by Ralph Dennis
“Betts?”
“Here.”
“I want charges made up. Sticks enough to blow both sets of tracks at both locations.”
“Fuses?”
“Whatever you think,” Harry said.
“Twenty seconds?”
Harry turned to Gunny. “What do you think?”
“That ought to do it.” Gunny put his hands on his knees and straightened up. He stood over Harry. “One thing bothers me. Two men to the east and two to the west. That thins down the firepower.”
Harry shook his head. “That’s not the way it’ll be. You and Vic pick the spots and you make sure the charges are planted. But you won’t be there when the tracks blow. You’ll be with the main force.” He pointed a hand at Jean. “He’ll blow Location A. His friend blows Location C.”
“The timing?” Gunny said.
“We’ll set that later.” Harry stood and raked a shoe through the dirt map until he wiped it away. “Right now what I want is for you to scout the locations at A and C. It’s going to be dark the next time you’re there. Find yourself markers. A tree, a building, something like that.”
Gunny stepped into the middle of the map. He touched Jean on the shoulder on the way past. “That all for today, Harry?”
“Weapons check at five. Full meeting at six.”
Richard Betts followed Vic and Gunny and the Frenchman’s two men to the door. He saw them out and closed and latched the door after them. He returned and looked down at the scuff that had been the map. “You never did say what Location B was.”
“The train depot. That belongs to the Gipsons if they ever wake up.”
“They’ll screw it up,” Betts said.
“If they do, it breaks their string with me. And that string is about wore through.”
Richard Betts leaned against the tailgate of one of the Bulldogs and reached inside. He pulled a case of dynamite toward him. The lid was nailed on tight. He looked around for something to use as a pry bar. “What about those three? The Frenchie and his men?”
“What about them?”
“We got to split with them?”
Harry grinned. “Not from my share,” he said.
“There is no reason to walk.” Jean led the way across the back lot. Behind them, Vic and Pierre split away and headed east. Vic was at a fast walk, almost a trot.
Gunny watched them go. Then he had to push himself to keep up with the smaller man, Jean. He was sweating. He could feel the fever coming, just under the skin, about to break to the surface.
“You’re in a big hurry,” he said.
Jean yawned. “I’ve had almost no sleep. I was in Halifax last night.”
“How’s it there?”
“The girls are like silk.”
“Harry says it’s wartime over there.”
“Harry? The one who gave the orders?”
Gunny nodded. His breath was short.
“Is he as tough as he seems?”
“Nobody knows that but Harry.”
They reached Wingate Station’s main street. The black 1940 Cadillac was parked on the near side of the hotel. Jean cut across the street and stopped beside the driver’s door. He unlocked that side, got in and reached across to open the passenger side for Gunny.
“I did not understand what you said.”
“That nobody knows but Harry?” Gunny got in and pulled the door shut. “It means that people who could probably tell us how tough Harry is just aren’t around anymore.”
“That kind of man?”
Gunny nodded.
“You said west?”
Gunny jerked a finger over his shoulder. “That way.”
Jean drove the Cadillac a block to the east and then got it turned around. As they headed west Gunny did the figuring in his head. He decided when they were about level with the train depot, and then he leaned forward and took a reading on the mileage gauge. They were parallel with the tracks, north of them. They passed a couple of intersections where streets cut south, toward the tracks. At the third street, approaching it, Gunny looked at the mileage gauge and said, “Take the next left.”
He remembered the first look they’d had at the town from the rise high to the west. The way the tracks were, the delta, the fanning out before the tracks reached the edge of Wingate Station from the east. Then the tight bottleneck from there to the train station and beyond until the tracks reached the western limit of town and the land opened up again.
The Cadillac crossed the tracks. Jean gave him a questioning look. Gunny said, “Park here.”
It was a good guess. Where they were now the bottleneck ended. To the east, back toward the depot, houses and other buildings lined the track, built at what must have been some prescribed distance. Behind them, to the west, it was as if a strong wind had cleared the borders of the tracks.
Gunny, with Jean a step behind him, followed the track bed to the west. Fifty yards and then another hundred. A crew had been out in the last week or two clearing the brush on both sides of the track. It was hard to find a location marker.
“About here,” Gunny said. He lifted an arm and pointed to the north. In the middle of a field, about half a mile away, there was a weathered barn. “Level with that.”
“You will be with me?”
“To set the charge.” Gunny stepped over one set of tracks and stood in the space between that set and the other tracks. He checked the bed. There was a gravel surface, and the earth beneath it was packed hard. “We’ll need a pick or a shovel.”
Even at the brisk pace Vic set, it took him and the other man, Pierre, some minutes to reach a point about half a mile to the east of the train station.
Pierre took the dirty felt hat from his head and wiped the sweatband with a wadded handkerchief. “You have not had a lot to say to me.”
