The Mack Reynolds Megapack

by Mack Reynolds

Hackett snorted. “At any rate, can you drop over? I’m to work in liaison with you.”

  “Coming,” Larry said. He hung up, got to his feet and headed for the door. If they could crack this thing the first day, he’d take up that vacation where it’d been interrupted and possibly be able to wangle a few more days out of the Boss to boot.

  At this time of day, parking would have been a problem, in spite of automation of the streets. He left his car in the departmental lot and took a cab.

  * * * *

  The Counterfeit Division of the Secret Service occupied an impressive section of an impressive governmental building. Larry Woolford flashed his credentials here and there, explained to guards and receptionists here and there, and finally wound up in Steve Hackett’s office which was all but a duplicate of his own in size and decor.

  Steve Hackett himself was a fairly accurate carbon copy of Woolford, barring facial resemblance alone. The fact was, Steve was almost Lincolnesque in his ugliness. Career man, about thirty, good university, crew cut, six foot, one hundred and seventy, earnest of eye. He wore Harris tweed. Larry Woolford made a note of that; possibly herringbone was coming back in. He winced at the thought of a major change in his wardrobe; it’d cost a fortune.

  They’d worked on a few cases together before when Steve Hackett had been assigned to the presidential bodyguard and co-operated well.

  Steve came to his feet and shook hands. “Thought that you were going to be down in Florida bass fishing this month. You like your work so well you can’t stay away, or is it a matter of trying to impress your chief?”

  Larry growled, “Fine thing. Secret Service bogs down and they’ve got to call me in to clean up the mess.”

  Steve motioned him to a chair and immediately went serious. “Do you know anything about pushing queer, Woolford?”

  “That means passing counterfeit money, doesn’t it? All I know is what’s in the TriD crime shows.”

  “I can see you’re going to be a lot of help. Have you got anywhere at all on the possibility that the stuff might be coming from abroad?”

  “Nothing positive,” Larry said. “Are you people accomplishing anything?”

  “We’re just getting underway. There’s something off-trail about this deal, Woolford. It doesn’t fit into routine.”

  Larry Woolford said, “I wouldn’t think so if the stuff is so good not even a bank clerk can tell the difference.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about now. Let me give you a run down on standard counterfeiting.” The Secret Service agent pushed back in his swivel chair, lit a cigarette, and propped his feet onto the edge of a partly open desk drawer. “Briefly, it goes like this. Some smart lad gets himself a set of plates and a platen press and—”

  Larry interrupted, “Where does he get the plates?”

  “That doesn’t matter now,” Steve said. “Various ways. Maybe he makes them himself, sometimes he buys them from a crooked engraver. But I’m talking about pushing green goods once it’s printed. Anyway, our friend runs off, say, a million dollars worth of fives. But he doesn’t try to pass them himself. He wholesales them around netting, say, fifty thousand dollars. In other words, he sells twenty dollars in counterfeit for one good dollar.”

  Larry pursed his lips. “Quite a discount.”

  “Um-m-m. But that’s safest from his angle. The half dozen or so distributors he sold it to don’t try to pass it either. They also are playing it carefully. They peddle it, at say ten to one, to the next rung down the ladder.”

  “And these are the fellows that pass it, eh?”

  “Not even then, usually. These small timers take it and pass it on at five to one to the suckers in the trade, who take the biggest risks. Most of these are professional pushers of the queer, as the term goes. Some, however, are comparative amateurs. Sailors for instance, who buy with the idea of passing it in some foreign port where seamen’s money flows fast.”

  Larry Woolford shifted in his chair. “So what are you building up to?”

  Steve Hackett rubbed the end of his pug nose with a forefinger in quick irritation. “Like I say, that’s standard counterfeit procedure. We’re all set up to meet it, and do a pretty good job. Where we have our difficulties is with amateurs.”

  Woolford scowled at him.

  Hackett said, “Some guy who makes and passes it himself, for instance. He’s unknown to the stool pigeons, has no criminal record, does up comparatively small amounts and dribbles his product onto the market over a period of time. We had one old devil up in New York once who actually drew one dollar bills. He was a tremendous artist. It took us years to get him.”

