrow. My name is Vincent P. Caxton—if you wish to know."

  Goldstein nodded and laboriously wrote out a receipt, upon which his two customers left with the promise to return at five-forty-five the following afternoon.

  And, at the home of a certain famous financier and industrialist in Mayfair, there took place that same evening a most confidential meeting between the financier himself—Elliot K. Marsden—and globe-trotter Jeremiah (Jerry) Bax, just back from a jaunt which had kept him out of England for twelve years. Long enough for society to forget about him, even to think of him as a complete stranger when he landed back. Jerry Bax was a clever man. He had the charm necessary to convince the devil himself that black can be white—sometimes.

  "Thirty thousand sovereigns, eh?" Elliot K. Marsden drew gently on his cigar and surveyed the three boxes which three strong servants had carried into this library a little while earlier. "It's mighty good going, Jerry."

  "So I think." Jerry was a tall, easy-going man in the early fifties, military in features, bronzed in complexion, and nearly always smiling. "I never expected to find the damned treasure mind you. I knew of it from an old sailor friend of mine. He knew the stuff had been buried on one of the remote Pacific islands when the ship carrying it had been wrecked, but I was the only man to find it. Naturally, I want to make something out of it. It occurred to me you might want to make something out of it, too—not as actual sovereigns, but as gold in bulk. So it's up to you."

  The financier picked up one or two of the coins and examined them intently.

  "They look genuine enough."

  "Look! They damned well are. Put them through any test you like."

  "I intend to, before we talk business. I've asked Walters to come over. He's my chief analyst."

  "Analyst?" Jerry frowned. "What on earth has a financier in common with an analyst?"

  Elliot K. grinned. "You've evidently forgotten that I own a number of combines—steel, rubber, plastics, and heaven knows what. I could be swindled with materials if it were not for my analysts—and Walters is the best of them all."

  Jerry shrugged. "Okay. But I'm surprised you can't take my word. I'm well known enough."

  "With all due respect, Jerry, I've only your word for that, too. Nobody seems to remember you in select circles, in spite of your saying you were once closely connected with them."

  "Twelve years is a long time, E.K. People forget, and…"

  "Mr. Walters, sir," the manservant announced gravely as he appeared like a phantom.

  "Oh, yes, Peters; show him in here, please."

  Walters was a thin-nosed, unsmiling man of uncertain age, carrying with him a square box of portable equipment. He said "good evening" to his employer, nodded briefly to Jerry Bax and then—having been given his instructions beforehand—went to work on six selected sovereigns. In silence the industrialist and the explorer watched him, even though they could not follow the entire sequence of the test. The acid and the weight tests were obvious enough, but other experiments between magnets, and using instruments like flashlamps except that they had no beams—were beyond them. Nor did Walters' expression give anything away.

  Finally, however, he folded up his equipment and tossed the coins back in the nearest box.

  "Genuine gold in each case, Mr. Marsden," he announced. "Atomic weight is correct, and so is the response to ultrasonic vibration. Acid-proof and correct normal weight—as opposed to atomic."

  "Then, if those six are pure gold, so must the others be?"

  Walters flashed a brief glance at Jerry. "I suppose so. One could hardly select six at random, sir, and have all the others spurious."

  "I should damned well think not!" Jerry objected. "Look here, E.K., what do you take me for?"

  "All right—no offence!" the financier grinned. "Can't blame me for taking precautions. Right, Walters, that's all. Many thanks."

  The analyst nodded and took his departure. Marsden poured out drinks and brought them back to the table, handing one to Jerry.

  "All right—we talk business," he said. "What's your price?"

  "Top market value, of course. Two hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. I can get that anywhere, and you know it. You, using them for their actual gold value, can probably make a handsome profit, even at that figure."

  "Could be," the tycoon grinned. "But my figure is one hundred and ninety thousand, top limit. I'm going to be under considerable expense operating with so much gold."

  "One hundred and ninety-five thousand, or I go elsewhere."

