The Ross Forgery
Page 17
“What happens if it goes for less than one hundred?”
O’Kane exhaled wearily. “You get one hundred no matter what.”
“Suppose it goes over one hundred—suppose—”
“OK, OK. I hear you. If it goes over one hundred, you’ll get paid whatever the final bid is. Now, get that damned thing to a vault and have the proprietor contact Weyland for the papers he needs. And don’t forget to have Townsend set it up. You stay the hell out of the way.”
“What’ll you do if your friend Pickett gets in on the bidding through one of the others?”
“That’ll never happen, Ross. The four men I’m ringing in are all known collectors of Wise pamphlets, and they all hate Pickett with an undying passion. Now, first thing in the morning, get that pamphlet to a vault. I hope to God you haven’t got it lying around your type shop.”
“It’s safe.”
“In a vault?”
“It’s safe.”
“Oh, you dummy. I’m warning you, you’d better have it in a safe place if Pickett gets smozzling around. First thing in the morning, Ross.”
He hung up. He rubbed his hands together. Oh, the mice in the wainscotting, the phone calls back and forth across the continent. Twomley to Polsley, Monash to Wormser, and Wormser to Twomley. Barnyard of cluckclucks scurrying to and fro. And each one in the procession would call Haddon Labs, just to be sure.
6
At 6:10 P.M. Thursday, March 23, Mr. Richard Weyland, auctioneer, arrived at the offices of Emmett O’Kane’s corporate headquarters in mid-Manhattan.
Mr. Weyland was shown to Mr. Service’s office, where he seated himself and removed from his briefcase his hammer and gavel and a manila folder containing a few papers. Mr. Weyland was ready.
At 6:15 P.M., Mr. Gerard Twomley was sitting in his study, surrounded by literary items collected over a lifetime. Flawless air flowed through his study windows, and he could hear the footsteps of strollers on the historic sidewalks outside his window. The phone rang at his elbow, and he answered it.
“Mr. Twomley? This is New York calling. Are you ready for your conference call?”
“Ah, yes, operator. Who’s calling, please?”
“Mr. Richard Weyland, of Skelly Auctioneers, New York.”
“Quite right. I’m ready.”
“Please stand by, Mr. Twomley, for just a few moments.” The line clicked. Mr. Twomley realized that his line was blocked, so that he could neither receive nor make telephone calls. He hung up.
It’s worth fifty. Not a cent more. And that was all he planned to bid. Fifty. Not a cent more.
7
Mr. Polsley, in San Francisco, looked at his clock when the phone rang. 3:17 P.M., West Coast time.
“Mr. Polsley, please.”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Polsley. This is New York calling. Are you ready for your conference call?”
“I certainly am, operator.”
“Please stand by, Mr. Polsley, for just a few moments.” The line went dead.
Mr. Polsley hung up. He hurried to his front door and hung a sign on the fog-wet window glass: Back in Fifteen Minutes. Then he hurried to the extension phone in his back room. He put the teakettle on and rubbed his hands gleefully.
8
Mr. Philip Monash, in Chicago, said hello and coughed a long, wheezy cough.
“Mr. Monash?”
“Speaking.” He coughed again.
“New York calling. Are you ready for your conference call?”
Mr. Monash coughed a third time and adjusted the shawl around his shoulders as the mad March wind, rising off the great, flat face of Lake Michigan, assaulted the towering apartment building he lived in. He looked gratefully at the fire. “Yes, operator. Ready, willing, and barely able.”
“Please stand by.” His line clicked. His rheumy eyes looked out at the windy sky. It was 5:23 P.M. His heart was filled with the loneliness that a late winter dusk always filled it with. He wished he’d gone to the Virgin Islands, after all.
He tried to rouse his larcenous spirit for the chase. The chase. Just one more buy. One more brilliant piece added to his collection. But he felt beaten already.
It was so cold. Spring was so far away. How had he gotten so old and cold so quickly?
9
Mr. Wormser wasn’t in his office in Boston.
He’d notified Mr. Weyland that he was to be in New York City on the night of the auction. He was making a special trip back to his room at the Airport Motel, fronting on Newark Airport, to participate in the auction.