  Larry Woolford said, “Well, why go into all this? We’re hardly dealing with amateurs now.”

  Steve looked at him. “That’s the trouble. We are.”

  “Are you batty? Not even your own experts can tell this product from real money.”

  “I didn’t say it was being made by amateurs. It’s being pushed by amateurs—or maybe amateur is the better word.”

  “How do you know?”

  “For one thing, most professionals won’t touch anything bigger than a twenty. Tens are better, fives better still. When you pass a fifty, the person you give it to is apt to remember where he got it.” Steve Hackett said slowly, “Particularly if you give one as a tip to the maître d’hôtel in a first-class restaurant. A maître d’ holds his job on the strength of his ability to remember faces and names.”

  * * * *

  “What else makes you think your pushers are amateurs?”

  “Amateur,” Hackett corrected. “Ideally, a pusher is an inconspicuous type. The kind of person whose face you’d never remember. It’s never a teenage girl who’s blowing money.”

  It was time to stare now, and Larry Woolford obliged. “A teenager!”

  “We’ve had four descriptions of her, one of them excellent. Fredrick, the maître d’ over at La Calvados, is the one that counts, but the others jibe. She’s bought perfume and gloves at Michel Swiss, the swankiest shop in town, a dress at Chez Marie—she passed three fifties there—and a hat at Paulette’s over on Monroe Street.

  “That’s another sign of the amateur, by the way. A competent pusher buys a small item and gets change from his counterfeit bill. Our girl’s been buying expensive items, obviously more interested in the product than in her change.”

  “This doesn’t seem to make much sense,” Larry Woolford protested. “You have any ideas at all?”

  “The question is,” Hackett said, “where did she get it? Is she connected with one of the embassies and acquired the stuff overseas? If so, that puts it in your lap again possibly—”

  The phone rang and Steve flicked the switch and grumbled, “Yeah? Steven Hackett speaking.”

  He listened for a moment then banged the phone off and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Larry,” he snapped. “This is it.”

  Larry stood, too. “Who was that?”

  “Fredrick, over at La Calvados. The girl has come in for lunch. Let’s go!”

  * * * *

  La Calvados was the swankiest French restaurant in Greater Washington, a city not devoid of swank restaurants. Only the upper-echelons in governmental circles could afford its tariffs; the clientele was more apt to consist of business mucky-mucks and lobbyists on the make. Larry Woolford had eaten here exactly twice. You could get a reputation spending money far beyond your obvious pay status.

  Fredrick, the maître de hôtel, however, was able to greet them both by name. “Monsieur Hackett, Monsieur Woolford,” he bowed. He obviously didn’t approve of La Calvados being used as a hangout where counterfeiters were picked up the authorities.

  “Where is she?” Steve said, looking out over the public dining room.

  Fredrick said, unprofessionally agitated, “See here, Monsieur Hackett, you didn’t expect to, ah, arrest the young lady here during our lunch hour?”

  Steve looked at him impatiently. “We don’t exactly beat them over the head with blackjac
ks, slip the bracelets on and drag them screaming to the paddywagon.”

  “Of course not, monsieur, but—”

  Larry Woolford’s chief dined here several times a week and was probably on the best of terms with Fredrick whose decisions on tables and whose degree of servility had a good deal of influence on a man’s status in Greater Washington. Larry said wearily, “We can wait until she leaves. Where is she?”

  Fredrick had taken them to one side.

  “Do you see the young lady over near the window on the park? The rather gauche appearing type?”

  It was a teenager, all right. A youngster up to her eyebrows in the attempt to project sophistication.

  Steve said, “Do you know who she is?”

  “No,” Fredrick said. “Hardly our usual clientele.”

  “Oh?” Larry said. “She looks like money.”

  Fredrick said, “The dress appears as though it is of Chez Marie, but she wears it as though it came from Klein’s. Her perfume is Chanel, but she has used approximately three times the quantity one would expect.”

  “That’s our girl, all right,” Steve murmured. “Where can we keep an eye on her until she leaves?”

  “Why not at the bar here, Messieurs?”

