The Ross Forgery

by William H Hallahan

  He stepped out of the cubby and looked up at the electric clock. Four-thirty. No call from Townsend. He looked over at the phototypesetting machines. The afternoon sunlight cast a square of light on the two machines.

  Helen Ross spoke to Kitty Fitzgerald, and the two heads were framed by the sunlight. Coal black Mediterranean hair, oval face, curved nose, dark eyes. Vivid, sunburnished red hair, strong high bones of the cheek, glowing lynx eyes, sharp nose. A cameo of contrasts.

  Ross punched his palm. “God, how I hate to wait.” And here he was, waiting again. All he’d done so far was wait, every step of the way.

  Suppose the damned microwave oven won’t bake the samples? Suppose the damned samples won’t measure up? After what we’ve been through, to be wiped out right at the finish line? Don’t think about it.

  Ross rooted around his desk and found a magazine. He slumped down on his chair in front of the drawing board and slowly turned the pages, morose, conning the ads and the typefaces. Back to basics—the whole goddamned bunch of New York ad agency art directors had to be brought right back to basics. What atrocious typefaces they chose. Why in hell didn’t that phone ring?

  Abruptly, a familiar face was staring at him. Golden good looks, unwavering eyes. Emmett O’Kane. Ross frowned and. turned back to the cover. “This Issue: Emmett O’Kane versus Thomas Long Pickett. The Battle of the Decade.” This was the issue Helen had given him to read.

  Ross settled back and read the article.

  4

  The dirty little Irish kid from Newark, as O’Kane described himself, had tangled with a mighty son of the Texas soil, as Pickett described himself, born poor but proud, ennobled by the exacting demands of frontier life in West Texas.

  Ross snorted. Two ignorant, nose-picking slobs, dirtying everything they touch. Everything’s got a price tag, every thing’s a sham, and in the game, there’s only one requirement. Win. Jesus.

  O’Kane was right off the streets of Irish Newark. One of six sons. Father, a chief clerk with the old Pennsylvania Railroad. Jesuit training throughout. Worked his way through Fordham. Hired by the Queens-Manhattan Trust Company as a lure to bring in the bulging money sacks of the new-rich Irish. Sent by that bank for an M.B.A. at the Harvard business school. Rose like a rocket. At age forty-five, now president of a conglomerate that was second in size only to Pickett’s conglomerate.

  Ross pondered that. While he was growing up in Brooklyn and getting hooked on typefaces and design, O’Kane, a few years older, was growing up a few miles away, in Newark. Only O’Kane got hooked on money and power. What a difference a choice made. If he had O’Kane’s money, he’d set up and do typefaces forever. If O’Kane had Ross’s business, he’d turn it into a successful business and add seven more to it by the year’s end. And hire seven other guys to do the type designs for him.

  The secret was to get close to the cash register and far away from the production line. Make your pile first, then go off and do what you want.

  O’Kane was a bastard to work for. He hired talented executives. He gave them full authority, a company or a corporate division with great potential, astoundingly high salaries, a stated sales and profit goal. If they succeeded, he ignored them and remained assiduously indifferent to the methods they used, setting new sales and profit goals each year.

  If they failed, he and his aide-de-camp, Ellery Service, from England’s West Point, Sandhurst, looked into the situation personally. O’Kane could gain a complete understanding of the inner workings of any corporation in a matter of hours, armed with several accounting statements and private conversations with a half dozen executives. Service was known as “Captain Bligh,” a man who could clean out any executive suite in the snap of two fingers. He was also O’Kane’s chief recruiting officer.

  His methods were direct, simple, infallible. He read the financial news every day to keep track of the most successful companies. He was particularly interested in smaller companies with young management. Through his training with British Intelligence, he pried into the corporation’s affairs and officers. He determined profitability and potential, plus who was the spark plug—president, sales manager, or production veep.

