Читать книгу Cry of the Hunter - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 8

When the milk train pulled into Castlemore, Fallon was sleeping in a corner, his hat tilted over his eyes. An old farmer who had shared the compartment with him from Carlington, gave him a nudge and he came awake quickly and murmured his thanks.

The station was almost deserted and few passengers alighted. As he walked towards the barrier porters unloaded the milk churns noisily at the far end of the platform. A young policeman in the uniform of the Ulster Constabulary, revolver strapped high on his right side in black leather holster, chatted idly with the ticket-collector. His eyes flickered in a disinterested fashion over the passengers as they passed through, and he yawned hugely and lifted a hand to his mouth.

Fallon paused in the station entrance and looked across the square into a drift of fine rain. It had been easy. Almost too easy. He had crossed the border under cover of the darkness and rain, with no trouble at all. A brisk walk of half a mile had taken him into Carlington. Now here he was, back in enemy territory with almost every hand against him, and yet it was different somehow. There was not the old feeling of excitement, of tension. There was a flatness to this thing and an unreal quality as if it were a dream that he would soon wake from. He pulled his collar closely about his neck and struck out across the square into the rain.

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 on me.’

A vague feeling of alarm moved inside Fallon and suddenly he was afraid. The boy looked into his face steadily, the light smile firmly fixed on his mouth. After a few moments of silence Fallon relaxed and laughed. ‘It’s a proper bloody mess from the sound of it.’

Murphy nodded. ‘What can you expect? They’ve got Rogan and they don’t intend to lose him again. If ever there was a man they wanted to hang it’s him.’

Something in the tone of the boy’s voice made Fallon look at him sharply. ‘You don’t like Rogan much, do you?’

The smile on the boy’s face slipped a little. He forced it back into place. ‘He’s the Chief in Ulster and that’s enough for me.’

For a moment Fallon gazed searchingly at him and then he smiled and said, ‘Come on. We can’t stay here any longer. The workmen will be arriving at any minute.’

They moved away through the heavy rain, down towards the main street, and Fallon thought about the situation. It didn’t look good. In fact, it couldn’t have been worse. ‘Have they moved extra police in?’ he said.

The boy shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve noticed,’ he said. ‘Some detectives from Belfast arrived last night. They’ll be Rogan’s escort.’

‘How many?’ Fallon asked.

Murphy frowned. ‘Four, I think, but there may be more. I can’t be sure.’

Fallon nodded slowly. ‘No, four would be about right. If they intend to do this thing quietly they won’t want a six-foot peeler at every carriage window advertising the fact.’

They turned into the main road and Murphy said, ‘I don’t see how you can get him out, Mr Fallon.’

Fallon laughed shortly. ‘Neither do I at the moment,’ he said. ‘Still, I’ve got all day to think of something.’ He smiled suddenly at Murphy and said, ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing you followed me after all.’ The boy’s face split into a wide grin and Fallon continued, ‘Whatever happens I’m going to need a car.’ He took out his wallet and extracted ten pounds. He handed the money to Murphy and said, ‘Can you hire one all right?’

The boy nodded. ‘Dead easy. Will you be needing anything else?’

‘Such as?’ Fallon said.

‘Oh, explosives or arms. There’s a load of stuff the polis didn’t get to. It’s in a safe place.’

Fallon nodded slowly. ‘I’ll have a look at it later,’ he said. ‘For the time being all I want you to do is get the car and have it ready and waiting.’ He thought for a moment and added, ‘You can get me a ticket for the train as well. I don’t want to hang round that station too much.’

‘A ticket to Belfast?’ Murphy said.

Fallon shook his head. ‘No, somewhere along the line.’ He laughed. ‘No sense in wasting money.’ He looked out into the rain and up to the sky. ‘Looks as if this lot’s with us for the day.’ He turned suddenly and clapped the boy on the shoulder. ‘I’ll meet you here at one o’clock.’

An expression of surprise showed on Murphy’s face. ‘But what will you do till then, Mr Fallon? It won’t be safe for you on the streets.’

Fallon smiled. ‘I’m going to visit an old friend.’ His face hardened and he moved close to the boy and said, ‘Don’t try to follow me. This is someone I don’t want to be involved with the Organization. Do you understand?’

