Peter Merton's Private Mint - (1)

Your name is Merton and you find that all you have to do is reach into your safe to get money. The more you take, the more you find. And just when Quiggs has cut your future down to nothing. A wonderful discovery! Or is it? Of course it is. You'll be the richest man in the world. But will you?
    Peter Merton sat at his desk after the District Attorney's men left, and put his head in his hands. He was still sitting that way when Miss Irene Simmons came in.
    "Here's the rest of the morning's mail, Mr. Merton," she said.
    Merton didn't even look up. He was a young, good looking man in his late twenties, the type known as a "rising young executive"--possibly because that's exactly what he was. But he did not look young this morning. His interview with the D.A. had added years to his appearance. He felt old and haggard.
    "Just put them on the desk," he said. His voice sounded tired.
    She put the letters on the desk, but when she didn't leave immediately, Peter Merton looked up.
    Irene Simmons was an average-sized girl with golden-brown hair, large blue eyes, a full, red mouth, and a lush figure. She looked as though she ought to be working as a bathing-suit model instead of as the private secretary to a vice-president of Crabley & Co.
    "Does it look pretty bad, Mr. Merton?" she asked.
    "It looks horrible," he said bleakly. "The D.A. said that since Quiggs has had four days to get away, the money is probably in South America by now." He put his hand over his eyes. "If only I hadn't been such a fool! Why did I put the money in my office safe instead of in the company vault? Fifty thousand dollars! The insurance company won't pay, because the policy says that cash has to be kept in the vault.
    "But how was I to know that Quiggs would come sneaking in here during Christmas vacation and take it out of my safe? He's been working for the company for years; who would have thought it?"
    "Frankly, Mr. Merton, I think he was jealous because you were made a vice-president instead of him," Irene said firmly. "I think he wanted to ruin you."
    "Well, he certainly has," Peter said sadly. "Old Man Crabley says that putting the money in my safe was criminal negligence. He says he wants me to pay it back or he'll see that I'm blackballed by every company in the business--after he fires me."
    *       *       *       *       *
    "I--I'm very sorry, Mr. Merton. I'm sure you'll think of something. The police may catch him, after all."
    "Thank you, Miss Simmons. I hope so," Peter said. But his voice didn't hold much hope.
    As the girl left the room, Peter absently watched the swaying of her hips as she walked, but he was too upset to appreciate the view fully. He had a serious problem to consider.
    He thought over what she had said. So Quiggs had been jealous, eh? That probably explained the fact that he had left a five-dollar-bill in the safe. With his odd sense of humor, Quiggs had probably thought it very funny to leave a five note in place of the fifty thousand he had taken.
    There was no doubt that it was Quiggs; the police were certain of the guilty person. Quiggs had been seen coming into the office on the Thursday night before Christmas vacation and had left only half an hour later. He had evidently taken the money out and replaced it with a bundle of wrapped paper. Some hours later, he had checked out of his apartment, and all trace of him had been lost.
    Peter looked up at the Watteau print which concealed the heavy steel door of the wall safe. Five dollars lay behind it, all that was left of fifty thousand. He got up, walked over to the safe, twisted the combination, and pulled the door open. He reached in, took out the bill, and looked at it. And looked again, with wide eyes.
    Because it wasn't a five-dollar-bill, at all.
    It was a thin sheet of paper-like plastic, folded up to about the same size as a banknote.
    Puzzled, Peter looked into the safe again. Nothing. He thrust his hand in and felt around. Still nothing. Except for the sheet of stuff he held in his hand, the safe was as empty as a church on Monday.
    Unfolding the folded sheet, Peter saw that it was covered with print. The characters were oddly shaped, and the phraseology was queer, but it was unmistakably English.
    Peter Merton sat on the edge of his desk and began to read.
    Honorable Mister, Miss, or Missus:
    To whoever you are in the Twentieth Century, we of the Thirtieth Century send greetings. We hope this epistle will be understandable; our knowledge of the language of English is maybe not as good as might be. Our studies of your time are somewhat hampered by lack of records, and it for this reason is that we contact you.
