The Ross Forgery Page 5

  Ross sat back and rubbed his eyes unhappily. Beaten. Defeated. Frustrated. “OK, OK. Shut up. We’re finished.”

  Townsend nodded. “Unless we—well, even after we get the right recipe, we have to age it.”

  “Age it?”

  “Yeah. Paper ages. And the modern chemist can even tell you now how old the paper is. If I can get the right recipe, I’ll have to find a way to artificially age it—fog chambers, baking, chemical evaporation. I don’t think it’s possible.”

  “Goddamn it,” seethed Ross. “I always get the broken hockey stick.”

  Townsend pointed to several piles of books. “I got these home in a taxi from the Center for Printing and Graphic Arts in uptown Manhattan. Paper-sample books from European paper manufacturers. Those double glass specimen slides are specimens taken from the paper samples. I made dozens of them. Took half the night. A freshman chemistry student can spot them as modern in seconds. Edgar, we’re nowhere without exactly the right paper. And I can’t seem to find it—or make it.”

  Ross sat back, deflated. “Is it possible there’s an actual Wise forgery that no one’s found yet?”

  Townsend shrugged. “Anything’s possible. I’d rather be looking for a real forgery than this fake paper we need.”

  “Now I know why there’s not more crime in the world.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too damned hard.”

  2

  Michael Townsend woke up, startled. His bedroom was pitch dark. Then the sound came again. The telephone.

  He stumbled into the living room and found the phone by the light of the street lamps.

  “Hello.”

  “Mike? It’s me. Ross.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think I found it.”

  “Huh? What? What did you find?”

  “The paper.”

  “What? The paper? Where? Where’d you find it?”

  “I’m sitting here in my shop thumbing through some back issues of the Graphic Arts Recorder magazine. And right here, Mickey-cakes, right here on page 84 of last month’s issue, it says there’s a publisher in Philadelphia who’s bringing out a commemorative edition of Treasure Island. He’s going to make a facsimile reproduction of the original edition by using lithography. He’s going to make offset negatives of the original typeset. He’s even going to copy the original boards and binding. And you know what else?”

  Townsend sat slowly down. “No. What?”

  He’s even copying the original paper. Cream white wove book paper. Got that?”

  “Yeah. Cream white wove. How’s he going to do that?”

  “Papermaker in Sweden. It’s already made and shipped. They quote the American rep of the Swedish company. A guy named Collitson. Must be one hell of a lot of paper. It says here a national book club has ordered the book for a spring offering to its subscribers. And this paper has to be the real thing. Here, I’ll read what it says. Quote: ‘The paper has a lot to do with the way a book smells, and the smell is one of the things people remember best about their childhood books. So the publisher has purchased a specially made book paper from Sweden, based on the composition of the paper in the original edition. The facsimile paper will be composed of’—are you ready?—‘esparto grass, in combination with chemical wood made under the sulphite process from Swedish trees, in a ratio identical to the original paper.’”

  Townsend leaned against the chairback. “Holy Good John.”

  “Yeah,” said Ross. “Holy Good John. I’m going to call this guy Collitson.”

  “You sure this is the right paper? What year was Treasure Island published?”

  “In 1883.”

  3

  Mr. Collitson was emphatic on the telephone. “Yes, Mr. Smith,” he said again. “It’s a very nice piece of paper. Good, thick stock, very uncommon in a modern book. Do you know how the old papers were made? You know—digester, blower, beater, stuff chest, mixing box, and such? No matter. The process my firm uses in Sweden is similar in many ways. In fact, it’s very easy to make this paper.”

  “I see,” said Edgar Ross. “The shipping charges must have been pretty stiff.”

