Cry of the Hunter (2 page)

O’Hara nodded and Doolan leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Have you heard of Patrick Rogan, Mr. Fallon?’

Fallon frowned. ‘I knew him well. A mad, hair-brained fanatic. He was shot dead in a running fight with the police on the Belfast Docks.’

‘He had a son,’ O’Hara said, quietly.

‘Yes, he had a son,’ Fallon said. ‘Shamus they called him. He was killed in nineteen-forty-five in a raid on a police barracks in County Down. I’ve forgotten the name of the place.’

‘There was another son,’ Doolan said. ‘Did you know that? Only a nipper when his father was killed. Don’t you read the papers here, Mr. Fallon?’

‘I’m careful not to,’ Fallon said.

Doolan smiled briefly and went on. ‘Two years ago there was a clean sweep made in Belfast and the polis lifted most of the leaders. Patrick Rogan was only twenty and he hadn’t been over there long but he rose to the occasion and proved himself his father’s son. He took over leadership of the Organization and was so successful we left him in charge.’

Fallon raised his eyebrows. ‘He must be quite a boy.’

‘He is indeed, Mr. Fallon,’ Doolan said, ‘and one we can’t do without. He’s walked the path of danger these two years, a hero and a legend to his people.’ He paused and the only sound in the room was the crackling of the logs in the fire and the drumming of the rain against the window. O’Hara coughed asthmatically and Doolan said, heavily, ‘He was taken the day before yesterday.’

There was another short silence and then Fallon said, ‘Well, it comes to us all in the end. He lost, that’s all.’

‘We must have him out,’ O’Hara said suddenly. ‘He must never stand trial.’

Fallon’s eyes narrowed and he looked first at Doolan, who dropped his gaze, and then at O’Hara. He laughed briefly. ‘What kind of a line are you trying to give me? Why shouldn’t he stand trial? I stood trial. What makes Rogan so different?’

Doolan sighed and said to O’Hara, ‘We'll have to tell him the truth. It’s no good.’

O’Hara nodded. ‘I knew we would. I didn’t think he’d be fooled for a minute.’

Doolan turned to Fallon. He seemed to search for words and then he said, ‘You see, Mr. Fallon, Rogan is everything I said he was. He’s served his country well. He’s done good work in Ulster, but … ’

‘He’s not to be trusted,’ O’Hara said. ‘It could be the end of the Organization in Ulster if he ever stands trial.’

Fallon poured himself another drink and said coolly, ‘The work of years going up in smoke, eh? That wouldn’t be so good. How can he do it?’

Doolan sighed wearily and leaned back in his chair. ‘The polis are holding him at Castlemore. He managed to get a message smuggled out to us yesterday. He says we must get him out before they move him to Belfast. If we leave him to stand trial he swears he’ll make a deal with the polis. He'll tell them everything they want to know about the Organization in Ulster if they promise to go easy on him.’

Fallon frowned. ‘He must be mad. He knows the first thing he’d get from the Organization, even if he was freed, would be a bullet. He’d do better to take his sentence and bide his time.’

O’Hara shook his head. ‘There’ll be no biding his time, Martin, if he is sentenced. He shot a peeler dead and crippled another. They’ll hang him so high the crows won’t be able to get at him.’

Fallon whistled softly. ‘God help him then. They’re hard men to deal with at the best of times. Devils, when one of their own has been killed.’

‘You can see why we came to you, Mr. Fallon,’ Doolan said. ‘There’s nobody else left up there. Nobody that’s good enough to handle a job like this.’

Fallon laughed coldly. ‘And you think I’m going to stick my head into that hornets’ nest? You must be mad.’

‘You mean you refuse to help us?’ Doolan said.

‘I wouldn’t raise a finger,’ Fallon told him. ‘Rogan shot a peeler. He knew what he was doing. Now he can take the consequences.’ There was a hard finality in his tone.

