His face faded from the screen. Gallegher clapped a hand to his forehead and screamed for beer. He went to his desk, sucking at the plastibulb with its built-in refrigerant, and thoughtfully examined his mail. Nothing there. No clue.
A thousand credits— He had no recollection of getting them. But the cash book might show— It did. Under dates of several weeks back, it said:
Rec’d D. H.—com.—on acc’t—c 1,000 Rec’d J. W.—com.—on acc’t—c 1,500 Rec’d Fatty—com.—on acc’t—c 800.
Thirty-three hundred credits! And the bank book had no record of that sum. It showed merely a withdrawal of seven hundred credits, leaving about fifteen still on hand.
Gallegher moaned and searched his desk again. Under a blotter he found an envelope he had previously overlooked. It contained stock certificates—both common and preferred—for something called Devices Unlimited. A covering letter acknowledged receipt of four thousand credits, in return for which payment stock had been issued to Mr. Galloway Gallegher, as ordered—
“Murder,” Gallegher said. He gulped beer, his mind swirling. Trouble was piling up in triplicate D. H.—Dell Hopper—had paid him a thousand credits to do something or other. Someone whose initials were J. W. had given him fifteen hundred credits for a similar purpose. And Fatty, the cheapskate, had paid only eight hundred credits on account.
Why?
Only Gallegher’s mad subconscious knew. That brainy personality had deftly arranged the deals, collected the dough, depleted Gallegher’s personal bank account—cleaning it out—and bought stock in Devices Unlimited. Ha!
Gallegher used the televisor again. Presently he beamed his broker.
“Arnie?”