Liquid Death And Other Stories

by John Russell Fearn

  "Andrew Carmichael."

  Grindberg gave a little gasp and then blinked. Andrew Carmichael was one of the greatest buyer of gems in the city. Then the ever-suspicious Grindberg remembered something.

  "I read the other day that Andrew Carmichael had gone to the continent."

  "Publicity stuff," the Chief responded calmly. "I prefer to drop out of sight now and again whilst I finish special deals. Let me tell you, Mr. Grindberg, that this is a very special offer. Do you wish to view these diamonds, along with your competitors, or don't you?"

  "Of course I do. When would be convenient?"

  "Be at my home at two o'clock this afternoon. Elm Terrace, West One. The Larches."

  "Two o'clock is a bit difficult…"

  "That is the only time when you can see the stuff without your competitors also being present. I have all the times arranged. If, of course, you buy on the spot, I'll cancel the others."

  Grindberg was a businessman. "I'll be there!"

  He rang off and glanced at his watch. He had only time to get lunch and then be on his way. His intention to make a thorough examination of 'Mrs. Henshaw's' sovereigns would have to wait until later. Turning, he raised his voice in a shout:

  "Betty!"

  A slim, good-looking girl in the early twenties—exactly the right type to tell the tale to the customers—came hurrying into his back office.

  "Yes, Mr. Grindberg?"

  "Better close for lunch. You'll have to take over for most of this afternoon. I've some important business in the city."

  "Yes, Mr. Grindberg," and the attractive blonde took her departure and returned on time to open the shop up again. As he had intimated, Grindberg was missing.

  Until three o'clock, nothing happened in Mr. Grindberg's establishment. The implicitly trusted Betty manicured her faultless nails, ate six chocolate nougats, read part of her romantic novel and imagined herself swept into the arms of a laughing Caribbean brigand—then came two customers. Muttering to herself, she switched on her dazzling smile and drifted to a position behind the nearest glass showcase.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen," she greeted brightly, but as there was no response, something of the smile faded from her face. The two men had come in and turned their backs to her to examine another showcase. Now they turned to face her, she realized they were masked with handkerchiefs. One of them was small and the other huge. Both wore overcoats with upturned collars and soft hats low down over their eyes. To recognize any features was impossible.

  Betty was plainly and simply scared to death, but she still had the presence of mind to remember the button to the burglar alarm. Her delicate white hand began to stray to it, until the massive paw of 'Mopes' crashed down on her wrist.

  "Better not," he muttered, as the girl flushed with pain. "Get back out of sight—behind them cabinets."

  "Look here—who do you think you're ordering about—eh?"

  Betty wondered how she had the nerve to say that much. The next moment she was seized and bundled behind the cabinets. 'Mopes' powerful hands held her tightly against the wall.

  "Hurry it up, Nick," 'Mopes' snapped, forgetting he ought not to use names. "Find them sovs. and let's get out."

  "Why not yell it out in the street that we're here, an' be done with it?" Nick blazed. "You've shouted my name, and what we've come for. Anything else?"

  "Search—and shut up! Sugar here won't say nothin', will you?" And 'Mopes' shook the girl fiercely.

  "No—no, of course I won't!" Her blue eyes were wide in fright as 'Mopes' still pinned her against the wall. She did her best to try and discern his features, but it was impossible. All she could clearly detect were his cold, blue, inexorable eyes. They were studying her intently, almost inhumanly.

  Then he suddenly looked away and watched Nick's urgent searching in the back office.

  "There's sovereigns in this joint some place," 'Mopes said abruptly. "You look the bright sort uv girl who'd know just where. How's about telling me, huh?"

  "I don't know…" Betty gasped, her eyes watering as 'Mopes' smashed a hand viciously across her face.

  "Don't hand me that, sugar. You're a trusty in this joint, or you wouldn't be left with all this caboodle. Where is it? The sovereigns, I mean! Cough it up before I bash your pretty top through that showcase!"

  At that, Betty found herself swung around helplessly, lifted off her feet, so the showcase was perilously near her face.

  "The—the safe!" she gasped hoarsely. "They're in the safe. In—in a box."

  'Mopes' set her down. "What's the combination?"

