Collected fiction, p.311
Collected Fiction, page 311
And, the next day, Vanning won his case. He based it on complicated technicalities and obscure legal precedents. The crux of the matter was that the bonds had not been converted into government credits. Abstruse economic charts proved that point for Vanning. Conversion of even five thousand credits would have caused a fluctuation in the graph line, and no such break existed. Vanning’s experts went into monstrous detail.
In order to prove guilt, it would have been necessary to show, either actually or by inference, that the bonds had been in existence since last December 20th, the date of their most recent check-and-recording. The case of Donovan vs. Jones stood as a precedent.
Hatton jumped to his feet. “Jones later confessed to his defalcation, your honor!”
“Which does not affect the original decision,” Vanning said smoothly. “Retroaction is not admissible here. The verdict was not proven.”
“Counsel for the defense will continue.” Counsel for the defense continued, building up a beautifully intricate edifice of casuistic logic. Hatton writhed. “Your honor! I—”
“If my learned opponent can produce one bond—just one of the bonds in question—I will concede the case.”
The presiding judge looked sardonic. “Indeed! If such a piece of evidence could be produced, the defendant would be jailed as fast as I could pronounce sentence. You know that very well, Mr. Vanning. Proceed.”
“Very well. My contention, then, is that the bonds never existed. They were the result of a clerical error in notation.”
“A clerical error in a Pederson Calculator?”
“Such errors have occurred, as I shall prove. If I may call my next witness—”
Unchallenged, the witness, a math technician, explained how a Pederson Calculator can go haywire. He cited cases.
Hatton caught him up on one point. “I protest this proof. Rhodesia, as everyone knows, is the location of a certain important experimental industry. Witness has refrained from stating the nature of the work performed in this particular Rhodesian factory. Is it not a fact that the Henderson United Company deals largely in radioactive ores?”
“Witness will answer.”
“I can’t. My records don’t include that information.”
“A significant omission,” Hatton snapped. “Radioactivity damages the intricate mechanism of a Pederson Calculator. There is no radium nor radium by-product in the offices of Dugan & Sons.”
Vanning stood up. “May I ask if those offices have been fumigated lately?”
“They have. It is legally required.”
“A type of chlorine gas was used?”
“Yes.”
“I wish to call my next witness.”
The next witness, a physicist and official in the Ultra Radium Institute, explained that gamma radiations affect chlorine strongly, causing ionization. Living organisms could assimilate by-products of radium and transmit them in turn. Certain clients of Dugan & Sons had been in contact with radioactivity—
“This is ridiculous, your honor! Pure theorization—”
Vanning looked hurt. “I cite the case of Dangerfield vs. Austro Products, California, 1963. Ruling states that the uncertainty factor is prime admissible evidence. My point is simply that the Pederson Calculator which recorded the bonds could have been in error. If this be true, there were no bonds, and my client is guiltless.”
“Counsel will continue,” said the judge, wishing he were Jeffries so he could send the whole damned bunch to the scaffold. Jurisprudence should be founded on justice, and not be a three-dimensional chess game. But, of course, it was the natural development of the complicated political and economic factors of modern civilization. It was already evident that Vanning would win his case.
And he did. The jury was directed to find for the defendant. On a last, desperate hope, Hatton raised a point of order and demanded scop, but his petition was denied. Vanning winked at his opponent and closed his brief case.
That was that.
Vanning returned to his office. At four-thirty that afternoon trouble started to break. The secretary announced a Mr. MacIlson, and was pushed aside by a thin, dark, middle-aged man lugging a gigantic suedette suitcase.
“Vanning! I’ve got to see you—”
The attorney’s eyes hooded. He rose from behind his desk, dismissing the secretary with a jerk of his head. As the door closed, Vanning said brusquely, “What are you doing here? I told you to stay away from me. What’s in that bag?”
