Liquid Death And Other Stories

by John Russell Fearn

  "Something wrong, Chief?" he asked presently. "I didn't expect you comin'."

  "So I noticed, with your number twelves defiling the furniture. As for there being something wrong—yes, there is. All traceable to you. First, the damaged mould which gave away the sovereign racket; then the killing of that youngster, Betty Lathom. I've a mind to rub you out, 'Mopes'."

  The other man's eyes hardened. He was prepared to fight for his life if he had to, but he much preferred the easier way of just taking orders.

  "Right now, you can be useful," the Chief continued, musing. "I don't know whether you've heard about it on that radio or not, but the Grindberg business has been transferred to Chief-Inspector Dawson, of the Yard's scientific division. And I don't like it. He's dangerous. Got more knowledge in his little finger than an ordinary copper has in his whole brain-box. We've got to make ourselves reasonably safe, 'Mopes'."

  "Anything you say, Chief."

  "Dawson has put it out to the press that, although all pathological reports show that Grindberg died of the venom of a rattlesnake, he doesn't believe it, and he's going to leave nothing unturned to prove that the 'bite' was deliberately created by artificial means. That can get you—and, in time, all of us—in a sticky mess, my friend."

  "Uh-huh. What do I do, then? Watch out for this mug Dawson and rub him out?"

  "No! And stop being so damned crude. You'd only make things worse by killing a Yard man—and a special scientific fellow, at that. I've thought it out, and I think we can save ourselves by having three more killings at widely separated places. Not too widely, though. By that, I mean not all of them in one spot."

  'Mopes' sat listening, the set of his thick lips showing he had not in the least gathered the drift as yet.

  "Dawson thinks the snake-bite was phony, apparently because Grindberg happened to be the victim. He might incline to thinking it was coincidence if three other people, quite unconnected with Grindberg, also die of snake-bite. The death of all four would then be lumped together as being caused by a solitary rattlesnake loose somewhere in the city. It would probably swing things away from us."

  "Could be," 'Mopes' admitted, after a spell of profound concentration. "Make it look natural-like."

  "Exactly. And that's where you come into it. I want you to select four people at random, all within a quarter mile area of each other, and 'snake-bite' 'em. Tonight, for preference. You shouldn't have any difficulty."

  "Okay," 'Mopes' growled. "Anything else?"

  "No. Get on with the job and return here…" The Chief got to his feet. "I'll be round again in due course, when I have need. At the moment we've all got to lie low until the heat's off. For some things, I wish I hadn't to trust so much to you, but it can't be helped. Oh, fresh provisions will be sent in for you tomorrow by the usual firm."

  With a nod the Chief went on his way and a moment or two afterwards, the front door of the mansion was slammed. 'Mopes' lighted a cigarette and hummed a tune to himself as he hurried down into the laboratory. He was pleased at the prospect of a night out.

  From the shelf of the bottles he took down the simple instrument for making the 'snake-bite', examining it carefully. It consisted of a stainless steel blowpipe, with a double end, exactly spaced so it was the width of a snake's twin-tongued fangs. Or rather, it was slightly under the required width since it was, in basis, a blowpipe, and the darts therefrom would arrive in a victim more widely spaced than at the source of their journey.

  Slipping his weapon in his jacket pocket, 'Mopes' crossed to the refrigerator and from it took one of many self-freezing capsules, coated inside with dry ice and in themselves miniature refrigerators. These were the creation of the Chief. Within the capsules were about twenty glass-like tiny darts, actually nothing more than icicles, with rattlesnake venom frozen within them. The idea was deadly and brilliant. The ice slivers made the necessary punctures in the victim, and then promptly melted and released the venom into the bloodstream. 'Mopes' had never worked with so foolproof a weapon, and it suited his childish, brutal mind to blow darts with unerring accuracy.

  Still humming to himself, capsule in his pocket alongside the blowpipe, he hurried upstairs again, wrapped himself up in his overcoat, drew his soft hat low down, and then left the mansion. In a matter of minutes he was driving swiftly down the main road that led eventually into the city. By early morning he was back again, and such was his nature he slept easily on the thought that one man and two women had died at his hands that night, horribly, in the destructive anguish of poison, before help could reach them.

