by Steve Lehto
The evening of Egan’s first day, Tucker met with the design team, and Egan got a good look at the man behind the Tucker automobile. “Tucker immediately impressed me as the archetypal salesman who could not only sell refrigerators to Eskimos, but also have them liking the refrigerators after the purchase.” Egan listened to Tucker and noticed he was unpolished in the way he spoke but it didn’t matter. Tucker’s enthusiasm for the project was contagious, and Egan admitted, “Before the night was over, I too shared the eagerness and enthusiasm of those who had chosen to follow him without reservation.”6
Egan sat in on many early design meetings where the team discussed the finer points of the car’s design with Tucker. While many major design features were settled, there were countless other details to work out. How would the bumpers look? Or the door handles, or the dashboard? Tucker loved ideas that made his car stand out—as if the rear-engine, rear-wheel-drive car with the cyclops headlight wasn’t outlandish enough—and his designers were never shy about pitching them to him. Someone suggested that they design the exhaust with three pipes on each side, poking up through the top of the rear fenders. It would have been radical and it looked good on paper, but someone noted how impractical it would be: it would have been too inviting for children to drop things down the pipes, like small rocks, banana peels, or chewing gum. The idea was scrapped. But Tucker appreciated the suggestion and told them to continue being creative in their efforts.7
* * *
Fabricating the car body by hand was only one of the elements involved in building the car Cerf’s public offering required. The body needed a chassis, and Tucker had promised a rather unusual drivetrain. He had publicly described his car as rear-engine, rear-wheel drive, driven by a six-cylinder engine that would lie flat in the trunk of the car, with two banks of three pistons each, sitting on opposite sides of the crankshaft. The “opposed” engine would be air-cooled, and put power to the rear wheels not through a transmission but through dual hydraulic torque converters, one at each wheel. Unlike the body, which Tucker’s men could model with the junkyard Olds, the proposed chassis and drivetrain required the manufacture and assembly of parts and systems no one had ever before created for a consumer automobile. Many people told Tucker to skip the more radical components and simply use a standard chassis and drivetrain, allowing him to unveil the car on time. After all, who really cared about what was under the body of the car? But Tucker insisted on making the first car the way he had described it to the press.8
Since day one, Tucker had promoted his radical engine and torque converter setup, claiming it would allow the car to idle at a mere 100 rpm and to cruise at 100 mph with the engine only turning 1,000 rpm. Tucker’s engine had some other unique features. For instance, it had a monstrous displacement of 589 cubic inches. This figure derived from its six cylinders, each with a bore and stroke of five inches by five inches. Tucker was asked from time to time why he had chosen such radical dimensions for his engine. He told people he had discussed his engine ideas with Harry Miller while he was on his deathbed. Miller had told him, “Pres, make it big!”9
Many critics of Tucker later claimed his fascination with the “five-by-five” engine showed he was impractical, wanting to build an engine so far out of the norm in the industry. Actually, Tucker had a very good reason for wanting to use those dimensions. The Chicago plant had made engines for the B-29 Superfortress bomber during the war, and those had been gigantic, with a bore and stroke of more than six inches by six inches. The machinery that carved the bores in the bomber engines remained in the plant, and Tucker hoped to use those machines when he began engine production. Since the machines were well suited to making huge engines, Tucker reasoned he was making good use of the available resources.10
The engine was worthy of note for more than just its mammoth proportions. Tucker admired the Miller racing engine, and one of its prominent features was monobloc construction: the cylinder head was cast integrally with the engine block, as opposed to being cast as two separate pieces. This single-piece “unit construction” configuration made the engine sturdier and eliminated the need for a head gasket. In that era, head gaskets were a common cause of engine failure.
