Terror at Glasgow Station: Chapter 4: An Awful Phone Call

Back in Glasgow, the atmosphere at the station was just as tense as ever.  Ed and Bob sat at their table, suddenly finding their favorite card games almost impossible.  The station agent and dispatcher remained at their desks, staring down at their surfaces.  Steve was totaling up some figures from the ticket sales that month; Howard was grinding a pencil into the polished mahogany surface of his desk.  The last time he’d done that had been the time his baby girl caught pneumonia.  It hadn’t been fatal, but it might’ve been.

As for Marilyn?

She was sitting in the middle of the double-sided bench.  Her spot was nearly in the center of the room—a pretty uncomfortable place to be when armed gangsters have taken over, but there was no better alternative.  To lean against a wall would have required too much motion.  Instead, Marilyn tried to remain as still as possible.

She felt like squirming, though.  One of the gangsters sat at the south end of the bench; another sat at the north end.  A third had a table pulled up to Ed and Bob’s table—he carried two pistols, trained on both of them.  A fourth stood right next to the dispatcher, and a fifth leaned calmly against the wall to the right of the station agent, shucking sunflower seeds with his teeth and staring straight at the door to the parking lot.

None of these paid much attention to the girl.  It was Kane that made her feel uncomfortable.  He paced restlessly around the bench, pausing now and then to fix his eyes right on Marilyn.  Usually, at these moments, he’d snicker a bit.  Watching the girl wait for her father to die didn’t bother him in the least…if anything, it only served to make him happier.

After about ten minutes of silence, he paused once again and winked at the girl.  “You ain’t scared, are you?”

Marilyn stared at the floor.

“Well, you don’t have a thing to worry about.  These boys are ruthlessly efficient.  We pulled our first job in Chicago back in ’48.  Bank robbery on the North Side.  One of the most brilliant plans I’ve ever seen.

“It was the day the armored car came to pick up the money, and security was tighter than a drum.  Six armed guards waited outside the bank, all with machine guns.  You couldn’t so much have touched the guys in the car as they pulled up to pick up the money.”

Kane laughed.  “Wasn’t a problem, though.  We were in a beat-up old Nash just up the street.  As a getaway car, it’d have been useless.  The police didn’t bat an eyelash at it.  Maybe they would’ve if they’d seen us pull on our gas masks, but by then, it was too late.

“We lobbed ten canisters into the midst of the crowd.  It knocked out the couriers, the guards, and some members of the crowd—we weren’t really particular about them.  I think the Tribune gave us credit for twelve deaths the next day—not bad for a first-time job!  The gas threw up quite a cloud, and no one saw us drive off with the armored car.

“They sent the cops after us, but it was too late for that.  We had their beats down—knew just when and where they’d be—and we stuck to two streets that wouldn’t get patrolled again for another three minutes.  Pulled into an abandoned repair shop, transferred the money to an ice cream truck, and puttered calmly back to headquarters—selling three cones on the way!  No, they weren’t poisoned.  That would’ve been funny, but it’d have put the police on our trail.”

Kane continued pacing the room.

“We didn’t stick with bank robberies, though.  Eventually, we moved into something perfectly suited for a gang district.  The protection racket.  Only, we improved on the concept.  Most gangs hound small store owners, people that don’t have much money, extracting tiny sums in a business that needs a lot of collectors.  Not us!  We focused on something a little more exclusive!  Dentists!”

Bob dropped his pipe.  “Beg pardon,” he said.  “I could’ve sworn you said dentists—”

“There’s nothing wrong with your hearing, Santa Claus!” Kane smirked at the old man.  “I said dentists.  There’s a lot of fights in Chicago.  A lot of fights lead to a lot of tooth problems, and a lot of tooth problems lead to a lot of dentists!  You’d never guess how many there were, unless you went looking for them.

“In fact, that’s exactly what we did.  We made appointments, had our teeth examined, then gave them the diagnosis.  Pay up, or shut up—for good.  And we didn’t sully our hands with any of that kid’s stuff most mobs do—drive-bys, firebombs, that sort of thing.  No, we were artistic with our stings!”

“One of the dentists who was reluctant to pay was rather old.  He’d just had back surgery, and the pain had been getting to him.  When he was found dead in his office, entire bottle of acid consumed, the cops called it suicide.  Who were we to argue with the police?

“There was another one…Snodgrass was his name.  Nearsighted fellow.  Glasses an inch thick—we measured after he died—and he couldn’t see more than twice that distance without them.  He didn’t notice, one day when he was stepping into the elevator shaft, that the car hadn’t come up to get him.  Might’ve died instantly, if his practice hadn’t been on the twentieth floor!