Vic used the toe of his shoe to test the track bed. “I didn’t come here for the conversation.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“You talking about that night in Montreal?”
“You have bad feelings about that night?” Pierre used the hat to fan himself. Sweat cooled on his bald head.
“I’ve got a bruise or two.”
“But now we work together.”
“That’s what the bossmen say. Forget Montreal.”
Vic let it go at that. To hell with these clowns, anyway. Nobody asked them to sit in on the game. And now they wanted everybody to like them.
Vic selected his spot. He marked it in his mind by a thick stand of trees on the north side of the track bed.
Henri Leveque lowered himself into the easy chair that had been placed with its back to the window. It was, after all, his own room. It did not matter that it might appear impolite to the Americans. They did not seem to understand courtesy. It was just as doubtful that they would understand rudeness.
The man they called the major took a seat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, hands on his knees. It was not a comfortable position.
The captain, the one with the shoulders as wide as a doorway and the neck like a bull, did not sit down. He took a stance in the center of the room. He had the attitude of a man on a drill field.
“Now that we’re here,” the captain said with a curl of his upper lip, “maybe you’ll tell us what the meeting’s about.”
It amused Henri. What kind of Army was that? The captain acted as if he were in command, and the major sat there and said very little.
“I realize I pushed my way into your operation at a late point in the planning.”
“That’s the Lord’s truth.”
Henri kept his head at an angle so that he could watch both men. He saw the major lift his head and stare at the captain. There was a brief but firm shake of the major’s head before he looked down at the carpet once more.
“For this reason, I have to assume that all the plans have been formulated and that you have already decided upon your escape route.”
“You’re doing well at this assuming,” the ca
ptain said.
“I would like to know your plans.”
“In time.” The captain took a step toward the major. Beneath the carpet, the floorboards creaked under his weight.
“Our plans are being worked out now,” the major said.
“Isn’t this late for such …?”
“The plan was made. Now it is being changed. The addition of three new men has given us some latitude we didn’t have before.”
“When will I know the details?”
“Later this afternoon,” the major said. “We’ll have a final briefing at six.”
“I believe I can wait that long.”
“Nice of you,” the captain said.
“I have another matter that will interest you,” Henri said.
“Tell us about it.” The captain grinned at the major.
“Constable Lafitte is with me.”
Henri saw the surprised look that flashed between the two Americans. It was a stroke, a good and solid touch.
“What watch does he have?” the captain asked.
“The afternoon and early-evening one.”
The major nodded. “We were worried about him.”
“But not the late-night and early-morning man?”
“My regrets,” Henri said to the captain.
“The core of the plan is that we cut off the town for a period of time.”
“I guessed as much.”
“We’ll need to talk to the constable,” the captain said.
“I’ll bring him to the six o’clock meeting.”
“I think that’s it for now.” The major stood. He turned and smoothed the part of the bed where he’d been seated. He walked past the captain. The captain turned to follow him.
“One other matter.” Henri grabbed the arms of the easy chair and stood.
“Yeah?” The captain whirled around. He didn’t bother to hide the irritation on his face.
“The escape route.”
“You go your way and we’ll go ours,” the captain said.
“Then you will be crossing the border into the States?”
“That’s our business,” the captain said.
“Come, gentlemen. The loss of the British Crown jewels and other national treasures will set off a search the likes of which we have not seen in North America since … perhaps, the murder of President Lincoln.”
“Get to the point.” The captain looked bored.
“With such a search expected, it might be better if I furnish you my protection.”
“I don’t think so.” The captain looked over his shoulder at the major. “Canada’s your playpen, not ours.”
“What he means is that it might be wiser if we dodge the search in a country that we know.” The major caught the doorknob and hesitated. “It’s not that we don’t appreciate your offer. We do. But it might be better if we’re going about our business in the States while they’re looking for us in Canada.”
“That’s fact.” The captain grinned. “And since you’ve been good enough to make your offer, we’ll make ours. Come south with us and we’ll protect you.”
“The offer has its merits,” Henri said.
“Let us know.”
The major swung the door open. The captain stepped into the hall. The major followed and pulled the door closed behind him.
Henri locked the door and returned to the easy chair. He slumped into it and closed his eyes.
The numbers were not equal. That bothered him. Eight of the Americans and only three in his group. Four if he counted Lafitte. Those odds, the two to one, meant trouble. It had been a reluctant bargain. The Americans had not wanted his help, and they had refused his aid with the escape route.
He thought like a man who only kept his bargains when it was to his advantage. Were the captain and the major the same kind of men? Was there any advantage for the Americans that would force them to keep the bargain? He did not think there was. His only value was that he added three more men, and that would be useful in the taking of the train. Once the job was over, there would be no more need of him or his men. That would be a dangerous time.