    In order for the Time Transfer Field to work, it must be entirely surrounded by thick metal. Also a piece of similar material must be in place so that transfer can be effected, in accordance with the Vorish Equations.
    If you wish to co-operate in this history-seeking venture, please place a note to such effect in your metal box.
    Rolath Guelph
    Terrestrial Bureau of Historical Investigation
    Peter frowned and read the thing again. Who would write such silliness? Could it be another joke by Quiggs? No, it couldn't be; he, Peter Merton, had put that five-dollar-bill back into the safe, and he hadn't left the room while it was in there.
    He looked up at the open safe. It was still empty. Well, by golly, he'd see whether this was a hoax or not.
    He pulled his gold-plated desk pen out of its crystal holder, took a piece of office stationery, and wrote:
    Dear Mr. Guelph:
    I'm very much interested in your proposition, but I would like to have you explain a little bit more about it.
    Very truly yours,
    Peter Merton
    He folded it and put it in the safe. Then he sat down and watched it. He watched it for fifteen minutes before he decided that nothing was going to happen. Finally, he walked over and took out the paper. It was the same as it had been when he put it in.
    He looked back at the plastic sheet. Aha! It said: "In order for the Time Transfer Field to work, it must be surrounded entirely by thick metal."
    He put the note back in, and this time he closed and locked the door.
    Three minutes later, he opened it again. This time, there was another folded sheet of plastic. It said:
    Dear Mr. Merton:
    Understanding Time Transfer is very simple. Of course, the science of your time would be unable to build such a machine, but what happens is essentially this: If you put something in your metal box, we can pick it up and bring it to our time. However, there must be an equivalent exchange of matter, so we have to send something to your century, too. This must be done in accordance with the Law of Entropy.
    What we need mostly are historical documents; newspapers, books, and magazines of your era. Please send only factual material; no fiction. We will want fiction later, but not now.
    Here is a list of things we would like to have.
    Peter read down the list and blinked in amazement at some of the things.
    The letter ended with: In return for this, we will send an equal weight of some of our old museum pieces of paper. Papers like the one we took from you; things called "money." Will this be satisfactory? Here is a sample.
    Yours very truly,
    Rolath Guelph.
    Money? Peter looked at the bill that was enclosed. It was a five-hundred-dollar-note! And they said they would exchange pound for pound! That meant that for one pound of old newspapers, he would get one pound of banknotes!
    It sounded screwy, but Peter Merton was not a man to argue. If it worked, fine; if it didn't, what could he lose?
    Peter jammed his hat on his head, folded the list and the five hundred dollars in his pocket, and strode out the door. He stopped in the outer office at the desk of Miss Simmons, who was typing up some letters.
    "Come along, Miss Simmons," he said. "Get your hat; we have some things to do."
    Miss Simmons looked startled, but she did as she was bid. Fifteen minutes later, they were in a second-hand book shop on Sixth Avenue.
    Peter squinted at the list in the dim light. "I want The Story of English by Mario Pei," he said to the proprietor, "and The Story of Language by the same author. Give me a copy of the memoirs of Winston Churchill, the--"
    He went on like that for several minutes, and the pile of books in front of him began to grow. Then he browsed through the magazine section, looking for back issues of Life, Time, and Scientific American.
    He told Miss Simmons to get a taxi, and they began loading the stuff in the back seat. Then they drove to the New York Times building and got back issues of the past year. With all this loot, they drove back to the offices of Crabley & Co.
    It was during the ride back that Peter wondered whether it was possible that the people of the future had stolen the money that Quiggs had been blamed for and replaced it with a bundle of paper. But he shook his head. It couldn't be. The bundle had been made of cut-up newspapers, and, besides, they had Quiggs' fingerprints all over them.
    Miss Simmons helped him get the stuff into his office, and then she said: "Mr. Merton, I don't like to butt into your business, but may I ask what all this literature is for?"
