TEST SIMPLE—TEST SCIENTIFIC
Mrs. O’Casey was in the process of ironing. And markedly red-faced.
Though it should be said she was in the process only of ironing—but not shoving iron over goods! For she had, laid out on her ironing board—the while the iron stood on a holder—an array of tiny miniature playing cards, with which, plainly, she had been telling her own fortune.
She looked up—startled—as he came in. Gathered all the cards together in a swoop—and held them out to him.
“I hope ye’ll furgive me, Mister Organbroight—but I borried ’em from your room because me own carr-rds do come up tirrible!”
“Keep them,” he said, smiling.
“Arrah!” she retorted. “Not afther gettin’ such a fine forchune as I just rid fur mesilf. Do I kape them, I’ll be doin’ it all over—and gittin’ it all wrong. No—take thim—and furgive me.”
“Be it then so,” he said amiably, thrusting them down into his back pocket. And proceeded with what he had come out there for.
“Mrs. O’Casey,” he asked, “have you still got that syringe that you used to give old Betsy those hypodermic—ahem—underhide!—injections with—before she died?”
She nodded, sad-faced. “Yis, Mr. Organbroight, we kipt it—lest the nixt horse we git gits the same disase.”
“Could I borrow it? For a slight chemical experiment?”
“Shure—shure!” Mrs. O’Casey stooped, reached into the bottom drawer of a kitchen cabinet near the end of the ironing board, and arose with, in her hand, a huge nickel-plated cylindrical device resembling nothing so much as a Gargantuan hypodermic needle.
He took it and, turning on her hot water tap, drew in water back and forth, to remove all traces of organic drugs within.
“And now,” he asked, “have you any acetic acid?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “Whin it kims to chimycals, Mr. Chimist, ye’ll have to git thim frim yer own labi’tory. We don’t have thim things around the house.”
He was grinning a bit maliciously. And pointing to a bottle of white vinegar standing on a shelf.
“Yonder ‘Mother’s Vinegar,’” he said, “is not only what I want—acetic acid!—but diluted to the exact strength: for maximum molecular dissociation: 5 per cent.”
“My—God!” said Mrs. O’Casey, staring at the vinegar. “Take it.” He did, by merely reaching out. “And do ye mean,” she asked plaintively, “that I b’en using acetic acid in an’ on me man’s fude all these years? Merciful—”
“Oh, come, Mrs. O’Casey, cheer up. You have been doing even worse. Now those lemons over yonder in that brass bowl on the window sill—” He was indicating the bowl, and she was staring at them. “—are each and every one a mine of pure citric acid.”
“My—God!” said Mrs. O’Casey. And sat down, in a nearby chair, with sheer weakness.
Syringe in hand, vinegar bottle in hand, Boyd Arganbright repaired back to his room.
He closed the door. And inserting the point of the needle into the cork of McCorniss’ huge bottle—right through the green wax—he thrust it in. Knowing that when it was withdrawn later the hole in the cork would close right up. And that the tip of a hot hairpin over the wax aperture would close that up. He was beginning to feel, however, that there would be quite no need of that; that this specimen, if found along Big River, had quite no chance of being platinum-oxy-rh—
Yet—he shrugged his shoulders—who could tell?
The needle drove through the cork with ease. He saw the tip come through the bottom. Which was all he wanted.
Now he unscrewed the top of the nickeled cylinder. And poured it full of the white vinegar. Which did not drip from the needle-tip by so much as a drop. Because, of course, of the capillary resistance. Now he screwed back the top of the hypodermic-needle, with plunger inside. And, with a final confirming look at the label which dogmatically affirmed
SPECIMEN
[In solution]
he pressed down on the plunger, remarking to himself ironically:
“It says only ‘solution’—not ‘aqueous solution’!” And even before, with a mental view of the amount of presumed p.o.r. that had been dissolved in that water, and a physical visual view of the caliber of that cylinder, he ceased pressing that plunger down any further, a peculiar thing started to happen. The inky black fluid suddenly started to vanish—at least as an inky black, fluid. Some weird but invisible interchange of atoms going on, further mixing up the rest of the atoms—by exchange and collision!—were effecting a chemical “reaction.” A reaction every bit as striking as that obtained by the stage magician who, starting originally with “water” that was in reality a colorless transparent solution of pheno-thalein, then turning it to beautiful purple “wine” by a surreptitious pinch of white colorless uric-acid crystals, has then proceeded to “bleach” his “wine” back to “water” again with a pinch of the proper oxidizing powder. Indeed, the intensity of the black in the bottle standing in front of Boyd Arganbright was thinning so rapidly that it appeared that an invisible hand must be drawing it out of the bottle. He gave a final squirt from the rigidly poised cylinder. And the last spurt of vinegar—or, to be precise, C2H4O3!—proved to be the final touch. Or, if not that, then the slight violent shake that Boyd Arganbright impatiently gave it. For the whole solution in the bottle became transparent—colorless!—looked exactly like water. Its former inkyness—its former opacity—were completely non est—gone with the wind! A memory. And, to anyone who might now have held the bottle aloft—as did Boyd Arganbright, who turned it wonderingly about, as well—the contents might have been but a half-gallon of spring water.
