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."
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."