    Grinning happily, Peter Merton swore the girl to secrecy, then he told her what had happened. As he finished the story, Miss Simmons began to edge slowly toward the door.
    "--and so, I had to get these books and things. They're evidently doing research into history. These are books they've lost, somehow. Imagine what it would be like if our historians could get copies of the books that were burned at the Library of Alexandria, and--Just a minute! Where are you going, Miss Simmons?"
    *       *       *       *       *
    Miss Simmons smiled a sickly smile. "Oh, nowhere! Are you sure you feel all right, Mr. Merton?"
    "Do I feel--" Peter looked blank. "Oh! I see. You think I've gone off my rocker. Well, we'll see. Maybe I have, but I don't think so. Look; I'll prove it to you."
    He scribbled a note to Rolath Guelph and put it inside the safe with a couple of the books. Then he closed the safe. He waited three minutes and opened it again.
    Irene Simmons' eyes opened wide in astonishment, and her mouth formed a crimson O. Tumbling out of the safe came sheaf after sheaf of banknotes.
    "Now do you believe me?" Peter asked triumphantly.
    "Y--yes. What else can I believe? Are they real?"
    He picked one of the bills up and looked at it closely. "It's real, all right. I started out in business as a bank teller, and I know how to tell a counterfeit. This is the real McCoy, all right."
    "Well--well, my goodness!" was all Miss Simmons could say for a moment. Then, after the shock of seeing all that money had lessened a little, she asked: "What are you going to do with it, Peter?"
    "The first thing I'm going to do," he said, "is return that fifty thousand dollars to Mr. Crabley. Here, help me gather this stuff up and sort it out into piles. We'll have to count it, too."
    The girl pitched in willingly and began to sort the bills. Swiftly they separated it.
    It was not until then that Peter Merton realized that the girl had called him by his first name. Was it the sight of all the money that had done it? Irene Simmons had never impressed him as the gold-digger type, but--
    Peter shrugged and went on stacking the money.
    When they had finished, Irene said: "There's not quite enough to pay back Mr. Crabley."
    "That's easily fixed," Peter said, grinning.
    He put in some more books, closed the safe, and waited. When he opened it again, more money came tumbling out. This time, there was enough to pay back the Old Man and more besides.
    Peter sorted out a pile of the larger bills, enough to make fifty thousand, and marched to Mr. Crabley's office.
    The engraving on the door said:
    J. J. CRABLEY PRESIDENT
    He rapped deferentially, and when a voice said: "Come in!" Peter did exactly that.
    Old Man Crabley looked just like his name. He was a small, wizened, crab-faced man with yellowed skin and a totally bald head.
    "Well, sir! What is it this time?" he crackled.
    Peter began pulling the money out of the briefcase he had packed it in, in order to carry it to the Old Man's office.
    "I brought you the money, sir," Peter said. "You'll find it all there; fifty thousand dollars."
    The Old Man's eyes lit up with pleasure. Peter could almost see the green glow of money in them.
    "Excellent," said Mr. Crabley. "So the police caught the thief, hey? He'll get twenty years for this."
    "No, sir," Peter replied. "They haven't caught Quiggs yet, and they haven't found the money. This is out of my--ah--my savings."
    The Old Man's scraggly brows shot up. "Indeed? Savings? I didn't know you actually had that much. Hmmm. Well. Mmmm." He rubbed his hands together and frowned. "Well, this is really quite handsome of you, young man. You have more brains than I credited you with. Hmmm." He took out a letter opener and toyed with it. Finally, he said: "Peter, my boy, I'll tell you: I really didn't mean that you should do this; I was simply trying to throw a scare into you. I'll tell you what I'm going to do, my boy; I'm going to place this to your account with the firm. Henceforth, you are a junior partner of Crabley & Company, to the tune of fifty thousand dollars.
    "In addition, I'll have Mr. Twythe, the firm's lawyer, draw up a paper which will give you all rights to whatever money is recovered from Quiggs by the police."