Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [19]
CHAPTER FOUR
FALLON slept lightly. When he first awakened and checked his watch it was shortly after five. He was cold and stiff and his limbs ached from contact with the stone floor. He lay in the darkness listening to the rain and the wind as it moaned through the graveyard. After a while he drifted into sleep again.
He became aware that someone was prodding him and opened his eyes, at the same time feeling for the butt of the Luger. Johnny Murphy squatted beside him. The blanket was down from the iron grill and a grey light seeped into the room. ‘Is it still raining?’ Fallon said softly.
The boy nodded. ‘It hasn’t let up all night.’ He held up a large thermos flask. ‘Get some of this into you, Mr. Fallon. It’ll do you a power of good.’
Fallon swallowed some of the hot liquid. It was coffee, strong and good. He sat up and rested his back against the wall. ‘How’s our friend doing?’ he said.
Murphy grunted in disgust. ‘Fast asleep. I don’t like that man at all, Mr. Fallon. It’s the look in his eyes puts me off.’
Fallon smiled softly. ‘Can’t say I blame you.’ He looked at his watch. It was a little after eight. ‘You’re early enough,’ he said. ‘What’s the news in the outside world?’
Murphy produced a paper and said, with a shake of the head, ‘It isn’t so good, Mr. Fallon and that’s a fact. They’re on to you. They haven’t had enough time to get much into the papers, but I listened to the seven o’clock news on the radio. You were recognized.’
Fallon swore softly. ‘Hell, I forgot about the damned peeler who bumped into me in the corridor. He recognized me. I had to dump him in the toilet. What did it say on the news?’
‘They spoke about you mostly. Gave a full description. Described the scar and said you were wearing a beard now.’
Fallon laughed tightly. ‘Well, that’s the first thing that has to go then. A pity. I’d grown rather fond of this beard.’
The boy smiled. ‘I thought of that myself. I’ve brought you the necessaries.’ He took a bundle from one pocket and unwrapped it. Inside was a razor and a tube of shaving cream. ‘I’ve put a new blade in it,’ he added. ‘I thought you’d probably need it.’
Fallon rubbed some of the cream well into his beard and started to shave it off. It was a painful business without hot water and he winced and cursed softly several times while Murphy sat back on his heels and watched him. It took about fifteen minutes to make a reasonable job and he put the razor down with a sigh of relief and wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘How do I look?’ he said.
Murphy whistled. ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you. Mind you, there’s still the scar, but you look ten years younger.’
Before Fallon could reply there was a groan from the bed and Rogan pushed himself up on one elbow. He looked across at them, rubbing a hand across his eyes, and said, ‘What the hell are you two up to? What time is it?’
Fallon stood up and moved across the room. ‘No need to worry,’ he said. ‘It’s about eight o’clock.’ He turned to the boy. ‘Better give him some coffee.’
Rogan stared at him in surprise. ‘What’s happened to the beard?’ he said.
Fallon shrugged and handed him the newspaper. ‘If you look in the stop press you’ll see why. They’re on to me. They broadcast a description on the radio.’
Rogan read the item in the stop press column and snorted with disgust. ‘There’s hardly a mention of me here,’ he said. ‘It’s all about you.’
For a moment Fallon had an insane desire to laugh, but he controlled himself with an effort. ‘Obviously we’re going to have to stick close to this place. Perhaps for longer than we thought. They’ll raise the whole countryside.’
Rogan