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Picture Credits:
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It was a cold, moonless December evening when Franklin Cable decided to take a shortcut down Crescent Lane, a narrow cobblestone street. It was deserted, not a soul around. Franklin was headed home to his Brownstone apartment on Greenwich Street in lower Manhattan. The bishop crook lampposts dimly lit the alley way as he walked fast, his shoulders huddled under his heavy topcoat; hat fit snug on his head. It was a bitterly cold night, ten below. The piercing cold made it difficult to see, but he hurried down the block nonetheless. As he walked, something nearly tripped him up. He stumbled a bit and as he regained his balance, he squinted down at the sidewalk. A fountain pen lay at his feet. It was a beauty - deep purple, with a gold embossed insignia of some sort - looked like a pelican. It had a fancy trim all around, and a gilt-etched engraving along its length. He picked it up, put it in his jacket breast pocket, and continued on his way. "Lucky find," he thought.
It wasn't long afterwards that he arrived at his apartment. One flight up the wooden stairway and he was in the warmth of his parlor. " A fire would do nicely," he considered. Taking off his topcoat and suit jacket he gathered some logs for the fireplace and lit them.
Franklin was a bachelor, thirty, tall and quite good looking, but a rather shady businessman, who would stoop to break a rule or two. He had a bright future at the investment firm and knew the tricks of how to be ruthless to get to the top. He had just come from a late night meeting with some board members to decide the best way to get their client to underwrite their latest investment scheme. As he began to open his leather briefcase, he groped for a pen. He remembered the beauty he found on the sidewalk.
Unscrewing the cap, the pen point flickered brilliantly, like a silver gem. He noticed there was no way to refill the pen! No suction clip. Odd, he thought, but, no matter, he gave it a once over. There was an inscription etched near the design. The language was, curiously enough, in Latin. He read it aloud, slowly, trying to pronounce the words, "Infinitus est numerus stultorum." These words were familiar but his Latin, being rusty, couldn't quite translate it. The letters were beautifully inscribed, twirling, tilting to the right in a stylized script. It was deeply etched and glittering.
As he began to write some marginal notes on his document, he noticed how smoothly the tip flowed over the paper - the jet black ink spreading evenly and unbroken. It was quite a fine writing instrument.
One note he jotted down was a declarative statement - 'Marcus [his client] must approve this figure.' After a few more cursory notes, he poured himself a nightcap and went to bed.
The pale morning light crept through the blinds and Franklin Cable arose to a new day, It wasn't long before he was at his office desk and soon summoned to that all important meeting.
Practically before any of the details of the document were discussed, Franklin's client agreed to the figures set down in the statement, unequivocally! Everyone in the conference room was startled and impressed. Cable's boss, at first, had a keen, contemptuous gaze, but it softened after what he heard.
Days passed after this remarkable incident. Franklin realized that each time he wrote down a need, want or wish with this fountain pen - it came to pass! It was more than coincidence. This Latin phrase engraved into the stock of the pen intrigued him more and more. Stopping by a local church he visited with the Parish Priest. Entering the Rectory he approached the Monsignor.
"Hello Father. I need a quick favor if you would. I have a pen which has some latin words etched into it. Could you translate it for me?" The priest was cordial enough. They sat down in the study and he reached for the pen, glancing along its length, he muttered to himself the words in the inscription - "Infinitus est numerus stultorum."
"This is rather amusing," chuckled the Monsignor. "What you have here is latin in the vulgate. It reads - 'Infinite is the number of fools.'"
"Father - what did you say?" An inexplicable frozen look came over Franklin as he heard those words.
The father repeated the translation..."But it is more than just a simple Latin phrase," he continued, "It is a passage right out of scripture - Ecclesiastes Chapter one, Verse Fifteen, to be precise."
"But what does it mean? Why would someone have it inscribed on a fountain pen?"
"Where did you get this?" the priest inquired.
"I found it Monsignor, in an alleyway not too long ago."
"Curious. I've never seen a pen quite like this. Fine workmanship. I suppose its previous owner was a scholar of sorts. But why that particular phrase? Perhaps it was meant to remind him to be prudent and not do stupid things. What its true meaning might be, I haven't a clue young man."
"Well thank you for your time Father." They exchanged some casual pleasantries and Franklin went home.
He couldn't restrain his anxiety. In an amazingly short space of time, his entire life was changing.
"I wish I had a yacht.
"I wish I had a million dollars, no, five million.
"I wish for a Rolls Royce with a private chauffeur
"I wish I be granted unlimited wishes.
"I wish for a beautiful woman that won't quit."
On and on, day after day. Each time he wrote a line, it came true. His every whim, every fantasy, every need was fulfilled. It was magic, it was a miracle.
Several weeks passed and he became more and more obsessed. Every desire was satisfied, his health was guaranteed. He simply had to wish for a long and fruitful life and it was his. All this changed him. He became bored, callous, petty, short tempered, arrogant and even more ruthless and vindictive than he ever had been. He ruined people's lives for the fun of it. He amused himself with crass and profane pleasures. Still this wasn't enough. He needed more and more excitement. More stimulation. Good turned to bad. There was more excitement, he reasoned, in evildoing. It became intoxicating, like a narcotic. There was no stopping him. He had an irreversible power, no one else possessed. He could be master of the world if he wanted!
With clear-cut clarity, he began his campaign of robberies, vendettas and an assortment of other atrocities. The pen seemed to posses him, corrupt his very soul, with the same elusive need driving him into crime and worse.
One day, while reading a local newspaper report, there was to be a shipment of precious jewels, rare coins and other amounts of precious stones to be stored in the underground vault in London, where there was a massive hoard of incredible wealth. Also in this sealed vault were the Crown Jewels of the Monarchy. It was a vast hoard of treasure gathered into one deposit and placed, securely sealed in a tomb of steel and rock. Franklin couldn't resist this opportunity of making fools of the aristocracy and everyone associated with them. And he wanted this hoard all for himself, to satisfy his uncontrollable lust and greed. These cravings were getting stronger with every wish he made. He had to see this treasure trove for himself in its natural surroundings.
He wished himself directly into the vault. His heart leapt with excitement. All around him - the cache of coins, gems, jewelry. A storehouse of wealth beyond anyone's dreams. This vault was impregnable, one entrance, time-locked, a combination of stone and steel. It was airtight, hermetically sealed. Airless, for the most part. But Franklin wouldn't stay long, just long enough to gloat.
Glancing all around he amused himself with what would be the robbery of the century. All he need do now was to transfer himself and every ounce of gold and precious gems to a place of his own choosing. "What a mystery these men would have to solve...where did all this disappear to? Ha," he chuckled, "They'll never suspect, never know it was Franklin Cable - master thief."
The air was stale and getting worse. There wasn't much oxygen to breathe down there, so he decided it was time to leave.
Reaching into his suit pocket, he pulled out his writing pad and the pen. He unscrewed the cap and began to write his instructions on the paper that would transport him and this entire hoard back to his mansion in New York, when horror gripped him.
As if an invisible hand had a strangle hold round his throat, his eyes bulged wide and his whole body trembled in panic.
The fountain pen had run dry!
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THE END
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