"You then melt the gold, and run it into these moulds?" Larry enquired.
"That's it. And the cutting and milling machines you see over there. Quite a private mint, in fact. Naturally." the Chief added, with a dry smile, "I haven't explained the full process of transmutation. I'm not quite such a fool as that. However, you see here the basis of what promises to become a prosperous business. And we can never be caught out. We can literally make money for nothing."
Silence. The eyes of the men were on the gold—mostly in envy. Envy that one man should know so much, and be able to give every order because of it. To kill him would be easy, but of what avail? Without his profound knowledge, nothing could be done. He was the planner of everything; he made everything, knew everything and, as yet, the law had not the remotest idea he even existed.
"Suppose," the 'grandson' said, "for the sake of argument, that somebody did get wise to this racket? What then?"
"That somebody would die." The Chief gave his characteristic shrug. "Die, my friends—painfully and completely. And none could fathom how it happened, or at least, the real cause behind it. There is nothing I have overlooked—nothing!"
II
FOR THE TIME being, the work of the super counterfeiters was done. They were decided—or at least the Chief was—not to do anything further for perhaps three months. In the interval all of them returned to different walks of life to carry on a pseudo-existence as best suited the Chief. Jerry Bax was still a supposed world-traveler and lived on the fat of the land with all expenses paid, making what contacts he could find for a touch at a later date.
Larry and the 'grandson' both departed separately to France to smell out the prospect in that country, whilst Nick Gregson found himself in the dock region, doing an ordinary job of work until he should be wanted. In the case of every man there was, of course, a reason for the police wishing to find them; but they were all safe enough from actual arrest and cunning enough to keep out of harm's way.
The only one who was always in danger if he were to show his unlovely face was 'Mopes' McCall; and to him there still fell the grinding monotony of keeping a constant watch over the great mansion, fending for himself as best he could, hidden from the eyes of the law, always waiting to grab him. He was kept provided with food and drink and cigarettes by a nocturnal friend of the Chief's; but otherwise he never stirred out of the rambling old pile. His only friends were the radio and television. Altogether, there were times when he wondered if a return to Dartmoor might not be preferable—then, recalling that he would have some fifteen years to spend there, he changed his mind. So he remained the caretaker and nursed in his subhuman brain a growing hatred for the brilliant man who was his absolute boss and jailer.
It was sheer inquisitiveness that led him to go down into the laboratory one November night. Sick to the back teeth his own company, he was anxious for some kind of novelty—and he still smoldered at the contempt with which he had been treated by the Chief. Not the intelligence to understand, huh? Well, maybe there was an answer to that, too!
Cigarette dangling at the corner of his thick lips, his hands in his trousers pockets, he wandered down into the brightly lighted subterranean area and surveyed, smoke drifting into his left eye.
"Wonder why the mug doesn't think up a way to make a woman, same as they do on the films?" he muttered. "That'd make this damned set-up worth while."
He prowled around slowly, peering at this and that, feeling there were a lot of things he'd like to smash up, yet afraid to do a thing for fear of explosions and sudden death. He just couldn't find anything whereby he could hit back at the Chief and take that superior smile from his face.
"Even if I set fire to the joint, I'd only land back in the doghouse," 'Mopes' told himself morosely. "So maybe I shouldn't. Can't think why I can't have a maid or somethin', to help out with keepin' the place tidy."
He knew perfectly well why, but it didn't console him much, just the same. So he just went on prowling, surveying the electric monsters and finally ending up beside the bench where lay the coin moulds for the stamping machine. Absently, he stubbed out his cigarette on the nearest mould, and then gave a gasp. He had not noticed that the mould, pipe-shaped where it fitted into the machine, with the engraving at the base, had been half over the bench edge. The sudden pressure he put on it toppled it to the floor. He stared down at it, sweat suddenly down his face. Even from here, he could see the pipe had a crack right down it and that the King Edward VII engraving had split!