“After that, we didn’t really have trouble with dentists.  Collecting from them didn’t take much time, so we started something else profitable.  Drugstore holdups!  Between the pillboxes and the matchboxes, there’s quite a bit of that green stuff.  Here, we were extremely ingenious with our plans.  Whenever we stuck up a store, we only sent one man to do the job.  Each time, it was a different one, and each time, he stuck up the store a different way.  That way, the police wouldn’t be able to establish a suspect, or an M.O.  Instead of looking for a gang, they’re looking for six different holdup men—most of whom were either masked or disguised.  Most of whom.  They won’t trust the few descriptions from the times we weren’t masked.

“We plan our actions, we execute perfectly, and we don’t leave any clues behind.  Most importantly, we stay in our own territory.  It’s not because that’s what we’re supposed to do—it’s because you stay out of trouble in your own territory.  Other gangs generally leave you alone in your own territory, because they know you’ll retaliate.  They know that because if you cut into theirs, they’ll retaliate against you.  We stay off their turf, they stay off our turf—everybody’s happy.  It’s most effective for our organization.”

Neil frowned.  “If that’s the case, then why do you want to kill Malone?”

“Because that alley cat don’t play by the rules!”  Unchecked fury came over Kane’s face.  “Just because the West Street Gang’s Chicago’s toughest doesn’t mean they can go play around wherever they want.  We respect them—we stay out of their space—and what do we get for that?  Two banks held up in our territory!  A protection racket—on our drugstores!  They always collect just before we hold ‘em up!  They even shot one of our dentists!”

“I don’t see what you have to complain about,” the dispatcher murmured.  “Gangsters don’t exactly follow rules.”

Kane fixed him with a withering glare.  “We DO have our own set, wise guy.  Contrary to what you might think, a gang’s not entirely without honor.”

You could’ve fooled me! Marilyn thought, but she kept it to herself.

Brrring!  Brrring!

Everyone jumped at the unexpected noise.  The telephone sat on the dispatcher’s desk, right next to the radio he usually used to keep track of the different trains on the line.  He stared at the phone, as if the object was something from another world.

Brrring!  Brrring!

Wise turned to Kane.  “What do I do?” he asked.

“What do you think?” Kane hissed.  “Answer it, you fool!  Say exactly what you normally would, and no word about us, or I’ll kill that girl faster than you can say Missoula…”

Wise picked up the phone.  “Hello?”

“Howard!”

Wise cringed at the familiar voice.  “How are you, Jim?” he asked.

Marilyn stiffened.

“Couldn’t be better!” Mr. Dawson said over his end of the conversation.  “This is one of those nights you just never want to end.  We’re making great time, Howard.  Just stopped off for water in Saco—Dick’s handling that.  [Dick Harlan was the fireman with the crew.]  Anything coming that we’ll have to pull over for, or can we just make a straight run into Glasgow?”

It was the toughest moment of Howard Wise’s life.  He’d known Jim Dawson for over fifteen years.  They’d worked together, shared many a laugh, even gone hunting and fishing on occasion.  Wise ranked Dawson as one of the finest men he’d ever met.  He couldn’t just give him the all clear!

But if he didn’t, Kane would shoot Marilyn.  Wise had to think of something, and fast!

No doubt, Dick Powell would have quipped his way out of this.  Humphrey Bogart would’ve taken all the guns away somehow.  John Wayne—well, you don’t really think anyone could put one over on the Duke, do you?  But Wise wasn’t a Hollywood star.  He was Howard Wise, dispatcher.  When it came to telling trains where to go, Wise was a master at following the rules and helping the Great Northern move like clockwork.  He wasn’t good at coming up with something at the spur of the moment.  There was nothing he could do!

“Nothing’s on the line, Jim.  The Empire Builder’s very late.  You’ll beat it by an hour, at least.”

“That’s all I wanted to know, Howard.”  Something died within Wise as he heard those words.  “Thanks for the information.  Oh, by the way, is Marilyn there?”

Brown snuck a glance at the bench.  Kane had his gun pointed straight at Marilyn’s head.

“No.”

“Oh.  Well, if she shows up, tell her Daddy will be home soon.”  In the background, Wise heard a shout.  “They’re done with the water.  I’ve got to go.  See you soon, Howard!”

“See you soon, Jim!”  Wise slowly took the receiver away from his ear and placed it back on the telephone.

Then, he suddenly buried his head in his hands, like he was about to cry.

“Ha, ha, ha!  Very good, dispatcher!”  Kane twirled the machine gun in the air, catching it in his left hand on the way down.  “You deserve an Academy Award for that little performance right there.  He’ll never know what—”

A bright light suddenly shone on the station agent, and thin-lined shadows moved slowly over the wall.  Headlights!  A car was pulling up to the station!

Kane’s face was bathed in white light as the smile left his face.  He tossed his gun to the other cohort with a machine gun, sticking his right hand into a bulging pocket.

“Hide those!” he hissed.  “Keep the door covered.  If that’s the police…”

The door swung open.