The War Heist

by Ralph Dennis

  Edward Brophy selected the Renssler site because he hoped that some of the Renssler-family polish and prestige would reflect upon him. It didn’t. The Rensslers were very careful that it didn’t. The Rensslers wanted nothing to do with anyone with a name like Brophy.

  For five years the Brophy clan spent their summers at the lake. They had a summer home they called the “Castle,” a somewhat scaled down model of Ballyseede Castle in Ireland, complete with the turrets and the crenellated walls. It was built from stucco rather than marble or stone.

  The lake was Mrs. Brophy’s pride. Each summer she stocked the lake with swans. The swans always left the first week. It was a mark of Mrs. Brophy’s new-world optimism that she always believed that the swans would return. Her daydreams were that she would go down to the lake one morning and find a hundred swans there paddling about, the forty she’d bought and placed there and the natural offspring and increase.

  After the fifth summer the Brophys returned to New York. During the winter one of the Brophy girls, a girl with rare beauty and grace, became engaged to one of the sons of a real-lace Irish family in Boston. The Brophys now had a minor toehold at last.

  The Brophys didn’t return to Renssler the following summer. The Castle was offered for sale. There were no takers. It was boarded up and forgotten.

  The Rensslers always believed that the garish Brophy Castle had kept other fashionable builders from moving to the lake. Who would want to live near that? Renssler, New York, did not become the social summer resort they’d hoped for. The dream was lost. The town and the Renssler family went back to lesser expectations.

  During the early years of Prohibition, one of the black-sheep relations of the Brophy clan used the Castle as a halfway house for liquor smuggling across the border from Canada.

  It was extremely profitable. It spawned a whole new wealthy branch of the Brophys. After only three years, when that part of the border was closed down to whiskey traffic, Joseph Brophy took his earnings and moved to Hollywood. By the time Prohibition ended he was a producer. His Westerns, produced in seven days, stocked the Saturday-morning theaters across the country.

  The Castle was deserted again. Tom Renssler, as a young man, used the Castle grounds as a lover’s lane. All the high-school crowd did.

  During the early morning hours of Thursday, June 27, Tom Renssler guided the caravan of two stolen automobiles along the lake road to Brophy Castle. On the north side, the road ended at a massive wrought-iron gate. It was locked. Harry Churchman stepped out of the second car and broke the padlock with a wrench from the car’s tool chest.

  They drove down the narrow, tree-lined road to the Castle and parked in the drive that circled the huge tiered fountain that faced the front entrance.

  It was still an hour before full light. They’d been driving most of the night. They’d made a late start because Vic Franks was selective about the cars he stole. He’d discarded one of the first two because he didn’t like the way the engine sounded. That had meant another run to find a car that satisfied him.

  Tom got out of the lead car and toed the mixture of sand and broken shell that formed the driveway. Johnny Whitman left the back seat of the same car and joined him. Tom pointed down at the drive. The headlights lighted the area. There were two contraceptives there, side by side.

  “Nothing changes,” Tom said.

  Johnny grinned and turned away. Randy Gipson walked over and had his look and kicked the contraceptives away. “I could use some poon myself.”

  They settled in for the wait.

  At first light Tom saw on the lake, in the distance, a pair of white swans gliding by. Poor Mrs. Brophy.

  At eight Harry Churchman and Gunny Townsend opened the trunks of the two cars and passed out the hardware. Shotguns and handguns and the ammunition.

  At 8:50 they loaded into the cars according to the assignment Johnny Whitman made. At 8:55 they began the slow, timed drive into Renssler.

  The old square at the center of the town was a reminder of what the town had been once. At the north end of the square was the old red-brick courthouse. It had been built right after the Revolution.

  “That’s the bad news,” Johnny Whitman said at the briefing in New York. They were at the garage on Tenth waiting for Vic to steal the cars. “The police station’s in the courthouse. Right in front. It’s too close.” He nodded at Tom. “How many cops?”