"Hell!" 'Mopes' whispered, then he picked the die up and examined it. The angle at which it had fallen on the stone floor had fractured it three-quarters of the way round. When it was in use it would crumple up under the impact of striking the shiny blank sovereigns.
"Weld it," 'Mopes' muttered, glancing urgently about him. "That's it! Weld the crack. I'm not such a mug I can't do that. Did it back in the doghouse, in fact.'
In this he was correct. Long ago, he'd been a welder in a garage, and had pursued a similar tack in jail. Now it might even save his life, for he had little doubt that the Chief would take it out of his hide if he discovered what had happened. Down here, there was all the necessary welding equipment. Right!
'Mopes' went to work, the most careful job he had ever done. At the end of half an hour the thin crack was certainly well sealed, and well nigh undetectable, so carefully had he smoothed the rough edges of the seam away. But he had overlooked the fact that a coin mould must be absolute precision to produce the required image, therefore he looked with some misgivings upon the defaced profile of his late Majesty, King Edward VII.
"Only spot it if he looks close, and I'll not admit anything," 'Mopes' murmured. "Who the hell cares about a crooked nose and a bit off the beard, anyway."
The defaced mould meant no more to him than this. He had not the wit to see what repercussions might follow. He put the mould carefully on the bench, restored the welding equipment to its rightful position, then went back upstairs before he did any more damage. An hour later he was asleep, dreaming of absolute pardon by the law, and hundreds of beautiful girls crowding round to congratulate him.
A week later the Chief returned abruptly. He merely stated he was calling a meeting; that there was a job they could pull which would need only Nick Gregson and the elderly Larry. They would be coming the next night; the Chief would be staying over to get some laboratory work done. That could only mean making coins. 'Mopes' took everything in sour silence and inwardly wondered if any King Edward VII sovereigns would be cast.
They were. The Chief worked on them all the following day, but so great was his hurry, and so sure was he of his equipment, he made no special examinations. By evening he had minted ten thousand sovereigns of King Edward VII period and suitably stained and polished them to give an impression of age. Hardly had he finished before Nick Gregson and Larry, urgently contacted, presented themselves and 'Mopes' found himself shut out of the library and detailed to prepare a supper for all three.
In consequence of this visit, an elderly 'lady' took up residence in a house in South Kensington that had long been empty. Before having her furniture brought. she sent for a gasman to check all pipes because she had a morbid fear of death through this agency. Knowing exactly what to do, Nick Gregson made a suitable hole in the floor of the empty drawing room and placed within it the aged box that contained the ten thousand gold sovereigns. This done, he went down the road to the pawnbroker's in the nearby shopping center. That Samuel Grindberg was in the market for sovereigns was obvious; the poster across his window blazoned the fact for all to see.
"I see you're interested in sovereigns, Mister," Nick Gregson commented, as Grindberg himself came to attend to his customer.
"Right." Grindberg surveyed Nick's uniform and was perfectly satisfied that everything was in order.
"In that case, take my tip and go and see the old lady who's moving in to seventeen, Caterham Gate. I've just bin fixin' the gas pipes, and dug up a box of sovereigns—'undreds of
'em! King Edward Seventh, from the look of 'em. The old lady told me to ask you to go and see her. Okay?"
"Thanks—I will."
And Samuel Grindberg wasted no time about it. He called his lady assistant to take care of the shop and then set off. Larry, superbly disguised, was smoking his pipe when the doorbell rang. Promptly he put the pipe away, assumed the shaky old woman's role, and admitted the energetic, middle-aged Grindberg into the empty ball.
"Good morning, madam. Grindberg's the name. A gas man told me about…"
"Some sovereigns he had found? Yes, yes, indeed… most remarkable." Larry had cultivated an excellent quavering treble. "As it was a matter of some urgency, he offered to help me out. I understand you deal in sovereigns?"
"I buy them, madam, certainly—providing they are yours to sell."
"Well, they're on my property, so I'll take the responsibility. Come and see them for yourself."
