The War Heist

by Ralph Dennis

  Ten minutes. It took that long, working as fast as he could. Cover off, pull the cotton wadding out. Spaces in the pier below the tracks. Shove the cotton waste through those openings. Out to sea. Close the cover.

  Out in the fresh air. “That was pie easy,” he said to Clark.

  Clark tipped his head toward the main part of the train. “A man’s watching over there.”

  “Screw him.”

  They reached the eighth car. Before Randy ducked under he stopped and had his look at the man Clark had noticed. Long legs hung over the side of the box. He was seated in an open doorway, the tenth car over.

  “Pucker up,” Randy said and then he ducked under the boxcar.

  Then he was stretched out on the crossties. The cover didn’t want to give. One slot ruined. He hammered at it and he felt it coming when he heard Clark whistle. It wasn’t exactly “Dixie.” It had gaps and holes, but it was close enough.

  “What’re you doing down there?”

  The cover fell away.

  The voice had a kind of burr to it. Not quite English. Something else.

  Randy turned his head. The man squatted there, his head to the side so that he could see under the train. Gray hair, a long serious face.

  “Inspecting,” Randy said. He turned away from the man. All right, so he’d check this one. He spent a couple of minutes repositioning the cotton wadding. That ought to bore the hell out of him.

  He turned and looked. The man was still there.

  “What does it do?” the man asked.

  “You know trains?”

  “No.”

  “It takes too long to explain.” Randy fitted the cover and fastened it in place.

  He crawled out. The man backed away. He was a tall one. Over six feet and about as big as a tree. Randy nodded at Clark and headed for the ninth box. The man followed. He was munching on an apple.

  The man remained with them. He watched while Randy checked the ninth car. There the whole time, so that Randy had to give it

  up. It wasn’t possible. Damn that man anyway, whoever he was.

  He snaked his way from under the box and stood dusting himself off. Twenty thousand pounds of gold. It would have to be enough. “Ready for lunch?” he said to Clark.

  “That all you’re inspecting?” The man finished the apple and tossed the core over the edge of the pier.

  “Got to leave a few for the rest of the crew,” Randy said.

  He and Clark went off at a fast walk. The tall man followed them as far as the tenth car. When Randy looked over his shoulder the man was seated in the boxcar doorway once more.

  Henri Leveque was up early that morning. The bed in the hotel room had been lumpy and he had not slept well. There was no one moving in the hallway. He bathed in the bathroom down the hall and dressed at his careful pace. On the way toward the stairwell he stopped long enough to awaken Jean and Pierre. Idiots. They could sleep anywhere.

  He had the dining room to himself. The waiter, Gilles, hovered over him like he was royalty. The attention did little to improve the coarse food, the overcooked eggs, the side order of hashed brown potatoes that he had not ordered.

  Still, Gilles had his uses. Over his second cup of coffee, Henri wrote out the Movement’s number in Montreal. Gilles carried it to the desk clerk who put the call through. Five minutes later, about the time Jean and Pierre appeared at the table, the Gilway operator had placed the call.

  Henri took the call at the only phone, the one at the desk. In Montreal the phone watch had not been busy. There had been two calls. One placed the Americans in a suburb of Ottawa. The other, from a Constable Lafitte, had located them in a town to the east of Gilway. The latter was more likely, and Henri made a note before he ended the conversation.

  “I will call early in the afternoon and give you a number where I can be reached in Wingate Station. The Ottawa information is probably mistaken. I will know more in perhaps three hours.”

  He returned to the dining room. He sipped a second and a third morning coffee while Jean and Pierre had their usual huge breakfasts. His obvious impatience hurried both of them into indigestion.

  By noon the 1940 Cadillac was parked in front of the Wingate Inn Hotel.

  Lafitte arrived at the head of the alley that led to the police station at 12:10. Jean pushed away from the alley wall where he’d been waiting for a few minutes.

  “Lafitte?”