  "I—I…"

  "Quick, damn you—! We haven't no time to waste!"

  "Left four, right six, left two—and let go of me!" she panted, struggling. "Get your filthy hands off me!"

  "Not just yet, sugar. Got that combination, Nick? Hurry it up!" 'Mopes' turned back to the girl and whirled her back again against the wall. "Y'know something. sugar? You're just the kind of kid I could go for. I'll show you what I mean. I hold you tighter up against me, like this, see, and with my right hand I—hell!" 'Mopes' broke off as, in shifting his hand, the girl's right arm was also released and she made good use of it.

  Her right hand gouged down his face, tearing away the handkerchief mask and ripping the flesh down his cheek. For the moment 'Mopes' forgot his lustful intentions and realized two other things instead. His features were revealed, and he was bleeding like hell. Then the girl had twisted and torn free of his remaining hand.

  She blundered towards the shop doorway, screaming at the top of her voice. She grabbed the door to open it—but 'Mopes' was upon her.

  "You hell-fired she-cat!" he yelled. "Stick your claws in me, will you?"

  His terrific right fist slammed straight into her jaw as she swung round, and that did it. 'Mopes' was an immensely powerful man, with all the brute force that often goes with a turgid intelligence. Betty was literally lifted from her feet under the impact of the blow, her brain crashing into darkness. She hit the showcase behind her, recoiled from its wooden edge without breaking the glass, then crashed on her face on the floor and lay motionless. The whole thing took only a few seconds, and 'Mopes' watched it all in fascination.

  Then he glanced at the closed door. Two people were looking at the articles inthe window, but were barred from seeing into the shop by the array of goods. They might come in at any moment, though. 'Mopes' moved, with some intelligence for once. He took one leap at the door, jammed the bolt, then retreated without being noticed.

  Striding over the girl's motionless body, he looked in at the office doorway.

  "Hurry it up, Nick! How in hell much longer?"

  Nick turned from levering a heavy box out of the safe. Then he gave a start.

  "Your mask! Where is it?"

  "The bitch scratched it. Got that stuff yet?"

  "Yes, but it'll take both of us… What wus that you said about the kid?"

  "I had to quieten her. She got tough…"

  A startled look came into Nick's eyes. Suddenly abandoning his effort with the case of sovereigns, he brushed past the ponderous 'Mopes' and hurried into the shop. In a matter of seconds he spotted the girl and dropped beside her.

  "You damned silly fool!" he whispered, getting up again slowly. "This kid's dead. Dead! You know what the Chief said 'bout not hurting her."

  "Dead?" A vague look of alarm came to Mopes' unlovely face. "She can't be! I only tapped her on the chin for ploughin' my face up."

  "Her neck's broken, anyway." Sweating, Nick gave a quick glance about him, towards the people passing up and down in the street outside. Then he swung back to 'Mopes'.

  "We've only one chance, since you've balled up the whole thing, 'Mopes'. Make it look like a robbery. Take some of the stuff in here as well as the sovereigns. Shove the kid behind the counter outa sight."

  'Mopes' moved like a Juggernaut. He dragged the dead girl behind the counter and then stuffed his pockets with small valuables, while Nick did likewise.


  "Right!" Nick panted. "That's all we can do. Get the door open. We'll walk out, carry the case between us. No masks, though, any more than when we came in. That'd get folks wonderin'. As it is, we oughta make it."

  "Mopes' ripped off his kerchief from around his neck and jammed it in his pocket, then he headed into the office. Nick followed him, to find he was not needed. With a red face and a good deal of hard breathing, 'Mopes' hauled the case on to his shoulder.

  "Take two uv us!" he sneered. "Why in hell don't you get some muscle in that rat's body of yours? Get the door open."

  Nick nodded briefly and hurried forward to pull back the bolt. The door swung open. As casually as possible, keeping their faces averted, they left the shop and moved to their car at the kerb, a few yards away.

  'Mopes' heaved the case of sovereigns into the front seat with such force it ripped the hide. Five seconds later he and Nick were on their way, and men and women still passed back and forth outside Grindberg's shop, unaware that anything unusual had happened.

