The War Heist

by Ralph Dennis

  “Will I die of it?” Withers grinned at him.

  “Not if I make a phone call to town.”

  “Good man.”

  They returned to the table. Tom excused himself and found a telephone in the lobby of the Club.

  The Simpson farmhouse was set far back from the highway. A bumpy road ran between fenced-in pastureland, and the headlights of the coupe lit up a slab-sided horse asleep standing beneath a huge old oak.

  Buck, the chained dog in the front yard, started barking when the car was still a hundred yards away. By the time Tom braked the coupe next to the screened porch, the answering barks came from all the points of the compass.

  Withers sat with a full bottle of Scotch clamped between his knees. “My secret reserve,” he’d said when they’d stopped by BOQ before driving into town. Now he stared at the dark farmhouse. “This is it? It doesn’t look like much.”

  A light flared on in the living room beyond the porch.

  “Don’t let the wrappings on the package fool you.”

  “I think you’d better know that I’ve been warned about snipe hunts.”

  Emma Simpson, barefoot and wearing a cotton bathrobe, stepped onto the porch and peered out at the car. “That you, Tom? You coming in or are you going to stay out there with the bullfrogs all night?”

  Withers laughed and grabbed the neck of his bottle. “If that’s a snipe I don’t believe that I’ll mind.”

  Tom followed him up the steps and onto the porch.

  Withers, about to pass Emma, stopped and leaned over her. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. “I was told to award this to some deserving young lady in America.” He kissed her, and his free hand, the one that wasn’t holding the Scotch bottle, slipped under her robe.

  At the doorway, dressed in a nightgown, her cousin, Betsy, opened her arms to Tom. “It’s about time you dropped by,” she said.

  MacTaggart rolled to the edge of the bed and reached for his shoes. It was within seconds of the air-raid sirens going off across London.

  His shoes weren’t there, not where he usually placed them. Damn. He dropped to his knees and reached both hands under the bed. He was like that when Peggy stepped over him and groped her way to the window. She’d left the blackout curtains open to let some fresh air in. Now she drew them closed and found her flashlight. The beam swept across the bed and stopped on him.

  “Are we going to the underground or the basement shelter?”

  “Neither bloody place,” he said, “until I’ve found my good shoes.”

  His clothes were draped over the back of a chair. His shoes were there on the rug in front of the same chair. He dressed quickly.

  On the way to the basement, leading the way with her flashlight, he worked the watch from his pocket. He flipped the case open. It was 1:34.

  It was sticky and airless in the basement bomb shelter. There was the smell of dust from beyond the concrete walls and dry rot from the timbers above.

  Peggy brought a blanket and a pillow with her. MacTaggart spread the blanket in a space along one wall. He sat with his back against the wall and placed the pillow on his thigh. Peggy stretched out and got comfortable, and he put a hand on her shoulder.

  She said, low-voiced, “I’m glad you’re with me, Mackie. It’s bad here when you’re alone.”

  “Get some sleep, girl.”

  It was too dark to count them. MacTaggart estimated that there were fifteen or twenty people in the shelter. At least one baby. It cried and got teat. The suck-suck sound was obvious. Another older child cried and was shushed.

  During the first hour everybody settled down to wait. There was a loud snore from one corner. And an old man calmed his wife: “You’ll see. It will be like last time. They’ve turned away, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  And then it was still until the lovemaking began a few feet from where MacTaggart sat. It was secretive. It was hushed. Only the ragged breathing gave it away. Near the end, when it went out of control, toward orgasm, there was the squeaking and the whack-whack-whack of hard pounding on the floor.

  Peggy heard it. Her hand moved up his leg and stopped high on his stomach. He caught her hand and held it for a time, pressing it, and then he moved it away.

  MacTaggart thought of other places.

  Canada was big and cold, wasn’t it? There were ice and snow everywhere and trees as wide as houses that reached all the way to heaven and back.

  Nobody there spent their nights in basements.

