The alarm did its level best and almost failed. I heard the last tired ring just as it gave up. With a Napoleonic effort of will I crawled out and, eyes still closed, steered a blind course for the bathroom. I got under the shower, took a deep breath, and turned the cold water on full.
Twenty minutes later I left the house, hesitated at a lunch bar long enough for a quick bite, and then walked over to 42nd Street. I was about to hail a cab when I remembered my date with Ted. The phone booths in the drugstore on the corner were all in use. I went on into Grand Central Station and toward the booths at the end of the Lexington Avenue arcade. Since I couldn’t get both myself and the rather bulky suitcase into a booth simultaneously, I left it just outside. I dropped my nickel in the slot and dialed.
The excuse I dished Ted wasn’t exactly on the level. I told him I was sorry but that he’d have to take a rain check because I was back at the theater working on the play.
“Indian giver,” he said, and then, with what sounded like a good big helping of skepticism: “Merlini isn’t in to reporters and you galloped right over there after pretending you weren’t interested. Come clean. What is it?”
“Nothing,” I lied brightly, and added a bit of truth to make it look good. “He really was out. He’s living with a circus this week. When I catch up with him, and if I uncover anything, I’ll let you know. Cross my heart, hope to, die.”
“Okay, pal,” he growled, “but if it’s the double-cross — I’ll have your scalp.”
Ted must have a direct wire through to Justice because that lady immediately rolled up her sleeves and got busy, settling my account. I came out of the booth, reached down to pick up the suitcase — and nearly dislocated my arm. It had been heavy enough before; now, suddenly, it seemed to be nailed to the floor. Considerably baffled by this unlikely gravitational phenomena, I tried again and this time lifted it. But it wasn’t the same suitcase, I saw then. It was black and nearly the same size, but the clasps were different, and it was newer. I looked quickly about, hunting for someone who had made a mistake. No one was carrying a bag anything like mine. And I realized that an accidental exchange was only remotely probable. The difference in weight was too instantly apparent. The switch must have been intentional. Petty thieves probably. But why the hell had they loaded the dummy bag with old iron? And why—
One of the catches, when I pushed at it, flipped open. The bag was unlocked. I laid it on its side and heard an inner, heavy metallic rattle. I snapped the other catch free and raised the lid, six inches perhaps, before I dropped it. My surprise couldn’t have been more complete if I had discovered a full-grown Gila monster or a collection of human heads. The veiled lady and the Coast Defense plans weren’t in the same class!
I stood there in prosaic, everyday Grand Central Station, and clutched a strange suitcase that was filled with coins. Funny-looking old coins, worn and wobbly about the edges, all about the size of a quarter and of a dull, dirty yellow color. Brass slugs? I quickly extracted one and closed the lid. In spite of the appearance of age, I fully expected a close look to reveal some such inscription as New York World’s Fair Souvenir or This token with two box tops is good for—But that wasn’t it.
I saw instead the likeness of a plump, sharp-nosed, and vaguely familiar face, that of a man wearing long curly hair surmounted by a laurel wreath. The inscription in worn letters that circled him read: GEORGIUS III — DEL GRATIA. The reverse side bore on a floriated shield a complicated and impressive coat of arms — the English lions, a harp, fleur-de-lis, and a date, 1779. Coins right enough. English. Revolutionary period. Denomination, as far as I was concerned, unknown. I only knew that there were a thousand or two in that suitcase and that their yellow color — if the coins were bona-fide — could only mean one thing: gold.
I glanced quickly around the station again. Everything normal — except the cockeyed contents of that case and the dizzy whirl under my hat. I opened the lid once more for just an instant, and took out the small cardboard box I had glimpsed lying there half buried in the yellow metal. I pulled away the rubber band that encircled it and removed the cover. There might be something here to explain — but there wasn’t. Only more coins, a half-dozen of them.
My sneak-thief theory collapsed. I didn’t get it at all. Only that something had slipped a cog. That seemed as obvious as the nose on George III’s chubby face. Could anyone be so preoccupied as not to be instantly aware of the difference in weight between the two suitcases and, at the same time, harmless enough to be at large? I doubted it strongly. Yet, if the exchange had been deliberate — Had someone burgled the collection of the Numismatic Society? I doubted that too. They wouldn’t have that many coins all alike.
The idiotic irrationality of it all annoyed me. The loss of my camera annoyed me. The problem in ethics, a problem unprovided for by my ordinary rules of conduct, annoyed me. I should, I supposed, trot around to the nearest police station crying, Look what I found! If I wasn’t immediately locked up on suspicion, I would at least have to spend an hour or two tangled in explanations — explanations I didn’t have. They might search me and find the gun — and I’d no explanation and no permit. I’d miss Merlini and his haunted house. If I didn’t step on it, I’d miss him as it was.
I decided that if any eccentric dealer in old coins was unhinged enough to leave his stock around loose like this, he could wait a day or two to get it back. Teach him a lesson. I think I fully expected that somehow, somewhere there was a rational, probably quite commonplace, answer, and that someone would turn up in due course to claim the coins. But I was certainly not going to hang around waiting for him; I had things to do and places to go.
I dropped the cardboard box with its six coins into my pocket — Merlini, I thought, might know what they were — took the suitcase around the corner and shoved it into the nearest dime-in-the-slot locker. I went back to the Walgreen’s on the corner and bought flashlights, paper cups, and sandwiches. Then I stopped at the Ship’s Bar half a block over on 43d, picked up a quick one and a quart of Scotch to go.
The mid-portion of the block between Lexington and Third Avenue is none too brightly lit. I was 20 feet from the door of the bar on the way out when I heard the quick footsteps behind me. I started to turn — way too late. Something that might easily have been the Chrysler building hit me on the top of the head, and was followed immediately by an elegant display of shooting stars in full Technicolor. They whirled through a fast, eccentric, Walt Disney dance routine and then, as the film began to flicker badly, something hard and flat, strangely like a cement sidewalk, pushed gently against my face. It was very comfortable and I went to sleep.
When I woke after awhile I was conscious, first, that my head seemed to be very loosely attached and on the verge of floating off. I was lying ten feet or so back from the sidewalk in the shadow of an areaway. I rolled over slowly, with some vague intention of rising, and felt a hard, square shape bump against my ribs. My hand fumbled over the object, feeling the hard fiber and the metal catches. The fog behind my eyes lifted a bit further. I sat up. Brain cells clicked and started turning over again. Suitcase, I thought. Damn thing followed me. Haunted, that’s what. I swung up on to my feet, balanced there none too steadily, and put my complete profane vocabulary into one blistering and very satisfying paragraph. I tacked a neat row of exclamation points on the end and stopped short.