Between his backers and himself, he’d raised the ante to ninety thousand dollars. He’d probably not get this piece, but ninety thousand was a lot of clout to buy something else with.
He looked at his watch, frowning, at 6:27 P.M. The building shook as a rising jet lifted sharply into the night sky over New York City.
The phone rang, and he reached out to answer it.
10
Mr. Weyland’s phone rang. He picked it up.
The operator said: “Mr. Weyland, I have your conference call ready. On the line and ready to talk are Mr. Twomley in New Orleans, Mr. Polsley in San Francisco, Mr. Monash in Chicago, Mr. Wormser in Newark, and Mr. O’Kane in New York City.”
“Thank you, operator. Gentlemen, you have all, no doubt, received my letter. This auction is being conducted under the laws of the State of New York. Technically speaking, only one of you is situated in the State of New York at the moment and consequently, the laws binding you are in some question. However, since you gentlemen are all well known in your profession, and since the piece up for auction is a highly desirable one, I’m sure that you will bid in earnest, and that the highest bidder will have his check in my hand within seventy-two hours. Is that understood and satisfactory so far? Let me begin with Mr. Twomley.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Weyland,” said Mr. Twomley, in his mellifluous New Orleans accent. “I understand.”
“Hello, there, Twomley. This is Polsley, in San Francisco.”
“Ah, Polsley, good to hear your voice. How’s everything there?”
“Just fine. I’m sending you a letter. I have some pieces you might be interested in.”
“Hello, Polsley. This is Monash in Chicago. You send me a copy of anything you send Twomley. You hear?”
“I do hear, Mr. Monash, and glad to comply.”
Mr. Weyland cleared his throat. “Mr. Polsley: Is everything about this auction, as I’ve so far described it, satisfactory?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”
“And Mr. Monash?”
“Yes. I just want to know one thing. Who now owns the piece?”
“In due time, Mr. Monash. Ah—Mr. Wormser, do you have any reservations thus far?”
There was a long pause. “Ah—” Then there was another pause.
“Mr. Wormser?”
“OK, OK. Get on with it.”
“Mr. O’Kane?”
“Fine, Mr. Weyland.”
“O’Kane? Hmmm. Mr. O’Kane, this is Monash, in Chicago. I don’t believe I know you.”
“No. I’m relatively new to this field. But I expect you’ll be hearing more about me in the future. Maybe we shall meet sometime.”
“Hmmmmmmm.”
“Gentlemen,” said the auctioneer. “I have here a notarized certificate from the American Bonding Vaults of New York City that they have in their possession and under their protection a pamphlet entitled ‘A Lodging for the Night,’ by Robert Louis Stevenson. This is the same piece—and no other—that was examined and tested and reported on by Haddon Laboratories of New York City. You have no doubt noted that the three specialists who subjected the pamphlet to a very close scrutiny have written in their report that they have been unable to find any reason for doubting that this piece is as represented—a heretofore unknown forgery, purporting to be a first edition publication of the short story ‘A Lodging for the Night,’ by Robert Louis Stevenson. In fact, from internal evidence and from typo
graphic characteristics, the three experts further aver that the piece can reasonably be ascribed to the literary activities of Mr. Thomas Wise, late of London, England, founder of the Ashley Library, now in a separate collection in the British Museum.
“I can tell you that the owner of this piece is one Michael Townsend, of New York City, a collector and also a young specialist in English literary matters. A few weeks ago, Mr. Townsend attended a bona fide auction, conducted on the premises of my concern here in New York City, and there purchased in open auction a pile of miscellaneous pamphlets from the estate of Miss Amalie Dodgson. And among the miscellany, he discovered this pamphlet now up for auction.
“The auction is absolute, the highest bidder takes it. Now, if there are no further questions, we can start the bidding.”
Mr. Weyland tapped his gavel on the wooden block. “Gentlemen, I am now prepared to receive bids for the purchase of ‘A Lodging for the Night.’ What am I bid?”
There was a silence.
“Mr. Twomley?”
“Yes. Well. I bid five thousand.”