  And there you weren’t forced to overhear some frightened couple’s desperate lovemaking.

  The all clear sounded a few minutes after four. The German planes had turned toward Portsmouth.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tom Renssler opened his eyes. In the darkness, at first, he wasn’t sure where he was. Then he heard Betsy’s deep-sleep breathing. It was somewhere between a snort and a gurgle. And now she smelled like she’d been dipped headfirst into a vat of Scotch. He eased his way across the bed. His feet touched the floor, and he reached behind him with both hands to steady the mattress so that the movement of his weight, when he walked away, wouldn’t awaken her.

  One, two, three. He couldn’t move. He reached four and leaned forward. The bed creaked. He staggered a few steps before he got his balance.

  Dear Lord, he didn’t want to awaken Betsy Simpson. What they said about grass widows was true. That woman had worn the skin off him, and the last time, before they went to sleep, he’d felt she was drying up his bone marrow.

  He didn’t remember all of the night. There’d been the bourbon at the Club and then Robert’s hoarded Scotch after they arrived at the farm, and when that was gone they’d had a quart of the pop-skull—the white whiskey—that Emma furnished from the cupboard under the kitchen sink. All that mixed and stirred together explained the way his head felt. It was like a paper sack filled with muddy water.

  He crossed the bedroom and reached the door. He eased it open a couple of feet and stepped through sideways. He was on the narrow second-floor landing. He reached behind him and pulled the bedroom door toward him until he heard the latch catch.

  The living room was below him. There was an old sofa with the stuffing beginning to show at the arms. And, he smiled to himself, the rocking chair with Robert Withers’s uniform draped over the back of it. That was a Britisher for you. The trousers carefully folded to retain the crease. The uniform jacket arranged so the edges wouldn’t touch the floor. Give Major Robert Withers ten minutes for a shave and a wash and he could pass parade for the King.

  Tom wobbled his way to the bottom of the stairs. That was the difference between Robert and him. He couldn’t remember where he’d left his uniform. He looked back at the landing. Perhaps the uniform was in Betsy’s room. But not likely. He remembered, just then, something that had happened in the kitchen. How many hours ago had that been? They were drinking the white whiskey and Robert said something about it being bloody warm. He’d marched off into the living room, and when he’d returned, he was stripped down to his silk underwear.

  After that there wasn’t any doubt about the way the evening would go. In no time at all, Emma Simpson was waving Robert’s silk undershorts over her head, and Betsy, leaning close to Tom and running a hand over his groin, asked him if he was feeling overheated too.

  “That you, Tom?”

  Tom hitched up his shorts and walked into the kitchen. Robert sat at the kitchen table with his chin anchored in his hands. He was wearing Emma’s robe. His eyes, when he looked up at Tom, were bloodshot.

  “I felt the need for another drink.”

  “You look in the cupboard?” Tom waved a hand in the direction of the sink.

  “I wasn’t certain which was the whiskey. All of it smells like cleaning fluid.”

  “I’ll have a look.” Tom squatted next to the cupboard. He found a two-quart Mason jar and unscrewed the top. One sniff and his nose was clear. He carried the jar to the table. “Try this on fo
r size.”

  Robert drank from the jar. A swallow and a gasp and he put the Mason jar on the table with a thump. “Are you reasonably certain this is safe for humans?”

  “Emma and Betsy drink it all the time.”

  “From preference?” Robert pushed the jar across the table toward Tom. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “And these are what you call red-neck ladies?”

  “When we call them anything at all.”

  “I want the exact designation.” Withers grinned. “War stories for the mess, you know?”

  “When will that be?”

  “Pardon?”

  “When will be you heading back to England?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps never.”

  Tom picked up the jar in both hands and had a sip. “What does that mean?”

  “I have a set of emergency orders.”

  “I don’t …”

  “If the worst happens, I’m to head for Canada.”

  “Why Canada?” Tom asked. He slid the Mason jar toward Withers.

