The rest of the photographic requirements were mainly darkroom processing equipment --- most of which he could make himself. In all, he budgeted £1,500 for photography, buying second-hand where he could. The only equipment which he would buy new would be the process lenses, for they would ultimately dictate the limits of achievable quality.
For his in-house printing needs, an Adana 8" x 5" machine would be more than sufficient to cope with most of his stationery needs. Scouring the "Exchange & Mart" magazine, he found plenty of second-hand machines available for less than £200. He noted the details, allowing another £200 for fonts of type, with the required furniture for spacing purposes.
The web-offset printing machine was the main problem, but once again the Exchange & Mart magazine gave him ideas as to price and availability and he allowed £2,000 for this. Under the heading of Sundries, he listed numbering machines, a light-box and a possible thermo-graphic drying machine and he allowed another £1,000 under the heading. In total, should he ever decide to go ahead with his scheme, he estimated he would need some £4,900 plus expenses
... a sum, he thought, not completely beyond his capabilities, in spite of his wife!
Although the reply from American Express was to come within a week of Pascoe writing to them, the waiting made it one of the longest weeks of his life. There was hardly a moment when he wasn't thinking about the choice that faced him. He'd reached
unusual cross-roads in his life, not the usual choice between right and wrong, success or failure, but the choice between certain bankruptcy or possible salvation by turning to crime.
Secretly, in his innermost thoughts, he almost preferred the latter alternative, whatever the letter might say, but whether he would have the guts to take that choice when the time came, he just didn't know. What he did know was that even if the company gave him time to pay, he would have to do something drastic in order to pay off the debt in the time allowed. Bankruptcy, his only other choice, although much 'safer', would effectively tie a mill-stone around his neck for the next few years until the debt was discharged. In practical terms there wasn't much to choose between them when it came to the amount of disgrace involved. If he chose to commit the crime, he might at least get clean away with it and if caught, probably wouldn't serve more than a few years as a first offender. The thought of prison didn't deter him as long as he could plan a way of keeping the money. With money, he reckoned, even prison could be reasonably comfortable.
While he waited for the reply from American Express which would seal his fate, he divided his time between publicly disclaiming his wife’s debts, by writing to all the local traders and by publishing a notice in the local press and researching his 'Travelers Cheque’ scheme in depth. So when the letter from the credit card company finally arrived, granting him a whole year's grace, he knew instinctively what to do. It not only gave him immediate relief from his present worries but also the incentive to go through with his scheme. His logical reasoning in making the decision reflected what Wilkinson had told him... that the law was no longer concerned with the rights of the individual or justice but belonged to the highest bidder. This left him with a moral decision to ponder and surprisingly he found encouragement in a totally unexpected place. It came to him in the lines of a prayer remembered from his youth; 'May God give you the courage to change what you can, the strength to accept that which you cannot change and the wisdom to know the difference.' He knew that it was a matter he could do something about and had made up his mind to do so. He thought of his father, who, had he still been alive would possibly have put it more succinctly; 'You'll be buggered if you do and buggered if you don't'. By implementing his scheme, Pascoe would at least have the satisfaction of knowing that he had tried to work out his problem.
He spent the next few days legitimately buying dollar travelers' che
ques from different sources and his evenings in making notes on the different coding systems they employed. Although it was an expensive way of finding out what he needed to know, he could at least recoup most of his investment by cashing the cheques afterwards. He was pleased to find that the cheques were relatively uncomplicated and encoded in a similar manner, although the precise numbering sequences changed with each company. He noticed, when comparing the different cheques, that the numbers along the bottom of each cheque were always of identical size and style, no matter the origin of the cheque. This fact seemed to confirm that the banks were using magnetic ink for the machine reading systems to pick up and it was the detail of this process that he needed to find out.
