The War Heist

by Ralph Dennis

  He stored the keys in the space between the sun visor and the roof. Just in case something happened to him. Pierre or Mr. Leveque would know where to look.

  He hurried along the dark street and crossed the back lot. As he approached the brightly lighted main street he slowed to a casual walk. He wasn’t prepared for what he saw when he turned a corner. The central block of the town swarmed with people. He estimated two or three hundred people, more than he’d seen there during the daylight hours. Men, women, and even little children clustered in groups.

  All faces turned toward the train station. No one paid any attention to Jean. He started across the street toward the hotel. He’d reached the far curb when he heard shouting behind him. He turned and looked.

  Constable Lafitte stalked from the alley that led to the police station. He looked angry. He pushed people aside. The questions people shouted at him didn’t stop him.

  “Lafitte, what is …?”

  “Is it the war?”

  “Are we under attack from the Germans?”

  In the middle of the street the constable raised his hands high over his head. He planted his feet firmly in the wide-legged stance that meant business. The shouting ended.

  “I have told you. There is a night exercise being carried out by the Canadian Army. It will not last long, but until the operation is finished anyone found on the streets will be arrested.” His voice increased to a bellow. “Get off the streets.”

  There was a mumbling, a low rumble. A path cleared for him. Head down, Lafitte angled for the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Jean watched him and drifted over a few feet so their paths would cross.

  “I’ll go with you,” Jean said in a low voice.

  Lafitte didn’t raise his head. “I told you to get off the streets.”

  “Lafitte.”

  The constable looked at him. “You?”

  “I’ll walk with you.”

  “If you like.” They walked side by side toward the corner of the street that led to the train station. A few steps before the corner Lafitte turned on the crowd again.

  “Get off the streets.”

  No one moved. It was quiet at the train yard. That silence was broken by the two booms of a shotgun. “Now. I said now.”

  One man moved and then a woman. A little boy began to cry. The crowd melted away. A stream of people filed into the hotel, others entered the café next door.

  Jean had a last look before they turned the corner. The street was almost empty.

  Four abreast they reached the Ford that had smashed into the building opposite the side wall of the roundhouse. Johnny broke step and waved his free hand at the cab. Tom crossed behind Vic and the Frenchman. The door window had been shattered by gunfire. Tom leaned in and had his look. Two men, neither one stirring, were huddled against the far door.

  He returned to the line and took his place between Vic and Johnny Whitman.

  “Know them?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t get a good look.” What Tom Renssler didn’t say was that he didn’t want a good look.

  To their left Harry Churchman and Richard Betts crabbed their way along the wall. Twenty feet from the front corner of the roundhouse, where it joined the siding, Harry stopped. He motioned to Richard and then to Johnny. Betts moved up closer. He unwrapped the fuse and reached in his pocket for a match.

  “Twenty rounds cover fire,” Johnny said. “When I cut it loose.”

  Johnny moved forward. A few paces and he could see the boxcar, the two-thirds of it that was nearest the railway-crossing end of the siding. He jammed the butt of the Thompson against his shoulder and dropped to one knee. He didn’t see anyone, but that didn’t matter. He squeezed off a short burst and then another one. Down the line the others did the same. Harry Churchman lunged forward and reached the corner of the roundhouse. He poked the Thompson past the corner and triggered a long blind burst.

  Betts struck a match and touched the fuse end. It was a ten-second fuse and he let about half of it burn away before he tapped Harry on the back and yelled, “Now.” Harry ducked and backed away. Betts stepped around Harry and sidearmed the bundle of sticks toward the boxcar. It slammed against the near end of the boxcar and bounced a few feet away.

  “Down,” Betts yelled.

  The explosion almost blew the boxcar from the tracks. It rocked away and then settled into place again.

  Sergeant Winston was on one knee. That knee rested on a section of the rail that was between the freight car and the high double doors that led into the roundhouse. He heard voices, someone coming down the road toward them, and he lifted the Webley revolver and pointed it toward the road.

