SPECIMEN—IN SOLUTION!
Ruefully, as he inserted his key in the door, Boyd Arganbright found himself now thinking of Philaster McCorniss. Who had plenty of money, according to the bequests of his will published in tonight’s paper, but of women in his life—none! While the life of him, Boyd Arganbright, was complicated by too many women—two, to be exact—and money quite none!
Curious thing, Life!
And he was even still thinking of McCorniss as he stepped into his room off the front hall. And turned on the electric lights. Illumining generously—thanks to the large-sized bulbs which Boyd Arganbright insisted on having installed for his $13 weekly board money!—the square chamber with its Wilton rug, its rose-papered walls, its brass bed, and its maple bureau, atop which, just now, face downward but its mailing label upward, and but partly read, lay Boyd Arganbright’s latest Science Review.
And, thinking of McCorniss and of the latter’s bequests, and of other matters in connection therewith, he found himself scratching his head puzzledly. And ruminating, half aloud:
“That would be a surprise!—to the McCorniss Agricultural Foundation—if they found that their residue of his estate, after those various fixed bequests have been paid off, was worth twice or more what it’s estimated at. And all thanks merely to a platinum mine amongst the assets! Only—will they find thus? Aye—will they! That’s the question. For all’s not gold that glitters; and everything that makes an inky black aqueous solution isn’t the pure oxy-rhodomate salt of platinum. Not—not by a damned sight! I could name half a dozen compounds that would do the same. Hm?” He continued to stroke his chin in the middle of the room.
“Well—we’ll know officially in a week, I suppose—the way such things move! For the two official repositories will notify the Foundation by tomorrow—or next day; the Foundation’ll have a meeting of its directors; they’ll pass a vote to take a sample; the sample will be analyzed; the report will be read to the directors at another meeting; and then—and then only—the newspapers will have an additional story about McCorniss. ‘McCorniss the Prospector!’ Though—will they? Aye—that’s the question! And—how?”
And tossing his knitted skullcap on the bureau, Boyd Arganbright went into his closet where, from a dusty shelf well above his head, he took down a large glass bottle, at least a half-gallon in size, and which, as he brought it out into the light, showed itself to be filled to fully 5/6ths of its height with an inky, fuliginous, jet-black fluid as black as night itself, and to have had its entire glass neck dipped in brilliantly green wax; even more, as was evident on close inspection, the bottle’s cork had been driven in flush with the top of the neck, and wire had been wound a number of times about the neck, below the “collar,” and passed back and forth across the top of the cork before dipping all in the wax. Even still more, as was further evident as Boyd Arganbright lugged the thing out into the bright lights of the room, the thick green wax at the flush top of the bottle neck had been deeply impressed with a die or a seal.
A case, obviously, of contents that must remain pristine and untouched!
A large orange label, about 8 inches high and fully 5 inches across, was on the side of the huge glass bottle, and was not merely unusual in that it was hand-lettered in India ink as black as the bottle’s own contents, instead of being printed, but bore in its upper left-hand corner a large date, about two years back, however, and at the bottom of its caption a written signature. With the exception of the date, the caption itself read:
SPECIMEN
[In solution]
of natural deposit discovered by me on date shown above, on my own residential property at Shelby’s Bluff on Big River, and claimed by me as a natural salt of platinum.
This sample consists specifically of one-half ounce of the pure deposit held in solution in the existing glass container, and sealed as shown. This is No. 3 of 3 like specimens, all dated, signed and deposited with friends, to establish—under present regulations of my state—discovery of deposit prior to the new mining tax laws.
Signed …… Philaster McCorniss.
Boyd Arganbright surveyed the legend queryingly. And then the inky liquid almost filling the bottle.
He set it down, shaking his head. And fumbled in his bottom bureau drawer. Extracting soon, from a pack of old envelopes there—all of which, as evidenced by their varying thicknesses, contained letters—a single one. The envelope, addressed in big bold handwriting, bore a postmark of Shelby’s Bluff, and a date the same as that on the bottle’s label. He extracted the contents—which proved to be a couple of sheets of paper—written, on both sides of each, in the same big bold—though definitely erratic—handwriting as that on the envelope. Those contents ran:
Dear Boyd:
When last we saw each other—at your Father’s funeral, of course—you were kind enough to say that if ever you could do anything for me, you would be most happy to do so, in view of my long acquaintanceship with your Father and because—as was quite obvious then—you were feeling deeply about him, and were intensely loyal to his memory.
Well, there is something you can do for me now, Boyd—and thus honor also his and my long acquaintanceship, if not friendship—and I call on you, because the only other available real friend I have who can serve in the capacity I require, is a retired professor of geology—Aloysius Geogar—of Marysville, a town below me here, on the river, as well as near me—a man whose tenure of life I can’t count on, however, as I can that of a younger man like yourself.
