Liquid Death And Other Stories

by John Russell Fearn

  "No, sir. I've got the reports complete on the Grindberg business, and Doc. Andrews has sent in a further report on Grindberg. Seems it was rattlesnake venom that killed him."

  "Rattlesnake? Wonder how the hell an American serpent got over here…"

  Norden crossed to the desk and studied the report thoughtfully.

  "Rider on Post Mortem of Samuel Grindberg Dec'd. It is my opinion, after chemical analysis of the deceased's bloodstream, that death was caused by rattlesnake venom, within approximately ninety minutes of the bite. Closer investigation of the corpse reveals two small punctures at the base of the throat, which tally with the width of a rattlesnake's poison fangs."

  "Think of that!" Norden commented and, sitting down, he lifted the telephone. "Get me the chief caretaker at the Zoological Gardens, please, and make it quick."

  Returning the phone to its rest, he took from his pocket the solitary golden sovereign he had been inspecting the previous evening. Detective-Sergeant Withers raised a questioning eyebrow.

  "The Royal Mint never manufactured this coin, Jim," Norden said, holding it up. "I checked on it this morning, which is where I've been till now. On the other hand the metallurgy department tells me it contains all the necessary ingredients of a sovereign."

  "Right amount of gold, you mean?"

  "Right amount of gold and alloy."

  "Well, then—doesn't that make it legal tender?"

  Norden looked severe. "My dear man, where have you lived? Any coin which has not been produced by the Royal Mint is spurious. Dammit, if we had people turning out gold sovereigns just as they liked—correct proportion of gold and alloy notwithstanding—where would we be? This is a fake. Why Grindberg had it in his pocket, and whether it is connected with the murder of that poor girl Betty Lathom we don't know—but we may soon. I have Grindberg's son, Nathaniel, coming in this morning. He was out of town yesterday, so we couldn't get a statement from him…"

  Norden broke off and lifted the telephone. "Yes? Oh, yes—put him on. Zoo Supervisor? This is Chief Inspector Norden, C.I.D., Metropolitan Division. I'm busy on the Grindberg case. Maybe you read the facts? Uh-huh. Yes, well, that helps a lot. Grindberg was killed by a rattlesnake, apparently. Is there one missing from the zoo—or any of the zoos—that you know of? There isn't? No information about it? Yes, I see. Tell me, how long does a rattlesnake's bite take to prove fatal? Right. Yes—I see how you mean. Many thanks."

  Norden rang off and lighted his pipe slowly.

  "No escapes from the zoos, sir?" Withers asked.

  "Nothing at all and, if there had been, it would have been reported, naturally. Further, I'm not sure but that the captive snakes have their fangs drawn, anyway. But I was given the possible solution that the snake may have come over from America in some cargo somehow and escaped unnoticed—but that it happened to pick on Grindberg is the most amazing thing ever. Time of death from the bite varies from an hour to three hours, and as a rule it is fatal."

  "Whale of a queer business this, sir."

  Norden was about to answer when the door opened. "A Mr. Nathaniel Grindberg to see you, Inspector."

  "Ah, yes. Show him in, please." Norden got to his feet and held out his hand in welcome as the powerfully built son of the dead pawnbroker came in swiftly.

  "My condolences, Mr. Grindberg," Norden said, with a sympathetic smile. "Have a seat…"

  Nathaniel sat, fidgeting nervously with his hat. Norden summed him up briefly as he smoked, then:

  "Primarily, of course, we are investigating the murder and robbery in your late father's shop, Mr. Grindberg, but we are also trying to tie up the problem of your father's peculiar demise by snake-bite. It was reported to the police in the first place by boys playing in an old warehouse, who found the body. Up to now, there has been no suspicion of foul play; just, shall we say, death from misadventure. But the way things are shaping, the inquests on both your father and Miss Lathom will be adjourned, pending further enquiry. There may be a connection."

  "Possibly." the young man muttered. "But I can't think what. I know I'd like to get my hands on the swine who killed Betty. We were going to become engaged next year."

  "I see…" Norden picked up the sovereign from the desk. "Have you any idea where this came from? As you will know, it was found in your father's pocket."

