Somehow Ted felt a growing sense of responsibility—a responsibility he had always felt where the newspaper was concerned. He was part of the Blue Harvest plan, too, and if it failed he felt that he would share in the failure. But more than that something Nelson had said stuck in his mind. It was true that Ted had been more friendly with Mr. Woodring than anybody else. If anyone was going to find him—and Ted was beginning to feel that finding him might serve a useful purpose, if Mr. Woodring could be made to explain the exact extent of the swindle and whether or not other people were involved—then perhaps it was up to him to do what he could. But a cabin between two waterfalls—even if Mr. Woodring had really gone there—sounded like an improbable place, and didn’t suggest anything at all to Ted’s mind. He did stop in at the library to see if he could find anything to help him, but found nothing new. Apparently the two waterfalls were as elusive as Nancy’s mysteriously disappearing town.
At noon there was an item on the newscast mentioning Mr. Woodring’s car. It was a last-minute item, and there were no details other than that the car had been found abandoned on a lonely road some twenty miles to the south, that it apparently had been driven by a Mr. Woodring of Forestdale, whom the police were unable to reach. The car had not been reported stolen. Ted could see that Mr. Dobson had been right. The police were in the case now, whether Mr. Bentley wanted it that way or not, and there were going to be all sorts of questions. It would be up to Mr. Bentley to provide the answers. Still, none of this seemed to concern Ted very directly. He felt he was on the outside, looking in.
Ted called up Nancy, but she had made herself quite popular at the hayride and was out on another date. Margaret, too, proved to be out. He decided to spend the evening reading, and his mother was busy in the kitchen, doing some baking for a charity bazaar the next day.
At ten o’clock the door chimes rang. Callers this late were unusual, and Ted put down his book with a feeling of curiosity as well as some worry. He hurried to open the door.
“Ted Wilford?” It was a man wearing a light overcoat, though the evening was warm.
“Yes,” Ted admitted.
“I’m Mr. Dunfield from the Treasury Department, and I’d like to talk with you for a few minutes. May I come in?”
Ted studied the credentials the man had presented, then agreed. “Sure, come on in. But good gravy, what did we do now? Didn’t we pay all our income tax?”
“Oh, yes—or at least I hope you did.” The man smiled. “That’s another branch of the department.”
Ted led the way into the living room and invited him to sit down. He did, but got up at once as Mrs. Wilford came into the room.
“Mom, this is Mr. Dunfield from the Treasury Department. Mr. Dunfield, my mother.” Ted explained quickly to his mother, “He says he isn’t here about income tax.”
“No, just a little matter I thought your son might be able to help me on,” the government man put in quickly.
“In that case, I’m sure you gentlemen will excuse me,” said Mrs. Wilford promptly. “I’m afraid I have some baking started.”
She hurried from the room. Mr. Dunfield regarded her with approval, and Ted smiled. Although he knew that his mother was busy baking, he didn’t think there was anything urgent about it that demanded her attention immediately. She left because she felt this was an affair of Ted’s that he could handle competently for himself.
“I’ve come about this matter of the trading stamps, the Blue Harvest stamps,” Mr. Dunfield began. He leaned back and crossed his legs.
Ted frowned. “I should have thought that was a little outside your field.”
“Ordinarily, Ted, I suppose you might say it is. I’ll tell you what I’m concerned about, and how I enter into the case. As you know, our government takes every possible precaution to insure that our currency is genuine. I can think of no domestic situation which would send this country into a panic as easily as the widespread belief that our currency, or any sizable portion of it, was phony. To avoid this possibility, the government must do all it can—not merely to punish counterfeiting—but to prevent it.”
“You mean that there’s a question of counterfeit currency in this case?” asked Ted with narrowing eyes.
“I don’t know that there is, Ted, but we are faced with a certain combination of circumstances. We know there is some person who has the necessary skills to counterfeit our currency, and we know this man has an apparent background of antisocial behavior—by which I mean that he has served a prison sentence. This combination offers the possibility that Mr. Woodring may turn his talents to the counterfeiting of currency, and we must be alert to that possibility.”
