A Prayer for the Dying - Jack Higgins [46]
It was a difficult shot at that distance for a handgun, but not impossible. Fallon crouched down, holding the Ceska ready in both hands, aiming at the left-hand window. Meehan appeared briefly and paused, raising a glass to his lips. Fallon fired the silenced pistol once.
In the penthouse, a mirror on the wall shattered and Meehan dropped to the floor. Rupert, who was lying on the couch watching television, turned quickly. His eyes widened.
'My God, look at the window. Somebody took a shot at you.'
Meehan looked up at the bullet hole, the spider's web of cracks, then across at the mirror. He got up slowly.
Rupert joined him. 'You want to know something, ducky? You're getting to be too damn dangerous to know.'
Meehan shoved him away angrily. 'Get me a drink, damn you. I've got to think this thing out.'
A couple of minutes later the phone rang. When he picked up the receiver, he got a call-box signal and then the line cleared as a coin went in at the other end.
'That you, Meehan?' Fallon said. 'You know who this is?'
'You bastard,' Meehan said. 'What are you trying to do?'
'This time I missed because I meant to,' Fallon said. 'Remember that and tell your goons to stay away from Holy Name - and that includes you.'
He put down the receiver and Meehan did the same. He turned, his face white with fury, and Rupert handed him a drink. 'You don't look too good, ducky, bad news?'
'Fallon,' Meehan said between his teeth. 'It was that bastard Fallon and he missed because he wanted to.'
'Never mind, ducky,' Rupert said. 'After all, you've always got me.'
'That's right,' Meehan said. 'So I have. I was forgetting,' and he hit him in the stomach with his clenched fist.
It was late when Fallon got back, much later than he had intended, and there was no sign of Jenny. He took off his shoes and went up the stairs and along the landing to his room quietly.
He undressed, got into bed and lit a cigarette. He was tired. It had certainly been one hell of a day. There was a slight, timid knock on the door. It opened and Jenny came in.
She wore a dark-blue nylon nightdress, her hair was tied back with a ribbon and her face was scrubbed clean. She said, 'Jack Meehan was on the phone about half an hour ago. He says he wants to see you in the morning.'
'Did he say where?'
'No, he just said to tell you it couldn't be more public so you've nothing to worry about. He'll send a car at seven-thirty.'
Fallon frowned. 'A bit early for him, isn't it?'
'I wouldn't know.' She hesitated. 'I waited. You said an hour. You didn't come.'
'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It couldn't be helped, believe me.'
'I did,' she said. 'You were the first man in years who didn't treat me like something you'd scrape off your shoe.'
She started to cry. Wordless, he pulled back the covers and held out a hand. She stumbled across the room and got in beside him.
He switched off the lamp. She lay there, her face against his chest, sobbing, his arms about her. He held her close, stroking her hair with his other hand and after a while, she slept.
10
Exhumation
The car that called to pick Fallon up the following morning at seven-thirty was a black, funeral limousine. Varley was at the wheel dressed in a neat blue serge suit and peaked cap. There was no other passenger.
Fallon climbed into the rear and closed the door. He reached across and slid back the glass window between the driver's compartment and the rest of the car.
'All right,' he said, as Varley moved into gear and drove away. 'Where are we going?'
'The Catholic cemetery.' Fallon, in the act of lighting his first cigarette of the day, started, and Varley said soothingly, 'Nothing to worry about, Mr Fallon. Honest. It's just that Mr Meehan has an exhumation first thing this morning.'
'An exhumation?' Fallon said.
'That's right. They don't come along very often and Mr