  One of two things happened. O’Kane acquired the company and put the spark plug at the helm, or, if the company was not attractive, Service hired the spark plug by a simple expedient. He kept putting more and more money on the table until the man said yes.

  “We are only interested in men with a passion for money,” said Service. “Winning is everything,” said O’Kane.

  Typical of the men O’Kane hired was the president of the conglomerate’s industrial paper towel company. The president had personally been sued by a competitive firm that manufactured electric hot-air hand dryers. The firm alleged that the president had instructed his salesmen to locate every electric dryer they could, turn up the nozzle that directed the air, and pour a glass of water into the electrical wiring. The firm further alleged that the damaged units had led directly to the firm’s bankruptcy, and that it had sworn affidavits from witnesses to substantiate the suit. The case never came to court. It was settled in the corridors and quickly forgotten when the paper firm was cited by the Federal Trade Commission for giving under-the-table kickbacks to industrial purchasing agents.

  Another division—frozen foods—nearly destroyed a competitive frozen food company, so the story went, by introducing quantities of grasshoppers into the semi-automated factory’s blowing system. The violation of the federal food standards made the front pages from coast to coast, and the firm never fully recovered.

  Winning, said O’Kane, was everything.

  Ross studied the photograph of O’Kane, the “Golden Harp.” The Wise forgery was reduced in Ross’s eyes to a fraternity house prank. Why did O’Kane want it?

  5

  Thomas Long Pickett had been driven off his father’s cattle farm at age sixteen for savagely tormenting a bull with a pitchfork. Now, at seventy-five, his reputation was so odoriferous that he carefully concealed his interests in any corporation. A rapacious fox in the henhouse, declared a ruined competitor.

  Strangely enough, he had an almost mystical respect for the consumer. He demanded top quality in all the products his many, many firms manufactured. He competed with sabotage, industrial spying, crippling lawsuits, severe local price cutting, strong-arming wholesalers and distributors, and by dealer-loading devices that kept retailers permanently buried under Pickett inventory. And by stealing corporate executives from his competitors.

  Thomas Long Pickett’s literary interests had begun with the death of Thomas J. Wise. He’d read the obituary of Wise in 1937 with great interest and recognized a kindred spirit. He decided to buy Wise’s many-fabled Ashley Library and give it to the University of Texas.

  But the library went, instead, to the British Museum.

  Pickett then set out to build a complete library of Wise forgeries. Over twenty years, and under the direction of a staff of librarians and rare book specialists, Pickett acquired a formidable library centering on Wise’s Victorian literary world, far beyond the narrow confines of Wise forgeries. He boasted that he had a perfect collection … not a flaw in it.

  Asked once why he esteemed a notorious forger, Pickett had answered: “Why, the small peccadillos that this brilliant man indulged in are more than offset by the remarkable library he built. He revolutionized librarianship. He revolutionized book collecting. He unmasked a number of serious forgeries, he contributed greatly to many libraries, particularly in the United States, and set new highs for bibliographic scholarship. I think it’s a classic example of a man redeeming himself infinitely.

  “Surely, Thomas Wise went directly to Heaven.”

  6

  Ross studied the photograph of Thomas Long Pickett. He had long ears like an elf, a long nose, and a sour expression that faintly resembled a smile. Under his bald pate were two round black eyes.

  Eyes that had guided the pitchfork.

  Pickett and O’Kane ha
d been on a collision course for ten years. It was inevitable that they should meet.

  O’Kane started it.

  Pickett owned a railroad in the Southwest. A small line with declining business, overwhelmed by unions, trucking lines, airlines, and larger railroads.

  The railroad went right through Pickett’s hometown. It was part of his childhood. So he set out to make it prosperous. The method he was rumored to have used was rebating under the table—a federal offense. The ICC received complaint after complaint, held hearings, and never turned up evidence.