“Are you sure that these Blue Harvest stamps are counterfeits?” Ted asked of him.
“Oh, yes. There can be no question at all that the stamps circulating in Forestdale are counterfeits—no matter how much the company may choose to deny it. The quality of the paper is almost the same—so close that no one except an expert could tell the difference. But the color of the ink is of a distinctly different shade.”
“Couldn’t that have been a mistake in the print shop where the stamps were printed?”
“Possibly, Ted, but that’s not all. If you were to examine these stamps under a magnifying lens—and compare them with the genuine stamps—you would be able to observe many tiny differences; that is, provided you knew what to look for. They are very skilled imitations, but they are imitations, nevertheless. I understand you’ve had some experience in the printing field, so you probably know how these stamps are printed. The pictures are engraved on metal plates, and then these metal plates are used to print the stamps. As I said, these plates were so well prepared that the suggestion of counterfeiting would probably never have arisen if it had not been for the obvious difference in the ink. That seems like a frightfully careless mistake for anyone to make. I suppose the criminal has a rather inflated idea of his own cunning—nearly all of them do—and that is what led him to circulate the stamps, in spite of the possibility they might arouse suspicion.”
“Isn’t it possible,” Ted countered, “that he wanted the fraud to be discovered, in order to arouse public distrust of these trading stamps?”
The Treasury man seemed struck by the thought. “I admit that’s a possibility which didn’t occur to me. On the face of it, it doesn’t appear very likely. These stamps are too easily traced. Most criminals prefer to act in the dark, and hope they won’t be discovered. This type of operation means that the criminal would be known to a great many people, and his only hope of getting away with it would be to make his escape just before things got too hot for him. Still, given a certain type of criminal mind, and a great enough reward, it’s possible he would do just that. The facts that the stamps were so clearly of a different color—seen as soon as anyone got around to making the direct comparison—and that Mr. Woodring did make his escape just before we caught up with him, offer the possibility that you may be right.”
“I’m afraid I was the one who tipped him off,” said Ted apologetically. “I remarked to him about the way the gang was joking over these purple-cow stamps. Of course I wasn’t thinking about counterfeiting at the time.”
“‘Purple-cow’ stamps? Well, that’s a pretty good name for them. But I don’t think you were responsible, Ted. This all adds up to a very shrewd operation, and I’m sure that Mr. Woodring must have been very much aware of what the score was. As a matter of fact, I’ve learned that he received a large check just yesterday afternoon, a few hours before he disappeared. I think it was that check which was the decisive factor. As soon as he had it, it was profitable for him to leave, and he did.”
“How did you people get on to it so soon?” Ted questioned. “These stamps have only been in circulation for a few days.”
“Oh, we have informants who give us tips on anything questionable which comes up in this line. Most of the tips are phonies, but we ha
ve to investigate them anyway, and once in a while one of them pans out. We had an inquiry about these stamps, based on the color of the ink. As you mentioned before, this could have been a mere mistake in the printing shop, but we looked into the matter a little more carefully, and so discovered the counterfeiting.
“Mr. Woodring is of especial interest to us in the Treasury. Possibly you may not know that our experts are skilled in recognizing the work of a counterfeiter. No matter how good he is, somehow he leaves his own mark on his work. If it is a known operator, we can usually tell the identity of the counterfeiter merely by examining his work. Unfortunately, not all these persons are in prison. Some of them have served their sentences. Some of them, though we were certain of their guilt, could not be convicted in court due to a lack of evidence. Some of them, though they have never actually counterfeited before, are skilled enough to do so, and we are on the watch for them. We want to know where all these persons are. But Mr. Woodring is a new operator. His work was unfamiliar to our experts.”
“I understood he’d been in prison before.”