  "I know." Nathaniel gave a gloomy nod. "It'd be one of the ten thousand he took from Mrs. Henshaw for examination before buying them."

  Withers looked up sharply from making notes of the conversation. On Norden's face there was no change of expression.

  "Ten thousand of them? That's a tremendous number of sovereigns. How do you know about them?"

  Nathaniel gave the facts. Then: "I'm surprised you don't know about them. They'll be in my father's safe in his office, I expect. I wanted to check on it myself, but the policeman on duty wouldn't allow me."

  "Only doing his duty, Mr. Grindberg. This Mrs. Henshaw, from whom you took the sovereigns on your handcart; what did she look like?"

  "Oh, around eighty, I'd say. Very bent, high-pitched voice, old-fashioned clothes. Seems the gas man found the sovereigns in the first place and he went and told dad, at Mrs. Hensliaw's request, of course."

  "Why your father, specifically?"

  "No idea. Because he was the nearest pawnbroker, I suppose."

  "I see." Norden knocked the ashes from his pipe. "And this elderly lady had bought number seventeen Caterham Gate, had she? And your father was to report on the sovereigns to her today?"

  "That's it. Maybe she doesn't know what's happened, and is still waiting for him."

  "She will very soon be acquainted with the facts," Norden said. "Man from the gas company to check the pipes, lay on the gas, or what?"

  "No idea of the reason for his visit, Inspector."

  Norden smiled. "Well, thank you, Mr. Grindberg. I shan't need to detain you any further. I'll keep in touch with you. You've no particular information you can give about Betty Lathom, I expect?"

  "Afraid not. You'll have got practically everything from her parents, haven't you?"

  "Yes; we did that yesterday. Her address was on her insurance card. Well, good day, Mr. Grindberg."

  Nathaniel shook hands and departed, leaving Norden biting on his extinguished briar. He wandered back to the desk and met Withers' excited glance.

  "Ten thousand sovereigns, sir! And all duds, if they are like that spare one we found on Grindberg. But they were not in the safe, even though young Nat evidently thought they were. Unless he's up to something."

  "I don't think so, Jim—though, in our job, we can't trust anybody by appearances. The point is," Norden continued, pointing his briar significantly, "this business begins to make sense. We have our tie-up. Those sovereigns were taken from Grindberg's safe, obviously, and that means that the other odd articles were probably only taken for effect. But for Grindberg's son, we'd never have known there were any more sovereigns. It definitely begins to look as though the sovereigns and Grindberg's death from snake-bite were all part of the same thing. The girl was perhaps wiped out to stop her talking."

  "And this Mrs. Henshaw? She's a new one."

  "Yes. Hop over to seventeen Caterham Gate, Jim, and see what you can dig up. I'll check on the gas authority and see if we can trace that gas man."

  "Right, sir."

  Withers whipped up his coat and hurried out as Norden crossed to the phone. Before long he was in touch with the right quarter in the gas company, and he was not particularly surprised, either, when he learned that no official from the gas company had ever been sent to seventeen Caterham Gate.

  Norden sat musing for a while when he had this response; then he looked through the reports, the photographs, the fingerprint records: Finally he picked up the sovereign.

  "Doesn't make sense," he muttered. "No man would make ten thousand sovereigns of the right gold and alloy amounts, and then go through all this palaver…" He switched on the interphone. "That you, Mort? Can you spare a moment
for a vital conversation?"

  "No—but I'll come, just the same. I know you would hardly be asking for me unless you were out of your depth—and I love seeing you murder boys eating humble pie."

  Norden switched off, smiling sourly to himself. After a while, Chief-Inspector Mortimer Dawson presented himself. He was tall, thin and keen-featured and, from his generally jovial manner it would have been difficult to realize that he was one of the Yard's 'boffins'. In other words, he was one of three Inspectors specially versed in scientific problems and, as such, was attached to the C.I.D.'s Scientific Division.

  "All right, I'm listening." he said, throwing himself in the nearest chair and lighting an extinguished stub of a cigarette. "What's on your mind, Arthur?"