Grindberg nodded and followed the 'old lady' as 'she' shambled into the drawing room. In another moment he was on his knees, regardless of the dust, turning over the pile of coins in the box below floorboard level.
"No doubt of it," he said. "Sovereigns of Edward Seventh period."
"Then," Larry said, innocently, "I would like to sell them to you."
"Yes, and I'll be glad to buy them, providing they're genuine, and that you'll indemnify me against any police enquiry."
"Genuine? Well, of course they're genuine!"
Grindberg picked up one of the coins and examined it carefully with a jeweler's lens. When he had finished his examination, there was a puzzled look on his face.
"I'm not altogether satisfied that these sovereigns are genuine, madam; unless, of course, their age has something to do with the defacement on the King's profile. However, we still wish to do a deal, don't we?"
"Naturally." Larry was getting worried. This was the first time the sovereigns had ever been questioned.
"My reputation around here is impeccable" Grindberg said, rising and dusting his knees. "I'm prepared to give you a receipt for these sovereigns whilst I have them examined by experts. If they're perfectly genuine, I'll pay full market price for however many there may be. How's that?"
Larry reflected swiftly, only to realize almost immediately that he dared not refuse. To do so would look very suspicious. But what the devil did the man mean by questioning their genuineness? The Chief surely hadn't slipped up for once?
"Well?" Grindberg raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, that will be all right. How—how soon will you know whether you can buy them or not?"
"Oh, by this time tomorrow, I should think. And if they are spurious, the police must be told, naturally."
"The police?" Larry's make-up saved his look of consternation.
"Certainly—for your good, madam, and mine. You can't afford to have spurious coins on your property, any more than I can afford to be mixed up in a possible deal concerning them. Leave everything to me, Mrs.—er… ?"
"Mrs. Henshaw."
"Right! Leave everything to me, Mrs. Henshaw, and I'll see we're safe enough, whatever the analysis shows." Grindberg scribbled hastily. "Here is your receipt, madam. I'll get back to the shop and… No, better still, I'll ask my son to come and remove this lot for me. He's only next door but one—a building contractor—and he has a handcart, amongst other things."
Larry nodded rather dazedly, still painfully aware of the fact that there wasn't anything he could do. There was not even the opportunity of disappearing and taking the coins with him before things became too involved. For one thing, they were too heavy for him at his age and, for another, Grindberg had said he was only going next door but one, which was as good as him hardly being off the doorstep. But what the devil had he meant by the coins not being genuine?
Puzzled, he picked one of them up out of the box and examined it carefully. The King's head was a little out of shape, certainly, but that surely didn't mean anything? Since ho was not an expert on coins, Larry was incapable of arriving at any conclusion before Grindberg returned with a powerful young man in the early twenties—obviously his son.
"I'll contact you tomorrow then, Mrs. Henshaw," the pawnbroker smiled, as the box was dragged from the room. "Will you be at this address?"
"I expect to be," Larry responded. "If I should miss you, I'll call in at your shop."
"Fair enough. Only a few yards down the road."
With that, Grindberg took his departure. Larry let a reasonable time elapse, then he, too, left the house, keeping up his old lady act until he reached the nearest telephone kiosk. Here he dialed swiftly.
"Chief?" he asked as, at length, there came a reply.
"What's the idea? I told you not to use this extension without vital reason."
"There is vital reason, Chief! It's about…"
"Whatever it is, it can wait. Ring me in twenty minutes at my private number, then we can speak freely. That's all."
The line clicked and became dead. Larry compressed his lips, shrugged to himself, then glanced briefly at his woman's wristwatch. For the next twenty minutes he killed time as best he could, wandering further away from the region of his 'house' all the time. The moment the twenty minutes was up, he hurried quickly to the nearest kiosk and dialed the Chief's private number.
"Well, what is it?" the Chief's voice asked impatiently. "I've had to take time out to take this call at my home, and you'd better have a good reason. Larry speaking, isn't it?"