“Yes, but not for counterfeiting. His offense was embezzling, and I believe there was a matter of some forged signatures involved. You can see the possibility of a connection. From forging signatures to forging engravers’ plates is not such a very great step. Many criminals have made the jump.”
“Mr. Woodring took a picture of a painting owned by Mr. Smith on a farm near here,” said Ted suddenly. “Would that have been of help to him?”
“You do get around, don’t you, Ted?” said Mr. Dunfield with a touch of admiration. “You understand that I’m not supposed to tell you anything more than necessary. There’s nothing personal in that—it’s just our manner of working. But yes, I know all about Mr. Smith’s painting, and photographing the painting would have been a big help to Mr. Woodring. Let me explain it this way. Mr. Woodring wanted to copy the Blue Harvest stamps. Now why couldn’t he simply have taken one of the genuine stamps and copied it? Well, he could, if he had to, but there are some decided technical disadvantages in working this way. These Blue Harvest stamps, even though genuine, would have small imperfections. By the time Mr. Woodring copied them, he would have added his own imperfections, and further faults might occur in the printing process. The final results might have been very poor.
“A counterfeiter likes to work on a large scale, and then have his work reduced in size. In this way any small errors he may have made will be minimized. Now he could have taken a genuine stamp and enlarged it—but this would have enlarged its imperfections as well, and wouldn’t have been a great deal of help to him. These stamps were originally copied from a large painting. If Mr. Woodring could secure a copy of that same painting, and work from it, his results would probably be much better. And that, as you know, is what he did.”
There was a pause. Mr. Dunfield had said that he wasn’t supposed to tell more than necessary, and Ted knew that there had been some purpose behind this whole conversation. And he would have been less than astute had he not already guessed what that purpose was.
“Well, how about it, Ted?” asked Mr. Dunfield.
Ted knew what the Treasury man meant. He was asking if Ted had any idea where Mr. Woodring could be found. With some reluctance, Ted told about the cabin between the two waterfalls.
“I never heard of it,” said the visitor, shaking his head. “Did he say it was in this state?”
“I kind of thought it was, but I—I guess he didn’t actually say so.”
Mr. Dunfield got to his feet. “Well, Ted, I think you’ve been of some help. If you should think of anything more to help me, here’s my card, and you can call me collect at that number. And I don’t think you should blame yourself at all over this affair. After all, there were a good many older, more experienced people who were taken in. Oh, yes, Ted. It would be of help to me if you’d be careful that nothing said in this conversation goes beyond this house.”
Ted nodded.
“Good night, Mrs. Wilford,” Mr. Dunfield called, as Mrs. Wilford appeared in the kitchen doorway. They showed their visitor out.
After the front door closed, Ted explained the situation briefly to his mother. She had known something about it before, but was more indignant than ever that Mr. Woodring should have involved her son in an affair of this kind. However, she couldn’t see that it was Ted’s fault, or that there was anything he could do about it.
“Maybe there is,” said Ted, pondering. He got up suddenly, and going over to the telephone dialed Nelson’s number. His friend finally came on.
“What’s the matter, Ted?” asked Nelson sleepily. “House burn down or something?” He acted as though he was too tired to care very much, although Ted knew it was unusual for his friend to retire this early.
“I’ve been thinking about this Mr. Woodring matter—”
“Good for you!” said Nelson with some sarcasm. “I like people who think.”
“No, seriously, I think I gave up too soon.”
“What do you mean? You just got finished telling me that it didn’t make any difference if we caught Mr. Woodring or not.”
“I know, but I didn’t think the thing through. If he gets away with it this time, how do we know he won’t try the same thing somewhere else?”
“How can he?” said Nelson indifferently. “He can’t pass off counterfeit Blue Harvest stamps unless he’s working for the Blue Harvest company. And they won’t hire him again. Anyway, I shouldn’t think they would. I know I wouldn’t—”
“Why does it have to be Blue Harvest? I’ve heard there are about three hundred stamp companies in the country.” He was being very careful not to mention the possibility of counterfeit currency, still keeping in mind his promise to Mr. Dunfield.