The smile disappeared from the boy’s face and he sobered up immediately. ‘Anything you say, Mr Fallon.’ He smiled again. ‘One o’clock then. I won’t be late.’ He plunged into the rain and walked quickly away up the street.

For several minutes Fallon stood in the doorway watching until the boy had disappeared from sight and then he pulled up his collar and ventured into the rain himself.

He turned into a side street that took him away from the centre of the town. He twisted and turned through the back streets until he was completely satisfied that he was not being followed. Finally he came out into a quiet square that was surrounded on each side by terraces of tall, narrow Georgian houses. In one corner of the square there was a high wall in which was set an old, heavy timbered gate from which green paint peeled in long strips. He opened the gate and went inside.

He found himself in a walled garden. The place was a wilderness of sprawling weeds and grass grew unchecked across the path. Before him, through the rain, the brown bulk of an old house lifted to the leaden sky. He frowned in puzzlement as he surveyed the scene of desolation and then he slowly walked up the path to the door and jerked on the ancient bell-pull.

The sound jangled faintly in the hidden depths of the house and the echo was from another world. There was utter silence and after a few minutes he tried again. After a while he heard steps approaching the door. There was the sound of bolts being withdrawn and the door opened slightly.

A young woman looked out at him. She was wearing an old camel-hair dressing gown and there was sleep in her eyes. ‘What is it?’ she said.

‘Is Professor Murray at home?’ Fallon asked her. A peculiar expression appeared on her face at once. He hastened to explain. ‘I know it’s early, but I’m just passing through and I promised to look him up. I’m an old student of his.’

For a moment the girl gazed fixedly at him and then she stepped back and opened the door wide. ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

The door closed leaving the hall in semi-darkness. The air smelt musty and faintly unpleasant and as Fallon stumbled after her, he realized there was no carpet on the floor. She opened a door at the end of the passage and led the way into an old, stone-flagged kitchen. The room was warm and friendly and he took off his hat and unbuttoned his wet coat. ‘This is better,’ he said.

‘Take your coat off,’ the girl told him. She went to a gas cooker in the corner and put a light under the kettle. Where the old-fashioned range had once stood there was now a modern coke-burning stove. She knelt down in front of it and began to clear ashes from the grate.

Fallon said, ‘Is the Professor still in bed?’

She stood up and faced him. ‘He died a few weeks ago,’ she said. There was no change of expression on her face when she added, ‘I’m his daughter – Anne.’

Fallon walked over to the window and stood staring out into the tangled garden and the rain. Behind him the girl busied herself at the cooker. After a while he turned round and said, ‘He was the finest man I ever knew.’

There was ash on her hands from the grate. When she pushed back a loose tendril of her fair hair she smudged her forehead. ‘He thought quite a bit about you, too, Mr Fallon.’ She turned to the sink and rinsed her hands under the tap.

Fallon sat down in a chair by the table. ‘How did you know who I was?’ he asked.

‘That scar,’ she said. ‘You staggered into my father’s flat in Belfast one night about ten years ago with your face laid open to the bone. He stitched it for you because you couldn’t go to a doctor.’ She turned towards him, a towel in her hand, and examined the scar. ‘He didn’t make a very good job of it, did he?’

‘Good enough,’ Fallon said. ‘It kept me out of the hands of the police.’

She nodded. ‘You and Philip Stuart were students together at Queen’s before the war, weren’t you?’

Fallon started in surprise. ‘You know Phil Stuart?’

She smiled slightly as she put cups on the table. ‘He drops in now and then. He only lives a couple of streets away. He’s the County Inspector here, you know.’

Fallon slumped back in his chair with an audible sigh. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

As she poured tea out she went on, ‘My father used to say he found it rather ironical that Stuart joined the Constabulary and you the other lot. He once told me that in you two he could see the whole history of Ireland.’

Fallon offered her a cigarette and smiled sadly. ‘How right he was.’ He stared into space, back into the past, and said slowly, ‘He was a remarkable man. He used to shelter me when I was on the run and spend the night trying to make me see the error of my ways.’ He straightened up in his chair and laughed lightly. ‘Still, he used to see a lot of Stuart, as well. Poor Phil – if only he’d realized what was going on under his nose.’

Anne Murray sipped her tea and said quietly, ‘What did you want with my father this time?’

