The Ross Forgery by Hallahan William H.;

Author:Hallahan, William H.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2019-11-19T16:00:00+00:00

SIX

1

The four tines of the fork penetrated the skin of the baked potato easily, then split it lengthwise. Faint tendrils of steam rose from the opening.

“Four minutes flat,” said Townsend.

Ross looked at the portable oven. “Be damned,” he said. “A baked potato in four minutes.”

Townsend opened the oven door and removed the paper plate. He turned it back and forth and handed it to Ross. “Not even warm.”

Ross pulled the oven door down and waved his hand inside the chamber. “How’s it do that?”

“Microwaves. No gas. No electricity. Actually, not even any heat. The microwaves boil the fluid inside the potato, and the fluid cooks the potato itself. Microwaves don’t affect anything but fluids. You could put a stack of paper plates in that oven for a week, and they’d never even get warm.”

Ross held the paper plate uninterestedly. “Look, Mike. Our client called me today. Put a lot of pressure on. He wants a yes or no answer tomorrow morning at breakfast. And he wants to know the name of the author and the work that we’re going to use. What’ll I tell him?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah. As far as I’m concerned, that’s great. The sooner the better.”

Townsend stared at Ross.

“Well? What’s the matter, Mike?”

Townsend spread his hands eloquently. “I’ve been trying to tell you. We have ink problems. The author I can get anytime for you—”

“Waitwaitwaitwait. What do you mean ‘ink problems’?”

Townsend stood up and turned on a floor lamp. “This pamphlet we’re making is going to be subjected to a number of laboratory tests. One of them is to establish the age of the ink. Now, this is a mercury vapor lamp—”

“Wait, Mike. Wait.”

Townsend stopped and waited.

“What you’re telling me is we’re not home free at all? We’ve got another problem? And we may not be able to solve it, and so everything we’ve done so far may go right up the pipe?”

Townsend nodded. “That’s what I’m telling you.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Ross crossed to the window and stood looking down at the street. A violent March wind pressed on the walls and windows of the building, rocking store signs, seething into every crack and keyhole. It was like a berserk presence in the city. A loose trash can clattered down the street as a sudden flush of sun filled the room. Ross watched papers and garbage spill out as it rolled. He wished he could be that mad wind for just ten minutes.

“The hell with it. I’ve just about had it. First the paper, then the type, now the ink. What’s next? The binding? The wrapper? What?”

Townsend shrugged. “I don’t know. The typesetting is your department. I don’t see any problems with it. Then the engraving—what can go wrong there? I don’t foresee any problems there. We’ll print on an engraver’s proving press. We’ll use the binding from the Dodgson pamphlet.”

“If we can solve this ink thing, we’re really home free, is that it? You tell me. You’re the expert. I’m just a dumb type designer.”

Townsend watched him solemnly. “If I can find a way to age the ink, I think we’ve got it made.

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