  Lafitte faced him and waited.

  “You made a call to Montreal?”

  “Yes.”

  “We are at the café beside the hotel.”

  “Give me five minutes,” Lafitte said.

  Lafitte entered the police station. The night man, Parsons, yawned and looked up at the wall clock. It was his way of telling Lafitte that he was late again.

  Lafitte ignored him and Parsons left. As soon as the door closed behind him, Lafitte reached the town operator and asked that any calls for him be shifted to the coffee shop.

  “Where are they?”

  “I will have to look around town,” Lafitte said.

  “Do it now,” Henri Leveque said.

  Lafitte looked down at his fresh cup of coffee and his breakfast, a hot pastry with butter melting on it. “Now?”

  “Now,” Henri said.

  Lafitte returned after fifteen minutes. There was a touch of anger in the way he ignored the three men at the table and bought a cup of coffee before he approached the table. Seated, his eyes swept the surface of the cloth, and he found his empty pastry saucer in front of Jean.

  “The two trucks are parked in a lot north of town,” he said.

  “And the Americans?”

  “One is with the trucks. The old one with the bruises on his face.”

  “And the others?” Leveque said.

  “They are probably at the hotel,” Lafitte said.

  Henri dropped his crumpled napkin on the table and pushed back his chair. “We will contact you later.”

  They left Constable Lafitte to finish his coffee and stare at his empty pastry plate.

  At the Wingate Inn Hotel, Henri registered for two rooms, one for himself and a double for the men with him. The clerk, an old man with sour breath, seemed the helpful kind.

  “Americans? Yes, five of them registered yesterday.”

  “I met a group in Gilway,” Henri said. “I think those Americans said they were coming here.”

  The clerk flipped back a page in the register. “A Mr. Ross? A Mr. Whit?”

  Henri shook his head. “I don’t recall their names.” He looked at the room keys in his hand. “Perhaps they are not the same men. Are they still registered today?”

  “Yes, sir. They have Rooms Two-fourteen, Two-fifteen, and Two-sixteen.”

  Jean and Pierre entered the lobby. They carried the luggage from the Cadillac.

  “I will stop by and see if they are the ones,” Henri said.

  The clerk touched the pigeonholes where the keys were stored. “They are not in their rooms now,” he said. “They had breakfast and went out.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Henri said. He passed the keys to Jean. To the clerk he said, “You have a nice town here.”

  The clerk looked down at the final entry in the hotel register. “But not as nice as Montreal,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Harry Churchman left the rooming house around ten that morning. He felt rested. He’d had extra hours of sleep after the early-morning train-yard crew left and took the Gipsons with them.

  It was a gray morning. The rain from the night before pooled here and there. The cobblestone streets were slick and treacherous. The wind was from the west, each gust like a double handful of moisture. It would rain again by night.

  He had breakfast and returned to the rooming house. His bag was packed. He took a few minutes to stuff the Gipsons’ belongings in their bags.

  Downstairs, at the office, he paid what was owed and thanked the old couple who owned the rooming house. He carried the thr
ee bags outside and waited on the curb for half an hour before a cruising taxi passed.

  The taxi dropped him at the train-station entrance below the Nova Scotian Hotel. He waited in a line and found that the next local train that passed through Wingate Station left Halifax about five that afternoon. He bought three coach tickets and checked the luggage in the baggage room.

  It was going to be a long wait. And he worried about the Gipsons. Damn them. He’d trade the both of them for one railroad man who didn’t have rocks in his head.

  The unloading of the Emerald continued through the late afternoon. At 1630, the starboard-watch section was relieved and given leave until 0700 the next morning. The port section took over and worked the cargo until 1800 hours.

  At that point twelve of the boxcars had been filled to the weight limits, locked, and sealed. The Canadian Navy cadets were dragging, still game, but arm and back weary. And they were losing the light. Dark rain clouds were blowing in from the west.