  “Oh, no. No, Mr. Smith. We are very competitive. I can bring a nice piece of paper in through an East Coast port of entry for—well, I can beat the socks off a West Coast paper-maker, that’s for damned sure. Publisher took delivery right at the Packer A venue terminal in Philadelphia, no extra rail shipping. Not only that, I was able to get a nice price to the publisher because it was a long run and we had plenty of esparto grass. You see, that esparto grass is a yo-yo on the world market. It comes from Spain and North Africa. When they have a drought down there—and they’re always having a drought—the price is high. When they get a few rainy years, the grass jumps out of the ground, and paper houses buy up big lots for a low price.”

  “Don’t tell me. We’ve had a rainy year.”

  “Rain? Mr. Smith, it rained so damned hard down there, you could have grown rice on the Sahara Desert. And now they got an awful lot of esparto in Sweden.”

  4

  The sign proclaimed the redevelopment of central Philadelphia in an area designated “Society Hill,” a land area covering many square blocks that had been leveled to the ground. A scattering of townhouses and apartments were being raised, hesitantly almost, like new green shoots after a forest fire. Along the waterfront, adjacent to Delaware A venue, a large marina cove sat empty, waiting for non-existent pleasure boats.

  The printing plant stood overlooking the flattened city area. It was a prisonlike structure of old red brick, with steel mesh covering the windows. Beyond it, to the south, the Walt Whitman Bridge reached across the river into New Jersey.

  “Prophetic,” said Edgar Ross. He pointed at the sign over the main door of the plant.

  PARSONS’S PUBLISHING COMPANY

  BOOKS

  Established 1883

  Townsend nodded. “Just a coincidence,” he said.

  “That smaller brick building must be where the offices are,” said Ross. “This building is all printing plant.”

  Townsend nodded. “The far end must be where they store their paper. Let’s take a walk around the block and see.” Air drifting off the river at dusk carried a damp chill through the streets, and Ross buttoned up his topcoat.

  The two of them got out of the car, strolled slowly along the length of the old building, passed the smaller office building, and turned the corner. The scene change was abrupt. They had turned onto a street of handsomely restored townhouses.

  “I get it,” said Ross. “That old Parsons building is due to be torn down.”

  They turned at the next corner. More townhouses, with gaps between them like missing teeth. Buildings beyond restoration had been condemned and razed. Through these gaps, Ross and Townsend could see the back of Parsons’s printing plant.

  Townsend pointed. “The front of that end of the building is where the loading platform is. That’s the receiving department: paper, inks and so forth. Just past it would be the cut storage room for type. Then the composing room, stones, typesetting, composition. Then the make-ready room and the printing press room. Those windows over there must be where the bindery is, and that loading platform is just beyond the storage and book inventory room. They probably ship out most of their work for binding and keep their inventory in some other part of the city. It’s a pretty old building.”

  “That paper storage room is what we want.”

  “Yeah. Let’s go get a beer and a sandwich. We have to wait until dark.”

  5

  Sunset in Westchester County in early March is 5:30. At 5:40, a Pegasus Guardian Service patrol car rolled slowly up the driveway to the Matthews mansion. The high-performance, 455-cubic-inch engine rumbled softly as the vehicle slowed to a stop.

  The Pegasus sentinel got out of the car, tugged smartly at the skirts of his military-style tunic, and began the rounds of the property. He stopped at three stations, plugged a set of earphones into a
junction box, and listened, watching a series of lights flash on the control panel. He poked and prodded windows, looked for footprints in the shrub beds, and flashed a very powerful flashlight into selected windows.

  He checked the library in particular, peering intently through the double-paned window, scanning the rows of books and folios that were illuminated by his flashlight.

  He checked the special through-wall air-conditioning, heating, and dehumidifying unit that fed controlled air of a constant temperature and constant humidity into the library.

  The Pegasus sentinel returned to his car and drove off, talking into the two-way radio microphone as he left.

  Pegasus Guardian Service had made sure for another day that the Matthews mansion was impregnable.