  Marsden reflected and then held out his hand. "One hundred and ninety-five thousand it is. You shall have my check before you leave this evening. Now let's have another drink."

  * * * *

  A week after the various negotiations in sovereigns had been completed, a group of men sat in a secluded country house some thirty miles from London. The house was unique in that it stood in its own somewhat neglected grounds and that the nearest neighbor was a good three miles away. Even the main road that ran from London to the south coast was a good half-mile distant so, in every way, the house was admirably suited for men working against the law.

  The men arrived at the house by different routes and at varying intervals, and always by night. Unless they were specially watched, which they were quite certain they were not, nobody could report upon their comings and goings. So, finally, every man was present. Two of them were the elderly gentleman of culture and his powerful 'grandson'; another was Nick Gregson from the demolition squad; and there was also the smiling, military looking Jerry Bax. In addition to these, there also lounged in the big, comfortably furnished library a square-headed, unimaginative strong-arm man by the name of 'Mopes' McCall, two years a fugitive from Dartmoor, and of whom the police had lost trace.

  They waited without speaking to each other, some of them smoking and meditating, others playing cards. But each was alert for the least sound from the night outside. It was nearly midnight, and one more had still to come.

  He came just after Jerry Bax had glanced at his watch—and immediately every man was on his feet, revolver or automatic ready for action, only to replace them as the immaculate man known only as the 'Chief' came into the library. All knew his real identity and his position in the social scale, but none had ever dared to betray him. He was much too powerful for that.

  "Good evening, gentlemen," he said briefly, removing his overcoat, homberg and scarf. "All of you here, I see. Good! I only hope the presence of each one of you is indicative of good news."

  "Far as I'm concerned, Chief, no doubt about it," Jerry Bax remarked, lighting a cigarette.

  "Splendid!" The Chief crossed to the deep armchair beside the electric fire and settled himself. "Now, my friends, how is the little business with the sovereigns progressing? Your reports, please, one at a time. You first, Jerry."

  Jerry grinned and, from his wallet, handed across Elliot K. Marsden's open check for 195,000 pounds sterling. The Chief took it and raised his eyebrows.

  "I said two hundred and twenty-five thousand, Jerry. What's this?"

  "Best I could do. Marsden's no easy nut to crack. You know as well as I do that that many sovereigns couldn't be handled—er—conveniently in the ordinary course of business, except over a very long period. I took the best bargain I could."

  "Mmm. Very well. And you, Larry?"

  The elderly culturist smiled complacently and produced another check.

  "Twenty two thousand five hundred, Chief. Full market price, and not much trouble, either. Goldstein was extremely thorough before he'd part with his money. though."

  "My congratulations, Larry—and to your mythical grandson. And
what about you, Nick?"

  Nick Gregson looked uncomfortable as he handed over a large envelope containing his 11,250 pounds sterling. The Chief counted the notes swiftly and then narrowed his eyes.

  "Where's the rest of it, Nick?"

  "That's all there is, Chief—so help me! That old devil Garside beat me down to half price—an' even less—an' there wus nothin' I could do about it. I said at first that idea of plantin' me an' them sovereigns in a demolition area wus crazy; now I'm sure of it."

  "I placed you, Nick, where your lack of education and finesse fitted you best. You've done very badly, but I'm prepared to believe you are speaking the truth, because you know where you'll finish up if you are not…"

  The Chief made a mental calculation. "Two hundred and twenty eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds. Very fair, considering our actual outlay has not been very great. Fifty per cent of this total is mine, and the remainder is yours to divide between you as you see fit. I'll have no part in your squabbles as you endeavor to apportion it. Understand?"

  The others nodded silently and looked menacingly at each other—or, more correctly, Nick Gregson looked menacingly at everybody else.

  "What about mc, Chief?" 'Mopes' McCall objected, his chair on its hind legs against the wall. "Don't I get anythin' for stayin' here like a dumb cluck in case anything happens?"

  "You get your normal pay, 'Mopes', and nothing else. You can't be expected to cash in on proceeds which you haven't attempted to earn."

