The Ross Forgery Read online

  Without warning, the back fire-door opened, casting a long oblong of light on them. The animals scattered out of range of the light. A little white dog on a leash was cast out of the doorway, and the door was pulled quickly shut.

  The dog began to cry in piping, thin voice and scratch at the door. Sensing the wild dogs about him, the cries escalated into a soprano.

  Curiously, the dogs began to stalk toward the door. A partly lame German shepherd nosed the small animal, who was paralyzed with fear. The soprano shriek arose again, and the shepherd bared angry teeth at it. A beagle hound lunged at the dog and tore at its throat. The shrieks became hysterical. The dogs all crowded in, snapping and pulling at the small white ball of fur, and the shrieks stopped. The door flung open again, and this time a man was pitched through the doorway. Before the animals had loped away very far, the door slammed and the man, raising his head, felt and saw the dark forms as they sharked about him. Right in front of him was the pot of hot water and the ham. The dogs, growling now, pressed all around him. He stood up in the midst of the bit of white fur and had begun to turn toward the door when the beagle hit him from behind, high up, near the base of the skull. The nip tore open the nape of his scalp, and the weight staggered him. Losing his footing on the greasy water and blood, he fell and knocked over the hot ham water. Under his back was the ham.

  The shepherd drove at his throat. The man blocked it with his wrist. The shepherd held it in his teeth and pulled. The beagle lunged at his throat from the other side. All the dogs moved in now, sinking their teeth into his legs and sides. He tried to rise, but slipped again. He began to scream in pain. The Doberman silenced him with one bite.

  Next, the Doberman got his teeth around the ham bone and began to drag and lope away, eager to be gone from the proximity of men.

  The other dogs gave up worrying the corpse and followed, whining.

  Mr. Wormser of Boston lay dead in a mixture of dog fur, blood, and rapidly drying greasy hot water.

  TEN

  1

  Michael Townsend drove along Route 1 in the evening traffic, a bedlam of whining tires and laboring truck engines. He turned into the parking lot of the Newark Airport Motel.

  The sunset over the Jersey marshes was a shrieking red, heralding another March frost, and as he walked across the lot to the motel entrance, he felt the chill wrap around his ankles.

  The clerk handed him a registration form.

  “A single?”

  “Yes.”

  “For one night?”

  “Yes.” Townsend filled out the name blank: Henry Fielding. Residence: Erie, Pa. “I want to pay for it now because I’m checking out early.”

  The clerk nodded. Townsend paid his twenty-one fifty and pocketed the passkey. When he reached the parking lot again, he paused and thoughtfully studied the building. Then, walking to the corner, he strode rapidly toward the back of the motel. A chain fence separated the motel from a half-built warehouse. Along the back of the motel was another chain fence, separating the motel from a long drainage ditch and, beyond, a railroad switching yard. There was a large rent in the fence. Rolled up on the ground next to it was a new piece of fencing and a metal toolcase.

  Dog droppings lay about the concrete from uncounted family pets, illegally smuggled by the back door into the motel for a night’s lodging.

  Small hanks of white hair lay on the concrete amid dark bloodstains.

  Townsend peered at the break. Two ends of chain fence had separated—or had been separated. By motel employees, shortcutting through the switching yard? An old break, it seemed, with an old footpath leading across the drainage ditch and up the cinder embankment to the tracks.

  Above it was the streaming sunset. Smoke from industrial stacks drifted slowly southeastward toward the impending darkness. It was cold and godforsaken, a place of abandoned tires, stagnant water, rusty cans, and industrial ugliness. Townsend shivered, depressed by the sadness he felt.

  He looked along the path through the fencing. Spots of greasy congealed white the size of pennies, dozens of them, lay on the concrete, on the horizontal bottom pipe of the fence, and on the dirt and the brown weeds.

  He picked up a twig and scraped it through the white spots. Then he sniffed it. Ham fat. Congealed ham fat. Then he looked at the crosspipe above his head. A bent coathanger hung from it. He looked closely at it. The end was coated with congealed white fat also.