"That's right. I thought you ought to know that there are signs of danger. Grindberg—the likely prospect—has his suspicions about the sovereigns. He's going to have them analyzed and, if he doesn't like them, he intends to inform the police."
"If he doesn't like them? What the hell do you mean by that? There is nothing wrong with those sovereigns."
"He seems to think there is. Something to do with the King's face being wrong. Anyway, Chief, I don't like it. If he starts getting the police on the job, we're going to be in a fix. Or, at any rate, I am—and Nick Gregson as well. So—what's the answer?"
Silence for a while, then: "When is Grindberg going to tell you what he thinks about the coins?"
"Tomorrow. He's taken the coins for examination and given me a receipt." And Larry added all the details.
"I cannot imagine why he should have a reason for suspicion," the Chief observed at length, thoughtfully. "If there is a reason, and he goes to the police, we'll certainly be in an awkward position. They have unpleasantly efficient methods of finding things out. Let me think, now—Grindberg will undoubtedly phone the police if he has a reason, therefore he will not leave his premises and make himself available for us to get at him."
"Get at him?" Larry repeated.
"That's what I said. There is suspicion in that man's mind, Larry, and he'll magnify every little defect in the coins for that reason. He's got to be stopped, and we've got to have those sovereigns back for examination. You can leave this to me. Best thing you can do is to drop out of sight, resume your normal identity and go to the hideout in Ireland. I'll let yon know when I want you. I've got to move fast."
"Right," Larry responded promptly, thankful to be able to drop out of the proceedings, and he rang off.
At the other end of the line the Chief sat musing for a moment or two, then he picked up the phone again and dialed swiftly. It was the thick argumentative voice of 'Mopes' that answered him—very cautiously to commence with.
"A job for you, 'Mopes'," the Chief said briefly. "Get the closed saloon from the house garage and use your usual moustache and glasses disguise. You'll be safe enough at the wheel of the car. You'll drive it to Caterham Gate, South Kensington, and stop at the corner of Alderson Street. There you will pick up Nick Gregson. I'll make arrangements for him to be there. Got that so far?"
"Yep," 'Mopes' agreed heavily. "Be a relief to get out of this damned joint."
"I haven't finished yet. Listen further. This is an elimination job…"
"The snake stuff!" 'Mope
s' cried eagerly.
"That's it You'll find everything in the laboratory, second shelf up. Take it with you. The man you will eliminate is named Grindberg. He runs a jewelry and pawnbrokers shop just beyond the Alderson Street corner. I'll arrange that he leaves that shop around noon. He's middle-aged, active in his walk, becoming bald, with a fresh complexion. Make sure it is him before you do anything. Let Nick do the driving. Transfer Grindberg's body to anywhere you like, so long as it's off the beaten track. Has that much registered?"
"Yep."
"Lastly, you will return to Grindberg's shop. I don't think there'll be anybody there, except a young woman. Silence her somehow, so she can't identify you later, but you are not, under any circumstances, to harm her. In that shop, somewhere, you'll find there are ten thousand sovereigns. Get them—and get back to the house by night—not day. That will be around seven at this time of year. Everything clear?"
"Yep."
The Chief pressed down the receiver rest, waited, then let it rise again. From the directory he dialed Grindberg's number.
"Hello, yes? Grindberg, jeweler, speaking."
"Would you be interested in viewing a selection of diamond rings, Mr. Grindberg?" the Chief asked in a polite voice.
"Are they valuable?"
"As a collector, I would place their total worth at about two hundred thousand pounds. I have a few other gem dealers who will be coming to my home later. I've included you on the list."
"Kind of you," Grindberg said, "but why? Do I know you? Do you know me?"
"I know you quite well, and have been impressed by your fair prices for precious stones. Of course, if you're not interested…"
"Hold on a minute. Who says I'm not interested? A gem dealer is always interested in diamonds. What is your name, sir?"
Liquid Death And Other Stories Page 3