  6

  Long before dusk in Newark, the landing lights had been lit. The control tower section head scanned the field carefully. It was peak traffic time, with minutes separating each landing and takeoff. Wind, three knots out of the northwest. Ceiling and visibility unlimited. Industrial ground smoke just north of the landing strip, drifting southeasterly across the railroad tracks, Jersey Turnpike, and the piers of Port Elizabeth. Six P.M. temperature, forty-eight and falling. Humidity, 78 percent. Winds aloft, eighteen knots easterly and holding.

  The section head spoke into the phone. “Kennedy has fifteen aircraft in a holding pattern. It’s affecting flights at all stations from Boston to Washington. If those dogs get through that fence tonight, I’m personally going to take a gun out there on the strip. And I’m telling you: I—ain’t—kidding.” He hung up.

  He picked up his binoculars.

  He couldn’t see any dogs on the strip.

  So far, so good.

  7

  Street lights went on in Philadelphia at 5:27 P.M. The printing-plant lights in the alley and back were turned on at 5:00. By 6:00, the city was in complete darkness.

  Townsend scanned the area. He noted the automobile headlights on the Ben Franklin Bridge to the north and the Walt Whitman Bridge to the south. In between, on the broad face of the Delaware River, he saw the standing lights of anchored vessels.

  “Anything?” he asked Ross.

  “Nothing,” Ross answered. “I don’t see anybody, not even a cat.”

  “Go,” said Townsend. He and Ross got out of the car and hesitated on the sidewalk at the mouth of the alley. At the end of it, near the back, he looked at the light high on the plant wall. “Might as well be broad daylight.”

  “That’s the general idea,” said Ross. He began the walk down the alley, feeling the cold wind in his face. Townsend followed him. He carried a hacksaw and a roll of masking tape.

  At the back corner of the building, they studied the windows.

  “That must be the paper-storage section,” said Townsend. He reached up and rattled the wrought iron and wire mesh screen. He looked at Ross and shrugged. “There’s a first time for everything.”

  “Just get it over with.” Ross glanced down the alley, then looked at the backs of the townhouses. He could see lighted windows everywhere. “Must be a thousand eyes on us. Hurry up.”

  Townsend went to work on the screen door lock. It took several minutes of hard sawing to cut through it. Ross swung the huge screen back from the window.

  Townsend squinted through the window at the lever of the inside latch. He selected the pane in front of it and tore off a strip of masking tape. He placed it on the window glass. Then another. He glanced at Ross. “Read about this in my textbook on criminology.” He tore off another strip. “When you break the glass, it sticks to the strip. No noise. Just pull the strips away and the broken glass comes with it.”

  “Shut up and hurry.”

  Townsend finally covered the entire pane with vertical and horizontal strips of masking tape. He took the butt of the hacksaw, made a couple of practice swings in the air, and then aimed it at the tape. It made a sharp rap. The glass remained undamaged. He hit it again. No effect. “The tape is acting like a cushion.”

  “For the love of sweet Jesus, hit the goddamned thing!”

  Townsend hit it again. Much harder. The glass refused to break.

  In a frenzy, Ross snatched the saw from Townsend and aimed it at the glass. He swung from his heels. The glass exploded in a loud crescendo as it flew in all directions inside the plant. The masking tape remained intact. Quickly, Ross pushed his fist through the tape, grasped the lever, and pulled down. He withdrew his arm and hit the window frame with the heel of his hand. It swung inward. He paused now, doubtfully.

  “Let’s go,” said Townsend.

  “I think you’re too stupid to be scared,” said Ross. He watched Townsend clamber up onto the brick window ledge and step into the plant. Reluctantly, Ross climbed in after him.

  8

  Paper was stacked on skids and pallets from floor to ceiling. The aisles between were made wide enough for forklift trucks. Beyond was a section of paper in rolls, enormous drums with miles of printing paper waiting to feed into high-speed presses.