  The newspaper had said that a pack of wild dogs had killed a Boston book buyer while he was walking his pet.

  Townsend turned and looked up at the three-story brick motel. And at the windows of yellow light glowing warmly in the dark.

  A Lodging for the Night.

  2

  The airport passenger terminal was busy—a world crowded with electric lights, shops, passengers, visitors, cab drivers, redcaps, and airlines personnel.

  Townsend entered through the main corridor at the center of the building, holding a handdrawn map, and looked directly left when he entered. Sure enough: telephone booths. He walked over to them and compared the dial numbers from three of the booths with those on the map.

  Then he went back to the main corridor and, still holding the map, followed the corridor to the main waiting room. He could see the steps to the inside observation terrace just past the newsstand.

  He put a dime in the turnstile and mounted the steps to the terrace.

  It was practically empty. He went to his left and walked the full length of the glassed-in terrace, looking out at the jet flight line. He went through the door and out on the outside observation deck. Noticeably colder.

  The airport control tower rose in a green, luminous glow of glass down the flight line. At the top, he could see the traffic controllers moving in silhouette. To the left were the huge freighters in Port Newark piers, lighted up in the darkness. To his right, the last feverish flush of the sunset.

  A jet at the end of the runway turned and raced down the long strip of concrete. It lifted off the ground, passing the terminal, rising higher and higher, shaking the ground, exposing a vulnerable white belly. An unbelievably large lump of metal, roaring into the night as its wheels folded into their bays.

  The outside observation deck was empty. He looked down the length of the building to the other outside observation deck. It, too, was empty.

  Townsend reentered the building and walked along the glassed-in terrace to the stairs and descended them to the main passenger terminal.

  He passed through the turnstile and strolled among the passengers.

  At the end of the terminal, he paused and looked at a clump of phone stalls. Booths with no doors, no roofs. Just a seat and a dial phone. The upper half was glass.

  He looked down the length of the terminal. There were four such clusters of open phone stalls, spaced symmetrically the length of the terminal. In addition, there were the phone booths by the swinging doors of the main entrance. All shown on Ross’s map.

  Townsend now walked to the second clump of open stalls. From it, he could see the other stalls and also the booths down the main corridor. Pretty tricky. He snorted. The whole plan was a little paranoid.

  He continued his walk to the other end of the terminal and found the men’s room. He entered, checking his watch. Right on the minute.

  He washed his hands and fooled with his comb. Through the mirror he saw Ross enter. Ross was wearing binoculars around his neck, and he carried a large canvas bag. It sagged with weight. For the moment, they were alone. Ross slipped a page-size envelope from his topcoat and thrust it at Townsend, who pushed it under his shirt and buttoned it. Then he buttoned his suit jacket and his topcoat over it. He grinned mockingly. “Portrait of the Great Forger in the Twilight of His Career.”

  Ross looked at the grin coldly. “You have one failing, Townsend.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You trust people.”

  Townsend nodded. “OK. Are you sure that’s a failing?”

  Ross snorted angrily. “
If you were handling this deal tonight, somebody else would end up with the pamphlet and the money, and you’d end up with a push in the face.”

  Townsend shrugged.

  “Did you see anybody suspicious looking?” demanded Ross.

  “Yeah. Lots of people are suspicious looking. You’re suspicious looking.”

  Ross shook his head in slow anger.

  “Did you get the motel room?”

  “Yes. Under the name of Henry Fielding.”

  Ross nodded sourly. “You sure you know the plan?”

  Townsend nodded, concealing another grin.

  “Look, dummy,” said Ross. “If someone comes at us, you’d better be ready to use that .38. You’re supposed to cover me. Remember.”

  “I feel like I’m wearing a hand grenade with the pin pulled,” said Townsend. Two men entered in a rush, looking frantically for the urinals.

  Townsend left.

  3

  It was a squat, dumpy-looking safe. It was heavy, and when they rolled it, its casters squealed and made the sheet-steel ramp sag as they rolled it down from the back of the armed truck.