The design complicated some aspects of the engine, however. Manufacturing would be more costly and access to some parts of the engine would be more difficult if the need for certain repairs arose.11 In addition, Tucker ordered it built with hydraulically actuated valves. The hydraulic pump that powered them added weight to the engine, which he hoped to offset by using an aluminum engine block. The engine block would also feature brass cylinder sleeves, and would even use a magnesium oil pan to reduce acidity in the crankcase oil. Alex Tremulis noted that “on paper,” the engine was “a masterpiece of simplicity.”12
But once built, the engine did not perform as Tucker had hoped. Among other things, when the engine was not running, all the valves rested in the closed position. This made it almost impossible to start. It required a 24-volt starter motor powered by three hundred pounds of batteries.13
* * *
At the same time, the Tucker Corporation was in the midst of a publicity blitz, which had launched on March 2, 1947. Full-page ads in the New York Times and other prominent newspapers showed a drawing of the Tucker ’48—the name Torpedo had been dropped—and heralded the story of the new car: “Now it can be told . . . How 15 Years of Testing Produced the Surprise Car of the Year.” The ad urged readers to wait for the car, which was coming soon, and gave its history leading up to that moment. It related how Tucker had been associated with Harry Miller, had spent years providing armaments to the US government during the war, and now had put together an organization full of experienced automotive executives to build his car. The car was “Completely New” with engineering principles “Completely proved.” The ad described a few of them, including the fluid-powered drivetrain, the aluminum disc brakes, a better balance, a rear engine, and independent suspension. Each feature was illustrated with an explanation of how it helped put the Tucker ’48 “YEARS AHEAD” of the competition.14
One of the more unusual features was the “Safety Chamber.” According to the ad, the driver and a front-seat passenger could “drop into” a spacious area beneath the padded dash on the passenger side of the car and be protected in a crash by “steel bulkheads.” This action would take a “split second,” according to the ad.15 This feature was often overlooked, but Alex Tremulis later defended it, even though it never caught on with other auto manufacturers. In the 1980s he said the safety chamber had been borrowed from the race cars at Indianapolis, back when cars had both a driver and a mechanic on board. “Preston Tucker was very involved at Indy and the riding mechanics in the early days always had a hole to jump into—like that one—in an emergency. The race drivers called it ‘the basement.’ A place to go when you’re sitting in the death seat.”16
The campaign also included a beautiful six-page brochure extolling the Tucker ’48, again named “the Surprise Car of the Year,” with the Tucker family crest on the cover.17 Inside, readers found an artist’s rendering of “the Car You Have Been Waiting For.” Early brochures contained a slightly less sophisticated drawing of the car. (Later, it would be replaced with a photograph of an actual Tucker ’48.) “You’ve waited long years for a really new car. Here it is . . . completely new, yet with engineering principles completely proved in 15 years of rigid tests.” The car would be available, the brochure optimistically promised, “later this very year.”
While the Pic article and Tucker’s earlier statements had touted engineering advancements and performance, the Tucker brochure focused on safety. Calling it “the World’s Safest Car,” the brochure spent a full page outlining the car’s safety features. Better balance and suspension allowed for greater driver control. Disc brakes would stop the car more swiftly. The dashboard would be padded and the windshield would pop out but not shatter in a crash. The frame was rugged steel, and the cyclops headlight would illuminate around curves and
corners.
Careful observers noticed that details of the production car differed from those in the Pic article. The cyclops headlight, for example, was now the one that would track the roadway by turning with the steering wheel; Tucker’s initial plan had been to have the two headlights in the fenders turn and for the cyclops to remain fixed.
The advantages of the rear-engine, rear-wheel drive were spelled out over a full page. The car would have fewer parts, more interior room, and be quieter and simpler to maintain than the typical car of the day. Much of it was too technical for the average consumer, but the message was clear: “It is not simply an improvement on conventional cars. It is a completely new car based on engineering principles tested for many years, but never before used in mass production automobiles.”
Another full page was dedicated to the Tucker Corporation’s management and the plant. The brochure saved a full page for Preston Tucker himself, noting that his name was relatively unknown to the public but “in the most exacting field of automotive engineering—the designing and building of special cars—he is known as one of the nation’s top creative men.” This statement would eventually be touted by federal agents as a lie, perpetrated to commit a massive fraud on the public. But the statements that followed were certainly true. He did work with Harry Miller for fifteen years at the Indianapolis 500, he had designed devices under US military contract, and now he had founded the Tucker Corporation. The biography ended on a high note: “The Tucker ’48 is completely new . . . unequaled for performance, safety and comfort by any car on the road today . . . yet with engineering principles completely proved in fifteen years of rigid tests.”
In context, a typical reader would have caught that the fifteen years of tests coincided with the fifteen years Tucker had spent at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway with Harry Miller. Federal regulators would not see it that way, however.
Getting Ready
As the unveiling date for the Tin Goose approached, the Tucker Corporation prepared for its company’s public stock offering. Harry A. Toulmin Jr., a patent attorney who was on many other corporate boards, was named chairman of the board. James Stearns, who had worked in the accounting department of Cadillac for twelve years, became the new treasurer and controller.1
On April 18, 1947, Preston Tucker bought another ninety-nine thousand shares of the one million shares issued when the corporation was formed, bringing his holdings to an even hundred thousand shares. Instead of paying cash, he exchanged the shares for debt owed to him by the company. The Tucker Corporation also owed Ypsilanti Machine and Tool some money, which was likewise swapped for 390,000 shares. The rest of the original shares were purchased by eighteen other founders and affiliates of Preston Tucker. At this point, Tucker’s sales skills became paramount. He persuaded most of the other stockholders to put their shares in a trust controlled by VP of sales Fred Rockelman, executive VP Hanson Ames Brown, and him. This voting trust controlled 90 percent of the stock in the company.2
As Tucker took these steps to take the company public, he received what he called “another slug between the eyes.”3 On May 6, 1947, Cerf submitted the proposed registration statement to the SEC, the first step toward an initial public offering of stock. On June 11 the SEC issued a “stop order” in response. The SEC said the registration statement contained “untrue statements of material facts and omit[ted] material facts.”4 More specifically, it said promoters had made false entries in the corporation’s books, which the SEC believed had been made to conceal payments received by promoters.