“Five thousand dollars for this rare literary find? Surely—”
“Ten,” said Monash, and coughed.
“Ten,” said Mr. Weyland. “I have a bid from—Mr. Monash, was it?”
“Yes.” A long, wheezing cough. “Monash. Ten.”
“Will someone say twenty? Mr. Polsley, will you say twenty?”
“Yes. I’ll bid twenty.”
“Thirty.”
“Is that Mr. Twomley?”
“Yes. Twomley.”
“Mr. Twomley bids thirty. Do I hear forty? Will someone say forty?”
There was another long cough. “Forty.”
“Mr. Monash?”
A wracking cough. “Damn, damn, damn. Yes. Monash.” Another cough. “Wait till I sip some water.” There was silence while everyone waited—an intracontinental, blood-pounding silence. “That’s better. Excuse me, Mr. Weyland.”
“Do you need more time, Mr. Monash?”
“No. No. I’m all right. Let me see. I think mine is the last bid of forty thousand dollars.”
“That is correct. Gentlemen, do I hear fifty?”
“Fifty,” said Mr. Twomley.
“Mr. Twomley?”
“Yes.”
“Do I hear sixty? Sixty, anyone?”
“Ah. This is Polsley, in San Francisco. I bid sixty.”
“Mr. Polsley bids sixty. Do I hear seventy? Seventy, anyone?”
“Sixty-one.”
“Mr. Twomley?”
“Yes.”
“Sixty-five—from Monash.”
“Sixty-five from Mr. Monash. Seventy, anyone?
There was a sigh. “Seventy. Twomley.”
“Mr. Twomley bids seventy.”
“I ought to have my head examined,” murmured Mr. Twomley’s soft voice.
“Gentlemen, do I hear eighty? Mr. Wormser, in Newark. Do I hear eighty?”
“Ah—” There was a pause again. “This is Wormser. I say eighty.”
“I have a bid of eighty. Does anyone say ninety? Ninety?”
The line was quiet. Mr. Weyland waited. “Ninety?” He waited a few more seconds. “Mr. Twomley. How say you?”
“I pass.”
“Mr. Polsley.”
“No, thanks.”
“Mr. O’Kane, here in New York. Do you wish to bid, sir?”
“Yes. I’ll bid ninety.”
“I have a bid for ninety thousand dollars for ‘A Lodging for the Night’ from Mr. O’Kane. Will someone say one hundred?”
It hung there in silence. Ninety thousand dollars.
“Mr. Twomley?”
“No. Pass.”
“Mr. Polsley.”
“Pass.”
“Mr. Monash?”
Mr. Monash sighed, then coughed. “Twenty years ago—well. Pass.”
“Hmmmm. Mr. Wormser, will you let Mr. O’Kane have this piece for a bid of ninety thousand dollars?”
There was a pause.
“Mr. Wormser?”
“I bid one hundred thousand dollars.”
In his office, Emmett O’Kane stood straight up, with the phone jammed against his ear. He almost exhaled with surprise.
“One hundred ten,” he said quickly.
“One hundred ten,” said Mr. Weyland. “Mr. O’Kane bids one hundred and ten thousand dollars. Mr. Wormser?”
“OK. One twenty.”
“Mr. Wormser says one hundred twenty thousand. Mr. O’Kane?”
“Thirty.”
“Mr. O’Kane says one hundred thirty thousand dollars.”
“One forty.”
Emmett O’Kane put the phone down on his desk and walked out into the carpeted hallway by the elevator shafts. He sighted Service, perched on a chair next to the telephone operator. O’Kane drew a fingertip across his throat. Service nodded and punched a button. The telephone connection with Wormser was cut.
Emmett O’Kane went back to his desk to hear Mr. Weyland saying, “Going once. Going twice, to Mr. Wormser for one hundred forty thousand dollars.”
“One fifty,” said Emmett O’Kane.
“One fifty,” echoed Mr. Weyland. “Will anyone say one sixty? I have a firm bid from Mr. O’Kane for one hundred fifty thousand dollars. Do I hear one sixty? One sixty?”