  “Three, the last time I was there. It might be four now. I don’t think it could be more. The town hasn’t grown much the last ten or fifteen years.”

  “How many police cars?”

  “Only one, as far as I know.”

  “They make rounds?”

  “Only at night,” Tom said.

  To the east and west of the square, on those sides, there were shops and stores. All of the shop fronts, under city-council law, preserved the village quality of a hundred years before or fabricated it.

  The First Bank of Renssler occupied most of the south side of the square. It had been built out of the same red brick used in the courthouse. In the beginning the bank building housed a carriage-manufacturing company. That business went into a financial decline even before mass-produced cars drove horses and carriages off the streets and roads.

  The village green in the center of the square covered almost a city block. It was landscaped, and there were wooden benches along the paths. One tree, the Captain Buckner oak, towered above the scrubs and orderly beds of flowers.

  A Civil War monument took up the center of the Green. The solider, weary but valiant, leaned on his rifle and faced the courthouse steps.

  At 9:01 the two cars entered the square from the north, on the street that ran next to the courthouse. The street that ran around the Green was still paved with brick. At each corner of the square there was an access street.

  The lead car was a 1939 Ford. It was driven by Vic Franks. Johnny Whitman was in the passenger seat next to him. In the back seat, wedged shoulder to shoulder, sat Harry Churchman, Randy Gipson, and Richard Betts.

  The 1940 Packard followed them. It was driven by Clark Gipson. Clark hadn’t wanted to be separated from his brother. He’d argued against that part of Whitman’s plan. Finally, urged by Harry, Randy took his brother aside and convinced him that, driving the backup car, he could bodyguard Randy better.

  Tom was in the passenger seat beside Clark. Gunny Townsend had the whole back seat to himself. He needed the space. There were a shotgun, a Winchester lever-action .30-30, and two long-barreled target pistols on the seat next to him.

  The drive through town brought back a powerful rush of memories to Tom Renssler. They’d passed the grammar school on the way to the square, and the empty yards and buildings made him think of Sylvia Campbell, the blonde girl he’d loved in the fourth grade. And, approaching from the north access street, they’d passed the all-night café that had been owned by the old Greek man whose name he couldn’t remember now. He thought of hamburgers and milkshakes and the everything-on-it pizza the old Greek made, and late nights there after football games.

  The lead car passed the Green and made a left that brought it directly in front of the bank. Vic Franks eased it to the curb. He braked so that the car doors faced the bank door. There was a No Parking sign painted on the sidewalk and a length of the curb was painted a dark red. Vic got out of the Ford and hurried around to the hood. He lifted it, set the brace, and leaned over the engine.

  The Packard pulled in behind the Ford. The bumpers almost touched. No one left the Packard. In the back seat Gunny Townsend shifted his way across the seat until he was against the window on the left side. It faced the front of the courthouse. He cranked the window all the way down.

  As soon as the hood was raised on the Ford, the doors on the curb side opened. Johnny Whitman stepped out first. He carried a handgun, a .44 with a six-inch barrel. Harry Churchman was right behind him, first out of the back seat, swinging an automatic shotgun up and against his hip. Richard Betts was on his heels, a dou
ble-barreled shotgun at the ready. Randy Gipson brought up the rear. He carried the twin of the .44 that Johnny had. Just before he ran into the bank Randy swung around and waved at his brother.

  Johnny reached the center of the bank. He raised the .44. “Nobody moves,” he shouted.

  There were three teller cages. Only two were operating. A gray-faced old man was in one, a plump blonde girl in the other.

  At the rear of the bank, behind a low wooden railing, were the bank officers’ desks. Past those was an open walk-in vault. Only one desk was occupied. As soon as Johnny yelled his order, a portly, balding man pushed back his chair and made a lunge for the vault door.

  Johnny pointed the handgun at him. “You. One more step and you’re dead.”

