Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [67]
He nodded. ‘The world’s well rid of him. He was a mad dog.’ It suddenly occurred to him that Anne Murray was in the clear now. He cursed softly. If only he had some means of letting her know.
Rose gently swabbed blood away with a sponge from the sink and said, ‘It looks bad, Mr. Fallon. You need a doctor and your skin’s turned a funny colour along the edge of this bandage. It smells rotten.’
He got to his feet and walked over to the mirror above the fireplace and looked at his chest. On the left side, below the new wound, the flesh that lined the old bandage was puffed up and angry looking. He stared at it in horror as the realization of what was happening dawned on him. He went back to the chair and sat down. ‘Patch me up,’ he said, ‘the best way you can. Get cotton wool and a sheet. Rip it up into strips and bind me up tight.’
She produced cotton wool from a cupboard and pulled a sheet down from the airing rack that hung from the ceiling. As she worked, Fallon was thinking. He had only a few hours at the most – if he was to survive at all he needed hospital treatment badly. He laughed shortly. No wonder he had been getting the attacks of agonizing pain when poison from that first wound was steadily creeping through his entire body. He had to cross the border by evening and there was only one way of doing that – by train.
Rose was criss-crossing the bandages around his shoulder. She looped them under his armpit and around the neck in a figure of eight. When she had finished, Fallon could hardly move the arm. He managed a grin. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Now, can you get me a clean shirt and another jacket?’
She nodded. ‘I think so. I’ll see what I can dig up.’ She was gone for several minutes. When she returned she was carrying a white, collarless shirt and a presentable grey tweed jacket. ‘This is the jacket from his best suit,’ she said. The shirt was the type that unbuttoned right down the front and she managed to case it over his bandaged arm quite successfully. She buttoned it up and then produced a green silk scarf which she knotted round his neck and tucked into the shirt. When she had helped him into the jacket he regarded himself in the mirror.
‘You’ve done a grand job,’ he said.
‘I’d do anything for you, Mr. Fallon. You know that.’ She began to feed his bloodstained shirt to the fire. ‘What are we going to do now?’ she said.
He sat down carefully in the chair again. ‘That’s the tricky bit. I’ve got to get out of here. Somehow, I must get on a train that’s going south. But I don’t want you involved in this any more than I can help. As soon as I’ve gone you must get in touch with the police and report this. Tell them I threatened you.’
She sighed. ‘It’s a bad business, but at least one good thing’s come out of it. I’ll be able to get away from this place.’
Fallon leaned back in his chair and knitted his brows. ‘The real problem now is how the hell do I get into that station with all those police about.’
She frowned and then her face lit up and she said excitedly, ‘I’ve got it!’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘There’s a train at noon that crosses the border passing through Castlemore and Carlington. There are two packages in the van – china the old fella got at a sale. He’s re-sold them to a dealer in Castlemore and they’re to go by rail.’
‘How does all this help me?’ Fallon said.
She explained. ‘I’ll take you to the station in the van – I can drive it, you know. I’ll get your ticket and then I’ll drive in through the goods entrance to deliver the parcels. We usually unload them at the side of the platform. You can hide inside the van. When I tell you it’s all clear, you can jump out on to the platform and get straight on the train. You won’t need to pass through the station hall and the ticket barrier at all.’
‘But I told you I didn’t want to involve you any further,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to inform the police of what has happened here as soon as I’ve gone.’
She shrugged. ‘It’ll only take me twenty minutes to take you to the station and see you safely off. What difference will twenty minutes