Except that to Boyd Arganbright, who was a chemist—it was not! Platinum, that bottle contained! For that it had contained platinum oxy-rhodomate had been now proved up completely—and beyond all peradventure. And, what was of still more importance, platinum it still contained—in solution—and still available as an indication of prior registry. Still—
But now Boyd Arganbright, turning the bottle around, started sharply. For, through the now clear transparent liquid, he could see the back of the orange label. Which was strangely, grotesquely enlarged, due to the convexity of the bottle—indeed, the bottle, and its liquid contents held in the curve of its sides, was nothing but a great convex lens! No, not exactly ‘a great convex lens’—rather, a ‘great convex cylindrical lens,’ with no refracting power whatsoever along the axis of its cylindrical surfaces—indeed, the label was no higher, as seen through bottle and liquid, than it was in actuality—but, crosswise of the bottle, it appeared to be under such extreme magnification that its correct proportions had seemingly vanished. Yet even this was not the phenomenon that had made Boyd Arganbright visibly start. For that precise motion on his part had been due to the startling fact that the back of that label bore, at its top, hand-lettered in jet-black India ink, in letters at least a half-inch high, the arresting caption
ATTENTION, BOYD!!!
underneath which was typewriting—jet-black and clean—done obviously on a brand-new ribbon—typewriting in close single-spaced lines—typewriting which ran sidewise from edge to edge of the label, and vertically from just beneath the hand-lettered caption to the very bottom—typewriting done in letters of quite ordinary and standard height, though just a bit “skinny” considered crosswise of themselves! And it was only when Boyd Arganbright, bottle drawn closer to his eyes, read the opening words of that typewriting—right through the liquid—that he grasped for the first time that he was seeing letters that had been tremendously magnified axially—crosswise of themselves only!—that they were, in short, letters typed by a “micro-axially-condensed” typewriter—letters so condensed, sidewise, in actuality, that a whole average word filled no more than a quarter-inch—letters that comprised a many, many-worded message—letters which read:
Dear Boyd:
You are now viewing this message through what is—to all intents and purposes—a huge, powerful convex lens. Were you not, the type would be well-nigh unreadable to you—practically a series of short parallel vertical lines!—since the message has been typed out by me on one of the old von Schussmock micro-axially-condensed typewriters in use for some years in this state by county recorders to comply with certain legal conditions then in existence. Thus, the 5 inch by 8 inch “placard” you are now viewing is—in view of the fact that it can carry the usual 6 lines to the vertical inch, but an average of 4 words to the lineal inch!—able to contain some 900 to 1000 words of instruction and explanation—waiting only a lens with refracting power crosswise of that writing. Like a cylindrical lens. Or—a bottle—such as this! And you are now viewing my message as you are for the reason that, now that there is no longer any possibility of myself or any messenger of mine “checking up” on your safe tenureship of this bottle, you have done what a chemist friend of mine says is the only thing any chemist would or could do personally to confirm or disprove the presence of platinum-oxy-rhodomate in aqueous solution in a glass container where it was not possible to open the container itself i.e. to “needle it” with dilute acetic acid, and find whether, while still “in solution” as a resultant acetate, it presents complete colorlessness and transparency.
You have done this, of course, Boyd, to circumvent my “friends,” from getting ownership of my platinum mine. The first step being, of course, to ascertain definitely if I had such!
Well, Boyd, I have no platinum mine. And this bottle was prepared with a specimen of p.o.r. given me by that South American friend who did have a natural outcropping. And it was left with yourself—friend—and chemist!—in the manner it has been—so that immediately on my death the identical step you have taken will be taken.
And this message gotten to you.
Boyd, I have always had a horrible fear that I will be buried alive. In a state of catalepsy. For once in India I had a cataleptic attack, and would have been sent to a mortuary except that they were puzzled enough as to why I did not decompose in the intense heat to call in a native fakir, who brought me out.
