Pay the Devil - Jack Higgins [47]
“You might do better to sleep it off,” Kevin Rogan said warningly.
Clay shook his head. “No, I prefer to go when I’m in the mood. Besides, there’s the matter of the Cooneys’ rent to take care of. I intend to pay their arrears.”
“But it isn’t the money he’s after, Colonel,” Kevin Rogan said. “It’s their land and cottage he wants for some purpose of his own, otherwise he’d have allowed them to go on, month after month, binding themselves to him body and soul.”
“He’ll take the money if I have to ram it down his throat,” Clay said grimly.
Kevin Rogan sighed. “I can see you’re set on it, Colonel. I wish I could come with you, but it’s essential I get home as soon as possible. I’ve important business on tonight.”
Clay leaned across and shook hands with him. “You’ve helped me enough for one day. Tell your father I’ll drop by tomorrow morning to have a look at that thigh of his.” He turned Pegeen off the road and up through the trees before the other could reply.
Once on top of the moor, he broke into a gallop and the wind began to revive him. He skirted the village and entered the grounds of Drumore House through a gap in the wall near the stables and cantered round to the front.
The old butler who opened the door was too well-trained to show any surprise at the condition of Clay’s face. He asked him to wait a moment and disappeared. After a little while, he returned and led the way along the passage to the conservatory. This time, however, he opened a door on the right and showed Clay into a small comfortably furnished study. “Sir George will be with you in a little while, Colonel,” he said. “May I get you a drink?”
Clay shook his head and the butler withdrew. Clay sat down in a wing-backed chair by the door and closed his eyes. The door had been left slightly ajar and he became aware of voices. Steps approached, and as they stopped outside, the butler said, “Now mind your manners when Sir George speaks to you, my man.”
Clay turned his head and peered through the crack. A small, rat-faced man in a shabby tweed suit stood humbly, hat in hands, as the butler opened the door into the conservatory for him. As they disappeared inside, Clay leaned back, a frown on his face. Somewhere, he had seen the man before. He had a memory for faces and this was one not easily forgotten—and then he remembered. That first night in Cohan’s Bar. The little man had been one of those listening to Dennis boast of the holdup on the Galway Road.
There was something strange here, surely. Clay peered out through the crack again in time to see the butler return on his own and disappear in the direction of the buttery. For a moment, Clay hesitated, and then he stepped across the passage and gently opened the opposite door.
The moist heat of the conservatory enveloped him as he moved inside and he could hear voices. He turned to the left and tiptoed along a smaller path which ran parallel to the main one. A moment later, he was cautiously viewing Sir George Hamilton and his visitor from behind a screen of vines.
“Get on with it, O’Brian,” Sir George said. “What have you managed to find out?”
“Oh, something good, your honor. Something special,” O’Brian told him.
“It had better be. God knows I’m paying you enough,” Sir George said acidly.
“It’ll do ye no good to try and keep a watch on the Rogans, because they’ve got guards out on the approaches to Hidden Valley,” O’Brian said. “But just before midnight, they’re picking up a cargo from a Galway fishing boat. What it is, I don’t know, but something special. Arms, I think.”
“It would be difficult to catch them at it,” Sir George mused. “Their sentries would see us crossing that last half-mile of moor to the cliffs. If the cargo is as important as you say, they’ll take extra care.”
“I’ve thought of that, your honor,” O’Brian said. “They’ve arranged to carry the stuff by pony to Drumore Woods and transfer it to carts there.”
Sir George gave an exclamation of triumph.
“By God, what