  “Ready now,” he said to his four remaining men. “Before you fire, be sure of a target.”

  It should have worked that way. It didn’t. His first glimpse of the men coming down the road, and he thought, they are ducks on the water, and he shouted, “Fire.”

  His yell was lost in the harsh thunder of automatic weapons. The angle was bad for the men in the road. The hail of .45 caliber slugs tore into the side of the boxcar. The fire was not even close to Winston and his men. It should have helped him, but it didn’t. His men were frightened, and the ones that fired didn’t pick their targets. Winston turned to try to settle them down and he watched as one soldier screamed and jumped to his feet. The other three followed the first. It was then that the package of explosives went off a few feet away from them. The blast was fire and shock waves, and it threw the four soldiers through the air. If they screamed anymore, he didn’t hear them. He was stunned, a stone man on his belly.

  He thought, I can still get one or two of them, and he forced his eyes open. He pushed his right hand forward, and that was the moment he realized he wasn’t holding the Webley anymore. In fact, he saw that he didn’t have hands either.

  Both hands were jagged bone stubs and he got to his feet using his elbows, and ran toward the line of men in the road. He didn’t get far. A huge man stepped away from the side of the building, and there was a Thompson at his shoulder. Sergeant Winston saw the flame spout from the barrel, and the slugs stitched him from his neck to his groin. He did a skip and a jump and fell forward on the stubs of his hands. He didn’t feel the shock. He was already dead.

  It took a few minutes to clear the bodies from the track bed below the freight-car doorway. Johnny directed it and made a final check to be certain the trucks could back up flush against the boxcar. Satisfied, he used the butt of his tommy gun to break the seal and the lock.

  “Richard. Vic. Bring a truck here.”

  A burst of fire from the other side of the freight car brought him to a crouch, the Thompson at the ready. He relaxed when he recognized it was automatic fire, and that meant Harry Churchman was mopping up.

  A few seconds later Harry stepped around a crater and spat dry cotton on the rails. “There wasn’t much left of him,” he explained.

  “Who?”

  “Some poor dog-assed soldier.”

  “That all of them?”

  “I’ve seen neater slaughterhouses.” Harry tried to spit again, but his mouth was dry. “You see the poor bastard who made the run at me?”

  Johnny checked him. “You knew we weren’t making mud pies.” He handed Harry his weapon and grabbed the freight-car door. A hard pull, and it rolled open. “Let’s see what all this was for. It’ll make you feel better.”

  Harry moved aside as the first Bulldog, driven by Vic, pulled past the boxcar entranceway and then backed across the track bed. When it was almost flush, Harry said, “That’s it.”

  Johnny stepped onto the tailgate and jumped from there into the freight car. Harry stood in the space between the truck and the boxcar until Johnny returned. He was straining, grunting under the weight of one crate. He lowered it to the tailgate. “It’s heavy enough,” Johnny said.

  Working together they unstrapped the case and lifted the cover. Harry struck a match and held it close. The four ingots of gold glowed in the we
ak light.

  Tom pushed in past Harry. “Is it …?”

  Johnny laughed. “And you said we couldn’t do it.”

  Tom put both hands into one compartment and lifted an ingot. “It must be twenty-five pounds if it’s an ounce.”

  “What do you want me to do, Captain?” Harry asked.

  Johnny pointed toward the railway crossing. “I think you’d better cover the road from town.”

  Harry leaned the major’s Thompson against the side of the truck and walked away. Johnny grinned at Tom and swung to the ground. Vic passed him and pulled himself up into the boxcar. The Frenchie stood at the edge of the road, head down and the borrowed Thompson under his arm. Johnny reached him and took the weapon from him.

  “Give them a hand with the loading.”

  “Is it the correct car?”

  “It’s the right one.”

  “The Crown jewels?”

  “Oh, shit,” Johnny said, “we missed those.”