Several years before, he had read of a sizeable fraud carried out by a university student in the Midlands. The student had obtained blank paying-in slips from the counter of his own bank and had encoded them with invisible magnetic ink before returning them to the counter racks in the bank. He had put his own account number on the slips and consequently each time someone had forgotten their paying-in book at that branch and used one of his doctored slips, the payment had been credited by the computer to the student's own account. He needed this sort of detailed knowledge of the system, but as yet had no means of getting it. For the moment, he turned his attention to other areas of his intended fraud.
He needed a name for his imaginary bank... a name not only synonymous with wealth and respectability but also a name dissimilar enough to any existing name as to negate any possible charges of forgery, should he be caught. He was well aware that most countries still reserve their most severe penalties for forgery or the handling and passing of forged currency. Indeed, on any French banknote could still be read the details of the punishment reserved for such offences; in France it was ‘incarceration for life on Devil's Island’ and the film, ‘Papillon’ put him off that.
After a lot of thought and several different attempts, he settled for the 'Second National City Bank of Dallas' as the named bank to supply his phony che
ques. He reasoned that as Dallas was frequently in the news because of a television series and as the location of the assassination of President Kennedy, most people would already be familiar with the name and therefore it should arouse few suspicions. As far as he had been able to find out from his library researches, there was already a 'First City' bank and also a 'First National' bank, so he merely combined the two, changed it slightly and demoted the bank from the 'First' to 'Second' division. Next, he gave his fictitious bank an equally fictitious address in Dealey Plazza, Dallas, should anyone wish to check!
Attention to detail
Pascoe spent many hours in different libraries researching travelers' che
ques, but apart from learning that they had been started by the famous Wells Fargo company and finding numerous illustrations of them, he learnt little new. Some were extremely elaborate affairs, with intaglio, raised texture printing; some had water marks or were printed with fluorescent inks, but none of these things concerned him as forgery wasn't his intention. He was going to invent his own bank and print the cheques to his own design... that was the beauty of his scheme... he wouldn't be forging but creating!
Once he had decided on the name to use, he designed the supporting stationery, carefully choosing 'house-colors' to co-ordinate all the printed material. Everything went to plan until he came to the plastic wallets in which the che
ques are usually supplied. He could hardly supply wads of cheques without having something to put them in as that would certainly have aroused suspicion. Reluctantly, he realized that he would have to have them specially made, but it was hardly something with which he could approach various plastics manufacturing companies in England.
The solution to the problem eventually came as a result of one of his frequent trips to the local library. While in the section studying banking methods, he stumbled across a book on forgery
... not the type concerning bank-notes or cheques, but one covering the forgery of goods and brand-names, everything in fact from Rolex watches to Levi jeans. The center of what was obviously a highly commercial and thriving business was Hong Kong, where, if the book was to be believed, anything could be copied and forged to order. Once he knew where to look, the rest was relatively easy as he had an old friend in Hong Kong and was able to write to him, asking for the names and addresses of various plastics manufacturers in the colony.
In the fullness of time he received replies to his enquiries, contacted each company in turn and was surprised to find that they were all willing to do business with him and at
very reasonable prices. Accordingly, he supplied the company which had quoted the most favorable price with an authentic American Express wallet as a prototype and ordered a quantity of similar wallets to be supplied. The only difference was that they were to be embossed 'Dallasbank' and not of course 'American Express' on the flap of the wallet.
Gradually the planning stage of the printing requirements was taking shape. The size of the
cheques was identical to the American Express cheques which would fit the wallets, namely 16 x 8 centimeters. A comparison of all the different cheques he had bought showed that only the length of the cheque was important... they were all identical in this dimension and had obviously been tailored to a uniform length to suit the machine sorting systems. He now knew that if his art-work was up to standard the printing of the cheques should not pose any undue problems and that by printing 'three-up' on one plate, not too long-winded a job either.
The calculations he made to work out how long the press would have to run, showed that some 3,333 print operations per $1,000,000 in $100 che
ques for each color, would be necessary. With a modern web offset press running at speeds of 3,500 to 5,000 prints per hour that would not be a problem. Numbering would obviously take much longer but was nothing he couldn't manage. The major problem still remained the computer numbers on the bottom of the cheques and he now dedicated all his time to solving that particular problem.