“The bonds,” MacIlson explained, his voice unsteady. “Something’s gone wrong—”
“You crazy fool! Bringing the bonds here—” With a leap Vanning was at the door, locking it. “Don’t you realize that if Hatton gets his hands on that paper, you’ll be yanked back to jail? And I’ll be disbarred! Get ’em out of here.”
“Listen a minute, will you? I took the bonds to Finance Unity, as you told me, but . . . but there was an officer there, waiting for me. I saw him just in time. If he’d caught me—”
Vanning took a deep breath. “You were supposed to leave the bonds in that subway locker for two months.”
MacIlson pulled a news sheet from his pocket. “But the government’s declared a freeze on ore stocks and bonds. It’ll go into effect in a week. I couldn’t wait—the money would have been tied up indefinitely.”
“Let’s see that paper.” Vanning examined it and cursed softly. “Where’d you get this?”
“Bought it from a boy outside the jail. I wanted to check the current ore quotations.”
“Uh-huh. I see. Did it occur to you that this sheet might be faked?”
Madison’s jaw dropped. “Fake?”
“Exactly. Hatton figured I might spring you, and had this paper ready. You bit. You led the police right to the evidence, and a swell spot you’ve put me in.”
“B-but—”
Vanning grimaced. “Why do you suppose you saw that cop at Finance Unity? They could have nabbed you any time. But they wanted to scare you into heading for my office, so they could catch both of us on the same hook. Prison for you, disbarment for me. Oh, hell!”
MacIlson licked his lips. “Can’t I get out a back door?”
“Through the cordon that’s undoubtedly waiting? Orbs! Don’t be more of a sap than you can help.”
“Can’t you—hide the stuff?”
“Where? They’ll ransack this office with X rays. No, I’ll just—” Vanning stopped. “Oh. Hide it, you said. Hide it—”
He whirled to the dictograph. “Miss Horton? I’m in conference. Don’t disturb me for anything. If anybody hands you a search warrant, insist on verifying it through headquarters. Got me? O.K.”
Hope had returned to Madison’s face. “Is it all right?”
“Oh, shut up!” Vanning snapped. “Wait here for me. Be back directly.” He headed for a side door and vanished. In a surprisingly short time he returned, awkwardly lugging a metal cabinet.
“Help me . . . uh! . . . here. In this corner. Now get out.”
“But—”
“Flash,” Vanning ordered. “Everything’s under control. Don’t talk. You’ll be arrested, but they can’t hold you without evidence. Come back as soon as you’re sprung.” He urged MacIlson to the door, unlocked it, and thrust the man through. After that, he returned to the cabinet, swung open the door, and peered in. Empty. Sure.
The suedette suitcase—
Vanning worked it into the locker, breathing hard. It took a little time, since the valise was larger than the metal cabinet. But at last he relaxed, watching the brown case shrink and alter its outline till it was tiny and distorted, the shape of an elongated egg, the color of a copper cent piece.
“Whew!” Vanning said.
Then he leaned closer, staring. Inside the locker, something was moving. A grotesque little creature less than four inches tall was visible. It was a shocking object, all cubes and angles, a bright green in tint, and it was obviously alive. Someone knocked on the door.
The tiny—thing—was busy with the copper-colored egg. Like an ant, it was lifting the egg and trying to pull it away. Vanning gasped and reached into the locker. The fourth-dimensional creature dodged. It wasn’t quick enough. Vanning’s hand descended, and he felt wriggling movement against his palm.
He squeezed.
The movement stopped. He let go of the dead thing and pulled his hand back swiftly.
The door shook under the impact of fists.
Vanning closed the locker and called, “Just a minute.”
“Break it down,” somebody ordered.
But that wasn’t necessary. Vanning put a painful smile on his face and turned the key. Counsel Hatton came in, accompanied by bulky policemen. “We’ve got MacIlson,” he said.
“Oh? Why?”
For answer Hatton jerked his hand. The officers began to search the room. Vanning shrugged.
“You’ve jumped the gun,” he said. “Breaking and entering—”
“We’ve got a warrant.”
“Charge?”