  Outside of his Wise collection, the railroad was Pickett’s only known weakness. So O’Kane selected it as an opening target. O’Kane secretly became owner of a large southwestern trucking company. He went after Pickett’s railroad freight customers (with illegal rebates, it was rumored). In response, Pickett increased his kickbacks to his customers. O’Kane topped him. Pickett increased again. And O’Kane topped him. Under-the-table freight rebates reached absurd proportions. Both companies were losing money on every ton. That was when O’Kane administered his coup. And it was brilliant.

  A major part of the cost of farm produce is freight. He bought up all the winter vegetables he could find in the warm Southwest and shipped them into the winterbound midwestern markets at very profitable low freight rates. He made a fortune.

  He had shipped his vegetables on Pickett’s railroad.

  7

  Thomas Long Pickett had no sense of humor. He had, instead, a long, smoldering memory. His motto was Don’t Get Mad —Get Even.

  He made Emmett O’Kane the focal point of all his activities. O’Kane had a pile of Pickett’s money and Pickett wanted revenge. He studied O’Kane’s empire, compiled dossiers on all the executives, prepared biographies of all O’Kane’s enemies. His men dogged Ellery Service, followed his financial dealings, sniffed at anything Service sniffed at, tapped his phone, and checked into everybody that Service had any dealings with.

  When Pickett was ready, completely ready, he made one phone call. And nearly destroyed Emmett O’Kane.

  In one six-hour period, fifty-three of O’Kane’s executives resigned to join Pickett’s operation. At the same time, every one of Pickett’s companies that could in any way compete with any of O’Kane’s went into action, offering price deals, spreading rumors, making offers that were often irresistible.

  O’Kane’s empire nearly collapsed. It suffered tremendous losses. None of the defecting executives would return, even under the greatest blandishments. Executives from other firms were wary of the tottering empire and declined stunning offers. Loan capital from major banking circles was withdrawn, and O’Kane had to pay premiums over the prime interest rate.

  O’Kane earned open admiration from the business world by his recovery. He reached into his foreign holdings and brought men into his domestic firms from Switzerland, Germany, and Italy. He scored some brilliant successes by hiring very young executives—men who would take a chance on O’Kane, and eager to be given a chance—and by giving them free hands in their respective divisions. And Service worked every step with him.

  The business world now waited for the next move. When? And by whom? These questions filled financial columns with rumors and speculation.

  So far, O’Kane had made no retaliatory moves.

  When he’d finished reading the article, Ross sat back and smirked. O’Kane had found a simple way to drive Thomas Long Pickett out of his mind, possibly into his grave, screaming—a hitherto undiscovered Wise forgery.

  But while he was laughing, a little voice inside Ross warned him to be careful around Emmett O’Kane.

  8

  Burton lay dead.

  The brilliant translator of The Arabian Nights in sixteen volumes, the conqueror of over forty languages and dialects, the explorer who narrowly missed finding the source of the Nile River, and one of the most legendary adventurers of the Victorian period, lay dead.

  And while he lay on his bed, before the world was told of his death, his widow hurriedly performed literary judgment on his unpublished works. Guided by a schoolgirl’s moral code and armed with a roaring fire, she sorted through a vast pile of manuscripts, a lifetime of masterful, painstaking word-at-a-time translations.

  Scatological poems, erotic tales, and great, earthy masterpieces from other languages were condemned out of hand for potential offense against a hypothetical fifteen-year-old English schoolgirl. They were burned behind a locked door.

  When the literary world learned what Mrs. Burton had done, a great cry of horror, rage, and unbelief was raised all over the English-speaking world.

  The year was 1890. No known copies of the burned manuscripts have ever been discovered.

  9

  “Why not?” said Townsend. “Burton fits. He died in 1890. Pick any one of the stories from The Arabian Nights and you’ve got yourself a new Tommy Wise forgery. Too risqué? Yes, yes. I forget that Tommy Wise was a snob. Only the very best and most respectable stuff, of course.”