  “You promised me the Crown jewels.”

  “Sue me.”

  Henri looked at his empty hands and at the Thompson Johnny had just taken from him. “Nobody makes a fool of me.”

  “Nobody had to. The Crown jewels? Jesus Christ.”

  “What is in the boxcar?”

  “Gold. Tons of it.”

  “And we still split?”

  “The same split,” Johnny said.

  “Then I will help with the loading.”

  “Wait a minute.” Johnny pointed one of the Thompsons in the general direction of the wrecked truck across the road. “You knew those men, didn’t you?”

  “I needed a truck to haul my share away.”

  “Bad luck for them.”

  “Yes, it was bad.”

  Leveque walked toward the rear of the truck. Johnny turned the Thompson and pointed the barrel of it at him. It would be damned easy. Screw him and his share. He lowered the Thompson. There would be plenty of time later to deal with the Frenchman. Right now, without the man’s helpers, he would need every strong or weak back he could muster.

  Harry had taken his post at the crossing. Johnny set his watch at the back side of the roundhouse. From there he could cover any approach from the south.

  Corporal Lester knew he was in a bad spot.

  At a distance the Springfield ’03 had the advantage over a shotgun. But, close range as he was now, he didn’t think he had a chance.

  The man on the dark track knew what he was doing. He didn’t waste rounds, and he was patient.

  There just wasn’t any percentage. Not the way he saw it. He was outgunned by the shotgun, and there were two crazy Americans in the depot. You couldn’t predict what they might do.

  He buckled the belt with the ammo pouches on it around his waist and gripped the Springfield. He dropped to his stomach and began crawling away from the train station. He told himself, when he was a good distance from the depot, he would find a sniper position and see how much damage he could do.

  A hundred yards from the platform he convinced himself that it would be better if he went looking for some help. One man could not do much.

  Some hundred and fifty yards away from the station he knew he was safe. He scrambled to his feet and trotted down the side of the tracks toward the west. There wasn’t any special reason to head west. He had run out of reasons for anything he did. Now he was running in panic and confusion.

  The train backed slowly. It seemed to move at little better than a snail’s pace. Impatient, worried, MacTaggart stomped the aisle between the seated soldiers. Captain McGuire watched him. He’d selected his men, and now he rested his left leg and felt the time slip by.

  There were two kinds of time. Slow time on the train and fast time in the town back there where young Foster might be fighting for his life. The more McGuire thought about the difference in times, the less sense it made. Bugger it.

  “You say something?” MacTaggart stared down at him.

  “Nothing of any importance.”

  Standing over him it occurred to MacTaggart that he ought to ask the captain if his leg was up to the strain of the forced march and the battle that was back there in the town. A look at the set and determined face, and he decided that the question would have to be answered in Wingate Station. Now wasn’t the proper time.

  A jerk of the train almost threw him off balance. He sensed that it was a gradual slowing before the full stop came.

  McGuire struggled to his feet. “My squad, load up.”

  MacTaggart shouldered the sawed-off shotgun.

  Telford, the Railway Express man, pushed past him. MacTaggart followed him and stood aside as Telford swung the heavy metal door open. Telford jumped. MacTaggart landed a couple of feet behind him. The train shuddered and shook and became still. Steady, balanced, he returned to the doorway and gave McGuire a hand down.

  Telford waited for him about thirty yards beyond the caboose. The lights of Wingate Station were bright in the distance.

  “They blew it all right,” Telford said.

  MacTaggart joined him and looked down at the crater in the track bed. He edged around the crater and gripped one of the twisted rails. “What are your plans?”

  “I don’t have much choice,” Telford said. “They’re expecting me in Montreal.”

  MacTaggart gave the rail a push. “You’d not be in any danger from another train if you waited here.”

  “I can’t. But you’ve help coming from Halifax.”

  “Two hours away,” MacTaggart said.

  Telfold spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness and said, “You have to handle it.”