The catalogue from Adana showed him that fonts of computer styled numbers were readily available in the correct sizes, as was the magnetic ink. If only it could be that simple, he thought; he would have to be 100 % certain that that was all that was involved and that meant having expert knowledge of the sort he couldn't get from his local library.
Until he was certain of the numbering system of the cheques, Pascoe knew he could make no further progress. Further research in his local libraries had told him nothing he didn't already know. He had to find another way...
The solution came from a totally unexpected direction by way of an advertisement in one of the local free advertising papers which are stuffed through letter boxes up and down the country, whether the occupant requires them or not. Normally, he used them for fire-lighting purposes only, but this week was different, as he'd placed a disclaimer in the paper for Terri's debts. When he checked to see if his 'ad.' was in, chance drew his eye to a notice asking for applications to attend evening classes at the local college. One of the courses on offer was computer technology, under the auspices of S. Lynx, M.Sc. If anyone would know the answer to his problem, someone with a degree in computer technology should.
He resolved to find out more about the teacher and phoned the college, introducing himself as an author researching a book, needing specific information on computer technology and while the college refused to give him any personal details of the teacher concerned, it did agree to pass on his request to the tutor. All he had to do was wait. His call was returned later the same afternoon.
"May I
speak to Mr. Pascoe, please?" asked an attractive feminine voice.
"Pascoe speaking," he replied.
"My office said that I might be of help," the voice continued. Usually, when he had heard such sensuous tones before, he'd been disappointed when he met their owner. He wondered what the woman was like.
"I'd expected
..." Pascoe began.
"A man?" q
ueried the voice.
"Quite
..." There wasn't much he could say." I'm sorry Miss..."
"Lynx." The voice replied.
I seem to have started off on the wrong foot, Miss Lynx. May we start again?" There was a pregnant pause.
"How can I help you Mr. Pascoe?"
"I'm an author, Miss Lynx." Pascoe introduced himself.
"Ms. not Miss, Mr. Pascoe."
“I'm sorry, Ms. Lynx. I'm an author and as the book I am currently researching, involves some computerized technology that I am unfamiliar with, I need the help of someone who understands the systems involved." Pascoe explained.
"What sort o
f information do you require?" asked the woman.
"It's a little complicated to go into on the phone. Could we possibly meet over dinner
... then I could explain what I need and you could tell me whether you can help."
"You
realize this is a little irregular, Mr. Pascoe. I might not even be able to help you."
"Let's just say it's a risk I'm prepared to take. Just name the time and place and I'll meet you there. That way, even if you can't help me, we can both enjoy the meal." Again, a heavy silence followed. He could almost hear her thoughts.
“All right, Mr. Pascoe, I'll take you at your word. Tomorrow evening, 8 o'clock, at J.V's restaurant in the city. It's... "
"I know it well, Ms. Lynx.", he interjected, "I'll reserve a table for 8.00p.m.," he said, replacing the receiver.
He was both excited at the prospect at solving his problem and nervous of meeting the formidable Ms. Lynx. Although he was in favor of equal rights, he had mixed feelings on women's lib and the thought of meeting a possible ardent feminist daunted him.
Next evening, he deliberately arrived in good time at the restaurant, not wanting to risk adding unpunctuality to the MCP tag, he was sure she had awarded him. At the mention of his reservation, the
maître d'hôtel escorted him downstairs to the corner table he had requested. He ordered a Pernod to keep him company until the lady arrived.
Each time new customers descended the staircase, he looked up expectantly, but they were always couples. He hadn't a clue what the woman would look like or what her age would turn out to be, although the velvet smooth, confident voice suggested she was past the first flush of youth. He pictured her as a librarian or company secretary type, severe looking with a frumpish figure and salt and pepper hair swept into a bun, perched on top of a podgy face, with steel rimmed spectacles dangling from a chain around the neck.