Fallon shrugged. ‘For once, nothing – except a chat. I hadn’t seen him for several years, you know.’

‘Yes, he wasn’t even sure you were still alive. He thought you would have written to him if you had been.’

Fallon shook his head and explained. ‘I’ve been buried in the wilds of Cavan,’ he said. He grinned suddenly and poured himself another cup of tea. ‘To tell you the truth I decided to change my ways. I’ve kept body and soul together by doing a bit of hack writing. I have a cottage about half a mile from the border. It’s been most restful.’

She chuckled, deep down in her throat. ‘I’m sure it has. But what did you find to take the place of the other thing?’

A sudden unease moved inside him and he forced a laugh. ‘What other thing?’

‘The thing that made you what you were; that made you live the kind of life you did for all those years.’

He stood up and paced restlessly about the room. The girl was getting too near the truth for comfort. After a few moments he swung round and said brightly, ‘Anyway, what are you doing here? I hadn’t realized you were so grown up. Didn’t your father pack you off to some aunt in England after your mother died?’

‘He did,’ she said. ‘Then I went to a boarding school. After that, Guy’s Hospital in London. I’m a nurse,’ she added simply.

He nodded. ‘You came home for the funeral?’

She shook her head. ‘I was here for a few days before he died. I’ve only stayed on to sell up. A lot of the furniture has gone already.’ She shivered suddenly. ‘I don’t want any of it. I just want to get rid of everything and go away.’

For the first time grief showed starkly in her eyes and he put a hand on her shoulder. For a few moments they stayed together, tied by some mystical bond of sympathy, and then she moved slightly and he took his hand away. She looked up into his face and said quietly, ‘What have you come for, Martin Fallon? Are you back at the old game?’

For a long moment their eyes were locked and then he sighed deeply. He moved across to his chair and sagged down into it. ‘Yes, I’m back at the old game,’ he said.

She nodded slowly and stared past him in an abstracted manner as if thinking deeply. After a moment she said, ‘But why? That’s what I can’t understand. After all these years why come back to it?’

He shook his head several times. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. I thought I was doing it for a woman who had already suffered too much, but now I’m not so sure. Some impulse of self-destruction, perhaps. After all, why did I live the way I did for so many years?’ He laughed suddenly. ‘I don’t think it was entirely for Ireland.’

The girl stood up and carried the cups to the sink. For a moment she paused, her back to him, and then she turned. ‘I only know what my father told me. That you were a fine man ruined and a good mind wasted.’ She shook her head slowly and repeated as if to herself, ‘Wasted.’

At that moment the bell jangled sharply, waves of harsh sound breaking the silence that had followed her words.

For a brief second they stood looking at each other and then she opened the door and went swiftly along the dark passage. She was back in a moment. ‘It’s Philip Stuart,’ she said. ‘I can see him through the side window.’

Panic moved inside Fallon and for a moment a strange dizziness caused him to sway slightly. He staggered and almost lost his balance and then he was cold and calm again. His hand dipped inside his coat and came out clutching the Luger. ‘What’s he want?’ he said and there was a deadness in his voice.

The girl grasped his wrist firmly and pushed the weapon down towards the floor. ‘There will be none of that,’ she said. ‘He’s been handling the sale of the house for me. He’s a busy man at the moment and has to come when he can.’ For a moment Fallon resisted and she put her face close to his and said, ‘Put the gun away.’

He relaxed suddenly and slipped it back into the shoulder holster. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She took him by the arm and led him across to another door. When she opened it he saw a flight of stairs. ‘Straight up to the landing,’ she said. ‘The first room on the left is my bedroom. You can stay there until I come for you.’ He tried to speak and then the bell rang again and she pushed him forward, throwing his hat and coat after him, and closed the door.

He found her room with no difficulty. A bed and an old dresser seemed to be the only furniture and a few suitcases stood against one wall. He sat down on the edge of the bed. His hands were trembling and after a few moments his whole body began to shake. He let his body fall back against the pillows, his hands clasped together, and closed his eyes as a sob rose in his throat. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, half aloud. ‘I’m scared to death. I’ve lost my nerve.’ He lay there, his body shaking, and then after a while he felt drowsy. The room was quiet and still and there was the faint womanly smell of the girl upon the bedclothes. Quite suddenly he relaxed. She seemed to come very close to him, bringing with her an inexpressible comfort, and then the tiredness came to him. His head dropped gently to one side as he drifted into darkness.