“Keep talking. I know you’re going to ask a favor of me, but I’m not sure yet what it is. Do you expect me to find a town that disappeared, or twin waterfalls that no one ever heard of, or—”
“No, nothing like that. I’m after something I know we can find. When Mr. Woodring came out here, he was accompanied by another salesman—I don’t know his name, but he works out of Johnston City. Maybe he could tell us something about Mr. Woodring.”
CHAPTER 14
A CYNICAL PERSON
Early the next morning Ted and Nelson were in Johnston City, across the state line. It had been a fairly long drive, and Ted had insisted they get an early start.
“I want to try to catch him before he gets out on his rounds,” he had explained.
They did not know the salesman’s name, nor was Blue Harvest listed in the telephone book. But a call to information speedily got them the number. Ted dialed the office and explained his mission.
“All right, if you can get it over with inside of fifteen minutes,” the salesman told him. He didn’t sound particularly friendly or unfriendly, but simply in a hurry.
“Can do,” Ted assured him, and within a few minutes he and Nelson had presented themselves at the office, a small place just off Main Street.
Mr. Harridge, they learned, was alone in the office. Either he did not have a secretary, or else the secretary had not yet come in.
The callers introduced themselves, and Mr. Harridge invited them to sit down. Ted had taken a quick glance around, and he saw that the place was very similar to the Blue Harvest office in Forestdale. Large posters advertised the plan, and some of the premiums were displayed in the window.
“I suppose you’ve heard about Mr. Woodring,” Ted began.
“Yes and no,” Mr. Harridge returned. “That is, I received a very peculiar call from the home office Tuesday morning. They didn’t tell me very much, but I could easily see that something was in the wind. Putting two and two together, I’ve got a pretty good idea of what happened.”
“What about those purple-cow stamps?” Nelson questioned. “Did you get some of them, too?”
&n
bsp; For answer, Mr. Harridge went over to the desk and took out a book of stamps and opened them. There could be no question but that these were a perfect blue. They were the first really blue stamps Nelson had seen, but Ted remembered seeing the same kind that first day at the Town Crier office. Even Nelson was now sure there was a difference.
“Then you didn’t get stung with these purple stamps?” he asked discerningly.
“No, mine are all perfectly good. It wouldn’t have been possible for anyone to pawn any of these counterfeit stamps off on me, anyway. Mr. Woodring and I each received our carton of stamps at the home office, sealed up. We were told not to check them with the baggage, and so we didn’t, but kept them with us in our compartment. The seal on my box was still intact when I arrived here, and so, I presume, was Mr. Woodring’s. He must have substituted the counterfeit stamps later.”
“Then what’s he going to do with his good stamps?”
“Oh, he can always dispose of them at a profit. It’s getting the counterfeit stamps into circulation that’s the problem.”
Ted took up the questioning. “Did you know Mr. Woodring very well—I mean, apart from just coming out here with him?”
“Oh, I knew him in a business way, talked with him, had lunch with him, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t know anything about his personal life. I don’t think he has any relatives, or even any settled home.”
“Did you know that he’d been in prison?”
The man hesitated before he finally said:
“All right, I’ll play it level with you, though I’d just as soon you didn’t repeat this to anyone. Yes, I did know he’d been in prison. I met Mr. Woodring in some casual business way—I forget just how. Anyway, we got to talking. He was unemployed at the time, and looking for work. I didn’t think that should be much of a problem with him, since sales jobs were fairly easy to find. But when he got a little more confidential, he told me what his problem was. He just didn’t think he could land much of a job if an employer knew about his prison record. It happened that he’d had a couple of unfortunate experiences along that line. Oh, he could get jobs, of a sort, but people were always suspicious of him—didn’t quite trust him—and he felt he could never get ahead that way.
The Counterfeit Mystery Page 11