  III

  THE SENSATION-MONGERS had plenty to feast on in the evening papers. The choice of two intriguing items. The Record chose 'KENSINGTON MURDER ROBBERY' for its headline, whilst the Echo preferred 'PAWNBROKER DIES OF SNAKE-BITE'.

  The Echo, in fact, considered it so unusual for a man in a disused warehouse to be found dead from snake-bite that they ran a feature about it. Death from a snake had not happened in England since—oh, heaven knew when! Reporters went gray trying to find the last occasion. But what connection had a pawnbroker dead from snake-bite to do with his own shop being robbed and his girl assistant being killed? Was it coincidence or deliberate plotting? Had the gold sovereign found on the dead pawnbroker anything to do with the mystery? This was what the police wanted to know. In fact, what everybody wanted to know.

  * * * *

  And, in a certain mansion, thirty miles from London, the Chief was on the rampage. Cloistered with ‘Mopes’ McCall and Nick Gregson in the library, he had about exhausted all the epithets he could think of in expressing his fury.

  "I should think you've done every damned thing I told you not to do!" was his final explosion.

  "Just the way things 'appened, Chief," Nick muttered sullenly.

  "I'm not blaming you, Nick, so much as this thick-eared clod who worked with you. Blast you, 'Mopes', what did you have to kill that girl for?"

  'Mopes' moved uneasily. "I didn't do it on purpose, Chief. I only tapped her on the chin."

  "Why?"

  "She wus goin' to give things away by shoutin' inter the street. It wus the only thing I could do."

  "She broke her neck, anyway," the Chief snapped. "And I expect you left your damned fingerprints all over the place—and on her, or I don't know you! You are already fingerprinted as a convicted criminal. I can see there may be a row over this lot, 'Mopes', and if there is, I'll see that you're in it up to your neck. It was to avoid anything like this that I gave orders for the girl assistant not to be hurt. That's murder, you dim-witted ape—or didn't you know?"

  "So wus bumpin' off Grindberg!" 'Mopes' retorted.

  "I agree—but nobody will be able to trace that, providing you did the job properly."

  "We did everything you said, Chief," Nick said nervously. "Picked him up when he left the shop and took him to an empty warehouse. Then we 'snake-bited' him, just like you said."

  The Chief looked at the box of sovereigns on the floor of the library. Picking one of them up, he examined it under the bright desk light. Quickly he turned back again and picked up a handful. By the time he had finished studying each coin in turn, his face was grim.

  "This is wonderful!" he declared sourly, flinging them back in the box. "If the sovereign found on Grindberg was identical with these, the prospect of trouble is about trebled. For some reason, each one of these sovereigns is wrongly cast."

  "Can't blame us for that, Chief," 'Mopes' commented.

  The Chief did not answer. He thought for a moment or two; then, suddenly making up his mind, he hurried from the library, slamming the door behind him. He went straight down into the laboratory and across to the bench where lay the moulds. In a few minutes he was back, bringing with him the faulty mould for King Edward VII.

  "What's the answer to this, 'Mopes'?" he asked curtly.

  'Mopes' looked at the mould, then at the Chiefs steely eyes. He rubbed the end of his bulbous nose rather uncertainly.

  "I—I dunno, boss. What is it?"

  "A mould, welded up the center," the Chief sneered. "I didn't do it, and you're the only person around here in the normal way. This welded crack has spoiled the profile impression, and the flaw has repeated in every sovereign that has been cast. I never noticed it at the time, because I was too busy. Thanks to Grindberg having one of the sovereigns on his person, the police are going to think things."

  'Mopes' breathed hard. "I—I didn't know I'd done anything wrong. Chief. I heard a noise below and went to look. Me hand caught the mould and knocked it on to the floor. So—so I repaired it."

  "Without telling me!"

  "I—I wus scared uv what you'd say, or do."

  "There's nothing I can do—it's done." The Chief put the mould on the table and sighed. "No use my taking it out of your hide, 'Mopes', you're too thick-skinned. But on day, I may pay you back when you don't expect it. For the moment, the unpleasant truth is that our whole organization has been thrown into chaos, and the police are probably sniffing out our trail at this very moment. I'll do what I can to deflect them, but it won't be easy. You'll stay on here, 'Mopes', and keep guard. You, Nick, had better be on your way whilst it's dark. Go back to your usual job and I'll tell you when you're needed. If there's trouble about your being away from your job, let me know. I'll square it for you." Nick gave a quick nod and beat a retreat, glad to get away from the Chief's smoldering rage. 'Mopes' remained unmoved, far too obtuse to realize that, one day, the Chief would strike him down without mercy.