Doolan turned to O’Hara, but the old man didn’t seem to be attending. He sat erect, his head slightly on one side as if he was listening for something. Suddenly he pulled himself to his feet and went across to the window. He peered out and when he turned there was a slight smile on his face. ‘Don’t worry, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be all right. The trouble with you is you don’t understand the Irish temperament.’ He chuckled to himself and shuffled back to his chair by the fire.

At that moment Fallon became aware of the sound of a car engine muffled by the rain. He turned and said, ‘What dirty trick have you got up your sleeve now, O’Hara?’

The old man smiled genially and took out his pipe. ‘No tricks, Martin. Psychology. It’s a grand thing, and after all – we must move with the times.’

As the car stopped outside Fallon filled his glass with a steady hand and poured the whisky down his throat in one easy swallow. He said, ‘You’re wasting your time, old spider.’

A knock sounded on the door and Doolan stood up, a frown on his face, and said to O’Hara. ‘What’s going on? You told me nothing of this?’

O’Hara smiled. ‘A small plan of my own.’ He nodded reassuringly. ‘Answer the door, Jimmy.’

Doolan walked slowly to the door and opened it. At first Fallon saw only the man and then he realized that a woman was leaning on his arm. For a moment he thought that she was wearing a cloak and then, as she moved forward into the light, he saw that she had an old, yellowing trenchcoat thrown lightly over her shoulders. In one hand she held a cane with which she tentatively felt her way. Her hair was snow-white and shone like a halo in the lamplight.

A terrible unease touched Fallon’s heart and his hand tightened around his glass. The woman halted in the centre of the room and her escort moved back to the door. O’Hara got to his feet and said, ‘I’m glad you could come, Maureen.’ He moved forward and took her hand. ‘This must seem like a strange meeting to you, but I knew you would want to speak with him before he goes to save Patrick.’

The woman turned her face into the light and stared across the room with opaque, sightless eyes. ‘Where are you, Martin Fallon?’ she said.

O’Hara turned to Fallon, his face expressionless, ‘Martin, this is Patrick Rogan’s mother come to see you.’

Fallon placed his glass carefully on the floor and got to his feet. When he looked at O’Hara there was contempt on his face and the old man dropped his eyes. He moved forward and said, ‘I’m here, Mrs. Rogan.’

She raised her hand and gently touched his face with the tips of her fingers. The skin was drawn tightly over her bones and it was parchment yellow. She looked incredibly ancient and timeless and there was the mark of great suffering upon her face. She said, ‘I’ve given a husband and a son to the cause, Martin Fallon. I’ve given enough.’

He took her hand gently in his. ‘Enough and to spare, Mrs. Rogan.’

‘You will save Patrick for me,’ she said. ‘You will bring him home safely.’ It was a statement of fact that admitted no denial.

Fallon looked into the vacant, useless eyes and tried to find words to answer her. Bitterness welled up inside him and a deep hatred for O’Hara who had placed him in such an impossible situation. How could he say no and continue to look upon the suffering in the face before him? He tried to speak and then, as if she sensed the turmoil within him, an expression of panic crossed her face and her hand tightened on his. It was as if she could see into the very depths of his soul. She swayed suddenly and he reached forward to steady her. ‘You will save him?’ she said in anguish. ‘You must!’

There was a great silence as she waited for his answer and Fallon smiled and gently squeezed her hand. ‘I’ll bring him safe home to you, Mrs. Rogan,’ he said. In his heart he knew that from the moment she entered the room, fate had taken control.

She sighed as though from a great distance, and swayed again and he steadied her and said, ‘You’d better come and lie down for a while.’

She nodded several times and leaned heavily on his arm. Doolan moved quickly to open the door for them and they went out into the passage and passed through into the bedroom.

When Fallon returned O’Hara and Doolan were in the middle of a heated argument. Doolan said, ‘I still think it was a shameful trick, using the woman.’

O’Hara raised a hand. ‘Don’t talk to me of tricks,’ he said. ‘In this game anything goes. Ask that man there,’ he added, pointing to Fallon as he joined them. ‘He’s used a few in his time.’

