Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

then it comes into the ken of our particular cloak-and-dagger department.”

“Yes, sir.” Woolford said. He got up and examined the two bills again. “How’d they ever detect that one was bad?”

“Pure fortune. A bank clerk with an all but eidetic memory was going through a batch of fifties. It’s not too commonly used a denomination, you know. Coincidence was involved since in that same sheaf the serial number was duplicated.”

“And then?”

“The reproduction was so perfect that Secret Service was in an immediate uproar. Short of the Nazi effort, there has never been anything like it. A perfect duplication of engraving and paper identically the same. The counterfeiters have even evidently gone to the extent of putting a certain amount of artificial wear on the bills before putting them into circulation.”

Larry Woolford said, “This is out of my line. How were they able to check further, and how many more did they turn up?”

“The new I.B.M. sorters help. Secret Service checked every fifty dollar bill in every institution in town both banking and governmental. Thus far, they have located ten bills in all.”

“And other cities?”

“None. They’ve all been passed in Greater Washington, which is suspicious in itself. The amount of expense that has gone into the manufacture of these bills does not allow for only a handful of them being passed. They should be turning up in number. Lawrence, this reproduction is such that a pusher could walk into a bank and have his false currency changed by any clerk.”

“Wow,” Larry whistled.

“Indeed.”

“So you want me to work with Secret Service on this on the off chance that the Soviet Complex is doing us deliberate dirt.”

“That is exactly the idea, Lawrence. Get to work, please, and keep in touch with me. If you need support, I can assign Walter Foster or some of the other operatives to assist you. This might have endless ramifications.”

Back in the anteroom, Woolford said to the Boss’ receptionist, “I’m on a local job, LaVerne, how about assigning me a girl?”

“Can do,” she said.

“And, look, tell her to get hold of every available work on counterfeiting and pile it on my desk.”

“Right. Thinking of going into business, Larry?”

He grinned down at her. “That’s the idea. Keeping up with the Jones clan in this man’s town costs roughly twice my income.”

LaVerne said disapprovingly, “Then why not give it up? With the classification you’ve got a single man ought to be able to save half his pay.” She added, more quietly, “Or get married and support a family.”

“Save half my pay?” Larry snorted. “And get a far out reputation, eh? No thanks, you can’t afford to be a weird these days.”

She flushed⁠—and damn prettily, Larry Woolford decided. She could be an attractive item if it wasn’t for obviously getting her kicks out of being individualistic.

Larry said suddenly, “Look, promise like a good girl not to make us conspicuous and I’ll take you to the Swank Room for dinner tonight.”

“Is that where all the bright young men currently have to be seen once or twice a week?” she snapped back at him. “Get lost, Larry. Being a healthy, normal woman I’m interested in men, but not necessarily in walking status-symbols.”

It was his turn to flush, and, he decided wryly, he probably didn’t do it as prettily as she did.

On his way to his office, he wondered why the Boss kept her on. Classically, a secretary-receptionist should have every pore in place, but in her time LaVerne Polk must have caused more than one bureaucratic eyebrow to raise. Efficiency was probably the answer; the Boss couldn’t afford to let her go.

Larry Woolford’s office wasn’t much more than a cubicle. He sat down at the desk and banged a drawer or two open and closed. He liked the work, liked the department, but theoretically he still had several days of vacation and hated to get back into routine.

Had he known it, this was hardly going to be routine.

He flicked the phone finally and asked for an outline. He dialed three numbers before getting his subject. The phone screen remained blank.

“Hans?” he said. “Lawrence Woolford.”

The Teutonic accent was heavy, the voice bluff. “Ah, Larry! you need some assistance to make your vacation? Perhaps a sinister, exotic young lady, complete with long cigarette holder?”

Larry Woolford growled, “How’d you know I was on vacation?”

The other laughed. “You know better than to ask that, my friend.”

Larry said, “The vacation is over, Hans. I need some information.”

The voice was more guarded now. “I owe you a favor or two.”

“Don’t you though? Look, Hans, what’s new in the Russkie camp?”

The heartiness was gone. “How do you mean?”

“Is there anything big stirring? Is there anyone new in this country from the Soviet Complex?”

“Well now⁠—” the other’s voice drifted away.

Larry Woolford said impatiently, “Look, Hans, let’s don’t waste time fencing. You run a clearing agency for, ah, information. You’re strictly a businessman, nonpartisan, so to speak. Fine, thus far our department has tolerated you. Perhaps we’ll continue to. Perhaps the reason is that we figure we get more out of your existence than we lose. The Russkies evidently figure the same way, the proof being that you’re alive and have branches in the capitals of every power on Earth.”

“All right, all right,” the German said. “Let me think a moment. Can you give me an idea of what you’re looking for?” There was an undernote of interest in the voice now.

“No. I just want to know if you’ve heard anything new anti-my-side, from the other side. Or if you know of any fresh personnel recently from there.”

“Frankly, I haven’t. If you could give me a hint.”

“I can’t,” Larry said. “Look, Hans, like you say, you owe me a favor or two. If something comes up, let me know. Then I’ll owe you one.”

The voice was jovial again. “It’s a bargain, my friend.”

After Woolford had hung up, he scowled at the phone. He wondered if Hans Distelmayer was lying. The German commanded the largest professional spy ring in the world. It