Page 105 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

The manager nodded, as if affirming this request for himself. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but as my colleague here indicated, we have no such specie on hand.”

The man’s tone was polite but not nearly as solicitous as the teller’s. Ferenc hardly noticed. “That’s not possible. How can you havenone? They’re here, somewhere.”

“My land!” said the fat woman behind him.

Now the manager paused to take in the entirety of Ferenc’s appearance—from the hat to the cape to the lumberjack shirt. “Do you have an account with us, Mister…?”

Ferenc thought fast. This was rapidly going south, and he had to salvage the mission somehow. Fast. He drew himself up. “No, I have no account here. My name is…Murrow. Edward R. Murrow. I’m a reporter with theNew York Herald, and I’m writing an article on the beauty of these new coins and…and their importance for foreign trade. My editors might become alarmed if your bank, given its federal affiliations, can’t even provide a sampling! In fact, such an anomaly might prompt them to investigate—” he thought for a second— “the fractional reserves you maintain at this site.”

The manager flinched slightly, no doubt imagining the run on the bank such an article might cause. “Wait here, please, Mr. Murrow,” he said. Then he walked away, leaving the teller standing awkwardly on the far side of the marble counter.

The line behind Ferenc grew more restless, but he didn’t care. Now, at last, he’d get some results.

The manager—after a more protracted delay—returned with a box covered in velvet. He placed the box on the counter. “Before we proceed, Mr. Murrow, I want to assure you, and your newspaper, that the New York Federal has more than enough cash and other assets on hand to cover any exigency. I’d like to emphasize that fact:morethan enough.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Ferenc said, eyes on the box. “Let’s complete the transaction, and I will write an article that is, ah, satisfactory to all concerned.”

The manager paused in the middle of removing the velvet. “I think you misunderstand,” he said. “We have plenty of gold specie on hand—twenty-dollar Libertys, ten-dollar Eagles—but the coin you speak of is a special case.” He removed the velvet, placed both hands on the polished wooden lid beneath. “Nevertheless, under the circumstances, I’ve been authorized to release these to you.” And he opened the box.

Ferenc bent forward eagerly—and couldn’t believe his eyes. Nestled within two pockets of red silk were a pair of gold Stellas. He stared in hideous disappointment. One, an 1879 Flowing Hair Stella, was nicked and covered with bag marks. And the other—an 1880 Coiled Hair, the rarest of the lot—was defaced by roller marks and planchet blemishes, strikes of the variety least prized by coin collectors.

He stared at the manager. “This is it? Just these two?” He knew that even shitty Stellas would still sell for a couple hundred thousand. But he’d been expecting to return with twenty-five Cameo-condition, even Ultra Cameo coins…these probably wouldn’t score higher than PF62.

Now it was the manager’s turn to lean forward. “You must understand, Mr. Murrow,” he said, still clearly worried about negative publicity. “We have thousands of gold coins in our vault. But this particular oddity…well, the fact is we only received a dozen of the 1879 strike, and this year we only received four, including this one, too damaged to be considered anywhere near proof…”

But Ferenc was no longer listening. Because at last he understood—and the revelation crushed him. All this time, he’d been counting on the fact he could bethere, in the very year the coins were minted, and easily get his hands on them…not realizing that contemporary collectors, or preferred customers, or bank presidents, would have been there before him. The rarest Stellas had been minted in tiny numbers…and he’d overlooked the fact that people had been collecting rare coins, even contemporaneous ones, for centuries. In 1931, people had even hoarded rolls of uncirculated Lincolnpenniesbecause of the year’s low mintage. Too, too late, it was obvious that grabbing a fistful of proof-quality Stellas in 1880 was no more likely than grabbing a fistful of tickets to the 2007 Led Zeppelin reunion, where 20 million fans vied for 20,000 seats.

As he felt himself bowing beneath this awful realization, there came an irruption from the woman behind him. “If you are quite done pawing those coins,sir, the rest of us have important business to attend to.”

Something inside Ferenc snapped. “Shut up, bitch,” he said, wheeling around, then turning back. “I’ll take these two,” he said, stretching his hands forward. He’d be lucky to get half a million for them, but he could kick himself later; it was time to get his ass back to…

“You, sir!” sounded a rough voice to one side. It was a bank guard who’d been watching—and listening. “What did you just say to this lady?”

A heavy hand clapped itself onto Ferenc’s shoulder, just as he heard the bank manager utter, “GoodLord!” The manager was staring at Ferenc’s wrist…and Ferenc, following the gaze, saw that the man was gaping at his cheap Japanese watch. A Casio G-Shock, black and beat up, that he hadn’t taken off in five years and never gave a thought to.

“What the devil have you got there?” demanded the guard, as he wheeled Ferenc around and forced back his sleeve. His eyes widened, too, as he saw the LED numbers, glowing like magic against the clear background…numbers that changed every second.

Ferenc made a sudden move, taking advantage of the guard’s surprise to twist out of his grasp and run for the door—only to find his way blocked by two more guards and half a dozen citizen do-gooders.

“You’re not going anywhere!” one of them said, grabbing at the watch he had seen the guard examining. As he did so, the man inadvertently pressed one of the buttons on its bezel.

A beeping noise sounded.

“It’s abomb!” somebody cried.

“Insurrectionist!” cried another.

“Anarchist!” They surged into him, and Ferenc was spun around. Two articles he’d brought along for protection, a folding knife and a Taser, clattered to the floor. An angry gasp rippled through the group. One kicked the knife into a corner. Another grabbed the Taser and fumbled with it, accidentally pulling the trigger. There was a loudclackas the dual electrodes shot out, arcing toward a woman pushing a perambulator, striking her in the side. She fell with a piercing scream and writhed on the floor, amid an eruption of shrieks and shouts and a wail from the baby.

“Agitator!” Somebody punched him in the side of the head and he went down, the mob kicking and grabbing at him. He tried crawling out from under the rain of blows, but whistles sounded as the cops arrived. Moments later, he was dragged to his feet by uniformed constables of the Metropolitan Police, his arms clapped in handcuffs.

They began dragging him out of the bank. “Hey, no!” he cried. “Let me go! I haven’t done anything!”

“Hear that foreign accent, Jonesey?” said one cop, giving Ferenc a wicked shove out the door.

“I heard enough,” said another.

And now, out of nowhere, appeared a paddy wagon, nineteenth-century style, drawn by horses with leather blinders. A crowd was gathering outside, chattering and pointing. Ferenc, realizing just how crazy and desperate his position was, began to struggle as he was hauled down the steps. “I didn’t do anything! Listen, just let me go, please!”

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