Cry of the Hunter (4 page)

Fallon pushed his way out of the restaurant and hurried across to the barrier. As the detectives passed through with their prisoner, he offered his ticket to the collector and smiled pleasantly at the uniformed constable who was leaning against the barrier. ‘Excuse me, but this
is
the Belfast train, isn’t it?’ he said in his finest English accent. The constable nodded and winked broadly at the ticket collector. As Fallon moved away they both laughed.

Rogan and his escort got into the coach next to the guard’s van, and Fallon walked quickly along the platform, glancing eagerly into the windows as if looking for an empty compartment. As he reached the last coach he sighed with relief. Rogan and the detectives were settling down in a reserved compartment, but the rest of the coach was occupied by ordinary passengers. Porters were running along the platform slamming doors shut, and Fallon boarded the train quickly and passed along the corridor. Rogan and his escort were in the end compartment and Fallon took a seat in the next one to it. The only other occupant was a large, fat gentleman who looked like a commercial traveller. He was already sleeping peacefully in a corner seat.

For a moment there was silence and then the whistle blew. The train jerked a few times and began to move out of the station. Within five minutes they had left Castlemore behind in the darkness and were speeding through the rain towards Belfast. Fallon lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deeply into his lungs. He felt completely calm and fatalistic about the whole thing. He glanced at his watch and made a swift calculation. They must have covered just over half the distance to the wood. He stood up and passed quickly along the corridor, glancing briefly into the next compartment as he did so. Three of the detectives were playing cards and Rogan was handcuffed to the other one. They had taken his shoes off and he sat with his feet propped up on the opposite seat.

Fallon went into the toilet and closed the door. He counted up to twenty slowly and then opened the door to go back to his compartment. He walked straight into one of the detectives. The man laughed and started to apologize and Fallon smiled pleasantly, and then recognition flickered into the other’s eyes. ‘Fallon!’ he said. ‘Martin Fallon!’

In that split second of recognition Fallon reflected bitterly that you could never trust in any plan because the unexpected always happened. At the same moment, before the detective could raise the alarm, he raised a knee into his crutch and rammed his fist into his stomach. The man’s face turned purple and, as he keeled over, Fallon hit him again in the back of the neck and dragged him into the toilet.

He pushed the man down in an inert heap in the corner and backed out, closing the door. There was no time to lose now. He moved back quickly to his own compartment, and taking down the canvas grip, hurried to the far end of the coach. He went into the toilet there and closed the door. He opened the grip and took out two smoke bombs which he slipped into the side pockets of his trench coat and then he took out another, broke the fuse, and dropped it into the used towel container. As he opened the door and backed out black smoke began to gush forth.

He had noticed an empty compartment half-way along the coach. As he passed it, he took out another bomb, broke the fuse, and tossed it up on to the luggage rack. He did the same in his own compartment where the fat man still slept peacefully in the corner. He passed the end compartment and noticed that the remaining three detectives were still playing cards and then, behind him, he heard a woman scream, high and piercing, and a man cried out, ‘Fire! Fire!’

Fallon didn’t hesitate for a moment. He pulled the communication cord that stretched above the carriage door and tossed another bomb into the entrance to the next carriage. He opened the door and stepped out on to the running board as the train began to slow.

The rain lashed his face and the wind pushed him against the side of the train. He gripped the handrail firmly and slammed the door back into place with all his strength. Then he reached up and secured a grip on the edge of the roof and pulled himself along until he was just able to see into the end compartment. Two of the detectives had disappeared, leaving Rogan handcuffed to the third. The shouts and screams seemed to rise to a crescendo as the train lurched and skidded to a halt and the detective turned to Rogan, his face white with fear as smoke swept into the compartment. He shouted something that Fallon could not hear and taking out a key, unlocked the handcuff from his left wrist. He snapped it over Rogan’s free wrist, chaining his wrists together, and then, as another cloud of black smoke swept into the compartment, he turned towards the window.

As the train ground to a halt, Fallon moved back quickly to the carriage door and dropped down on to the track. He crouched low as the window of the compartment was pulled down and the detective and Rogan leaned out, coughing and gasping as the fresh air cut into their lungs. Fallon jumped up and caught hold of the detective by his coat lapels. The man was taken completely by surprise. His body dipped over the sill and he fell heavily to the track. He groaned and tried to get up and Fallon hit him in the side of the neck. He crouched down and quickly ran his hands through the man’s pockets. His searching fingers fastened over the handcuff keys and he straightened up and said urgently, ‘For God’s sake, Rogan! What are you waiting for?’

Rogan was only half-way out of the window and Fallon reached up impatiently and dragged him bodily down. Rogan scrambled to his feet cursing. ‘I was looking for my bloody shoes,’ he said. ‘The bastards took them off.’

‘To hell with your shoes,’ Fallon snarled. ‘Let’s get moving.’ He pushed Rogan forward and they began to run back along the track towards the wood. As he ran, Fallon took out the two remaining smoke bombs which he had carried in his pockets, broke the fuses, and dropped them. Within a few moments the smoke rose behind them, blocking the lights of the train from view.

Both men ran without speaking, saving their breath for the running. Fallon led the way, crashing through the undergrowth like a wild beast, never stopping, his arms raised to protect his face from the flailing branches. He stumbled out on to the track that led down through the trees and paused. Rogan cannoned into him with a curse and then a voice from the darkness said, ‘Is it yourself, Mr. Fallon?’

Fallon ran forward and bumped into Johnny Murphy. ‘Thank God!’ he said. ‘Get that motor running and let’s be out of here.’ He opened the rear door of the Austin and pushed Rogan in before him. The engine roared into life and the car reversed quickly down the track and turned into the main road. Within a few seconds they were speeding through the night towards Castlemore.

