Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [27]
As he moved along the hall to the foot of the stairs he suddenly realized that Rogan was bending over a small table that stood in the corner. For a moment Fallon watched him in silence and then he moved forward and said softly, ‘I thought I told you to stay in your room?’
Rogan turned quickly, alarm on his face. He was holding a telephone directory in his hands and he replaced it on the table and laughed falsely. ‘Sorry, Fallon. I was just checking up on the address of a friend.’
‘Going visiting?’ Fallon said sarcastically.
Rogan shook his head and started to climb the stairs. ‘It was a fella I used to know in this town. I thought he might have been able to help us, but he isn’t in the book any more. He must have moved.’
They mounted to the first floor and moved along the landing. At the bottom of the stairs that led to the attics they paused and Fallon said, ‘Now this time try doing as you’re told. Things are bad enough without you trying anything stupid.’
Rogan turned, fists clenched, and said bitterly, ‘Don’t push me too hard, Fallon. You may have been a big man once, but you’ve had your day.’
Fallon moved in close and crowded him against the wall. ‘Do you want a fight?’ he said savagely. ‘Because there’s nothing I’d like better than to beat you to a pulp.’ For a moment Rogan glared up at him and then he dropped his gaze. Fallon’s voice became cold and deadly. It fell across Rogan like a whiplash. ‘I saved your dirty hide because your mother begged me to. That’s really funny because as far as I’m concerned she’s better off without you. For the record I’d like you to know that you’re just about the lowest rat I’ve ever come across.’ For a moment longer he stood looking down at the small man and then he said quietly, ‘Go on, get to bed.’
Rogan raised his head slowly and there was a terrible hate in his eyes. ‘Good night to you, Mr. Fallon,’ he said, and turned and began to mount the stairs.
Fallon watched him until he was nearly at the top and then he said, ‘And by the way, Rogan, I wouldn’t advise you to try and shoot me in the back. You’d find it most unhealthy. In fact, I’m waiting hopefully for you to try.’ Rogan paused on the top step without looking round and then continued up and disappeared into the gloom of the top landing.
As he got into bed Fallon checked his watch. It was only nine o’clock. The bed was cool and freshly made with clean linen sheets that smelt faintly of lavender. He guessed she must have unpacked them specially and smiled faintly in the darkness and sighed. He lit a cigarette and lay smoking and thinking about Anne Murray. She was something of a problem. He recalled the feel of her in his arms as she had cried against his shoulder and a wave of tenderness ran through him. For a moment or two he let his mind dwell on pleasant things. On how it might have been. He cursed softly and jerked his thoughts back to reality. It was pointless dwelling on what was now unattainable.
He tried to consider the problem rationally and logically. He desired the girl. And why not? She was attractive, young, almost beautiful, and he hadn’t slept with a woman for longer than he cared to remember. But this wasn’t the kind of girl one thought of just sleeping with. This girl would love one man, hard and fast, in every possible way she could. There was steel in her and integrity and even a fine touch of humour. What had she said? Don’t make any mistakes if you’re up during the night. He chuckled softly and turned over and went to sleep.
He came awake to a gentle, insistent pressure on one shoulder. His hand darted under the pillow and fastened over the butt of the Luger, and then he detected the elusive fragrance to which, by now, he was so well accustomed. He relaxed and sat up. ‘Now who’s picked on the wrong room?’ he said.
‘I’m sorry to bother you. It’s silly, I know, but I thought I heard someone downstairs.’ She sounded genuinely worried.