  "The Grinberg business, to be exact. You said I was getting out of my depth, and you're dead right! The possibility is that the prime mover in the business is minting sovereigns—ten thousand of them that I know of. And the rub is that they're exactly right in weight, gold content, and all the rest of it. What kind of a lunatic would risk that? What would he get out of it'? Cost him more to fake the damned things than to sell them."

  "Depending." Dawson replied, "on how he did it. His method of manufacture, I mean. You're sure all ten thousand are what you might call 'genuine duds'?"

  "Here's one of the ten thousand. I can't guarantee all the others are like this, but it's an even chance that they are."

  Dawson took the coin handed to him and studied it with the eye of a specialist. Then he tossed it up and down in his palm.

  "I take your word for it that the contents are right?"

  "Not my word, Mort—the Mint's. I had it checked there. Now, what can I do? How can a man manufacture this sort of thing?"

  "Poor nose and beard on the profile," Dawson mused, still scrutinizing the coin. "Eh? How could they be manufactured? Very easily, if the secret happens to be known. I could do it myself if I knew the secret, and retire from this hell-fired business of working out other Inspectors' sums for them."

  "Would you mind coming to the point?" Norden demanded with sulphuric calm.

  "All right. The answer's transmutation—I think."

  Norden wrinkled his brow. "Isn't that something to do with souls?"

  "That, my learned friend, is transmigration—a very different matter. Transmutation is the atomic theory, the Philosopher's Stone of old-fashioned alchemy—the power to change other metals into gold."

  "It's damned impossible!"

  "Nothing is that, if you have a scientific mind. The scientists have striven for years to discover a way of changing one metal into another, even more so since the atomic theory came in. It is a controlled principle of adding or subtracting electrons from atoms of matter, thereby altering their constitution. A man who could do that—a brilliant nuclear physicist, for instance—could make a sovereign like this. Thousands or tens of thousands, like stamping out confetti from paper."

  "But—but you don't seriously mean that some criminal scientist is doing that?"

  "In this space and atomic age I can't think why not. The cost to him would be heavy—yes; but negligible, compared to the profit he'd make with those things in circulation. From what I can see, he's slipped up in the die-cast somewhere, and that's exposed the whole thing."

  Norden sighed and then irritably refilled his pipe. "Now I'm getting really sunk! I'm a straightforward murder man, with my murder box, lens, and band of helpers. I've never had a case I couldn't solve, but if I'm getting entangled with nuclear physicists who can turn things into gold—I'm quitting!"

  Dawson grinned and tossed the coin back on the table. "You can't quit. The Assistant Commissioner takes a dim view of that kind of thing."

  "I can transfer the case to a specialist. Yourself, for instance… Yes," Norden went on, musing through the smoke of his pipe, "the more I think of it, the more scientific this business becomes. The death of Grindberg, for instance, from the bite of a rattlesnake. Everything pathological says a rattlesnake did it, but somehow, I can't believe it. Whoever heard of a rattlesnake in the heart of London? Nobody else has been bitten, or else it hasn't been reported, and no snakes arc missing from the zoo. Do you think a snake-bite could be faked in some way?"

  "Surely." Dawson apparently had no doubt about it. He jabbed his cigarette in the ashtray and spread his hands. "You only want the venom and something that looks like snake-bite—and there you are; at least, I think so. I'm a scientist, not a specialized pathologist. Let's have Ensdale's view. He's the smartest pathologist and physicist we've got on the staff."

  Norden turned to the intercom and gave the necessary instructions; then they had to bide their time until Boyd Ensdale saw fit to grace the drab office with his presence. He was head of the pathology division and acting consultant to the scientists, quite one of the cleverest men at the Yard. His degrees ran into two columns of small type in 'Who's Who'.

  His appearance, when he arrived, bore no relation to his position or knowledge. He was of small build, untidy and with graying hair that looked as though nothing on earth would keep it under control. His features were nondescript but there was intelligence in the rapier-sharp gray eyes.

  "Yes, gentlemen?" he asked briefly, wandering in and perching absent-mindedly on the edge of the desk. "Is there something you want?"

  "Quite a deal, Mr. Ensdale, if you can spare the time for it." There was unction in Norden's voice. "It's the Grindberg case. It's taken a turn into the scientific regions."