  "I was willin'!" 'Mopes' shouted, pulling an immensely thick notebook from his shirt pocket. "Look here, I've a list of mugs who'd fall for the sovereign racket any time we…"

  "I'll decide how to run our—er—financial concern," the Chief interrupted. "Don't start getting big ideas, 'Mopes', in case the police suddenly discover where you are.'

  Muttering to himself, 'Mopes' relaxed again, inspecting his thick notebook pensively; then Jerry Bax asked a question somewhat uncertainly:

  "When these sovereigns reach the markets, Chief, isn't there likely to be trouble?"

  "Why should there be? Sovereigns are being found every day by all manner of people. A sudden influx of them should not occasion any surprise. Even if it does, it doesn't matter. These sovereigns are real gold, even though they have never been actually in the Royal Mint at any time."

  Jerry shook his head worriedly. "That's the bit I can't get over—how you produce real gold without there being any. It's nothin' short of damned uncanny!"

  The Chief shrugged. "One might as well say that it is uncanny for somebody's moving picture to be projected for thousands of miles through empty space—but it isn't. We call it television. It is simply an accomplishment of science—just as is the art of turning base metals and unwanted alloys into gold. We live in a scientific age, my friend, and the old days of the counterfeiter, with his clumsy press, have gone into the discard, along with the horse-drawn trams. I must admit, though," the Chief added pensively, "that I hit on the secret by accident. When I knew I could manufacture gold whenever I wanted, the thing to do was to distribute it. Hence my selection of each one of you. Just the right type! All of you wanted by the law. One word from me, and…"

  There was silence for a moment Then another blunt question—this time from the 'grandson'.

  "If you can make gold as easily as you say you can, why all this messing about with sovereigns and making the right contacts to receive them? Why don't you cut everybody else out, make gold bricks, and dump them in your bank?"

  "You reveal profound lack of experience, my young friend," the Chief commented. "One cannot haphazardly dump gold bricks in a bank, as you seem to think. A strict watch is kept on all gold reserves, and one or several gold bricks out of thin air would be a matter for investigation. Sovereigns, though, can appear in their thousands without raising suspicion, being deemed the secret hordes of misers, financiers, and such. It is by far the best method. Slow, yes—but sure. For instance, having just completed a clean-up, we must now lie low for a time."

  "For myself, sir," observed Larry, the elderly man, "I bow before your scientific knowledge. We have a brilliant man leading us—brilliant in crime and in his normal profession."

  "We'll keep my normal profession out of this," the Chief said brusquely. "And to satisfy all of you, now I know you are to be trusted—otherwise you would have tried to give me the slip with much of the money you've recently made—I'll show you just what is done to make these coins. 'Mopes' knows already, since he guards this place but, fortunately, he hasn't the intelligence to understand anything."

  The gunman's thick lips opened at the start of a protest, and then closed again. Scowling, he resumed his study of the thick notebook he still held in his beefy hands.

  The Chief rose. "Come with me, my friends. I think you will be intrigued—with the possible exception of Nick here, whose mentality is about on a par with that of 'Mopes'."

  "At least I can pull a deal, which is more'n he can do!'' Nick objected.

  "Pull a deal? At half the possible value? My dear Nick!"

  Smiling cynically, the Chief opened the library door and led the way across the broad hall. Presently he reached the paneled side of the massive staircase, one of which panels flew open under the actuation of a tiny switch. Beyond the panel loomed a staircase, clearly illuminated since lights from below had automatically come into action.

  "You know, my friends," the Chief commented, as he led the way downstairs, "I count myself lucky to have been able to buy this old mansion. Absolutely ideal in every way—even to these great wine cellars that I have turned into one big laboratory. Ah, here we are. Look around for yourselves."

  The assembled men were already doing so, mostly in amazement. Nick Gregson indeed was pretty near to gaping and perhaps with good reason. There was electrical apparatus in all directions, and practically all of it of highly modern electronic design. There were also anode and cathode globes on pillars, electro-magnets, cathode ray tubes, and all manner of complicated equipment of like character.