Tucker had already appeared on the Securities and Exchange Commission’s radar when he launched his dealer franchise program. And in March 1947, a new man had joined the five-member commission: a Republican from Detroit named Harry A. McDonald.5 McDonald had founded H. A. McDonald Creamery Company, “one of the largest distributors of dairy products around Detroit,” the New York Times wrote later.6 He also created McDonald, Moore & Hayes Inc., an investment firm, which led to a membership in the Detroit Stock Exchange. He was also very well connected in Republican circles. The Singing Milkman, as he was known later, led the 1940 Republican National Convention in song. Accompanied by a pipe organ, he took them through “God Bless America” and “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” before ending with the University of Michigan fight song, “The Victors.”7 He was known as a friend of big business in Detroit,8 home to three very big businesses, indeed: Ford, General Motors, and Chrysler. McDonald would go out of his way to make sure the SEC protected the Detroit interests to whatever extent it could.
The SEC’s reach was quite limited in 1947, even according to itself. The agency was created to enforce the Securities Act of 1933, the law that required a registration statement to be filed in advance of a public stock offering. McDonald described the role his agency played in a talk he gave in Detroit in 1947: “The SEC merely serves as a repository for the information which must be filed, determines whether the registration statement meets the statutory requirements of full and fair disclosure, and enforces the antifraud provisions of the [Securities Act] through court injunction or criminal proceedings.”9 But even in this limited role, the SEC would cause quite a bit of trouble for Tucker.
Preston Tucker met with McDonald to see what could be done to resolve the stop order. Tucker later testified that the two met privately several times and McDonald complained about the pressure he was facing from the Detroit automakers. At his country club, apparently, executives of the Big Three followed him into the men’s restroom and lobbied him to stop Tucker’s stock offering. At one point, according to Tucker, McDonald told him he would face less resistance from the SEC if he modified his plans for the sedan and simply made it front-engine, rear-wheel drive like those made by everyone else.10 Tucker replied that it would be a wasted opportunity not to go with the groundbreaking design he had chosen.
Tucker told Cerf to make whatever changes were necessary to the registration statement so that it could be refiled. In the meantime, he continued to stoke the public’s excitement for the Tucker ’48 ahead of its official unveiling.
* * *
Tucker tried again to drum up publicity for his automobile at the racetrack, enlisting the aid of race car driver Ralph Hepburn, one of the many friends he had made during his time at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Hepburn had competed at Indy fifteen times and was well-known, even though he never won there. He agreed to showcase a race car that Tucker dubbed the Tucker Special at the 1947 Indianapolis 500.
The fifty-year-old Hepburn was no longer racing himself but stayed involved in the sport; he was the head of the American Society of Professional Automobile Racers, a sort of union for the drivers. Shortly after the war, the drivers had felt they were being short-changed on prize money and banded together to demand more. When the Indianapolis Motor Speedway’s owner balked at increasing payouts prior to the 1947 Indy 500, the ASPAR threatened a boycott. Not every driver belonged to the union, but enough did to make a dent in how many drivers tried qualifying. Some last-minute haggling netted improved pay for the drivers, and the ASPAR boycott was canceled.
Hepburn told the press he was headed to Indianapolis as captain of a “three car team,” one of which was owned by the Tucker Corporation.11 The Tucker Special, driven by Al Miller of Standish, Michigan, qualified at 124 mph, just 2 mph off the fastest qualifier.12 Unfortunately, the car suffered “magneto trouble” and was dropped from the race on the thirty-fourth lap.13
It was announced that the Tucker Special would race in the Milwaukee 100 race the following week. The announcement gained Tucker quite a bit of attention, particularly because the car was the only one like it in the race: it was rear-engine drive. “Unique Rear Engine Car Will Run Race Here,” the Milwaukee Journal announced. Their auto sportswriter called the Tucker Special “one of the oddest racing automobiles in existence,” noting it was “the only rear engine machine to start the 500 mile race at Indianapolis” and was “similar in many details to the proposed Tucker ’48.”14 But T
ucker withdrew the car from the race before qualifying began a few days later. Race officials were told that the Tucker Special had suffered “motor damage which could not be repaired in time” for qualifying.15
Around this time, the Tucker Corporation also began preparing a more substantial publicity offering: a corporate newsletter called Tucker Topics that it would begin sending out to its dealers and distributors. A beautiful eight-page glossy magazine, the first edition showed a stylized rendition of the Tucker ’48 on its cover. It opened with a letter from Preston Tucker describing the beginnings of the young company and the promise of the future:
More than 100,000 letters from people wanting to buy a Tucker ’48 is dramatic proof that the public is hungry for a completely new car—not just a pre-war car with new body styling, but one that is far ahead of any car offered today in performance, operating economy and value—a car based on engineering principles completely proved but never before seen in mass production autos.16
Articles in the newsletter explained progress made in creating a dealer network and the different ways in which Tucker dealers would be treated compared to those of other automakers. Since the Tucker sedan was designed to have major parts replaced rather than repaired, dealers would not need as many service personnel. The ones they did have would simply be swapping new parts for old rather than diagnosing and trying to repair broken parts. The article contained a group photo of sixteen men, dealers and distributors representing much of a territory in Illinois.