  “Why not Canada?” He lifted the white whiskey and looked across the lip of the jar toward Tom. “My friend, do you really know how desperate matters are in England? The real truth, not the swill for the public trough.”

  “I know what I read in the papers.”

  “Lies,” Robert said. “Of course, the Prime Minister and Chamberlain and Eden don’t confide in me. That is a pity. But at the same time I have a certain amount of intelligence. I am not your ordinary run-of-the-mill fool. I have had a vision that the War Cabinet is prepared to make a run for Canada.”

  “Why?”

  “To continue the war from there, old chap. As soon as England is invaded …”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Americans are so naïve,” Withers said. “It is one of your better qualities.”

  “But Churchill said they would fight on the … ”

  “That’s talk for the war morale. Let me tell you something, Tom. I am here in your United States of America to prepare for the arrival of a vast amount of British wealth which will be stored in this country.”

  “Purely a safeguard,” Tom said.

  “We’re speaking of billions and billions of dollars.”

  “To buy weapons and war materials?”

  “Over the next few months the complete liquid assets of the Empire will be shipped to North America.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “I said you were naïve. Let me prove it to you. On the morning of July first or second—one or the other—the first shipment will arrive at Halifax, Nova Scotia. It will be aboard a ship of the line, H.M.S. Emerald. Altogether, the cruiser will transport a cargo worth more than half a billion in dollars.”

  “Why?”

  “Consider the possibility that the war may have to be fought from Canada. If England falls.”

  “It’ll never come to that,” Tom said.

  “That first consignment consists of four hundred million in stocks and bonds and a hundred and twenty-five million in gold.”

  “That much?”

  “Those are rough figures,” Withers said. “Since I’m translating the pounds into dollars.”

  “It sounds fantastic.”

  “And that shipment is only the beginning. If Emerald reaches Halifax without problems, a second, larger shipment will leave the same port, Greenock, within a matter of days.”

  “What’s your part in this, Robert?”

  “I am not, as you guessed, in Horseguards anymore. I’ve wormed my way into Army Intelligence.”

  “I thought you were here scavenging for arms.”

  “Not this trip.” Robert pushed back his chair. He got to his feet and almost fell. He caught the side of the table to steady himself. “Did someone invite me to a party?”

  “I think that was the general idea.”

  “Then I should say my good-morning to one of the ladies.” He staggered around the table and headed for the staircase that led upstairs. Tom followed him.

  “Emma’s room is down here,” he said.

  Robert climbed the steps. He reached the landing outside Betsy’s bedroom. He turned very slowly. “I know that, old boy. The trouble is that Emma is a very tired lady.”

  Tom stared up at him.

  “Do you mind?” Withers waved an arm at Betsy’s door. “Am I not a guest?”

  “You are.”

  Withers adjusted the cotton robe and marched toward the bedroom door. “Knock on the door when you’re ready to leave.”

  The door slammed behind him. Tom returned to the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. From the other wenching times with Robert he was fairly sure that Emma was a tired woman. Robert’s bedroom endurance was a legend in certain parts of Chelsea.

  The June 13 morning meeting of the War Cabinet began at 11:30.

  The Chief of the Imperial General Staff, Sir John Dill, took the floor first. His briefing concerned the situation on the western front.

  Winston Churchill looked glum. The Prime Minister’s talks with Reynaud on French soil had brought out the actor in him. He’d shown a confidence that wasn’t with him now. The raid scare the night before had disturbed his sleep, and he had still been recovering from his dangerous exploit when bad weather grounded his fighter escort and his plane had to return to England alone.

  Little had changed since the Vice-Chief’s summary the day before. West of Rouen the reports were vague and spotty. What was known was that two battalions of the Fifty-first Division had crossed the Seine to the south. A brigade of the Armored Division faced the Germans there. Perhaps the two battalions of the Fifty-first could be used to solidify that front. The Fifty-first, however, was short of ammunition, fuel, and food.