  "You must use plenty of juice to run this laboratory, Chief," Jerry Bax commented. "Aren't you afraid the power and light authorities might ask questions some time?"

  "There's your answer to that." The Chief indicated three massive generators. "I use enough power to start them up and, after that, they run themselves in non-stop stages and. of course, they supply me with adequate power. Yes, my friends, there is a wealth of secrets down here; the accumulation of years of specialized knowledge—to say nothing of the expenditure of a considerable amount of money. And if you have scientific knowledge, you might as well use it to the best advantage. Government scientists, one of which I could have become—are poorly paid. I prefer big money, and in time I shall have it. All of us will."

  There was a pause as the men surveyed the other part of the laboratory, which appeared to be devoted to chemistry, judging from the test-tubes, retorts and scores of mysteriously labeled bottles. Then the Chief began moving briskly, talking again as he did so.

  "I promised to show you how this gold business is done. Right—see here."

  He motioned to the cathode ray tube equipment and indicated the small matrix at the base of it. Into it he placed a chunk of iron, then closed the matrix door and pulled a lever that completely surrounded the matrix with lead.

  "This isn't magic, you know," he said dryly, switching on two of the generators. "The secret of metal transmutation came in when atomic power was found. Indeed, metal transmutation is atomic power. It simply consists of forcing into a piece of matter the requisite number of electrons to make it change its material state. The cathode ray tube, linked up to that electro-magnetic equipment there, does just that."

  "You mean," Jerry Bax said, always the brightest of the gang, "that you've found the way to alter any material structure, so it becomes something else?"

  "That's it—but in the higher orders I have much more work yet to do. Iron, for those of you who can understand me, is called iron becau
se it is a chunk of matter having twenty-six electrons flying round the proton, or nucleus. But add fifty-three more electrons to each atomic group within the material, and you have seventy-nine altogether in each group. That piece of matter is then called gold, because of the seventy-nine electrons. In some cases, electrons are withdrawn to go from a heavier element to a lighter one. Understand me?"

  The 'grandson' and Nick Gregson plainly did not, but Jerry and the elderly Larry nodded slowly. Though they were not by any means nuclear physicists, they gathered the drift and each had, at some time, heard of the Periodic table of elements.

  "Yes," the Chief mused, watching the instruments, "we have come a long way since the days of the housebreaker, with the bull's-eye lantern and a jemmy in his hand. Crime these days is a scientific art, my friends, in every sense of the word, and nothing less than a skilled opponent can hope to beat the police, for they are not fools, either, believe me."

  "Well, you're in a position to know!" Jerry grinned.

  The Chief said nothing. He calmly studied the instruments while those around him backed away slightly before the somewhat terrifying display of electrical power sizzling and flashing around them. Man-made lightning was climbing up and down magnetic pillars; the cathode ray tube was alive with lavender coruscations.

  Then, at the stroke of a switch, everything ceased and the Chief opened up the matrix. From it he withdrew in a pair of tongs a chunk of gold, somewhat larger than the chunk of iron that had originally been placed there.

  "If that isn't magic, I don't know what is, Chief!" the 'grandson' exclaimed, staring.

  The Chief only smiled and carried the chunk across to a bench whereon stood a variety of moulds and electric furnaces.

  "Here is where the job is finished," he explained. The gold is correctly adulterated and…"

  "Adulterated!" Jerry exclaimed. "But a sovereign is pure gold, isn't it?"

  "It is twenty-two parts pure gold and two parts alloy," the Chief corrected. "Its weight is fixed at 123.27447 grains troy. Any sovereign responding to that weight is okay—as all ours are. Loosely, one considers it pure gold, but I haven't fallen into the trap. I have made careful research. Now here, you see the various moulds, made by a master-craftsman of my acquaintance, covering various periods from 1489, when the sovereign first appeared, onwards. The heads of the various kings or queens are here in the moulds, with the appropriate die-casts of the sovereign's other side."