Terror at Glasgow Station: Chapter 5: A Mysterious Visitor

A bitterly cold wind blew through the doorway, bringing with it several flakes of snow and ruffling the flames in the fireplace.  Yet it was not the wind that had opened the door, for the knob had distinctly turned.  Seconds ticked past, and no one entered.

“Hello?!” Kane called.  “Hey, you out there!  Are you coming in or not?”

No reply came, but suddenly, a large figure was revealed in the doorway.  It must have been eight feet tall, with a shoulder span of at least four feet!  Rising out of the gloom, it—

Made its way through before getting gently placed on the ground at the left side of the door.  Behind it was its carrier, a little man, about half the object’s height and with wispy white hair that stuck in at least sixty different directions.  He had a thin, protruding face, with eyes that sat neatly behind black circle-rimmed glasses.  Glancing around, he paused stiffly in the doorway.

“This train hasn’t arrived yet, has it?”

“No, it ain’t,” scowled Kane.  “We’re all waiting for it!”

“So’m I,” said the man, slamming the door behind him.  “I’m Peckinpaugh.  Horace Peckinpaugh.  You’re the man that sold me a ticket?”

“That was me,” said the station agent, whirling around.  “I’m the one you talked to over the phone.”

“Ah.  Ah, I see.  Very good.”  Peckinpaugh wandered over to the fire and warmed his hands, leaving his—whatever that thing was—standing next to the door.

Kane stared at it suspiciously.  Glancing at the gangster next to Wise, he made a motion with his head.  The man started toward it—

“Don’t touch my statue!” snapped Peckinpaugh, turning his head.

“You’re what?” the gangster grunted.

“My statue!  It’s for the Portland Art Museum.  I’m taking it there on the Empire Builder tonight.”

“Portland?”  The gangster glanced over at Kane.  “I thought you said Malone was going to—”

“Shut up!” snapped Kane.  “The train goes to Portland too.  They split it up at Spokane.”

“None of you better touch this statue!” Peckinpaugh groaned.  “It’s extremely delicate, and even more valuable.  Have you ever heard of LaRoque?”

“La who?” Kane asked.

“Is that near LA or something?” queried the gangster with the sunflower seeds.

Peckinpaugh stared at the man like he was an invader from another world.  “Not a what, you uncultured simpleton.  Who!  Pierre LaRoque—one of the most famous sculptors of our modern day and age.  He’s graciously decided to donate his creation to the museum, and he’s assigned to take it there.  Gentleman, if one of you so much as lays a finger on that statue, it’ll be my personal responsibility to make you sorry you ever did so.”

Kane laughed.  “Our apologies, sir!” he winked at his cohort by the dispatcher.  “We’re not art collectors, you know.  I guess we could take some lessons on toughness from you.”

“You sure could!” agreed Peckinpaugh.  “No one’s as good at protecting these statues as I am!  I never let them out of my sight, not even for a minute!”

“It’s out of your sight now,” Marilyn said calmly.

Peckinpaugh stared at her.  “Just what do you mean by that?”

“I mean it’s out of your sight now, Mr. Peckinpaugh.  You’ve got it all wrapped up in that sheet!”

“Oh.  Oh.  Well, only an idiot would carry it around unprotected.  That’s porcelain in there.  Very fragile.  VERY fragile, indeed.  Mind if I sit down?  Thanks!” he said, without waiting for an answer.  He took a position on the bench, right next to the gangster at the south end.  “Got a match, mister?” he said, pulling out his pipe.

“Huh?  Oh, uh...sure.”  The gangster pulled a book out of his pocket, started to hand it to him, then suddenly gave it a closer look.  “Wait, not that one—that’s…skip it.  Here.”

“Royal Arms Hotel, Chicago.  You’ve stayed there?”

“Er, once or twice—”

“I made the mistake of staying there once.  Nasty place.  That whole part of Chicago’s run by some big gang or somethin’.  The—”

“The Windy City Devils?” Bob asked.  Next thing he knew, he felt something small and metallic sticking into his ribs.

“Watch it, buddy!” the gangster at the table hissed.

“No.  No, it wasn’t.  It was the West Streeters.  I remember, because that’s where the hotel was.  Right on West Street.”

The gangster at the table relaxed.

“Yes, I do recall Bli—my friend here picking that up,” Kane said.  “Rough part of town for sure…especially for the guy that dropped that.”

The gangster smiled.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah…”

“When’s the train arriving?” Peckinpaugh demanded.  “Anyone in here have the time?”

Brown shrugged.  “It should be here in twenty minutes,” he said, “though all this snow’s really thrown a wrench into the schedules.  You won’t have much longer to wait—be patient.”

“Patient.  Hm!  I like that.  You get paid to sit here every day, and you talk about patience!  Me, I booked reservations on this train three days early, specifically so I’d have plenty of time to get to Portland before the exhibit opens.  And now look what’s happened!  If I’m delayed any more, I’ll miss the ceremony completely!”

“Say, that’d be a pity, wouldn’t it?” Kane smiled.  “We’ll have that train out of here as fast as we can, won’t we, boys?  Uh, no dawdling when you’re getting on at the platform—”

“Horace Peckinpaugh never dawdles,” snapped the art courier.  “Nor does he even use the word dawdle.  Kindly keep such paltry vocabulary where it belongs.”