  The news of it reached Scotland Yard next day, from different sources. First, one of the women was found, then the man and, finally, the other woman. Because Grindberg had also died of snake-bite, it seemed proper that these latest deaths from a similar cause should be laid at the door of Chief-Inspector Dawson.

  "So we get deeper into the mire," he commented bitterly, when he had looked through all three reports.

  "I'd say exactly the opposite, sir," Detective-Sergeant Harriday commented. "We're relieved of one worry, surely? We know now that Grindberg's death from snake-bite was coincidental and not deliberate. Otherwise, why were these other folk wiped out? They're totally unconnected with the Grindberg business, or indeed with anything at all out of the ordinary, if these reports are to be believed."

  "Coroner informed of each case," Dawson mused. "Let me see, now…" He switched on the interphone and contacted Boyd Ensdale in the pathological division. "Dawson here, sir. How about the three snake-bite victims which have come in? Are you making out the reports on them for the coroner?"

  "No," came Ensdale's voice. "Andrews is doing that, but he asked for my opinion. It's the same as in the case of Grindberg. Genuine snake-bite. Time that blasted serpent was found and killed, if you ask me."

  "Yes, indeed," Dawson agreed. "And thank you, sir."

  He switched off, lighted a cigarette and. plumed smoke from his nostrils.

  "Somebody," he said slowly, "is being very clever. Tell me something, Bob: if you were deliberately faking snake-bite wound, and had got rid of a possibly dangerous person by that method, what would you do to throw the police off the scent?"

  Harriday reflected for a moment and then snapped his fingers.

  "Polish off some independent victims to make it look as though the first snake attack was genuine."

  "Right! And that's what's happened here, I think. Which is all to the good. It shows we have our man worried—otherwise, he wouldn't go to such lengths."

  "And where are we?" Harriday sighed. "Not a lead, not a clue. That warehouse certainly didn't tell us anything, and we can't pick up any information concerning the attack in the shop since nobody seems to have noticed what went on. The only concrete thing we have got is that 'Mopes' McCall is mixed up in it somewhere—but we've no way of finding out where he is."

  "Not at the moment," Dawson agreed, pondering. "Plainly, though, he isn't the brains behind all this. I think we need to look for a skilled scientist, and since there aren't so many in the country, we can do a bit of elimination and check on the movements of each one. Yes—that's it! I'll have lists of likely ones made out, and then I'll study them. In the meantime, since we haven't got anything else, you can go to work on another angle."

  "And what's that, sir?"

  "Make a tour of every scrap metal foundry and yard you can dig up. He certainly won't pay top price for it, unless he's crazy, so that leads us to the junk and scrap yards. Find out what you can."

  "That I will, sir. And there's also another angle. He can't make transmutations without some pretty costly up-to-date scientific apparatus. Maybe if we contacted the suppliers of generators, cathode ray tubes and general electronic equipment, we might get a lead."

  "Very good idea," Dawson conceded. "I'll tackle that over the phone, Bob. You get busy on the junk yards—now!"

  Harriday wasted no more time. Neither, for that matter, did Dawson. But, as they realized, they had both started on a t
ask which might take several days to complete, and in the interval there was nothing could be done. Amongst other things, reports were gathered from the banks of modern coins suspected to be spurious—in various denominations—and they were submitted to Dawson for examination. So cleverly were they molded, it was well nigh impossible to distinguish them from the real thing. Even the banks had been fooled. But the electron-microscope in the Yard's laboratory of physical research was not deceived. Side by side with genuine coins, the false ones revealed themselves by flaws in the lettering round the sides—flaws so minute that even an ordinary microscope could not spot them.

  "Which," Dawson declared, when Harriday enquired into progress, "reveals that we're at work on a man, or number of men, who have considerable skill, and who probably relied on the fact that nobody would go to the length of using scientific instruments like the electron-microscope."

  "I don't suppose we would have done, sir, but for the fact that we found that phony sovereign on Grindberg. Everything has sprung from that."