  “Why not?” Larry said. “I could use a drink.”

  Fredrick cleared his throat. “Ah, Messieurs, that fifty I turned over you. I suppose it turned out to be spurious?”

  Steve grinned at him. “Afraid so, Fredrick. The department is holding it.”

  Larry took out his wallet. “However, we have a certain leeway on expenses on this assignment and appreciate your co-operation.” He handed two twenties and a ten to the maître d’. Fredrick bowed low, the money disappearing into his clothes magically. “Merci bien, monsieur.”

  At the bar, Steve scowled at his colleague. “Ha!” he said. “Why didn’t I think of that first? He’ll get down on his knees and bump his head each time he sees you in the joint from now on.”

  Larry Woolford waggled a finger at the other. “This is a status conscious town, my boy. Prestige means everything. When I take over my Boss’ job, maybe we can swing a transfer and I’ll give you a position suitable to your attainments.” He pursed his lips judiciously. “Although, come to think of it, that might mean a demotion from the job you’re holding now.”

  “Vodka martini,” Steve told the bartender. “Polish vodka, of course.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Larry said, “Same for me.”

  The bartender left and Steve muttered, “I hate vodka.”

  “Yeah,” Larry said, “But what’re you going to do in a place like this, order some weird drink?”

  Steve dug into his pocket for money. “We’re not going to have to drink them. Here she comes.”

  She walked with her head held high, hauteur in every step. Ignoring the peasants at the tables she passed.

  “Holy smokes,” Steve grunted. “It’s a wonder Fredrick let her in.”

  She hesitated momentarily before the doorway of the prestige restaurant allowing the passers-by to realize she’d just emerged, and then turned to her right to promenade along the shopping street.

  Fifty feet below La Calvados, Steve said, “Let’s go, Woolford.”

  One stepped to one elbow, the other to the other. Steve said quietly, “I wonder if we could ask you a few questions?”

  Her eyebrows went up, “I beg your pardon!”

  Steve sighed and displayed the badge pinned to his wallet, keeping it inconspicuous. “Secret Service, Miss,” he murmured.

  “Oh, devil,” she said. She looked up at Larry Woolford, and then back at Steve.

  Steve said, “Among other things, we’re in charge of counterfeit money.”

  She was about five foot four in her heels, had obviously been on a round of beauty shops and had obviously instructed them to glamorize her. It hadn’t come off. She still looked as though she’d be more at home as cheerleader of the junior class in small town high school. She was honey blond, green-blue of eye, and had that complexion they seldom carry even into the twenties.

  “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her chin began to tremble.

  Larry said gently, “Don’t worry. We just want to ask you some questions.”

  “Well…like what?” She was going to be blinking back tears in a moment. At least Larry hoped she’d blink them back. He’d hate to have her start howling here in public.

  Larry said, “We think you can be of assistance to the government, and we’d like your help.”

  Steve rolled his eyes upward, but turned and waved for a street level cab.

  In the cab, Larry said, “Suppose we go over to my office, Steve?”

  “O.K. with me,” Steve muttered, “but by the looks of the young lady here, I think it’s a false alarm from your angle. She’s obviously an American. What’s your name, Miss?”

  “It’s Zusanette. Well, really, Susan.”

  “Susan what?”

  “I…I’m not sure I want to tell you. I…I want a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer!” Steve snorted. “You mean you want the juvenile authorities, don’t you?”

  “Oh, what a mean thing to say,” she sputtered.

  * * * *

  In the corridor outside the Boss’ suite of offices, Larry said to Steve, “You take Miss…ah, Zusanette to my office, will you Steve. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He opened the door to the anteroom and said, “LaVerne, we’ve got a girl in my office—”

  “Why, Larry!”

  He glowered at her. “A suspect. I want a complete tape of everything said. As soon as we’re through, have copies made, at least three or four.”

  “And, who, Mr. Woolford, was your girl Friday last year?”

  “This is important, honey. I suppose you’ve supplied me with a secretary but I haven’t even met her yet. Take care of it, will you?”

  “Sure enough, Larry.”

  He followed Steve and the girl to his office.