  It was also about this time that Chief-Inspector Norden, of the Yard's murder squad, was pondering the sovereign lying on his blotter. Save for the faint clicking of Detective-Sergeant Withers' keyboard in the far corner as he tabulated the details of the Grindberg shop murder, there was not a sound in the office. The dusty electric light was glowing and, outside, was the gloom of the late autumn night hovering over the Embankment across the way.

  "The point is," Norden said at last, lighting his pipe, "is there a connection between the death of Grindberg himself from snake-bite, and the murder of his girl assistant? Viewed impartially, the two things don't seem to be connected. Yet, looking at this sovereign, I begin to wonder."

  "Yes, sir," Withers said dutifully, and went on with his typing. He was accustomed to his superior's habit of thinking out loud.

  After a while, Norden drew to him the police surgeon's report and read it through for the third time:

  "Post Mortem Report on Betty Lathom, Dec'd.

  Cause of death I ascribe to fracture of the vertebrae, possibly caused in the first instance by a severe blow to the jaw, which caused the head to jerk back sharply. The blow was probably administered by a fist, since there are no marks to suggest an instrument. It is also possible that the deceased was hit in the face, there being distinct evidence of contusion on the left cheek (suggesting a right-handed attacker)."

  "Mmmmm," Norden commented to himself, and unearthed a second report.

  "Post Mortem Report on Samuel Grindberg Dec'd. Cause of death I ascribe to severe snake-bite, though from what kind of snake cannot be stated until further analysis of the venom within the victim has been made. No other traces of injury."

  "Fatal snake-bite in Britain. It's unheard of." Norden was talking aloud again. "If I could only be sure that the snake-bite business is phony, cleverly arranged murder, I could also be sure that the raid on the Grindberg shop was part of the same set-up."

  He reached to the interphone and switched through to the Fingerprint Records department

  "
Dabs? That you, Harry? Anything checking yet on those prints you got at Grindberg's?"

  "I'm just coming round, sir. I think we've something that will interest you."

  "Good! About time somebody had!"

  In a moment or two the fingerprint expert had arrived, carrying with him an indexed folder. Laying it on the desk, he opened it at a photograph—a complete record indeed, including fingerprints—of one 'Mopes' McCall.

  "No doubt of one thing, sir," the expert said. "The few prints we found in Grindberg's are all identical with those of this chap. Other prints are obviously made by gloves. Seems unlikely McCall here would wear gloves part of the time only. Which suggests he had an accomplice, or accomplices."

  "Uh-huh." Norden studied the photograph. "Ugly looking cuss, isn't he? Escaped Dartmoor two years ago, did he? Not recaptured. Mmmm. No record of him being mixed up in counterfeit coins, I suppose?"

  "No, sir. Before he was convicted for robbery and attempted murder—and those other charges you see on his record there—he was a panel-beater and welder in an obscure garage somewhere."

  "Right. That's all I need at the moment, Harry. But thanks very much—and leave the file here."

  The expert nodded and went out. Norden relighted his pipe. In the corner, at his own desk, Withers went on typing steadily, wondering just how soon it would be possible to knock off work. It was already ten past eight.

  "It seems to me," Norden said presently, as though he had read the sergeant's thoughts, "that there's not much more we can do tonight, Jim. I want the full report on Grindberg, for one thing, and a statement from the Royal Mint concerning this sovereign for another. Nothing much more we can do for the moment."

  With which Withers promptly agreed and, ten minutes later, both he and Norden had returned to their homes, to forget all about murder, snake-bites and robbery; but, the following morning, they were back on the job again—or, at least, Withers was. His superior did not arrive until nearly eleven o'clock, and then it was with a puzzled look on his square face.

  "Morning. Jim," he greeted briefly. "Anything more yet?" he added, pulling off his hat and overcoat.