As I think I once mentioned to you, Boyd, I own Island 46 VII/b in Big River, off Shelby’s Bluff—an island known also as “Bleeker’s Isle”; and also quite widely—and for many decades—as “Destiny’s Stage”—and it is my intention to have constructed on this island a practically open vault. Just as soon as a certain friend—by name Otto Kieske—who is in the vault-constructing business, and who is now en route for Tibet to build—or perhaps even there, building—a vault for the Grand Llama—returns to America. It was Kieske’s belief when he left America a few months back that he will be back in America within one year; personally, from my understanding of the difficulties of Tibet travel, and the red tape of Tibetan court procedure, I think it quite possible it may be a couple of years before he gets back. Be that as it may, get back he will, and built will be my vault. And it is my further intention to arrange—nay, insure!—my burial in this vault—and same without embalming. And so, Boyd, the minute you read of my interment in this vault—which naturally will make a country-wide story!—I want you to come quietly and immediately to Big River—to go out to my island—and, by dint of the fact that my body will be in a paperoid casket with removable cover, and that this vault will be openable by no more than a lateral shove on the tip of a counter-balancing concrete cross—well, I want you to make three specific tests on my body: 1st, as to whether organic decomposition has or has not set in—you, being a chemist, and knowing the characteristic odor of the organic sulphids, are the best judge of that; 2nd, as to whether or not moisture is left on a mirror held at my mouth or nostrils; 3rd, whether or not a pin-prick made in my flesh does or does not close up. If any one of these 3 tests, Boyd, is positive with respect to the barest possibility of my being alive, I wish you to summon at once Dr. Glensil Partridge, retired—living at Mound City, east of Shelby’s Bluff—an ex-practitioner with years of experience in India—author of a monograph on catalepsy—and cognizant of all the Indian methods to determine it, and to resuscitate its victims.
I dare not, Boyd, trust any townsman to make these tests because, due to wishful thinking, he would interpret any faint signs as “negative” due to his subconscious desire not to nullify the very $100,000 bequest to Shelby’s Bluff which makes it possible for me to insure myself being placed in my open vault on my island.
Since you won the canoeing championship at college, and are an expert thereat, I suggest that the quickest and surest way to get to the island would be to apply to Jason Cannabar—at Otter’s Lake—who always has a couple of sturdy canoes which he rents out. Drive out in the river at an angle of 60 degrees upriver if the current is slow—or proportionately, clear down to 30 degrees—if the current is swift, swifter, or very swift!—and the combined speedy canoe-propulsion and river-motion will bring your canoe—as I’ve seen it do to plenty others which tried to go crosswise and upstream from off Otter’s Lake—downstream within visual range of my island. And make it possible for you to beach with practically no maneuvering.
FOR YOUR DOING ALL THIS, BOYD, THERE WILL BE A SMALL REWARD!
And valid, whether I am dead or am alive.
The reward will consist of a jeweled diamond-butterfly pin which you will find pinned to the inside of my burial garment, above my heart (I have insured its being there, in the way I have complicated certain bequests to my servants). The pin in question I had made, years ago, to give to your dear mother—whom you may as well know now that I loved, terribly; but alas, your father married her! Anyway, the pin stayed with me. Its original cost was $30,000, and I am sure that today it could easily be marketed by you for $25,000 within 24 hours. At any rate, it shall now be yours—except that, to obtain it, you will have to visit my body, and comply with my desires!—and this paper, signed, constitutes THE DEED OF GIFT thereto.
Thank you, Boyd. I now rest easier in mind.
Signed… Philaster McCorniss
Exactly 9 minutes later, Boyd Arganbright, without having changed clothes—without, indeed, having had opportunity to do so!—was aboard the Atlantic Coast and Big River Railroad train which had stopped just back of his boarding house—traveling toward Big River and the transfer point, at Boggtown, at which tomorrow—on the East Coast and Southern Big River Railroad—he could get down to Otter’s Lake. Where he could get that canoe—could go out to Bleeker’s Isle before the flood covered that vault—could ascertain if his father’s friend were, by any chance whatsoever, alive—could, incidentally also, get the payment for so doing—that $30,000 diamond pin—marketable for $25,000 or so—$25,000 which would pay off Sadie—would give him freedom—give him Alyda—love—Chief-Chemistship of Irontown Steel—
“Hurry—hurry—hurry!” he said to the chuffing engine.