  Telford returned to the coach and stood there with one hand on the door rail. Captain McGuire formed his men in twos and marched them away from the train. After they passed the caboose Telford swung aboard the coach. The rear brakeman moved the lantern in a rippling upward and downward movement. The train began to pull away.

  McGuire reached MacTaggart. He waved his squad around the crater and the twisted rails. “Well, Mac?”

  “Let’s see how the nightlife is in Wingate Station.”

  “I hear the ladies are lovely.”

  “That’s a warming thought.”

  They joined the men and the march toward the town.

  Lafitte got up and dusted his hands against his trouser legs. Jean was still on the sidewalk, his hands pressed over his ears. “I think it’s done.” He reached out a hand and pulled Jean erect.

  The big man they called Harry loomed in the dim light on the far side of the crossing. He cradled a Thompson in his arms.

  Lafitte spread his arms wide and walked into the center of the road. Jean kept pace with him. His hands were high above his head.

  “We’re coming over,” Lafitte shouted.

  The Thompson shifted from the cradle and the barrel swung toward them. “Who is it?”

  “Lafitte and one of Leveque’s men.”

  “Jean.”

  Harry relaxed. The weapon eased into the crook of his arm. “It’s about time the working party arrived.”

  The two men crossed the tracks. A dark shape edged from the shadows to the east. It was Pierre Picard. “I am here as well,” he said.

  “What took you so long?” Harry grinned at him. “We had to start without you.”

  “You were killing everyone in sight.”

  “That’s done. Now the real work’s started.” He waved them down the road to the boxcar and the truck.

  Gunny stepped into the cinders and stopped and listened. The man was not there, and there was no sound of him, no breathing and no noise of his movements. The soldier had been there minutes before. Now he was gone.

  He took a giant step from the ground up to the platform. He squatted and kept his head down. “Randy. Clark. I’m coming in.”

  “Walk in.”

  The waiting room was lighted bright as day. Randy was behind a bench. Gunny passed him and saw he was sweating. He smelled the stink of fear on him.

&nbs
p; Clark was at the ticket window, behind the wire cage.

  “The telegraph out?”

  “It’s wrecked.”

  “The soldier outside’s disappeared on us.”

  Randy said, “That’s good news.” He gripped the back of the bench and stood. He rubbed his thigh muscles.

  Gunny couldn’t resist it. “Keep a good watch. He might come back.”

  He chuckled to himself at the fright that fixed itself to Randy once more. He walked from the waiting room and across the platform. Some fucking soldier that Randy would have made. In the old days on the Mex border, he couldn’t have cleaned horse stalls.

  Harry met him at the crossing.

  “A man with a rifle’s over there somewhere,” Gunny said.

  “One man? With any sense he’s running.”

  “Could be.” It was what he believed as well. “I’ll relieve you, Harry.”

  “It’s yours.”

  Harry leaned his Thompson against the side of the Bulldog and hoisted himself into the boxcar. The sooner they got the gold loaded, the sooner they could make the run for the border.

  MacTaggart heard it first. He put out a hand and touched Captain McGuire on the arm. Macguire raised his arm, and the file of soldiers behind him halted. In the quiet that followed they could hear the running man.

  Corporal Robert Lester was within fifty feet of MacTaggart and the squad before he raised his head to gulp for air. He saw the tall man with the shotgun, and he skidded to a stop and dropped his rifle at his feet.

  “I give up.”

  MacTaggart lowered the shotgun. “He’s one of ours,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  Captain McGuire put a man on point fifty yards ahead of the detail. He was a young man with dark skin and bowed legs and a nose so large it almost filled his face. “He’s part Indian,” the captain said as the soldier headed down the track at an effortless lope.

  “What?”

  “Cree, I think.”

  MacTaggart squinted into the darkness ahead. His first Indian, and he’d hardly got a look at him. When this was over, when he had the time …

  Macguire dropped his hand, and the squad moved out.