  Using a long metal rod with a wooden cross-T handle, one of the uniformed guards towed the squealing safe across the sidewalk and through the swinging doors of the airport terminal and along the secondary corridor at the far left end of the building.

  Emmett O’Kane stood watching the man tow the safe like a child’s wagon. Ahead of it walked a dozen plainclothed private detectives. Several of them carried rifles. Another dozen uniformed guards, wearing gun holsters and Sam Browne belts, followed. A parade following a little, ugly gray safe.

  Emmett O’Kane brought up the rear with Ellery Service.

  4

  The safe stopped at the double bank of phone stalls. Nearly thirty men stood about it, looking curiously back at the curious throng who watched them.

  All waited.

  Ross exited from the men’s lavatory and walked directly toward them, carrying his heavy canvas bag and wearing his binoculars around his neck. He stopped and scanned the crowd of milling passengers who’d quickly lost interest in the men with the silly-looking little safe.

  Ross resumed walking. He studied the uniformed guards and the private detectives. O’Kane and Service watched him approach.

  Ross looked at O’Kane, then at the guards and detectives. “These all with you?”

  O’Kane nodded. “That’s right, Ross. This is the kind of coverage that little opus should have had since the day the lab OK’d it.”

  “Sure. Your safe. Your guards. And I whistle for my money.”

  O’Kane looked at the binoculars with an amused look. “Doing a little bird watching?”

  “You know what I’ve been watching for.”

  O’Kane smiled. “Believe me, if Pickett sends some of his shock troops in here, those binoculars won’t help a bit.”

  “If he sends enough shock troops, O’Kane, your little army here won’t help a bit, either. And I’ll have one advantage over you. I’ll see them first.”

  O’Kane chuckled. “OK, Ross. Let’s get done with this silly charade.”

  “OK. Let’s see the color of your money.”

  O’Kane nodded at the driver of the armored truck. The man stooped down and twisted the dial on the safe. He turned a handle and pulled out an attaché case. He handed the case to Ellery Service.

  “Fifteen bundles,” said Service. “Each bundle has 100 hundred-dollar bills. One hundred fifty grand.”

  He held the case out to Ross. Ross put down his canvas case and took the attaché case. He sat down in one of the phone stalls and opened the case in his lap. His eyes roved over the currency. Abruptly, he began to tremble. He sat for a few moments, seemingly stunned. Finally, he touched a bundle with trembling fingertips. Stroked it. His mouth was open, and he realized he was panting.

  “Ross,” said O’Kane softly, “it’s the end of a long road for you. You made it. You earned it. I wouldn’t cheat you. You did a fantastic job.”

  Ross looked up at him. Looked up at the throng of hired hands standing about O’Kane and Service. A crowd of men looking at him, sitting in a phone stall, holding one hundred fifty thousand dollars in his lap. He was just a few hundred yards and a few hours away from a jetliner. Ultima Thule. Sanctuary. Freedom.

  Ross sighed and lowered his eyes to the money again. He had to get the strength back into his legs. He picked up a bundle and counted. Should be 100 bills per stack. He lost count, but quickly pretended to finish. Must be a hundred. Too excited to count his own fingers and toes. He counted the number of bundles. Fifteen. And all the while, he felt the eyes of all of them on him.

  And inexplicably, he felt pathetic. Not a victor. Not a conqueror. But someone different from those who watched. Different from O’Kane, who had millions. This was expense money. No, that wasn’t it.

  He felt—yes, he felt like a shaking, trembling drunk who’s urgently torn the metal cap off a pint of whiskey on a street and eagerly taken a long pull on the bottle while being watched by several dozen non-drinking sobersides.

  He felt like a freak on show. Naked with his money. A rank amateur going through a silly charade. Service laughed. O’Kane laughed.

  Angrily, he plunged his hand into his topcoat pocket and extracted a thin chain. He wrapped it around the attaché case and through the handle. He clipped an ineffectual-looking lock through the two ends of chain and snapped it locked.