  "Everything except a definite lead to take us to the heart of this business," Dawson muttered. "There's got to be a way, somehow…"

  Meanwhile, at the mansion, 'Mopes' McCall was by no means in a good temper The provisions which the Chief had promised him had been duly delivered the night before—the night after he'd dealt with his three 'snake-bite' victims—but he had only just discovered, in unpacking them, that the usual supply of cigarettes had been omitted. The obscenities which 'Mopes' then invoked upon the head of the provision merchant ought to have killed him stone dead—none of which altered the fact that 'Mopes' was without cigarettes, and boiling mad.

  Finally, he looked at the clock. It was seven-thirty in the evening, dark outside, and too late for gaspers in this isolated spot—or was it? Suddenly, 'Mopes remembered something and tugged his thick notebook from his shirt pocket, running a red sausage of a finger down a series of entries. When he came to 'Maudie Vincent, The Tobacco Shop', he grinned to himself.

  "Why not?" he muttered, putting the notebook on the table and thinking. "I ain't seen Maudie in three years. Be nice to see her, even though I mustn't let her recognize me. An' she's open till ten, or useta be."

  'Mopes' nodded promptly to himself. Cigarettes he had got to have, and he was prepared to take any risk to get them. It was unlikely the Chief would drop in; if he did, to hell with him! The provision merchant ought to do his job better. Then, as he got into his hat and overcoat and added dark glasses for good measure, he remembered something. He had no change—in fact no money at all. His last lot of wages he had 'blued' on the night of the murders, chiefly in public houses who defied the law by keeping open beyond the normal hours and he was not due for more wages until two more days had gone.

  "Hell ruddy fire!" he muttered to himself, jamming his notebook into his overcoat pocket "Wonder if Maudie would let me have 'em on tick? Nope, that wouldn't work, 'cos she wouldn't know it wus me."

  For the moment, his slow-moving brain was stuck. He felt again in his pockets, then, in some wonder, drew forth from his overcoat—the opposite pocket to where he had put his notebook—the double blowpipe and the capsule of icicle darts. He had quite forgotten to return them to the laboratory after his activity of two nights before. For a second or two, he wondered about having another snake orgy, since there were quite a number of darts still 'cold storaged' in the capsule.

  "Hell—no!" he muttered, thrusting the stuff back in his pocket. "Chief said only three. If more turned up, I might get me head punched…"

  Abruptly, he stopped muttering. There, in the corner of the big room, lay the answer to his problem. The case of sovereigns, just as he and Nick had left it. He grinned. Maudie was pretty dumb, anyway, and she'd certainly never suspect a phony sovereign. Probably feel quite proud to have it. What was more, she could sell it at a considerable profit. It was a thought that made 'Mopes' feel good.

  He crossed to the case, picked up one of the sovereigns, then set off in his car on his journey. It was a seven miles trip, but he made short work of it, and he knew there was not the least chance of his being apprehended. The night, and his trifling disguise, were sufficient guardians.

  To his relief, Maudie Vincent's Tobacco Shop was open, just as it had been in the days when the blonde Maudie had been one of his many flames. Her main clientale was made up of seamen and dockhands, liable to need tobacco at all hours. 'Mopes' stopped the car at the end of the street and walked the remaining distance. Outside the shop, he peered in at the steamy window and could descry just a blurry vision of the blonde Maudie beyond. She looked pretty much the same as she'd ever done. Bit fatter, maybe, but that suited 'Mopes' perfectly. And there was nobody else in the shop.

  He opened the door and entered, the old-fashioned bell clanging noisily over his head. Maudie looked up, somewhat surprised that, for once, it wasn't a seaman. The big fellow in the soft hat, faded Crombie overcoat and tinted glasses was—so she believed—a complete stranger to her.

  "Sixty fags," 'Mopes' said briefly, pointing to a display of his favored brand, and watched her through the green fog of his glasses.

  She nodded but did not speak, setting down three twenty packets on the counter. 'Mopes' fiddled around in his pocket for a moment and then dropped the sovereign in her hand. She looked at it in astonishment.

  "Present for you," he said, shrugging. "I've no other money on me. It's worth maybe forty or fifty quid, but you can keep the difference."

  She looked at him. "What's the idea, 'Mopes'?" she asked quietly.

  He had half turned to go but now he turned back abruptly. Her eyes—they had wrinkles around them now—were searching his face intently.

  "Huh?" he asked woodenly.

