Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins [7]
He had not gone very far before he realized that he was being followed. It was still too early for many people to be about and he walked at an easy pace through the main shopping centre. He paused once to light a cigarette. As he cupped his hands around the match, he glanced casually back along the street and saw a man in a flat cap and brown leather motoring coat, halt abruptly and look into a shop window.
Fallon continued at the same easy pace. He took the next turning off the main street and began to walk faster. He crossed the road and turned into a narrow alley. Halfway along the alley he paused and looked back. The man in the brown leather coat was standing at the end watching him. Fallon began to walk briskly now. He felt almost lighthearted. At least he wasn’t being followed by a policeman but by the rankest kind of amateur. He came out into a quiet street and flattened himself against the wall. His pursuer was running now, his footsteps echoing hollowly from the brick walls of the alley. When the steps were almost upon him, Fallon crossed the street and moved along the pavement.
There was no one about and the rain suddenly increased in volume until it bounced from the pavement in long lances and soaked heavily into the shoulders of his trench coat. A little way down the street he came to the entrance of a timber yard. He hesitated and glanced back in time to see the man in the leather coat dodge back out of sight into the alley. The timber yard was deserted and wood was piled everywhere. The place was a jungle with narrow passages giving access to the heart of it. Fallon moved a few paces inside and took up position behind a convenient pyramid of oak planks.
Within a few moments his pursuer arrived. He paused in the entrance, glancing about him cautiously, and then moved forward. Fallon waited until he had passed his hiding place and then he stepped out and said, ‘A dirty morning.’ The man turned quickly and Fallon hit him hard under the breastbone.
The man sagged against a wall of planks, the breath whistling out of his body. His head jerked back in agony as he fought for air and his cap fell to the ground. He was only a boy, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with red hair close-cropped to his skull. Fallon placed a hand on the boy’s neck and pushed his head down relentlessly. He repeated the action several times and then stood back and waited. After a moment the boy lifted a face that had turned bone-white and said with difficulty, ‘You might give a fella a chance to explain himself.’
Fallon shrugged. ‘I don’t like being followed. Who are you, anyway?’
The boy picked up his cap. ‘Will you look at that?’ he said. ‘Brand new last Monday and ruined.’ He attempted to wipe mud from the cap with his sleeve and finally cursed and replaced it on his head. ‘Murphy is the name, Mr. Fallon,’ he said. ‘Johnny Murphy. I was waiting for you at the station, but I had to be sure it was you.’
‘And how were you sure?’ Fallon asked.
‘Oh, it was the beard, I think. I was told to look out for a man with a beard.’ Here the boy laughed suddenly. ‘To tell you the truth, Mr. Fallon, I couldn’t believe it was you. Hell, I thought you’d look different somehow.’
Fallon smiled briefly. ‘People always do. It’s a valuable asset in this game.’ He took out a cigarette and lit it with difficulty in the rain. ‘How did you know I was coming?’ he said.
‘That was easy,’ Murphy told him. ‘The Supervisor of the night shift in the telephone exchange at Carlington is a friend. He takes messages from the other side and passes them on.’
Fallon swore suddenly. ‘I told Doolan I didn’t want any help,’ he said. ‘This job’s difficult enough without bringing kids into it’
Murphy shrugged and said lightly, ‘I may be a kid, but I’m all there is, Mr. Fallon. The polis made a clean sweep yesterday. Lucky for me I hadn’t actually joined the Organization. They didn’t have a line