  MacTaggart boarded the Emerald and talked with the cargo officer. They decided to strike the work party for the day. The last of the cargo could be finished with an early start the next morning.

  MacTaggart returned to the pier. The working party was dismissed and gave a weak cheer before the officer in charge called them to attention and marched them away. Within minutes the watch was posted.

  Leg weary himself, MacTaggart found his bag in the end day coach. It looked like he’d have it to himself for the night. The bank officials, as soon as the unloading was under way, had been taken to town and put up at the Carleton Hotel.

  He was on the pier, bag in hand, and trying to decide where the closest shower or bath was, when he heard his name called. The shout was from the direction of the Emerald. He headed that way and recognized young Sub-Lieutenant Carr at the head of the gangplank.

  “Mr. MacTaggart.”

  “Mr. Carr.”

  “Does a wash and supper on us interest you?”

  “It’s got a sweet sound.”

  Mr. Carr caught his elbow as he stepped from the gangplank to the deck of the ship. “Do you ever get leave like an ordinary man?”

  MacTaggart grinned. “In two or three days,” he said.

  At half-past seven, washed and shaved and with a hot meal in him, MacTaggart returned to the day coach and settled in for the night.

  Richard Betts made his second trip to the area of the train depot in Wingate Station late that afternoon. On the first visit, the one the day before, he hadn’t been sure. That had been Sunday, and the large brick building on the other side of the tracks had been locked tight as a bank. This time, on Monday, he had his look inside. The high metal doors weren’t completely open, but the crack allowed him a brief sight down the length of it.

  It was a roundhouse.

  And that was another problem.

  Richard couldn’t see that much through the opening, so he walked around the building. It was mainly brick, but there was a deep stone foundation. And it had been built when there wasn’t a shortage of steel. Thick steel beams formed the framework and the hooded ceiling that capped the building. The weakness, if there were one, would be in the huge metal doors. There was no way you could brace them so they could withstand an explosive charge.

  That decision made, Betts walked back along the track to the depot. He sat on an outside bench and smoked cigarettes and considered the options. What kind of charge; how many sticks; exploded by fuse or black box?

  The last telegram from Harry Churchman hadn’t been exact about the time when he and the Gipsons would arrive. Until they stepped off a westbound train the crew was taking turns on two-hour watches at the station.

  The tarp was spread in the back of one of the Bulldogs. To one side of it were the five Thompsons, cleaned and with the drums attached. The shotguns, in a line, took up the rest of the tarp.

  Gunny lifted the bottom of the canvas where it almost touched the ground and covered the weapons.

  “Good job,” Captain Whitman said.

  “We got to test-fire them,” Gunny said.

  “Where?”

  “The woods somewhere,” Gunny said.

  Johnny shook his head. “Too risky.”

  Tom Renssler dropped the cover on the case of grenades. He walked over and stood between them. “They in working order as far as you can tell?”

  “They got all the parts,” Gunny said. “That ain’t the same as being sure you’ll get some rounds out of them when the time comes.”

  “Dry fire?” Johnny said.

  “I wouldn’t want to depend on it meaning anything.”

  Johnny looked at Tom. “What do you think?”

  “You test-fire five Thompsons around here, and we’ll have the whole Mounted Police coming at us on the run.”

  “You heard him.” Johnny spread his hands. “It can’t be helped, Gunny.”

  “This is some fucking Army.” Gunny walked away.

  The captain and the major left for the hotel. Gunny returned to the Bulldog where the tarp was. Vic Franks followed him and stood at his elbow.

  “There ain’t no way I’m going to risk my ass with a weapon that ain’t been fired.”

  “I’m with you, Gunny.”

  Gunny patted the shapes under the tarp.

  “When, Gunny?”

  “Later. When Harry and the Gipsons get here. I taught Harry well. What I know, he knows.”

  “Screwed-up mess,” Vic said.

  “It’s the only mess we’ve got. And it beats sitting all day on a front porch.”