  The man jerked to a stop. His hands went over his head and he turned slowly to face Johnny.

  Richard Betts trotted past Johnny and pointed his shotgun at the banker. Harry Churchman stood facing the teller cages. He nodded at Johnny.

  Johnny shoved the gun in his waistband. He pulled a pillowcase from his hip pocket. He pushed through the gate in the low railing and headed for the vault. Randy Gipson followed him, shaking out another pillowcase. After Randy passed through the gate he swung right and moved toward the teller cages.

  There was only one customer in the bank. A thin, humpbacked little woman with gray hair. She appeared to be deaf. She stood with her back to the robbery, at a desk against the wall. She was writing a check and balancing her bankbook, oblivious of what was going on behind her.

  Randy emptied the till at the old man’s cage first. He took it slowly. Bills only, no change. He reached the blonde girl’s cage about the same time Johnny Whitman trotted out of the vault. A half-filled pillowcase was in one hand, the gun in his other.

  Johnny took a couple of steps toward the teller cages. He was about to shout at Randy to let it go. It was then that the blonde girl screamed.

  “What the hell …?”

  Randy Gipson laughed as he backed out of the girl’s cage. “Just getting a feel,” he said.

  “Outside.”

  The blonde girl screamed again.

  While everybody in the bank, except the deaf little lady, turned toward the blonde girl, the portly man reached out and touched the alarm button on the side of his desk. The alarm rang loud and harsh across the Green.

  Harry Churchman spun slightly on the balls of his feet. The shotgun was at his shoulder when he completed his turn. He pulled the trigger and the portly man’s left arm and shoulder blew away. The man fell out of sight behind the desk.

  “Goddam,” Johnny said. He vaulted the low railing. Randy was behind him. Richard Betts was next. Harry Churchman was the last one out of the bank, covering them, backing until he reached the doorway.

  The little lady finished writing her check. She turned from the wall desk just in time to see Harry Churchman and the shotgun go out of sight.

  At the lead car, the Ford, Vic Franks heard the scream and backed away from the engine. He slammed the hood down. Then he heard the second scream and the alarm. The shotgun boomed, and he ran the length of the car and got behind the wheel. The engine was still running. He put it in gear.

  Above the engine sound he heard Clark Gipson yell something from the Packard behind him. He looked to his left and saw two men in blue, policemen, run down the front steps of the courthouse. Both men carried handguns.

  The doors to the Ford opened. Johnny lunged into the seat next to him. The others jammed into the back seat. When the doors on the curb side were pulled shut, Johnny said, “Go, Vic.”

  The Winchester opened up behind them. Vic looked past the village green and saw one of the policemen fall, knocked down. The other policeman froze for a couple of seconds and then he turned and ran up the steps toward the courthouse entrance.

  In the Packard, the single round Gunny fired from the Winchester deafened Tom. Gunny levered another round into the rifle’s chamber. He was settling the butt against his shoulder and sighting in on the thick back of the second policeman on the steps when Tom shouted, “That’s enough, Gunny.”

  Gunny was either deaf also or he ignored Tom. He was getting ready to squeeze the trigger when Tom reached over the seat back and grabbed the barrel of the Winchester and pulled it aside. “Dammit, Gunny, that’s enough.”

  The lead car pulled away from the curb. It made a sharp right turn to the access street and headed away from the Green.

  Clark Gipson put the Packard in gear and followed. Just before the Packard made the turn Tom looked back and saw that the policeman who’d been shot was on his knees. Both hands were pressed against his left side.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was a back road that Tom Renssler discovered the summer he was seventeen. He was just out of high school, waiting for the fall when he’d start at West Point. He’d thought of it as a conditioning hike, a preparation for the hardships of the Army. He’d walked along the lake road and cut across the Brophy land and circled the Castle. There was a crumbling stable behind it, and past that, a stand of pines.