“Say, boss, does he mean the henhouse?” asked the gangster with the sunflower seeds.  “Poultry, henhouse—”

“Paltry, not poultry, you idiot!”

Brown shook, knowing exactly who Peckinpaugh had just called an idiot.

Frowning, the gangster dropped his sunflower seeds.  His right hand slipped down into his pocket, straight for his—”

“Ah-ah-ah!” Kane raised a hand.  “Mr. Peckinpaugh’s doing a very important job.  We wouldn’t want to do anything to hinder him in his work now, would we?  Especially considering how near the trains are?”

The plural flew completely over Peckinpaugh’s head, but the gangster got it.  Relaxing, he started to pick up his sunflower seeds.  Then, he thought better of it.  Quickly, he nudged Brown’s chair with his foot.

“Seeds!” he muttered.  “You pick ‘em up.”

Wise was still hearing Jim Dawson’s voice.  Daddy will be home soon!  Daddy will be home soon!  If there was a chance for him to do something, it was now, but he was a completely defeated man.  He watched silently as Brown got up from his chair, knelt down, picked up the bag of seeds, and handed them back to the gangster.  Grinning and not bothering to say thanks, the gangster went right back to work on the seeds.

Brrring!  Brrring!

Kane stared at the phone, then at Wise.  “Who’s that?”

“It’s not Dawson,” Bob said from the other end of the room.  “He won’t be stopping anymore until…”

Cautiously, Wise picked up the phone.  “Hello,” he said, flatly, with no emotion.  Then, a startled look came over his face.  “Yes.  Oh, sure, just a minute…”  He pulled the receiver away from his ear.

“It’s for her!” he whispered.

“Me?” said Marilyn.

Kane nodded at the phone.  “Well, get over there, missy, and answer it.  And remember, be polite.  Otherwise…”

Polite was a funny word coming from Kane’s mouth.  Not ha-ha funny, but funny.  Marilyn wasn’t thinking of that as she stepped over to the phone, though.  There were a few people who might’ve known she’d be at the station, but only one of them would be likely to call right now…

“Hello?” she said, taking the receiver?

“Marilyn?”

“Hi, Mavis.”

“Is Dad there yet?”

“No,” Marilyn said, trying not to throw too much emphasis in the word.

“I thought he was supposed to be there at eight!”

“He’s…he’s going to be late.”

“How late?” said Mavis.  “Ten minutes, an hour, a day…”

How to answer that question?  “Well, he’s scheduled for about forty minutes from now.”  It was the hardest sentence Marilyn had ever uttered.

“That’s not too long,” said Mavis.  She sighed.  “Mom’s sleeping comfortably right now, and everyone else has gone to bed.  It’s getting pretty lonely down here.  I might come and wait with you.”

Marilyn nearly dropped the phone.  No!  That couldn’t happen!  Bad enough that she had to sit here, waiting for her father to die, but Mavis…and what if the gangsters never meant to let any of them go again?

“Don’t do that!” she cried.  “I…I mean,” she realized how that must have sounded, “Mother might wake up and need you, and…well, you’ve got to stick around just in case.  Daddy could be later, and…you needn’t come here.”

The situation had gone from bad to worse.  Mavis Dawson wasn’t as interested in trains as her younger sister, but she loved Marilyn very much.  If she had even an inkling of what was going on, she’d try to help.  But what could Mavis do against these gangsters?  What could the police do, for that matter?  Glasgow wasn’t very big.  If this turned into a showdown, the Windy City Devils would probably win…

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Mavis.  “Guess I’ll just have to listen to My Friend Irma.  You tell Dad when he gets here that Mom and I are still waiting for the television set.”

“I’ll try.”  Marilyn couldn’t help throwing in some doubt.  “See you…see you later, Mavis.”

“Goodbye, Marilyn!”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Marilyn hung up the phone.

“Who’s Mavis?” Kane asked.

Neil had sat down on the bench, fidgeting impatiently with his left foot.  Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.  “It’s her sister!” he shouted.  “Her sister was just calling to ask when the train’s arriving!  She just had to…”

Kane probably would have shot Neil then and there, but one of his own gang members bailed out the engineer.  It was the one with the Royal Arms Hotel matchbook—a portly feller, probably in his fifties, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  He waved a hand at Peckinpaugh.

“Pardon our friend, here,” he said.  “This guy gets excited sometimes.  He…he has bets riding over the telephone.  If that’d been his ballet teacher, he’d have been rolling in the dough.”

The hideous stare from Kane broke into a silly grin.  Never mind the fact that none of the gangsters had even laid eyes on Neil before that night.  Peckinpaugh was a stranger to the station—he didn’t know who anyone was, or how long they’d known each other.

“Yeah, it’s our little game,” he said, playing into the act.  “Nothing to be concerned about.  You lost that one, pal.  Better face it.”

He turned his gaze towards the desk, where Marilyn still stood silently next to the telephone.  “Sit back down, missy, or—you’ll tire yourself out standing there,” he added, for Peckinpaugh’s benefit.

“Can I grab my parka first?” Marilyn asked.  “It’s getting kind of chilly in here.”

“Uh…sure, but no funny stuff!”

“Don’t know what you mean by chilly,” snapped Peckinpaugh, “but if it gets two degrees warmer in here, I’m going to have to insist you put out that fire.  Heat’s not good for that statue!”

Were it not such a tense situation, someone might have argued with him.  As it was, everybody kept their mouths shut.  No one wanted to say anything.