Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [20]
Fallon went to the door with the boy. ‘You’d better stay away for the rest of the day,’ he said. ‘I’m not happy about this system. It only needs someone to see you coming through that graveyard and we’ve had it.’
The boy nodded. ‘I can’t come back until this evening anyway. I’ve got to help Kathleen in the shop.’
Fallon slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then do that. We don’t want her to get suspicious. What about the car?’
‘I hired it for three days,’ Murphy said. ‘Shall I take it back?’
Fallon thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No, hang on to it. It might be useful if we have to get out of here in a hurry.’ He opened the door and gave the boy a push. ‘Go on! Off with you! I’ll see you sometime between five and six.’ Murphy flashed him a smile and hurried away through the rain.
When Fallon went back to his makeshift bed he found a brown paper parcel on the floor. He smiled. The boy must have forgotten to tell him about it. Inside he found sandwiches, two or three apples and some oranges. Also a pair of cheap shoes for Rogan. He ate a little of the fruit and lay back on the blankets and stared up at the vaulted ceiling, and after a while he followed Rogan’s example and went to sleep again.
When he awakened, Rogan was sitting on the floor by the boxes with some of the weapons spread out around him. He had a length of string which appeared to be fastened to one of the hand grenades and he stood up and backed away, paying the string out as he went. ‘What are you supposed to be doing?’ Fallon asked.
Rogan looked over his shoulder and grinned. ‘Just experimenting,’ he said. ‘This is a good way of exploding a grenade by remote control. The string is attached to the pin – pull the string and up she goes.’
Fallon frowned. ‘For God’s sake mind you don’t pull the string now.’ There was an obvious irritation in his voice which he made no attempt to conceal. He was getting little tired of Patrick Rogan.
The small man shrugged, an expression of unconcern on his face. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t tell me the great Martin Fallon is losing his nerve?’ He laughed malevolently and picked up a canvas belt. ‘Now this is the great stuff – plastic gelignite. It’s even waterproof. I’ve pulled off some good stunts in my time using this.’
Fallon gazed at him in disgust There was something unclean about him, something completely inhuman. ‘For Christ’s sake keep your mouth shut if that’s all you can talk about,’ he said coldly and lay back against the blankets again.
The rest of the day passed slowly. The two men only spoke when it was necessary and Rogan paced backwards and forwards over the stone flags, growing more and more impatient as the day advanced. Fallon slept again during the afternoon, and the evening was drawing in when he awakened. He glanced at his watch. It was almost five o’clock. Rogan was standing at the grill looking out into the graveyard. ‘What’s the weather like?’ Fallon said.
The small man spoke without turning round. ‘Bloody awful! I don’t think it’s ever going to stop raining.’
The room seemed smaller as the shadows lengthened in the corners and Fallon got up and walked across to the door and opened it slightly. The rain hammered down from the leaden sky, splashing deliberately into the mounded graves. He lit a cigarette and stood looking across the gravestones down to the wall, dimly seen in the gloom. The graves were uncared for, for the most part, with grass and weeds running wild, and all at once he was filled with a terrible sadness at the emptiness and the futility of life. There was a creaking of rusty hinges as the door in the wall opened and Murphy hurried through the gravestones towards him.
Fallon opened the door and the boy slipped inside. His face was white with excitement. ‘Jesus, help us, Mr. Fallon! I’ve