  “According to the paper salesman,” said Ross in a low voice, “he sold these people paper in sheets for sheet-fed presses. All of these pallets are alphanumerically coded, so there must be a master inventory sheet around here somewhere.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “This is a very small paper-inventory storage area. They must line up current printing jobs in here, feeding from a paper warehouse somewhere else. What an antique system—they must handle each piece of paper four or five times before they print on it. Crazy.”

  “Let’s get the hell on with it.”

  Townsend strolled carefully down an aisle, guided only by the light that came through the dirty windows from the outside sentinel light. He found a desk in a corner near a heavy fire-door. His hand fumbled at a small desk lamp and turned it on.

  “Jesus, do you have to do that?” demanded Ross. He felt sweat running down his spine. His shirt was glued to his skin.

  Townsend picked up a looseleaf binder and opened it. “Paper tally sheets,” he said. Lines of identifying code numbers, quantities, and book titles paraded down the sheets, with red lines run through the skids that had been ported into the press rooms.

  “Here,” he said to Ross. “Look. They’ve been printing already. Look at all these skids with the red lines for Treasure Island. This is what we want. Skids with these code numbers are in these bin areas. Come on.”

  Ross quickly turned off the light on the desk and followed him down the aisle.

  “Listen!” he demanded. “Did you hear that?”

  Townsend listened. They waited. Then Townsend shrugged and moved down the aisle again. He was squinting at the pallet and skid numbers. “Here. They start here. How many?”

  Ross snatched down a sheet and studied it. “Take a dozen.”

  “Two dozen,” said Townsend. “I don’t want to have to come back here.” He estimated two dozen with his eyes and slipped the sheets off the pallet. He quickly rolled them up and strode down the aisle. “If we don’t get the hell out of here right now, I’ll wet my pants.”

  “I already did,” said Ross, hurrying for the window.

  9

  Student’s Name: Arthur Tank Lesson One

  Assignment: Surveillance. Do not complete this assignment until you have read Chapter I and reviewed it per instructions in the Study Guide. Your objective is to place a suspect under eight hours of surveillance so that you can account for every minute of his time during that period. (See again … Sections 1 A, B, C, and L. Also review the commonest reasons for surveillance, Sections 2, D, E, and F.)

  State suspect’s name: Edgar Ross

  Reason for surveillance: Suspected fugitive

  Point of contact: Suspect’s home and place of business, lower

  Manhattan.

  Time: 3:15 p.m. Weather conditions: Clear, cold, windy.

  Provide a log of activities during the surveillance: Came to see suspect about a debt. Saw him get into his car ver
y hasty. Followed him in car across Manhattan to Saint David’s School for Boys. There he picked up another guy. Maybe a teacher in the school. Followed them through the Holland Tunnel to the Jersey Turnpike. Suspect is a very fast driver. Over 80 mph most of the way. Got off at Exit 4 and followed along major highway to Philadelphia over a large bridge. At approximately 5:15, suspect, Edgar Ross, and his companion-a male Caucasian about 30, black hair, medium build, about 170 pounds-parked near the Parsons’s Publishing Company plant off South Street and Delaware A venue. Very old building. The two men strolled around the block, casing the building—front, sides, and back. They then drove around the streets of the area and parked again. They entered a saloon. They ate spaghetti and drank wine. Then they drove back to Parsons’s Publishing Company and parked. They entered a side alley. Operative waited at front of building. Heard them hacksawing and later heard glass breaking. Operative went down alley to investigate. Discovered that suspect and companion had entered building illegally through a window. (Study Guide says to give the legal term for all activities put into report, so operative noted that two men committed a felony: Breaking and Entering, also Theft and Destruction of Property.) Operative expected that police might investigate crime and returned to wait. A few minutes later the suspect and his companion returned to their car. They had a roll of paper, which they placed in the trunk of their car.

  Operative then followed them back to Manhattan. Suspect dropped off companion at home, giving him a sheet of paper from the roll. The rest of the roll he put back in his car trunk.