Peter Merton's Private Mint - (2)

Peter started to say something, but Old Man Crabley just patted the air with a hand. "Tut, tut, my boy; think nothing of it. Any young man who can save a sum like that at your age deserves extra consideration. I have always admired a man who can make money."
    Peter thanked Mr. Crabley as best he could and then he strolled back to his office feeling a rosy glow.
    *       *       *       *       *
    During the following two weeks, Peter Merton's personal fortune grew by leaps and bounds. Most of the cash he kept in a trunk in his apartment; he knew that people would start to ask questions if he put too much of it in the bank at once. But he did put considerable sums in the bank, nonetheless.
    The savings account was practically forced on him by Irene Simmons. She insisted that, even if he did have money in his trunk, it was conceivable that someone might steal it. Meanwhile, he bought a new Cadillac, several tailor-made suits at two hundred and fifty per, a fur coat for Irene, and had his apartment completely redecorated, with built-in bar complete.
    He became quite friendly with Irene Simmons, but he was convinced that the girl liked him simply because he had plenty of money. That didn't bother him too much; she was a beautiful girl, and Peter Merton had always had an eye for beauty.
    It was in the middle of the third week that things began to change. The first thing that happened was a note from Peter's futurian correspondent, Rolath Guelph.
    Dear Mr. Merton, it read. You have been most co-operative in this endeavor, and we appreciate it greatly. Your books have been very welcome, and have strengthened our knowledge of your times and language tremendously.
    Now, however, we would like a few artifacts of your civilization. Would you please send us samples of your clothing, both men's and women's styles? We would also appreciate various other things, such as....
    And here there followed another long list, similar to the one he had received before, except that it called for various manufactured objects.
    The letter was signed, as usual, Very truly yours, Rolath Guelph.
    "Well, what do you think of that?" Peter said, after reading it.
    Irene read it and said: "I have a dress I can send him, and you can send him one of your suits."
    Peter nodded. "We'll have to buy some of these other things, though."
    An hour later, Peter stuffed a suit into the wall safe and closed the door. When he opened it, there was a small bundle of thin, strong material which, when unfolded, proved to be a suit--of sorts. It certainly looked different.
    Irene giggled when he held it out. "You couldn't wear that on the streets. It looks like something out of Flash Gordon or Buck Rogers."
    Peter grinned and put in Irene's dress. What he got back was a dress, but this time Irene didn't giggle when it was unfolded.
    "Why, that's perfectly gorgeous," she said, in awe. "I wonder if it'll fit?"
    "Here," said Peter, handing it to her. "Go find out. You can lead the fashion field--by a century to be exact."
    Irene took the dress and headed for the ladies' powder room. When she came back, it was all Peter could do to keep his eyes from popping out.
    On Irene, the rich, iridescent material made her look like a queen out of a Technicolor extravaganza.
    "Wow!" said Peter feelingly. "It's too bad they don't have suits I can wear."
    "I'll show you something else, too," Irene said excitedly. "I accidentally spilled some water on it in the powder room, and look what happened!" She proceeded to demonstrate by pouring water on her skirts from the carafe on Peter's desk. The water rolled off without wetting the material. Then she took the desk pen and shook some ink on it. "See?" she chortled, "it rolls right off! It never has to be cleaned, because it can't get dirty!"
    Peter looked back at the Buck Rogers suit. "Maybe I can get a tailor to make a decent suit out of that thing."
    Irene shook her head. "I don't think so. There aren't any seams."
    Peter frowned and took a pair of scissors from his desk drawer. He took one sleeve of the suit and tried to cut it. It wouldn't cut. He jabbed at it with the point. The suit stubbornly refused to cut, snag, or tear.
    "I wonder," he then said thoughtfully, "if this Rolath Guelph would have a suit made for me; one that I could wear." He scribbled out a note and put it in with the next batch of stuff.
    The reply came back almost immediately.
    I can't promise anything, Mr. Merton, but I'll see what I can do. R. G.
    "Well, that's that," sighed Peter. "I'll just have to wait."
    Another week passed, and Peter got no word from Rolath Guelph. He did, however, get word from another group of men.
    He was sitting comfortably in his office, pondering on what to do with all his money, when the intercom on his desk buzzed.
    "There are some gentlemen from the Treasury Department to see you, Mr. Merton," said Irene's voice. She sounded scared.
    "Send them in," Peter said. Come to think of it, he felt a little uneasy, himself.
    The two brisk, official-looking young men who came into the office identified themselves as Mr. Brady and Mr. Brown, of the United States Treasury Department. They wasted no time in getting down to business.
    "Now, Mr. Merton," said Brady, "we'd like to know how you're getting all this money."
    "Well, ah--um--I saved it," he said.
    "That's not what I meant," said Brady. "I'm talking about several counterfeit bills that have been traced to you. Where did you get them?"
    "But they can't be counterfeit," Peter protested. "They are perfectly good bills!"
    "Oh, they're good imitations, all right," Brown said. "The most amazing fakes I've ever seen. The paper is perfect, the engraving is beautiful; in fact, the only thing wrong is the serial numbers. Why, some of those numbers won't be printed on bills for twenty or thirty years yet."
    "Now, Mr. Merton," said Brady, "tell us where the plates are. Who printed these amazing phonies?"
    "I don't know," Peter said. "I--I--" he stammered. Frightened, he didn't know what to say. He was afraid to tell them about Rolath Guelph and the Time Transfer; they'd think he was crazy.
    "It won't do you any good to lie, Mr. Merton," said Brown. "We got a search warrant this morning and went through your apartment. We found the trunk full of money in your closet. Some of the boys are going over them now, down at the Treasury Office."
    Peter Merton gulped and said nothing. He couldn't; there was a lump in his throat the size of a grapefruit.