  The overall projection wasn’t hopeful. There were signs of a buildup for a strong German offensive to the east of Reims. The French Army, by retreating on the Marne, had opened a door for a German advance that could lead straight to Paris.

  The Prime Minister tossed the stub of his Corona-Corona over his shoulder. It landed in the red fire bucket of sand that was always behind the Chair. “What preparations has Paris made for its defense?”

  Sir John Dill considered his answer. Then he admitted, with a shrug as bleak as his words, that he had received no intelligence about plans for a Paris defense.

  Churchill nodded. The briefing went on.

  Discussion ended on the final minute of the morning’s scheduled business. The Prime Minister, by prior arrangement, dismissed the members of the Secretariat. When the door closed behind them, he looked the length of the table. “I believe it is imperative that we make a final decision on Operation Salt Fish.”

  Churchill drew a prepared file toward him and opened the top cover. As he spoke he leafed through a thin sheaf of Admiralty memos. “His Majesty’s Ship, Emerald, is on the high seas bound for Iceland. It should complete its duties there on the afternoon of the sixteenth of June, three days from now. Barring any unfortunate and unexpected happening, Emerald will dock at Greenock on the eighteenth of June.” The Prime Minister pushed the Admiralty messages to one side.

  “The Bank of England informs me that the shipment has been readied. Collection centers in Liverpool, Manchester, Edinburgh, and here in London hold the packaged investment wealth. The bullion has been crated and, at my orders, has been marked as salt fish.” He smiled and lifted his hand in a cupped mock toast. “Confusion to our enemies.”

  The Bank of England notations joined the Admiralty papers. “In Canada, a special depository is being constructed in Montreal, and the Bank of Canada has cleared and reserved special vaults in their Ottawa central building. Even at this moment, as I speak, a special train is being assembled by the Canadian National Railway. The security preparations will be staggering.”

  The Prime Minister drew the memos together as if collecting playing cards. He tapped them on the table edge and placed them in the folder. He closed the cover with a hand slap. “Some men might vi
ew our intention as a desperate gamble. I prefer to think of it as a realistic alternative.” He stared down the table. He saw a nod, an agreement, here and there. “The forecast from France is bleak, to say the least. My recent firsthand assessment did nothing to reassure me. In two weeks we may be facing the German Army across the Channel. In three weeks we may be facing them on our shores.” He paused and cleared his throat. “It is time for a decision on Operation Salt Fish.”

  Churchill counted the solemn nods. “No one opposing?” He waited a long moment. “Then God help us all.”

  The morning meeting of the War Cabinet was over.

  The new Finance Officer, Major Griggs, did not appear that day; Thursday, either. One more day. Another day, and he would have the weekend ahead of him.

  That morning in the shower at BOQ, Tom Renssler remembered the wild and improbable story that Robert Withers had told him at the Simpson farm. In the alcohol fog he wasn’t entirely certain he hadn’t dreamed it. If he had, was the whole night a dream as well? The antics of Betsy and Emma? The constant lustiness of Robert Withers?

  No, too much of it was real. But the story itself was absurd. England would not take that kind of risk. He thought of England as an aging, cautious player that did not have an all-or-nothing gamble left in her.

  The lie, he decided as he dried himself, was Major Robert Withers’s creation to cover some important mission that had brought him to the States. A man with a life like a tall tale could probably invent them with the best liars in the world.

  Withers slept until noon in the guest room at BOQ. After lunch at the Officers’ Mess, Tom drove him into town to catch the 2:15 train north. With four hours of sleep Withers looked as fresh and unblemished as a choirboy.

  For all that, he appeared withdrawn and thoughtful. Tom noticed this, and after he’d walked to the edge of the platform and stared down the tracks to the south, he returned to Robert and said, “It can’t be that bad. I have a month’s proof the Simpson ladies didn’t infect us.”

  “If they did I’ll never forgive you, Tom.” Robert shook his head. “It’s not that, old boy. Last night, did I say anything I shouldn’t have?”