“The bonds, of course.” Hatton’s voice was weary. “I don’t know where you’ve hid that suitcase, but we’ll find it.”
“What suitcase?” Vanning wanted to know.
“The one MacIlson had when he came in. The one he didn’t have when he went out.”
“The game,” Vanning said sadly, “is up. You win.”
“Eh?”
“If I tell you what I did with the suitcase, will you put in a good word for me?”
“Why . . . yeah. Where—”
“I ate it,” Vanning said, and retired to the couch, where he settled himself for a nap. Hatton gave him a long, hating look. The officers tore in—
They passed by the locker, after a casual glance inside. The X rays revealed nothing, in walls, floor, ceiling, or articles of furniture. The other offices were searched, too. Vanning applauded the painstaking job.
In the end, Hatton gave up. There was nothing else he could do.
“I’ll clap suit on you tomorrow,” Vanning promised. “Same time I get a habeas corpus on MacIlson.”
“Step to hell,” Hatton growled.
“ ‘By now.”
Vanning waited till his unwanted guests had departed. Then, chuckling quietly, he went to the locker and opened it.
The copper-colored egg that represented the suedette suitcase had vanished. Vanning groped inside the locker, finding nothing.
The significance of this didn’t strike Vanning at first. He swung the cabinet around so that it faced the window. He looked again, with identical results.
The locker was empty.
Twenty-five thousand credits in negotiable ore bonds had disappeared.
Vanning started to sweat. He picked up the metal box and shook it. That didn’t help. He carried it across the room and set it up in another corner, returning to search the floor with painstaking accuracy. Holy—
Hatton?
No. Vanning hadn’t let the locker out of his sight from the time the police had entered till they left. An officer had swung open the cabinet’s door, looked inside, and closed it again. After that the door had remained shut, till just now.
The bonds were gone.
So was the abnormal little creature Vanning had crushed. All of which meant—what?
Vanning approached the locker and closed it, clicking the latch into position. Then he reopened it, not really expecting that the copper-colored egg would reappear.
He was right. It didn’t.
Vanning staggered to the Winchell and called Galloway.
“Whatzit? Huh? Oh. What do you want?” The scientist’s gaunt face appeared on the screen, rather the worse for wear. “I got a hangover. Can’t use thiamin, either. I’m allergic to it. How’d your case come out?”
“Listen,” Galloway said urgently, “I put something inside that damn locker of yours and now it’s gone.”
“The locker? That’s funny.”
“No! The thing I put in it. A . . . a suitcase.”
Galloway shook his head thoughtfully. “You never know, do you? I remember once I made a—”
“The hell with that. I want that suitcase back!”
“An heirloom?” Galloway suggested.
“No, there’s money in it.”
“Wasn’t that a little foolish of you? There hasn’t been a bank failure since 1949. Never suspected you were a miser, Vanning. Like to have the stuff around, so you can run it through your birdlike fingers, eh?”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m trying,” Galloway corrected. “But I’ve built up an awful resistance over a period of years. It takes time. Your call’s already set me back two and a half drinks. I must put an extension on the siphon, so I can Winchell and guzzle at the same time.”
Vanning almost chattered incoherently into the mike. “My suitcase! What happened to it? I want it back.”
“Well, I haven’t got it.”
“Can’t you find out where it is?”
“Dunno. Tell me the details. I’ll see what I can figure out.”
Vanning complied, revising his story as caution prompted.
“O.K.,” Galloway said at last, rather unwillingly. “I hate working out theories, but just as a favor . . . My diagnosis will cost you fifty credits.”
“What? Now listen—”
“Fifty credits,” Galloway repeated unflinchingly. “Or no prognosis.”
“How do I know you can get it back for me?”
“Chances are I can’t. Still, maybe . . . I’ll have to go over to Mechanistra and use some of their machines. They charge a good bit, too. But I’ll need forty-brain-power calculators—”
“O.K., O.K.!” Vanning growled. “Hop to it. I want that suitcase back.”