  The road was there, concealed by a high mound of dead brush and tree limbs. He’d bypassed the barrier, and there was the road. It pointed directly north. That day he’d walked about ten miles of the road. Another day, about a week later, he’d borrowed a car and driven the whole length of it.

  He never knew if the road had been cut through the trees for the run from Canada. There was always the chance that it had been a wagon road at one time, before cars came in and brought with them a demand for straight and level stretches of highway. Later, hearing the stories about the black-sheep member of the Brophy family, he knew that it was the bootlegger road.

  It wasn’t on any of the road maps of the day.

  In the years since that summer the road had been accidentally seeded with grass and pine seedlings. There were ruts and slashes across it where rain and groundwater had eaten it away.

  It took the Packard and the Ford almost two hours of slow and careful driving to cover the twenty-five miles. Every mile or so there was a bad spot in the road, and they’d have to detour into the woods and then back onto it. It was almost noon when they reached the end of the road. There was a white stone marker in the open field. The stone, plain, without any lettering, marked the dividing line between the States and Canada.

  They bumped their way across the open field, passing the stone, and they were in Canada.

  Past the field, a couple of hundred yards into Canada, they reached a dirt road. It might have been designed for carts and wagons. It was hardly wide enough for two cars.

  Johnny waved the cars to the side of the road. He got out and Tom Renssler joined him as he spread the map on the hood.

  Montreal was to the northwest.

  “No way we’re going directly there,” Johnny said. “Not in these cars.”

  “East then,” Tom said.

  “It’s the only choice,” Johnny agreed.

  Johnny waved Vic Franks to the right.

  After an hour the road took a bend to the northeast and they were driving parallel to a raised track bed. Johnny relaxed. If there was a track then there had to be a train station and a train.

  Around two in the afternoon they could see a town in the distance. A dingy white church steeple stood out alone, and then a few more miles, and they could see the rows of weathered wood-frame houses.

  They drove through the center of town. All the shops and houses appeared to cluster around the train station. BUTLER, the sign in front of the depot said in big block letters.

  Johnny noted the name and then pointed Vic down a side street that took them away from the center of town. There was no way of knowing if police in the small Canadian towns got bulletins about bank robberies below the border in the States. It didn’t make sense to risk it. There was always the chance that someone in the town of Renssler had written down the license-plate numbers.

  They parked beside a combination gas station and grocery store. While the
others were inside the store buying cheese and crackers, sardines, and soft drinks, Johnny and Tom sat in the Packard and spread the map between them. It was there. Butler. The town was on the main line between Montreal and Halifax. Johnny estimated the distances. It was about 150 miles west to Montreal and about 700 east to Halifax.

  While the rest of the group had their lunch, Tom and Johnny walked the half mile back to the center of town. It was dark and cool in the train station. The clerk behind the ticket window interrupted a late lunch and came to the window brushing crumbs from his mustache.

  Johnny was first in line. He asked about the train to Montreal. If it was on time, the clerk said, it would arrive at 5:28. Johnny said that was fine and bought two coach tickets. He paid for them and left the station without looking at Tom.

  Tom leaned on the counter and asked about the next train to Halifax. It would be through about midnight, the clerk said, but it didn’t usually stop unless he wired down the track and told them there were passengers. Tom said he understood. He didn’t buy a ticket. He said he’d have to think about it.

  Johnny waited outside the station for him. He passed Tom one of the tickets for Montreal.

  “Halifax?”

  “Midnight,” Tom said.

  Johnny shook his head. “I don’t like it. Leaving the Gipsons here in town for six or seven hours. That’s a risk.”

  They walked down the street toward the gas station–grocery store. “Harry can handle them if anybody can,” Tom said.

  “That Randy. I still don’t believe what happened in the bank.”

  “Crazy.”

  “If I didn’t need the two of them I’d break both Randy’s arms and legs,” Johnny said.

  “I’d help.”

  “They can still mess it up.”

  “Not if Harry puts a dog collar on them.”