    "Well," Brady said, "if you won't tell us, I'm afraid we'll just have to take you in. Come along, Mr. Merton."
    Still speechless, Peter walked out of the office between the two men.
    *       *       *       *       *
    Peter Merton was sitting in a cell with his head in his hands when he heard the clicking of high heels down the corridor, followed by the heavy tread of a guard's feet.
    It was Irene. "I got a lawyer for you, Peter," she said breathlessly as she came up to the cell door.
    The guard leaned against the wall and inspected his fingernails. "I don't think he needs a lawyer, lady. What he needs is a goof-doctor. He's flipped his cookie."
    Peter managed a faint grin. "I told 'em how I got the money," he said. "They think I'm nuts."
    "But, Peter," she said, "why would Rolath Guelph send counterfeit money?"
    "He didn't," Peter said. "Don't you see? He got all that money out of a museum. There's probably bills there that were printed in every century for the next thousand years. He just sent some bills that won't be printed for twenty years yet."
    "Well, don't you worry, I'll do something to get you out," she said. "Couldn't we take them up to the office and show them how it works?"
    "I don't know. Maybe. But Brady said that even if I were telling the truth they'd have to take all the money away from me."
    "I don't care about the money," Irene said. "All I care about is getting you out of this horrible place."
    Suddenly, a door opened at the far end of the corridor, and there were more footsteps. It was Brady and Brown, followed by a man Peter had never seen before.
    The stranger was saying: "--after all, it's only fair that my client be allowed to prove his story, no matter how fantastic it is."
    "He'll get a chance," Brady said sharply.
    The stranger turned out to be Q. Bertram Leslie, the lawyer that Irene had engaged.
    "All right," Brown said to the guard, "let him out. We'll take over." Then he looked at Peter. "We're going up to your office, Merton, to give you a chance to prove this screwy story you've been telling us about a time machine. I know it's going to be a waste of time, but justice is justice. Come along."
    *       *       *       *       *
    It was after six o'clock when they arrived at the offices of Crabley & Company, and the office suite was deserted. Irene let the officers in with a key, and they went back to Peter's private office.
    "Okay," said Brady, "there is your magic safe; do your stuff."
    As Peter began working the combination, Brown said: "By the way, Merton, you'll be interested to know that the Brazilian police have picked up this guy, Quiggs, who stole the fifty thousand from you. He claimed he opened the package and there was nothing but a bunch of plastic in it. But the Brazilian cops think they've got a lead on it."
    Peter paid no attention. He wasn't interested in Quiggs' crime right now, he was only interested in his own. He swung open the door and looked inside. There was a folded note from Rolath Guelph. He opened it and looked.
    "Oh, no!" he said weakly. He sat down in a chair.
    Brady took the note from his hand and read:
    Dear Mr. Merton,
    We of the Terrestrial Bureau of Historical research want to extend to you our warmest thanks for your co-operation. We now have most of the information we want about your era. With the valuable information you have given us, we will be able to do a great deal more research, and will have much better success in pinpointing our future contacts.
    It is too bad we could not meet in person, but it is impossible to transfer living things through time. Rest assured that your name will go down in history books as one of our most valuable contacts.
    The Transfer Field will be shut off as soon as you receive this note. Naturally, a reversal of transfer will occur.
    With our warmest wishes,
    Rolath Guelph.
    Brady looked up at Peter with what could well be called a jaundiced eye. He said. "Did you think this would get you off the hook? How stupid do you think we are? Phony bills, a phony story, phony letter--Merton, you're just plain phony, all the way through. Come on along; it's back to the hoosegow for you. And this time, try--"
    It is difficult to say what Brady might have suggested that Peter try, for he never finished the sentence. He was interrupted by a sudden roar of sound that reminded him of a broken steam pipe. Suddenly, the air was filled with books, magazines, papers, clothing, shoes, ash trays, cigarettes, pencils, pens, candy, sandwiches, and a thousand and one other things, all spewing from the safe like water out of a fire hose.
    Amid the confusion Peter saw Irene running for the door, clad only in the sheerest of bra and panties.
    "Where is Brady?" shouted Brown. "Why did that girl run off? What happened?"
    "I'm not sure what happened," Peter said, "but Irene had a perfectly good reason for running off. And as for Brady--"
    He pointed toward the tremendous heap of stuff on the floor.
    One hand was groping feebly from its center.
    Irene sipped at her coffee, while Peter, sitting across the cafe table, explained to her.
    "Of course they didn't have a case against me without evidence, and when all the money vanished, they had no evidence. So they had to let me go."
    "But I don't see exactly why the things vanished," Irene said. "What happened to my beautiful dress? That was terribly embarrassing!"
    But very beautiful, Peter thought. "Well, as near as I can figure out, this Time Transfer business only works so long as the time field is working. As goon as they shut it off, everything went back to its proper time. All the things we gave them came back to us, and all the money, and your dress, and the other gadgets we got went back to the Thirtieth Century, where they belonged."
    "It's a shame, in a way," Irene said. "We could have used that trunkful of money to get married on."
    Peter's grin broadened. "Don't worry about that. Remember, Old Man Crabley gave me the right to keep any money that was recovered from Quiggs."
    "Did you get it?" Irene asked excitedly. "Did Quiggs tell where he hid it?"
    Peter shook his head. "Nope. He didn't steal it. I found the money in that pile of stuff in my office.
    "Evidently, Rolath Guelph was trying out his machine and took the bundle of money and replaced it with another bundle of that queer plastic paper of his. When Quiggs sneaked in, he just stole the bundle from the Thirtieth Century and he put a third bundle in. He got all the way to Brazil before he opened the package and found out he didn't have anything."
    "Fifty thousand dollars," Irene said dreamily. "Well, that ought to be enough to start on, anyway."
    THE END