William H Hallahan - The Ross Forgery

The Ross Forgery

William H. Hallahan

To My Father

Congratulations, Mr. Tank:

It is my considerable pleasure to welcome you to Chambers International Course on Private Investigation.

Your credit references have proved to be most exemplary, and I look forward to supervising your progress through a course of profitable study that has already enriched many thousands of young men just like yourself.

One of the most appealing advantages of study by mail is your control over your own rate of study. However, I do urge you to progress as rapidly as possible through your lessons so that you can begin to earn an immediate Private Investigators income right in your own community.

The texts and study equipment are being rushed to you by separate package along with your monthly payment book. It all should reach you in the next day or so. Please proceed immediately to Lesson One.

Congratulations, Mr. Tank, on a wise decision.

Yours for greater crime prevention,
J. I NGERSOLL I NGERSOLL IV
Institute Director

Private Investigators License # 1-343-578-48795

The March wind still had the bite of winter in it. Occasionally it sprinted across the long rolling lawn and past the stiff shrubs to throw a burst of frozen rain at the mansion.

Just inside the open front door, the locksmith sprung the trigger bolt on the door lock repeatedly with his finger. See, Mr. Matthews? This lock cant be loided. First, theres a metal baffle here, and second, if they do get a piece of celluloid past it, the spring on the trigger bolt will hold and they cant pop the lock. See? Right here. And right above is your mortise lock with this unbeveled bolt. This one cant be loided and it cant be jimmied. He shut the door against the seething wind and stepped back into the thickly carpeted center hallway. Now. Lets see. We checked your burglar alarm system, the window locks

Mr. Matthews watched the man count on his fingers. I still want to get that space alarm system when I get back from Cascais.

Well, like I said, Mr. Matthews, them space alarm units can feel the movements of the burglar inside the house. Thats what sets off an alarm in our data processing center, and well have a car here in minutes. So, like I said, with the kind of valuable art and books you got, it represents a good investment. Pulls your insurance rates way down. But for the time being, youre OK. Every possible entry into this house including the chimney is locked and electronically booby-trapped. If anyone puts so much as a jimmy in a lock, well know it and cover your house in seconds. Tell you what. When you get back, Ill even install a new unit thats just been developed. Its a mesh. Like a fishermans net. Well take up the carpet in your den here He crossed the hallway to the den doorway and looked in. See? Well take up that carpet and put this electronic mesh down; then we put the carpet back down. Im telling younot even a canary can put his foot on that rug without raising hell with our computer alarm system. The best in Westchester County. His eyes roamed over the shelves of books behind the sparkling glass doors. Tell you what. I bet fifty bucks there isnt a crook in the country that can get past your present security system.

He started toward the front door, nodded. Oh. By the way. Remember. Dont tell the local police youre going away. OK?

Mr. Matthews smiled. Professional jealousy?

The locksmith shook his head slowly. Police are crooks, he said.

In the darkness, the flickering fire in the steel drum reddened the walls of the warehouse. It bronzed the figure of the watchman.

He stood, listening angrily to the chirping and squeaking down on the railroad tracks.

Finally, he yanked a burning brand from the fire. He swung it like a bat several times, fanning the flames. Then he marched to the end of the loading platform and swung it in a downward arc at the garbage-strewn tracks. The squeaking stopped abruptly, and a horde of brown rats fled across the switching yard into the sodden night.

Rats! He yelled into the wind. Goddamned rats! I hate you bastards! He rammed the burning beam back into the barrel just as the mad March gale spun off the warehouse and into the barrel, raising hot rags of flame. He backed away, coughing and rubbing his eyes.

Rats! Bastards! He coughed again and pulled up the collar of his peacoat.

The fire cracked and hissed, the panting flames threw the mans batlike shadow on the factory wall, and the wind moaned. The watchman pushed his hands into the slash pockets of his jacket. For the time, the squeaking was gone.

Another jet rolled across the sky and coasted into Newark Airport. He watched the string of lights slowly descend, feeling the earth shake and the vague discomfort in his ears from the shrieking jet engines. He watched the plane course along the runway to the passenger terminal.

Silence returned, and he listened again for the rats.

A man came out of the warehouse doorway. The wind set his coattails streaming and he quickly put a hand to the crown of his hat. Keerist! Its like winter all over again. He stepped closer to the fire, buttoning his expensive overcoat with one hand. Whos winning, Louis? You or the rats?

Rats. I hate them goddamned things. Ill be glad when we move the crap game back to Brooklyn. You can have this godforsaken Jersey. Howd you make out?

Like a Chinese fire drill.

Yeah? Got cleaned, huh?

Not me, Louis. Theres a real yo-yo in there whos dropping a bundle, and that Moose is lending him money as fast as he asks for it. I bet hes dropped more than three grand so far.

Is that the guy whos kind of bald, with the sour face?

Yeah. Ross. His name is Ross. I gotta go. He pushed a ten-dollar bill into the watchmans peacoat pocket. Here. I lay you eight to five the rats win.

Nah. The dogsll get the rats.

The dogs?

Yeah. Wild dogs. A whole pack of them. He patted his pocket. Thanks. Watch the ice in the parking lot.

Ice! Keerist, it really is winter again.

The watchman turned back to the red glow of the fire. His shadow rose twelve feet up the reddened brick wall, swaying and swelling like a Mephistophelean specter. He scanned the rows of tracks in the switching yard, looking in the darkness for the dogs and listening for the rats.

Twenty-five men silently stared at the upraised fist of the crapshooter. They stood around a long wooden trestle table before untidy piles of money in bad light cast by a bare bulb on the wall.

The dice clicked in the mans fist, and he flung them the length of the table. They hit the concrete wall under the bulb and bounced back.

Eight. Your points eight, Ross.

The redhaired Englishman retrieved the dice and pitched them back down the table.

Ross raised his fist again and rattled them.

Come on, Ross. Shoot!

Lets go, babe!

The Englishman glanced at the gallery of human portraits on both sides of the table. He settled his shoulders inside the well-cut tweed jacket and leaned against the wall.