  Townsend laid down the volume with Burton’s biography in it and walked over to the microwave oven. It was six o’clock. He took another sample of ink from the oven, carried it over to the microscope, and cut a miniscule slice from it. He put it on a slide and put it under his microscope and studied it. Then he picked up the other slides and examined them in turn with their identification: 3pm. 4pm. 5pm. He took the newest slide and marked it 6pm.

  He held the sample up to the mercury vapor lamp and gazed at it unhappily.

  10

  Stephen Crane was lionized when he came to England. The Red Badge of Courage was recognized as a major nineteenth-century masterpiece; and “The Open Boat” a short story of great genius. He was handsome, dashing, also an adventurer. And he died young. In 1900. Where? Let’s see. In Germany, of tuberculosis. Nursed by his wife, a former madam in a Florida sporting house.

  So much for Stephen Crane.

  Townsend ran a line through his name. R. B. Cunningham Graham, another great adventurer and gifted writer of short pieces, died in the mid-1930s. Scratch that name. Died too late for Wise to use him. There was still Swinburne. And Conrad. And …

  Townsend looked at his list. And reached for another book.

  11

  All told, Pollard and Carter identified fifty-one forgeries. All are now attributed to Thomas J. Wise, and all have been exposed because of a similarity in the modus operandi. Indeed, all, or practically all, were traceable to one printer. Clay.

  How this came about is of some interest to the literary historian. Thomas J. Wise was a young man on the make in late Victorian London. Literature with a capital L became his specialty. Book collecting was well established and Wise was, to give him credit due, adroit enough to perceive an opportunity.

  He practically singlehandedly created a fad for collecting first editions. Then he obligingly supplied the demand with forgeries. At first, he confined himself to perfectly legitimate first-edition commemorative facsimiles. He’d create a literary club or join an existing one dedicated to one poet or writer—something like a modern movie star fan club. Browning was a fit subject; so was Swinburne. And there were others.

  Wise would simply arrange, on an appropriate anniversary date, to reissue a copy of a first edition with a proper legend on the frontispiece, identifying it as a commemorative facsimile. In later works, he simply omitted the legend and fobbed off his counterfeit as an original. Clay was a printer, not a literary historian. Wise was a customer, a good one. It was a simple matter to omit a line of type—nothing particularly dishonest or illegal about it—and the deed was done.

  Wise exhibited good sense and good taste and a profound understanding of his market and his mark. He issued first editions of living authors whom he knew to be notoriously lax in their publishing habits. Many could not remember first-edition information that dated back many years. Some were even gently led into endorsing the forgeries as real. Other writers were dead, with only hazy records left behind.

  Wise
chose his writers with care. All were notable talents whose work could be expected to be prized for many years—centuries. Such first editions would fetch good prices and would increase in value with time. As an indication of Wise’s judgment, herewith is a list of the authors whose work he counterfeited:

  Matthew Arnold

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Robert Browning

  Charles Dickens

  George Eliot

  Rudyard Kipling

  William Morris

  Dante Gabriel Rossetti

  John Ruskin

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  Algernon Swinburne

  Alfred Lord Tennyson

  William Makepeace Thackeray

  Robert Louis Stevenson was particularly favored by Wise because the poet-author was notoriously uninterested in his own works once they were put into fair copy.

  Wise issued four Stevenson forgeries: “Some College Memories,” spuriously dated 1887. “The Story of a Lie,” dated 1882. “On the Thermal Influence of Forests,” dated 1873. And “Thomas Stevenson,” dated 1887.

  12

  Michael Townsend frowned thoughtfully at the book: Literary Impostures and Frauds, a History of Literary Curios of the English Language.

  He reached into his briefcase and lifted out a packet of classroom compositions and removed the rubber band. Quickly he fanned the papers and found the composition he sought.

  Robert Louis Stevenson: Cinematographer

  by Jamie Walls

  Mr. Townsend

  Assignment #7 Life and Literature