Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [18]
Rogan grunted and made no reply. Already they were running through the outskirts of Castlemore and Murphy slowed down and followed the other vehicles quietly into the town. It was a little after ten when he cut the engine at the back of the church. Fallon unlocked the gate and led the way through the graveyard. The rain had increased in volume again and Rogan was soaked to the skin by the time they reached the shelter of the vault. Fallon switched on the light and started to strip off his wet coat. Rogan groaned. ‘Christ, is there no better place than this?’
Fallon shrugged and said evenly, ‘You’re lucky to be here. It’s the safest place for the moment.’
Rogan cursed and turned on the boy. ‘Why the hell can’t we hide up at your place?’ he demanded.
The boy flushed. He tried to speak, but Fallon cut in and said coldly, ‘Because I say so.’
Rogan turned angrily. ‘And who the hell are you to be giving the orders. I’m the Chief in Ulster.’
Fallon laughed sharply. ‘You mean you were.’ He walked forward until he was standing very close to Rogan. He looked steadily down into the small man’s eyes. ‘Don’t try to play games with me. Rogan. You and I both know why I’m here. There was some question of a deal, I understand.’ A shutter clicked in Rogan’s eyes and Fallon continued. ‘You’ll stay here for three days and you’ll do as I say. After we’ve crossed the border you can hang yourself for all I care.’ He smiled and said softly, ‘You see, I don’t happen to like you.’
Rogan smiled mirthlessly, his lips drawn back to show even white teeth. There was hate in his eyes as he said, ‘All right, Mr. Fallon. Anything you say. You’re the boss - for the present.’ He turned to Murphy. ‘Get me a pair of shoes in the morning, kid. Size nine. Brogues will do fine.’
Murphy nodded and moved towards the door. Fallon followed and stood for a moment, a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘You did a good job tonight,’ he said. The boy flushed and an expression of blazing pride shone in his face. He tried to speak and then he turned quickly and went out into the night.
Fallon went over to the bed and took two of the blankets. ‘You can have the bed for tonight,’ he said.
Rogan nodded and began to take off his jacket. Suddenly he swung round and said, ‘We got off on the wrong foot, you and I. I’m sorry. I was a bit worked up. Everything happened so damned quickly.’
Fallon didn’t believe a word of it. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, in a non-committal tone.
Rogan sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t mind hanging round this town for a few days,’ he said. ‘There’s one bastard here I’d like to even the score with before I leave.’
Fallon paused in the act of spreading his blankets on the floor in the corner. ‘And who would that be?’ he said.
Rogan got into bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin. ‘The bloody County Inspector,’ he said savagely. ‘Stuart they call him. Ever since he got the job last year he’s hounded me from every safe hole I had. He was the one who lifted me three days ago.’ There was a deadly coldness in his voice when he added, ‘I’ll fix Mr. County Inspector Stuart before I go.’
Fallon made no reply. He switched off the light and wrapping himself in the blankets, settled down in the corner. Rogan sickened him. What type are they getting in the Organization now, he asked himself? And then he smiled sadly and decided that perhaps the type had not changed. Perhaps Martin Fallon was the one who had changed. Whatever happened he was going to have to keep an eye on Rogan, that was obvious. A thought struck him and he smiled and reached for his jacket. The shoulder holster was sewn into place just under his left armhole. He withdrew the Luger quietly and placed it under his blankets, close to his right hand.
He used his jacket as a pillow and leaned back and waited for sleep. The day’s events rushed through the darkness before him, spinning round and round like a piece of film with all the scenes wrongly joined together.