  He felt sorry for himself and the spectacle he was making for O’Kane’s mocking eyes. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his other pocket and snapped one of them around the attaché case handle and let the other dangle.

  He stood up and handed the case back to Service.

  Service watched him expectantly.

  “I haven’t got it,” said Ross.

  Service watched him narrowly. “I see. What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t trust you as far as I can throw a goose feather. Two dozen against one. You could have taken that from me with no problem.”

  “It’s your move, Ross,” said O’Kane.

  “OK.” He pointed at Service. “I have a gun. You come with me.

  He pointed at O’Kane. “You and your Mexican army stay here. The pamphlet will arrive shortly, and you can put it right in your toy box there. You clip that handcuff to the wrist of the man who brings the brochure and let him go with the attaché case clipped to his wrist. See this phone? When it rings, pick it up.” He looked again at Service. “Come with me.”

  “Are you making Service a hostage?” asked O’Kane.

  “Let’s call him a witness.”

  “Where are you taking him?”

  “Not far.”

  O’Kane looked at the binoculars. “Oh, I see. Just far enough away so that I can’t quite see you, but you can see me.”

  “Something like that.”

  O’Kane nodded. “How about three or four more hostages?”

  Ross paused and frowned. “Let’s stop the jokes.”

  O’Kane nodded. “Precisely. Let’s stop the jokes. Mr. Service will be glad to accompany you, but not alone.” He watched Ross carefully. “You’ve overbid your hand. If you don’t produce the brochure immediately I’ll walk right back through that door—with my hundred fifty thousand and with Mr. Service.”

  “And your Mexican army.”

  “Yes, Ross. And my Mexican army. And that’ll be that.”

  “OK, O’Kane. Your little ploy doesn’t bother my plan one bit. Send Service along with some other hostages. How many?”

  “Four’s a nice round number,” said O’Kane.

  Ross nodded and walked away. Service pointed at four men, then slowly followed Ross. O’Kane watched them go. He sighed and shook his head. Another wait.

  Ross strolled with his heavy canvas case and his swaying binoculars like a tourist, gazing about the terminal. His eyes searched faces. He walked slowly, deliberately, scanning as he went.

  Single file, Serv
ice and his detectives followed. Ross walked past another double bank of phone stalls, sauntered past the newsstand, and walked to the third double bank of phones. He stopped and waited. Service and the four operatives straggled up and stood around him. Ross looked through his binoculars at O’Kane. He turned the binoculars at the observation terrace, then scanned the crowd beyond O’Kane that was streaming down the concourse to the passenger-loading and staging areas. Next, he turned the glasses to Townsend, who sat with a dead phone to his ear, drumming his fingers and slumping patiently on the seat of the phone booth, next to the main entrance.

  Ross began his series of carefully planned moves.

  He took a dime from his pocket.

  5

  Ross watched through the binoculars as Townsend sat up. The phone was ringing. Townsend pulled the plastic tape away from the phone lever and said, “Hello.”

  “OK. Take it to him.”

  “OK.”

  Ross lowered the glasses and watched.

  Townsend walked purposefully up the main corridor to the newsstand, then turned left and walked toward O’Kane. He held nothing in either hand.

  “That’s pretty,” said Service into Ross’s ear. “If anything happens, your partner gets it in the neck, while you stand a safe distance away.”

  “Only till he gets here, Service. Then I take over.”

  “Sure. After Townsend crosses no-man’s-land.”

  “Pipe down, Service.”

  “Does your partner know how much is in that case? I’ll bet you never told him about that extra windfall.” Service watched Ross’s profile appraisingly. “No. I rather think not. Our friend Townsend thinks there’s—how much?—in that bag. Let’s see. How much are you paying him?”

  Ross turned and looked at Service, looked angrily at his red hair and red eyebrows. “I’m going to tell you once more. Can it.”

  Service looked back at him. “You’re in the same league with Pickett.”