  "Who are you trying to kid?" Maudie asked. "I'd know that nutty-slack voice of yours anywhere. Even if it is years since I last heard it. That was when you proposed to me. Remember? And I never saw you again afterwards."

  "Yore crazy!" 'Mopes' said bluntly, and headed for the door, struggling to get the cigarettes in his pocket.

  "Stop and turn round!" Maudie snapped, and there was something in her voice that made 'Mopes' obey. To his consternation, he beheld a .32 automatic held firmly in her right hand.

  "What's the idea?" he demanded.

  "Never mind. I've waited a long time for the off chance to get even with you for ditching me, 'Mopes', and maybe this is it. Are you so dumb that you don't know that ugly mug of yours has been splashed in the newspapers for killing that kid over at Grindberg's shop? Do you think I'm such a fool as to let you walk out, when I can turn you in? Come here!"

  'Mopes' wandered slowly back to the counter, still struggling with his cigarette packets. He realized subconsciously that it was the blowpipe and capsule that were jamming them.

  "That's a nice bit of hardware you've got there," he commented, eyeing the gun.

  "Yes—and it's licensed. I need protection sometimes against the sort of characters there are around here."

  'Mopes' was silent, his brain working slowly—and, as usual it tended towards homicide. He was wondering how this faded piece had ever attracted him. But then, she hadn't been so faded when he'd last seen her

  "You're mixed up in phony sovereigns, too," she went on, her eyes merciless. "That's been in the papers. Don't you ever read 'em?"

  "Sure I do. You're a smart girl, Maudie—smarter than I thought."

  "I'm certainly not so dumb I'm taking a phony sovereign and letting you get out of here. The next customer who comes in is going to the police while I pin you—just as I'm doing now."

  'Mopes' sighed, tugged out the jammed cigarette packets, and tossed them on the counter. Then he felt in his other pocket.

  "Get your hand outa there!" Maudie commanded.

  "All right, don't get all fidgety. No harm in crossing your perishin' name off me list, is there?"

  'Mopes' brought his fat notebook in sight, flipped the pages and then laboriously tugged out a pencil stump and lined through Maud
ie's name. She watched sourly.

  "That bulgin' book full of girl friends? Must be the hell of a lot of 'em!"

  'Mopes' shrugged—then, with a sudden lightning action, he flashed the book out of his hand and straight into Maudie's face. Inevitably, she jolted back and, in that instant, 'Mopes' smashed his right straight to her jaw, knocking her out completely. It was practically a repetition of the assault on Betty Lathom, except that in this case, Maudie was still living. Her heaving bosom showed it clearly.

  'Mopes' glanced about him and then stuffed the cigarettes into the now empty pocket where the notebook had been. The notebook itself he couldn't spot at the moment; it could wait a few seconds, anyway; probably it was behind the counter. He had something more important to concentrate upon.

  Again he looked about him; then, quickly, he took out his blowpipe and capsule. In a matter of seconds he had fitted two of the venomous darts in position and took careful aim. With a soft 'phut' they lauded in the soft flesh of Maudie's upper arm, drawing two tiny spots of blood. She stirred slightly in unconsciousness.

  'Mopes' grinned and thrust the capsule and blowpipe back in his pocket; then he turned to look for his fallen notebook. It seemed to have gone under the… Then the doorbell clanged as a customer entered. He gulped and began to sweat. At the moment, his stooping position behind the counter hid him. He shuffled quickly on all fours, reaching the back regions just as a blue-jerseyed seaman banged on the counter for attention.

  "Maudie! Maudie! Come out, wherever you are!"

  'Mopes', thinking of nothing but imminent danger to himself, fled through the dim little kitchen and escaped by the back door. In twenty seconds flat, he had pelted down the nearest alleyway to his car. He jumped in and was in the midst of the London traffic before he remembered he had never recovered his notebook. After dully thinking out the situation, he arrived at the conclusion that it didn't matter much, anyway. The book did not contain his name—only the names of girl friends he'd had, questionable jokes, and odd statements that made sense only to himself. And Maudie was done for, anyway, and wouldn't be able to speak. There was, of course, the phony sovereign, which Maudie had put on the counter… What the hell did any of it matter, anyway? He drove on, reasonably sure that all was well.