And, yet, there was a way. The men from the States had two trucks. He, himself, did not even have one truck. Would it appear odd if he sent for a truck and for two men to drive it? He did not think so. It was his right and he could argue that. Let them believe he was bringing in reinforcements to protect himself. It would, if nothing else, inform them that he was not a complete fool.
Henri opened his eyes and sat forward. The time, however, was short. There was a number in Quebec that he could call. Quebec was too far away from Wingate Station for a truck and men to arrive from there in the time there was. No, the men and the truck would have to be recruited and sent from some town nearby.
He left his room and headed down the hallway toward the staircase. Halfway there, he passed an open doorway and heard voices raised in argument. They were American accents, and he hesitated as he reached the doorway.
A tall, lanky young man with dark hair was in the entrance way, about to leave the room. Past him, in the center of the room, there was another young man. This one was short and had close-cropped hair.
The tall American saw Henri and stepped away and slammed the door.
Odd. The whole hotel was filled with Americans. On his way down the staircase he remembered those two Americans. They were two of the three recent arrivals.
In the lobby he placed his call to Quebec.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
Clark put his back to the door. “Who was that?”
“Where?”
“In the hall.”
“How the hell would I know?” Randy sat on the end of the bed and pulled his shoes, with the socks balled up and stuffed in them, from under the bed. He used his hands to dust the soles of his feet. That done, he pulled on his socks.
Clark stared at the socks. As far as he knew, Randy hadn’t changed socks in a week. The socks were stiff and crusty. “You coming down for dinner?”
“Breakfast,” Randy said.
“Are you coming?”
That was what the argument was about. Randy didn’t want to leave his bed. He wanted to stay there all afternoon. Clark, the night before, had promised Harry Churchman that he would have Randy up and around by noon or not much later.
“I’m awake, ain’t I?”
Clark decided that that was as close to a yes as he was going to get. He dropped the room key on the bed next to Randy and went downstairs to the dining room.
The waiter said that they were serving lunch but he could still order breakfast if he wanted to. Clark ordered ham and eggs and coffee, and he’d just received his plate when Randy walked across the dining room and slumped into the chair across the table from him.
“You order for me?”
“I didn’t know what you wanted.”
Randy looked at Clark’s breakfast. “The same for me,” he said to the waiter. He unfolded the morning paper he’d bought in the lobby and placed it on the table.
It was the Wingate Morning Star. It was a thin paper, only ten or twelve pages, and Randy flipped through it rapidly. He found a sports page and pulled that section out before he pushed the rest of the paper toward Clark.
Clark wasn’t interested in the news. The front page was mostly about the war in Europe. Still, there wasn’t much to do after he’d finished his breakfast. He drew the paper toward him and read the front page. The main article was about the French fleet. The British were saying that the French had broken an agreement about what was supposed to happen to the French ships that were left after their surrender to the Germans. It didn’t make any sense to Clark. He couldn’t see any reason to fuss over some ships. He turned to page 2.
One item down the left side caught his eyes. It was headed deaths investigated. It was the same all over the world. They were always investigating deaths, even down in North Carolina. He started to move away from the item. Then he saw the dateline. Halifax, N.S., 1 July.
The bodies of two young workmen were found today in an alley in the waterfront section of Halifax. Robert Mass, 28, and Andrew Phillips, 19, were discovered in the late afternoon by a Royal Canadian Navy patrol. …
After Clark finished the article he lowered the paper and stared at Randy. He was stuffing his mouth with ham and eggs, and the egg yellow spotted the corners of his mouth.
Clark creased the page so that the article was set apart. He put some money on the table to cover the cost of both breakfasts before he pushed back his chair and stood.
Randy’s head jerked up from his plate. “Where you going?”
“To the lobby.” He edged around the table and placed the folded paper beside Randy’s plate. He touched the article about the deaths and said, “Read this.”
“What’s it about?”
“Just read it.” He left the dining room and found a chair in a corner of the lobby. He sat down and put his head back and closed his eyes. He felt like crying, but he couldn’t. The anger and the pain choked him, and he tried to bring up an image of Andy’s face. What came was shadowy, an outline without features. And then that outline was replaced by one that he could see clearly. It was a face that he’d only seen once, the time Andy had shown him the snapshot. Susan. The sister that Andy thought plain.
He opened his eyes and looked across the lobby. It destroyed the image, and when he closed his eyes once more there was only darkness.
“So what?”
Clark opened his eyes. Randy stood over him. He’d brought the paper with him. He dropped it into Clark’s lap and backed away.
“It didn’t have to happen.”
“It was a mistake. Harry must have got the wrong stuff. Knockout drops didn’t kill me the time I had them that place in New Orleans.”
“Harry told you one eyedropper for each man. How many did …?”
Randy turned away. Clark pushed up from the chair and caught his arm. He jerked him around. The slyness was on Randy’s face. It was a look Clark knew too damned well.