Fallon threw himself down into his chair. ‘Oh, he’s right enough,’ he said to Doolan. ‘Anything goes. It’s the only way to get things done, but the old spider’s over-reached himself this time.’

‘And how do you make that out?’ O’Hara demanded.

‘Simple – the whole thing’s doomed to failure from the very beginning. Do you think for a moment that the police have the slightest intention of letting anyone even get near to Rogan? There are three thousand peelers over there who want one thing very badly at the moment. They want to see Patrick Rogan hang and they’ll make damned sure nobody interferes.’

O’Hara nodded and said calmly, ‘I know that. I told you it was a desperate business, but if anyone can do it, you can.’ Fallon gave an exclamation of disgust and the old man went on. ‘No, Martin, I mean it. The trouble with most of the boys when they get over the border is that they begin to crack right way. They take the whole business too damned seriously. Now, you never did.’

‘Are you mad,’ Doolan said indignantly. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense in my life.’

Fallon threw back his head and laughed. ‘He’s right though,’ he said. ‘I never did.’ He glanced at Doolan’s outraged face and sobered up. ‘The only way to survive over there is to treat the whole thing like a game,’ he said. ‘It’s like war – it is war. But it isn’t like the books or the ballads at all. It’s dirty and dangerous and incredibly stupid.’

‘And that’s the only philosophy that can ever achieve the impossible,’ O’Hara said.

Fallon leaned forward. ‘You’d better give me what information you’ve got,’ he said. ‘Where are they holding him?’

Doolan nodded and smiled. ‘That’s about the only bright spot,’ he said. ‘We do have some secret information. They’re still holding him in Castlemore, but a friend on the inside gave us a tip this morning. They’re going to move him to Belfast tomorrow night on the nine o’clock mail train. The whole thing’s being done very quietly.’

Fallon nodded. ‘Because they expect the glory boys to try something foolish.’

‘You’ll want the address of our local headquarters in Castlemore,’ Doolan said.

Fallon shook his head. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘In the first place, I wouldn’t feel safe working with a local group. There’s still a reward of two thousand quid on my head. No – I’ve got to do it on my own. It’s the only way.’

O’Hara nodded in approval. ‘You’re right, Martin. It’s the only way, but you’ll be needing a hidey hole of some sort.’

Fallon smiled. ‘I’ve one or two of my own. Reliable ones from the old days.’ He stood up and moved across to the window and looked out into the night.

‘When will you go?’ O’Hara asked.

Fallon lit another cigarette. ‘In an hour or so. I’ll cross the border before morning. I can catch the milk train for Castlemore at Carlington.’ He moved back to the fire and said, ‘I’ll give myself three days at the outside. If we get away with it I’ll bring him straight here. No sense in getting him arrested on this side and put in that fine new detention camp they’ve got.’ O’Hara nodded and Fallon sighed and said, ‘I’ve been happy here, O’Hara. Happy for the first time in my life. If I ever get the chance I’ll pay you back for doing this to me.’

O’Hara half-smiled and shook his head. ‘No you won’t,’ he said. ‘You’re not the sort. Besides, you’ve never been happy here.’ His eyes challenged Fallon calmly, surely, and Fallon suddenly knew that what the old man said was true.

He threw his cigarette into the fire and left the room. He quietly opened the bedroom door and went in. Mrs. Rogan slept peacefully, her face calm and tranquil in the lamplight. Fallon opened a wardrobe and taking out a tweed suit, changed quickly. When he was ready, he took a battered rain hat and an old trench coat from a hook behind the door. For a moment he stood at the bedside looking down at the sleeping woman and then he turned down the lamp and moved to the window.

A bare half-mile away through the darkness was the border. Within a few hours be would be in great danger. The rain hammered endlessly on the glass and the wind called to him as it moaned through the trees. A sudden spark of excitement moved within him. He smiled softly in the darkness and turned and quietly left the room.

CHAPTER TWO

W
HEN
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?’