He came awake quickly from a dreamless sleep and lay staring at the ceiling. For a few moments he couldn’t remember where he was. Awareness came to him and he swung his feet to the floor and looked at his watch. It was almost noon. He cursed softly and stood up, and then he realized with surprise that his shoes had been taken off and were standing neatly at the side of the bed. He frowned in puzzlement and sat down again to put them on. His coat and hat had disappeared and he spent several moments looking for them before he went to the door and opened it cautiously. The house was quiet. He advanced along the passage and began to descend the back stairs.

Faintly from the kitchen came sounds of music. For a moment he hesitated at the door and then he opened it and went in. The music came from a wireless on a shelf in the corner. The girl was standing at the gas cooker stirring something in a pan. She turned quickly and said, without smiling, ‘You’re awake.’

Fallon nodded. ‘Why did you let me sleep?’

She shrugged. ‘You looked as though you needed it.’ She moved across to the table and spooned stew on to a plate. ‘You’d better sit down and have this.’ She had changed into a tweed skirt and green, woollen jumper. Somehow she looked older, more sure of herself.

Fallon sat down and said, ‘I’ll have to be quick. I’ve got an appointment at one o’clock.’

As he ate, the girl sat on the opposite side of the table, a cup of tea in her hands, and watched him. After a while she said, ‘Stuart’s found me a buyer for the house. It won’t fetch much – it’s too run down for that – but it will be better than nothing.’ Fallon nodded and went on eating. For some strange reason he couldn’t think of anything to say. There was an air of tension in the air as if something was going to snap at any moment. Suddenly the girl leaned forward and said, ‘You’re here to get that fellow Rogan, aren’t you?’

He paused, the spoon halfway to his mouth, and looked at her searchingly. ‘Who told you that?’

She leaned back, satisfied. ‘I just put two and two together. It had to be something special to bring you back. I should have thought of it before.’

‘Did Stuart say anything?’ Fallon asked.

She shook her head. ‘Nothing special. He mentioned Rogan in passing. Said they would be moving him to Belfast soon. I suddenly realized there must be a connection.’

Fallon pushed the empty plate away from him. ‘That was nice,’ he said.

She leaned across the table again and there was anger sparking in her eyes. ‘You damned fool. You’ll get yourself killed this time. And for what? For a cold-blooded murderer who deserves to hang.’

He shook his head and shrugged. ‘Some people might say he was a soldier.’

She laughed harshly. ‘Don’t talk rubbish. He’s a dirty little terrorist who shoots people in the back.’

He didn’t try to answer her because he knew that she was more than half right. For a few moments he looked into her blazing, angry eyes and then he dropped his gaze and began to trace a pattern in the table cloth with the handle of his knife. ‘Rogan has a mother,’ he said. ‘She’s lost a husband and a son already. Both shot down fighting for the Cause. She wants him back. He’s all she has left.’

Anne Murray gave a little moan and jumped up suddenly. ‘It’s always the women who suffer,’ she said. For a moment she stood with her head lowered and then she shook it slowly from side to side. ‘It won’t do,’ she said. ‘It’s not a good enough reason.’

He got up from the table and took down his hat and coat from the rack where she had put them to dry. ‘I must go,’ he said.

She moved slowly towards him and paused when their bodies were almost touching. There was iron in her voice when she spoke. ‘That woman isn’t the reason you came, is it?’ He made no reply and she raised her voice and said demandingly, ‘Is it?’

For a moment there was a great silence as they stood close together staring into each other’s eyes, and then she swayed suddenly and he reached out to steady her. ‘A man ought to finish what he starts,’ he said.

She nodded wearily. ‘Men!’ There was almost a loathing in her voice. ‘Men and their honour and their stupid games.’

She came with him to the door. The rain was still falling steadily and remorselessly into the sodden ground. He belted his coat around him and pulled his hat down over his eyes. For a moment they stood together there on the top step and then a sob broke in her throat and she pushed him off the step, and said angrily, ‘Go on – go to your death, you fool.’

The door slammed into place and for a moment he stood looking at it, and then he turned and walking down through the tangled garden, let himself out into the rain-swept square.