Mr. Weyland waited. Several bidders could be heard breathing heavily into their mouthpieces.
“No further bids, gentlemen? This piece is going to Mr. O’Kane for the sum of one hundred fifty thousand dollars. Going once. Going twice. Gentlemen, this is your last chance.” He paused. “Very well, then. Going three times. Sold! Mr. O’Kane, you have just purchased ‘A Lodging for the Night’ for one hundred fifty thousand dollars, payable to me within seventy-two hours.”
Mr. Wormser sat on his motel bed, clutching his small white dog and staring at the pistol that was aimed at his belly. It was a shiny Texas-style six shooter with an imitation bone handle. Through the interstices of the gunman’s fingers, Wormser could see that a long sliver of the imitation bone had broken off the cheek.
Wormser stared in mortal terror at the gun. “I was cut off at the other end. I didn’t do it.”
“That’s OK. You didn’t want to pay that much for it anyway.”
“Then why did you make me bid that high?”
The gunman didn’t answer.
“Can you please go now?” pleaded Wormser, struggling to hold the whining little dog. “That gun is making me sick.”
“In a minute.”
On the floor between the two beds, a hot plate was heating a large pot of water.
11
Emmett O’Kane strode out of his office brandishing his fist. “I knew that Wormser was a mistake. Pickett got to him! Goddamn!”
Service watched him, leaning, arms folded, against a wall.
“What do you think of that bastard! Honest to God, we can’t go to the potty without Pickett knowing about it. One hundred fifty! Jumping Jehoshaphat! Can you imagine how high it could have gone!”
“That’s why I picked a telephone auction,” said Service.
O’Kane put a hand to his head. “One hundred fifty.”
“A bargain,” said Service tersely.
12
The ham hung high.
In the steady breeze, a trail of steam issued from it—a whole canned ham, hanging by coathanger wire from the metal crosspiece of the fence, just where the chain links were broken.
On the ground below the steaming ham, a pot of hot water stood, issuing a larger column of steam mixed with melted ham fat. The night was unusually clear for the Jersey wetlands, and beyond the fence boxcars stood clearly revealed in the early risen moon. The night sky was filled with stars.
It was ten minutes before seven.
13
The first to arrive was the Doberman. He cruised down the right-of-way between two rows of empty boxcars, dancing alertly, head held high, sniffing, his eyes rolling wildly in his head.
He saw it at last. A ham, swaying from a wire twisted around a pipe crosspiece. It twisted one way, then the other, as the wind pushed it. Steam fluttered from all its pores. Below, the pot still billowed steam that ascended and quickly dissipated. The steam turned quickly to a cold mist that spread along the ground. Downwind, animals could smell it over a mile away.
The Doberman stopped, his mouth dripping with saliva. His eyes studied the terrain, searching. He stood in the shadow of the long building. People in the various motel rooms were talking, sitting, reading, talking on the phones, some drinking. A man showed another man a sample of women’s autumn shoe styles. Traffic, trucks mainly, roared constantly down the road. Heavy clear plastic sheets, depending from the half-constructed warehouse on the next lot, flapped languidly in the breeze, then slatted sharply against the building. The watchman was in his little guardhouse, his face lit by a lamp. He was dozing.
The Doberman moved with great stealth now, his ears moving, his nose quivering, his eyes peering at shadows. The wind was wiping that steamy ham smell right over his wet nose. Saliva was pouring from his mouth. He crept closer, paused, then moved up closer until he was right under it. The ground below the ham was covered with spots of dripped water. Several fell on his head. He raised himself up and sank enraged teeth into the ham and pulled. Hot ham juice gushed down his throat but the meat held fast to the wire. He swung with his back feet off the ground, furiously wrenching the ham. He gathered himself and pulled again, feeling the wire slipping. Again, he pulled. And abruptly, the whole ham bore his head down to the ground.
Growling a menace at the other dogs, he placed both paws on the ham and pulled with his powerful jaws. And again. A great piece of ham tore away from the bone and he wolfed it down. The other dogs moved in. The odor had them half mad, and they skirmished in the dark, savagely lunging at each other, reestablishing their pecking order. Some would get nothing.