  It was dark in the hotel room. Room 214 was on the front side of the hotel, and it overlooked the main street.

  Tom reached in and found the light switch. He flipped it upward. Nothing happened. Behind him, Johnny Whitman said, “What the hell …?”

  The smell reached both of them at the same time. It was a flower sweetness like perfume. “Must be some mistake.” Tom stepped away and pulled the door to him so that he could check the room number on it.

  Henri Leveque stirred in the chair in front of the window. The roll shade was pulled all the way down to the window ledge. “It is the correct room,” he said. “You have visitors.”

  Next to him and to his left, Jean heard his cue and reached under the lampshade and gave the button switch a twist and stepped away.

  Johnny pushed past Tom. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Names do not matter,” Henri said. “There is, however, another concern. There is a matter of money owed to us.”

  “For what?” Johnny looked over his shoulder at Tom. There was a question on his face.

  “The arms,” Henri said. He lifted a hand and pointed at the open door behind them. “Since this is a private business, I would prefer that it not be carried out in public.”

  Tom pushed the door. It closed with a slap.

  Henri smiled. “See how much better that is?”

  “I don’t see any difference at all,” Johnny said.

  “I think Gunny had some business with him,” Tom said. “The way I heard it from him you broke whatever agreement there was.”

  “I broke no agreement,” Henri said. His head turned slowly until he was staring at Jean. “Are these two of the group?”

  “No,” Jean said.

  Henri nodded, as if to himself. “I broke no agreement. My … associates may have gone beyond the limits I placed on them. I could argue that it was in your interest as well as mine.”

  “Dogshit,” Johnny said. “Tom, what did Gunny say we still owe these birds?”

  “A thousand, I think.”

  “It was eleven hundred.” Henri’s face was composed and even.

  “Cheap at that price,” Johnny reached into his hip pocket and brought out a wad of bills. He counted off eleven of the hundreds and replaced the rest of the wad in the pocket and buttoned it. While he moved across the room, he fanned the bills and did a final count. “That ought to do it.”

  Henri took the bills and folded them. He put
them in his shirt pocket without counting them.

  “Don’t let us keep you from anywhere you’re supposed to be.” Johnny dipped his head at Tom. “That is all we owe them, right?”

  “I believe our business is not yet done.”

  “That’s your opinion,” Johnny said, “and you’re welcome to it out in the hallway or down in the lobby.” As he spoke he leaned forward. His right hand reached for the lapel of Henri’s jacket. “Here in my room …”

  Jean moved away from the lamp table. “You are not to touch him.”

  “Is that right?” He didn’t appear to pay any attention to Jean. His right hand touched the lapel and brushed at it. “You leaving on your own or …?”

  “I told you …” Jean began.

  Johnny turned. The back of his right hand, only partly closed, struck the little man across the face. The full weight of Johnny’s body wasn’t behind it. But there was enough force to flatten Jean, Even stunned, Jean curled forward. He was on all fours, shaking his head to clear it, when Johnny put out a shoe and planted it on top of Jean’s right hand.

  “Stay there. You move and I’ll kick your brains out.” He stared at Jean long enough to be certain the little man believed him. He turned to Henri. “Are you leaving?”

  “Hospitality seems to be a custom of the past.” Henri moved his hands slowly forward and gripped the arms of the chair. He pulled himself to his feet. “But no matter about that. I will turn the other cheek. I will still give you some advice if you will be kind enough to listen to it.”

  “Do your talking on the way to the door.” Johnny watched Henri walk past him. Beyond Henri’s shoulder he dipped his head at Tom, who gave the doorknob a twist and jerked it open.

  “The 1928s. You know the ones I mean?”

  “I know.” Johnny lifted the shoe from Jean’s hand. “You too, buster. Out.”

  Jean used the arm of the chair to pull himself to his feet. His bottom lip was beginning to puff.

  “They’re stolen.” Henri stopped at the doorway.