But now to what it is you can do for me. And here it is:
Under separate cover, via express, and well packed in straw, I am shipping you a sealed bottle of black liquid. Of which bottle I am going to ask you to become legal “recipient” as well as legal “custodian”! An “alternate,” in short, to two friends—brothers!—to each of whom a similarly prepared bottle has been dispatched. If, at some future time, it becomes necessary for you either to fill out papers in connection with your receipt of this bottle, and your custodianship of it—or to testify thereto at the State Bureau of Mines, of my state—rest assured that I will pay you for your time. And pay you well.
I must warn you, however, Boyd, in advance, that because I am at times a very “jittery” and “pernickety” old man, I shall in all likelihood have an inspection made of all these “custodianships” from time to time. Including yours. To make sure that the items in custody are still there. Precisely and exactly as deposited! In short, with respect to yourself alone, I may from time to time have someone who may be going through Irontown, or near there, stop off for me and look the bottle that you have over, to see that everything is “oke” and “pristine.” Such inspection may be next week—next year—10 years from now—and you must understand positively, dear fellow, that such will not constitute a check upon your honor nor carefulness, but just a check on human fallibility; just a means, you see, to make sure for us all—you—my messenger—and me!—that no landlady with clumsy broom handle has, unknown to us all, sent a half-gallon of valuable black liquid seeping through cracks in a floor; or that no burglar, ransacking some closet of yours, has stooped to lug off what he may consider a mere bottle of good ink!
Now as to why this bottle is being deposited with you.
As you may or may not know, Boyd, the new tax laws that were passed by the legislature of this state a month ago provide for a royalty, to the State, of 25 per cent of all mineral deposits taken from the earth subsequent to the 30th day after the passage of the bill. Excepting those from places that conclusively can be shown to have been worked prior to that day. And excepting also those mineral deposits to he taken, after that 30th day, from places then as yet unworked, providing the places are registered with the Bureau of Mines, and the nature of the said deposits registered as well—prior to that 30th day. In such cases, only, are deposits exempt from that outrageous, ruinous royalty. With respect, however, to registering sites and deposits, provision for secret registration has been made for cases wherein a prospective developer of a site wishes to maintain secrecy as to its location and its deposits. This secret registration shall consist of double deposit with custodian-“witnesses” of samples and location data [the said samples being either in their original natural form, or held in solution, as is more convenient] and subsequent affidavits thereto by these custodians; affidavits, you understand, as to the deposition of such samples [either in original natural form or in solution] and data having been made prior to the deadline. In the case of my state, that deadline happens to be midnight of the day you receive this. And it is because of that—and also the foregoing—that I am sending forth 3 of these samples—these particular ones being held “in solution”—though the law of this state provides that only 2 such need be “registered” in the manner used. The extra custodianship—your own—is just a matter of marginal “safety.”
When, if ever, I shall work my “mine” is problematical. To do so would involve wrecking this house, which I love very greatly. Or at least moving the house to a new site. And, unfortunately, I happen to love its precise position and location. And why, I ask myself, should I work it? My health is not so good. And my estate will go, for the most part, to my own Agricultural Foundation. So it doesn’t matter, I have practically concluded, whether it goes in the form of deposits in bank—or deposits in Earth!
Now my “mine,” such as it is, Boyd, lies directly beneath my house. I discovered it yesterday when I had my basement floor up, and was installing a bit of piping. It consists of an outcropping of black soluble salt, indicating vast further deposits. For more reasons than one, it brands itself to me as the pure natural black salt known as platinum oxy-rhodomate, which I encountered in the natural state once in South America. And which was described to me fully by the owner of the said deposit, a chemical engineer. This particular salt of platinum is, he told me, extremely valuable due to the ease with which the platinum can be extracted from the salt, and due to the large amounts of the metal in the molecule. But you, Boyd, being a chemist—and a darned good one, from what I heard at your Father’s funeral, know all that.
My basis for believing I have struck a cropping of natural oxy-rhodomate of platinum is threefold: 1: The stuff I struck smells just like the real stuff I encountered. 2: It is just as black—perhaps a little more bluishly so, that’s all. 3: It dissolves in water.
I have, indeed, encased my own sample in water, because this South American chemist said that pl-ox-rh would keep indefinitely in water solution, whereas, when dry, or bottled, it underwent changes.
Now if, Boyd, because I’m no chemist, I’ve misjudged the nature of my deposit—no harm done! The point is that I’m registering it as to what I consider it to be while the registering is good! Then, if later, my Agricultural Foundation proceeds to derive an additional income from mining this deposit, the grafters in the State Tax Division won’t be getting one quarter of that draw!