“What interests me is that little bug you squashed. In fact, that’s the only reason I’m tackling your problem. Life in the fourth dimension—” Galloway trailed off, murmuring. His face faded from the screen. After a while Vanning broke the connection.
He re-examined the locker, finding nothing new. Yet the suedette suitcase had vanished from it, into thin air. Oh, hell!
Brooding over his sorrows, Vanning shrugged into a top coat and dined vinously at the Manhattan Roof. He felt very sorry for himself.
The next day he felt even sorrier. A call to Galloway had given the blank signal, so Vanning had to mark time. About noon MacIlson dropped in. His nerves were shot.
“You took your time in springing me,” he started immediately. “Well, what now? Have you got a drink anywhere around?”
“You don’t need a drink,” Vanning grunted. “You’ve got a skinful already, by the look of you. Run down to Florida and wait till this blows over.”
“I’m sick of waiting. I’m going to South America. I want some credits.”
“Wait’ll I arrange to cash the bonds.”
“I’ll take the bonds. A fair half, as we agreed.” Vanning’s eyes narrowed. “And walk out into the hands of the police. Sure.”
MacIlson looked uncomfortable. “I’ll admit I made a boner. But this time—no, I’ll play smart now.”
“You’ll wait, you mean.”
“There’s a friend of mine on the roof parking lot, in a helicopter. I’ll go up and slip him the bonds, and then I’ll just walk out. The police won’t find anything on me.”
“I said no,” Vanning repeated. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s dangerous as things are. If they locate the bonds—”
“They won’t.”
“Where’d you hide ’em?”
“That’s my business.”
MacIlson glowered nervously. “Maybe. But they’re in this building. You couldn’t have fenagled ’em out yesterday before the cops came. No use playing your luck too far. Did they use X rays?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I heard Counsel Hatton’s got a batch of experts going over the blueprints on this building. He’ll find your safe. I’m getting out of here before he does.”
Vanning patted the air. “You’re hysterical. I’ve taken care of you, haven’t I? Even though you almost screwed the whole thing up.”
“Sure,” MacIlson said, pulling at his lip. “But I—” He chewed a fingernail. “Oh, damn! I’m sitting on the edge of a volcano with termites under me. I can’t stay here and wait till they find the bonds. They can’t extradite me from South America—where I’m going, anyway.”
“You’re going to wait,” Vanning said firmly. “That’s your best chance.”
There was suddenly a gun in Madison’s hand. “You’re going to give me half the bonds. Right now. I don’t trust you a little bit. You figure you can stall me along—hell, get those bonds!”
“No,” Vanning said.
“I’m not kidding.”
“I know you aren’t. I can’t get the bonds.”
“Eh? Why not?”
“Ever heard of a time lock?” Vanning asked, his eyes watchful. “You’re right; I put the suitcase in a concealed safe. But I can’t open that safe till a certain number of hours have passed.”
“Mm-m.” MacIlson pondered. “When—”
“Tomorrow.”
“All right. You’ll have the bonds for me then?”
“If you want them. But you’d better change your mind. It’d be safer.”
For answer MacIlson grinned over his shoulder as he went out. Vanning sat motionless for a long time. He was, frankly, scared.
The trouble was, MacIlson was a manic-depressive type. He’d kill. Right now, he was cracking under the strain, and imagining himself a desperate fugitive. Well—precautions would be advisable.
Vanning called Galloway again, but got no answer. He left a message on the recorder and thoughtfully looked into the locker again. It was empty, depressingly so.
That evening Galloway let Vanning into his laboratory. The scientist looked both tired and drunk. He waved comprehensively toward a table, covered with scraps of paper.
“What a headache you gave me! If I’d known the principles behind that gadget, I’d have been afraid to tackle it. Sit down. Have a drink. Got the fifty credits?”
Silently Vanning handed over the coupons. Galloway shoved them into Monstro. “Fine. Now—” He settled himself on the couch. “Now we start. The fifty credit question.”