  "Grindberg? Oh, yes—the snake-bite business."

  "Exactly—the snake-bite business," Norden agreed. "I can't credit that the snake-biting is genuine, and I'd like your opinion on whether such a thing could be faked."

  "Simple enough, I should think. You only need two needle-like prongs duplicating the width of the snake's double tongue, coat the prongs in venom, and there you are."

  "If you were to examine the body of Grindberg could you tell from the fatal wound he received whether it is genuine or a fake?"

  "It might be possible by micro-analysis of the wound tissue. If it is genuine, some traces of saliva from the snake will probably be obvious. If it is not genuine, no such sign will be present. Do you wish me to look?"

  "I'd be glad if you would," Norden assented. "Andrews is working on the corpse at the moment at the mortuary. I'll have a word with him and tell him you'll be coming over."

  "Right,' Ensdale said, slipping off the table. "I'll let you know all about it as soon as I can."

  He left the office in the same thoughtful way as he had entered it. The door had hardly closed behind him before the telephone rang. It was Detective-Sergeant Withers at the other end of the wire.

  "Nothing doing at seventeen Caterham Gate, sir," he announced. "Place is empty and locked up. According to neighbors, nobody has been seen near the place so far today."

  "Not very surprising," Norden replied. "Since the man from the gas company was also a fake. I assume Mrs. Henshaw was, as well. You'd better trace the agents who sold the house to Mrs. Henshaw and see if you…"

  "I already have, sir. A 'For Sale' notice had been stripped down from a top window and was lying on the floor. They're in the same road—Caterham Gate—and they…"

  "To the point, Jim. What did they say?"

  "Apparently, Mrs. Henshaw hadn't bought the place. She had only been given the key and a permit to view, said permit having a time expiry of two days. Evidently just long enough for her to complete her business with Grindberg. Needless to say, the key has not been returned to the agents' office."

  "Anything else?"

  "Yes. From what I have been able to find out, Grindberg senior wasn't exactly the soul of honor."

  "So I imagine—otherwise, he wouldn't have agreed to a deal in sovereigns about the origin of which he was by no means sure. All right, Jim, thanks. You might as well come back to the office."

  Norden switched off and glanced across at Dawson.

  "Plainly," Dawson said, "the whole thing is quit
e nicely organized from beginning to end. Still feel that you'd prefer me to take the job over?"

  "Definitely! Give me a straightforward killing, not a modern Midas. I want you to come with me to the A.C., and I'll try and get him to let me transfer the case to you."

  The Assistant Commissioner raised no objections, and Norden's relief was obvious as he handed over all records, notes and photographs to date. It had got to evening before Dawson, by now acquainted with the main facts, received the awaited report of Boyd Ensdale. It said:

  "Concerning Samuel Grindberg Dec'd—it is my opinion that the snake-bite wound is genuine. Micro-analysis of tissue from around the wound reveals traces of snake saliva, along with the venom."

  Dawson put the report on one side and lighted a cigarette. Detective-Sergeant Harriday, his right-hand man and also specially trained in the scientific group, picked up the report and studied it for himself.

  "Genuine, after all, sir. Damned amazing coincidence—don't you think?"

  "Too amazing. I don't believe it. I'm not doubting Ensdale's word, but I do think we're up against a criminal scientist with an uncanny gift for faking his effects to cover his traces. Tomorrow, in the daylight, we're going round to examine the warehouse where Grindberg was found."

  IV

  TO THE SURPRISE of 'Mopes', the Chief paid an unexpected visit to the mansion two days after the snake-bite death of Samuel Grindberg. As usual, he came by night and walked in on the strong-arm man to find him listening to the radio, his feet propped on the arm of one of the best chairs.

  "Shut that thing off!" the Chief ordered.

  "Sure thing." 'Mopes' obeyed and then looked surprised. "I thought you didn't mind me 'aving the radio and telly, boss?"

  "I don't—but not that loud. How would you expect to hear anybody prowling about? You didn't even hear me."

  "I never thought of that," 'Mopes' admitted, scratching his head.

  The Chief settled himself in the nearest chair and lighted a cigarette. Discreetly, 'Mopes' put his feet on the floor.