And thanks for being one of the three official custodians of my official “samples.” Rather, I should say, an “alternate” to the two custodians. And don’t—please don’t—write me back and ask why in heaven’s name I don’t have an analysis of my stuff made—or, better, let you analyze the sample you have—and determine, once and for all, the correctness or incorrectness of my hypothesis. For I have good and plentiful reasons for not doing so. For one thing, the sample in your hands may, as an unopened untouched sample, someday determine in court the disposition of royalties amounting to thousands of dollars, as between a graft-ridden state and a decent Agricultural Foundation. But as an analyzed—and therefore opened-up and tampered-with—thing—what? Just a confirmation of what I already know—or, alas, the destruction of an old man’s rosy belief in his own powers as a mineralogist! Neither of which, I assure you, is of any value to me. So thank you again, Boyd, for being, in this case, purely a custodian and not—as I know you’d much more prefer to be—the analytical chemist.
Sincerely,
Philaster McCorniss.
P.S. Of course, Boyd, if anything should ever happen to me, you may have to use your own judgment toward both preventing the other two custodians from secretly buying in the property and quickly [as could conceivably happen] and at the same time preserving your specimen as a legal specimen. I think, being a chemist, you would be able to do that—yes—no?
P. McC.
Boyd Arganbright slowly folded up the several-paged letter, put it back in its envelope, and returned it to the bundle in the bureau drawer. And again fell to studying the inky black liquid almost filling the bottle on his bureau.
“So he thought he discovered a pure deposit of platinum oxy-rhodomate? Well, maybe he did—but maybe, by gosh, he didn’t; for analyzing with the human nose is one hell of an unreliable way of analyzing—let alone reasoning on the basis of mere color—and mere solubility in water! I wonder if he did have p.o.r.?”
He continued to stare fascinatedly at the huge bottle.
“I believe, as I’ve always believed 7 times out of 10, he was all wet! For how could such a deposit appear in the Midwest Big River region? I never heard of other deposits in this country. The stuff I’ve had and actually used, in connection with steel metallurgy analysis, all came from South America.”
He continued to stare fascinatedly.
“Of course, now that he’s dead—and the eternal possibility of his messenger, or even himself, barging in on me and checking up on my perfect tenureship of the thing is past—over—finis!—I could darned soon tell whether the stuff does contain p.o.r.? That is, if it wasn’t for tossing a monkey wrench into some legality as to my retention of that specimen unopened, and therefore unaltered. But, in the event one of those two brothers has lost his specimen—I’m pinch-hitter! For McCorniss’ estate. And his Foundation. Since the alleged mine will constitute part of his estate!”
But now Boyd Arganbright started—mentally and physically.
“But—will it? Will it—if those ginks should pull a fast one—buy in the property hastily from the executors—and—however, to mine it without royalty would mean they’d have to put their registered bottles forward, which would establish it as having been registered by McCorniss for McCorniss—haha!—I thought there was a screw loose in my reasoning: they could destroy their bottles, and mine the mine with royalty. For what would 25 per cent royalty be—if the other 75 per cent was beautiful mazuma? Yet still, they were his frie—”
And he whistled. “By gosh! McCorniss didn’t consider it beyond the possibility that his friends might pull a fast one—when he wrote that postscript. So why—why should I?”
And that entire postscript came back to Boyd Arganbright as clearly as though it were lying on the bureau, instead of put away.
Of course, Boyd, if anything should ever happen to me, you may have to use your own judgment toward both preventing the other two custodians from secretly buying in the property and quickly [as could conceivably happen] and at the same time preserving your specimen as a legal specimen. I think, being a chemist, you would be able to do that—yes—no?
P. McC.
“By gosh,” Arganbright now said to himself, “he’s—he’s as much as warning me what’s three-quarters certain to happen—if he ever dies. My God—since when did I have to have a mule kick me plumb in the face?”
And again his mind raced over that odd postscript. And still further aspects of it hit him exactly as would an iron shoe on a mule’s hind foot.
“Why,” he said, “the way he underlined those words is practically a challenge to me—a chemist!” And slowly and thoughtfully he repeated those words aloud: “‘—and at the same time preserving your specimen as a legal specimen.’ And then: ‘—being a chemist, you would be able to do that—’
“A challenge, by God!” he now said. “Released by the trigger of his death. No—doubly released! Since his death removes all further possibility of ‘inspection’ of the fool stuff—and at the same time creates a critical situation. Doubly released, no less! And, being a chemist, I can take that challenge right by the nose! For, I can not only maintain that sample as technically ‘a solution’ of platinum oxy-rhodomate—if it is that; but can at least find out conclusively and definitely if it isn’t platinum oxy-rhodomate. Yes! For acetic-acid, diluted to 5 per cent, added to p.o.r. in dilute solution, creates not only an acetate—but a colorless one—and a soluble one—all of which would render the whole thing transparent. Proving it up! And still maintaining the sample ‘in solution.’”
“But,” he chuckled, “I’ll have to ‘needle’ it—as they needled beer in the old pro-hi days. Well—here goes—before those birds, whoever they are, pull a fast real-estate deal before McCorniss’ body gets cold.”
And he went forth into the kitchen, knowing just what he wanted.