  Once seated, the girl and Steve in the only two extra chairs the cubicle boasted and Larry behind his desk, he looked at her in what he hoped was reassurance. “Just tell us where you got the money, Zusanette.”

  Steve reached out a hand suddenly and took her bag from her lap. She gasped and snatched at it, but he eluded her and she sat back, her chin trembling again.

  Steve came up with a thick sheaf of bills, the top ones, at least, all fifties and tossed them to Larry’s desk. He took out a school pass and read, “Susan Self, Elwood Avenue.” He looked up at Larry and said, “That’s right off Eastern, near Paterson Park in the Baltimore section of town, isn’t it?”

  Larry said to her, “Zusanette, I think you’d better tell us where you got all this money.”

  “I found it,” she said defiantly. “You can’t do anything to me if I simply found it. Anybody can find money. Finders keepers—”

  “But if it’s counterfeit,” Steve interrupted dryly, “it might also be, finders weepers.”

  “Where did you find it, Zusanette?” Larry said gently.

  She tightened her lips, and the trembling of her chin disappeared. “I…I can’t tell you that. But it’s not counterfeit. Daddy…my father said it was as good as any money the government prints.”

  “That it is,” Steve said sourly. “But it’s still counterfeit, which makes it very illegal indeed to spend, Miss Self.”

  She looked from one of them to the other, not clear about her position. She said to Larry, “You mean it’s not real money?”

  He kept his tone disarming, but shook his head, “I’m afraid not, Zusanette. Now, tell us, where did you find it?”

  “I can’t. I promised”

  “I see. Then you don’t know to whom it originally belonged?”

  “It didn’t belong to anybody.”

  Steve Hackett made with a disbelieving whistle. He was taking the part of the tough, suspicious cop; Larry the part of the understanding, sympathetic officer, tr
ying to give the suspect a break.

  Susan Self turned quickly on Steve. “Well, it didn’t. You don’t even know.”

  Larry said, “I think she’s telling the truth, Steve. Give her a chance. She’s playing fair.” He looked back at the girl, and frowned his puzzlement. “All money belongs to somebody doesn’t it?”

  She had them now. She said superiorly. “Not necessarily to somebody. It can belong to, like, an organization.”

  Steve grunted skepticism. “I think we ought to arrest her,” he said.

  Larry held up a hand, his face registering opposition. “I’ll handle this,” he said sharply. “Zusanette is doing everything she can to co-operate.” He turned back to the girl. “Now, the question is, what organization did this money belong to?”

  She looked triumphantly at Steve Hackett. “It belonged to the Movement.”

  They both looked at her.

  Steve said finally, “What movement?”

  She pouted in thought. “That’s the only name they call it.”

  “Who’s they?” Steve snapped nastily.

  “I…I don’t know.”

  Larry said, “Well, you already told us your father was a member, Zusanette.”

  Her eyes went wide. “I did? I shouldn’t have said that.” But she evidently took him at his word.

  Larry said encouragingly, “Well, we might as well go on. Who else is a member of this Movement besides your father?”

  She shifted in her chair uncomfortably. “I don’t know any of their names.”

  Steve looked down at the school pass in his hands. He said to Larry, “I’d better make a phone call.”

  He left.

  * * * *

  Larry said, “Don’t worry about him, Zusanette. Now then, this movement. That’s kind of a funny name, isn’t it? What does it mean?”

  She was evidently glad that the less than handsome Steve Hackett had left the room. Her words flowed more freely. “Well, Daddy says that they call it the Movement rather than a revolution.…”

  An ice cube manifested itself in the stomach of Lawrence Woolford.

  “… Because people get conditioned, like, to words. Like revolution. Everybody is against the word because they all think of killing and everything, and, Daddy says, there doesn’t have to be any shooting or killing or anything like that at all. It just means a fundamental change in society. And, Daddy says, take the word propaganda. Everybody’s got to thinking that it automatically means lies, but it doesn’t at all. It just means, like, the arguments you use to convince people that what you stand for is right and it might be lies or it might not. And, Daddy says, take the word socialism. So many people have the wrong idea of what it means that the socialists ought to scrap the word and start using something else to mean what they stand for.”