He was still daydreaming, when the maître d' appeared in front of him, announcing his guest. He looked up, prepared for the worst. The vision in front of him couldn't have been more remote from the image he had conjured; medium height and figure; fashionably dressed in an immaculate three-piece, pin-striped suit, which was a shame as he'd always been a sucker for women dressed in men's fashions as they somehow always looked better on women. He'd been right about the hair being swept back from her face, except it was of a lustrous auburn sheen and was gathered in a chignon rather than a bun. As for the face, it was almost symmetrical, with the superb cheekbones of a fashion model. He would have had no trouble booking her as a model and should she ever want to borrow one of his shirts….He was aware that every male eye being fixed on her, and stood and shook her hand.
"You seem surprised, Mr. Pascoe."
“I am, Ms. Lynx. You're not at all like I expected. May I get you a drink?"
They dined exceedingly well on 'truite meuniere', 'chateaubriand'
steak and a grapefruit mousse and by the end of the meal they had discussed everything except the research for his book. It was his guest who finally turned the conversation back to computers.
"Tell me exactly what you need to know for this book, Mr. Pascoe."
It was a question he had thought long and hard about answering, and upon which many things rested. He had decided to be as open as possible, but nevertheless took a deep breath before speaking.
"What I really need to know is how the various and numbers are printed onto the bottom of travelers' che
ques, Ms. Lynx... Do they use magnetic inks; are the numbers of standard size... in other words, I need to know exactly how the system works." The woman listened attentively, her chin resting on folded hands, her piercing blue eyes probing his thoughts.
"Let's be clear about this Mr. Pascoe. What you need to know is how the che
ques are numbered to enable them to be automatically sorted at the clearing banks?"
"Yes."
"And it's for a book?"
"That's right."
"Are you an author I should know?" she asked in a way which made lying difficult if not impossible.
"I wouldn't have thought so." Pascoe replied feebly. "I haven't actually had anything published yet." His voice had dropped almost to a whisper.
"I see. So you've enticed me here under false pretenses."
"Not exactly. I mean, it may be my first book, but everyone has to start somewhere and as far as I am aware, it's not a crime not to have been published." She held him in a penetrating gaze, her eyes endlessly searching his face.
"Actually, Mr. Pascoe, they use a system called MIRA ... Magnetic Ink Reading Applications or something... I hate these acronyms, but I'm not sure I should tell you about it."
"Ah
... that's up to you of course, but now I know what to look for I'm sure I could find what I want at the library."
"I'll tell you what I'm prepared to do for you Mr. Pascoe." Pascoe waited nervously. It was like being in the headmaster's study again, waiting for sentence.
"If you would like to show me your manuscript or synopsis, I'll tell you whether your ideas are feasible or not." He knew he couldn't push things any further and after quickly downing his cognac called for the bill.
"Thank you, that'll be a great help," he replied.
"Thank you for dinner," she said as he paid the bill and escorted her out of the restaurant, "It was nice." Usually the word 'nice' jarred on Pascoe's ear, but not when she said it.
"You're welcome
... "
"Perhaps you could bring everything round tomorrow evening," she suggested.
"Tomorrow?"
"Well it's obvious how keen you are to get on
... shall we say eight o'clock?"
Although the invitation sounded irresistible, he knew he had been summoned for a command performance and would have to play the part if he wanted her help.
"I'd be delighted." He replied, wondering how in god's name he could produce a synopsis for a non-existent book in such a short space of time. Nevertheless, it was a chance he had to take.
"Until tomorrow t
hen?" she said, bidding him goodnight.
"I look forward to it
." They shook hands, then she walked off in the direction of her car.
"Two things,
" Pascoe shouted after her, which made her stop in her tracks. "Where do you live and do you have a name other than Ms?"
"I'm in the book
... and you can call me Sam!" He watched until her car disappeared from view.
Driving home he mulled over the events of the evening. He could hardly believe his luck but knew that the meeting the next evening would be decisive. On the positive side, she not only knew the necessary details of the MIRA system but probably had access to the appropriate equipment. On the negative side, if he told her his story and she didn't believe him, he could be heading for jail. He would just have to invent a plausible story!