Fallon took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one with shaking hands. He leaned back in the seat and sighed contentedly. ‘Thank God that’s over.’

Murphy laughed excitedly. ‘Didn’t I say you were the genius, Mr. Fallon? Sure I knew you’d get him off that train.’

Fallon laughed and there was a slight crack in his voice. ‘It was so ridiculously easy. No shooting, no killing. Just a few little smoke bombs.’

Rogan seemed to have recovered his wind. He leaned forward. ‘Are you Martin Fallon?’ There was incredulity in his voice. ‘Hell, I thought you were dead.’

There was the hint of a sneer in his voice and Murphy said angrily, ‘A damn good job for you he wasn’t.’

‘Keep your shirt on,’ Rogan said. He turned to Fallon. ‘Did you get the keys off that fella?’ Fallon produced the keys and unlocked the handcuffs. Rogan sighed with pleasure. ‘God, how I hate wearing those things. There’s something final about the feel of them when they’re clipped on.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Aye, but I’ve fooled them. I’ve shown them they can’t push Pat Rogan around and get away with it.’

Fallon was faintly disgusted. There was something unpleasant about the man. He decided that the sooner they parted company the better he would like it. ‘Would you like a cigarette?’ he said.

Rogan shook his head and said ungraciously. ‘I don’t smoke. I could do with some bloody shoes though. My socks are in shreds.’

Fallon forced himself to sound pleasant. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Johnny can get you a pair tomorrow if you give him the size.’

Rogan grunted and made no reply. Already they were running through the outskirts of Castlemore and Murphy slowed down and followed the other vehicles quietly into the town. It was a little after ten when he cut the engine at the back of the church. Fallon unlocked the gate and led the way through the graveyard. The rain had increased in volume again and Rogan was soaked to the skin by the time they reached the shelter of the vault. Fallon switched on the light and started to strip off his wet coat. Rogan groaned. ‘Christ, is there no better place than this?’

Fallon shrugged and said evenly, ‘You’re lucky to be here. It’s the safest place for the moment.’

Rogan cursed and turned on the boy. ‘Why the hell can’t we hide up at your place?’ he demanded.

The boy flushed. He tried to speak, but Fallon cut in and said coldly, ‘Because I say so.’

Rogan turned angrily. ‘And who the hell are you to be giving the orders. I’m the Chief in Ulster.’

Fallon laughed sharply. ‘You mean you were.’ He walked forward until he was standing very close to Rogan. He looked steadily down into the small man’s eyes. ‘Don’t try to play games with me. Rogan. You and I both know why I’m here. There was some question of a deal, I understand.’ A shutter clicked in Rogan’s eyes and Fallon continued. ‘You’ll stay here for three days and you’ll do as I say. After we’ve crossed the border you can hang yourself for all I care.’ He smiled and said softly, ‘You see, I don’t happen to like you.’

Rogan smiled mirthlessly, his lips drawn back to show even white teeth. There was hate in his eyes as he said, ‘All right, Mr. Fallon. Anything you say. You’re the boss - for the present.’ He turned to Murphy. ‘Get me a pair of shoes in the morning, kid. Size nine. Brogues will do fine.’

Murphy nodded and moved towards the door. Fallon followed and stood for a moment, a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘You did a good job tonight,’ he said. The boy flushed and an expression of blazing pride shone in his face. He tried to speak and then he turned quickly and went out into the night.

Fallon went over to the bed and took two of the blankets. ‘You can have the bed for tonight,’ he said.

Rogan nodded and began to take off his jacket. Suddenly he swung round and said, ‘We got off on the wrong foot, you and I. I’m sorry. I was a bit worked up. Everything happened so damned quickly.’

Fallon didn’t believe a word of it. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, in a non-committal tone.

Rogan sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t mind hanging round this town for a few days,’ he said. ‘There’s one bastard here I’d like to even the score with before I leave.’

Fallon paused in the act of spreading his blankets on the floor in the corner. ‘And who would that be?’ he said.

Rogan got into bed and pulled the blankets up to his chin. ‘The bloody County Inspector,’ he said savagely. ‘Stuart they call him. Ever since he got the job last year he’s hounded me from every safe hole I had. He was the one who lifted me three days ago.’ There was a deadly coldness in his voice when he added, ‘I’ll fix Mr. County Inspector Stuart before I go.’

Fallon made no reply. He switched off the light and wrapping himself in the blankets, settled down in the corner. Rogan sickened him. What type are they getting in the Organization now, he asked himself? And then he smiled sadly and decided that perhaps the type had not changed. Perhaps Martin Fallon was the one who had changed. Whatever happened he was going to have to keep an eye on Rogan, that was obvious. A thought struck him and he smiled and reached for his jacket. The shoulder holster was sewn into place just under his left armhole. He withdrew the Luger quietly and placed it under his blankets, close to his right hand.

He used his jacket as a pillow and leaned back and waited for sleep. The day’s events rushed through the darkness before him, spinning round and round like a piece of film with all the scenes wrongly joined together. He was surprised to discover that, out of all that had happened, his encounter with Anne Murray stood out most clearly. He smiled again and shook his head. One thing was certain. She would certainly know what he had been up to when she read the morning papers. He felt calm and contented with no fear at all. Sufficient unto the day, he thought. We’ll see what happens tomorrow. He turned his head to one side and went to sleep as calmly as a young child.

CHAPTER FOUR

F
ALLON
slept lightly. When he first awakened and checked his watch it was shortly after five. He was cold and stiff and his limbs ached from contact with the stone floor. He lay in the darkness listening to the rain and the wind as it moaned through the graveyard. After a while he drifted into sleep again.

He became aware that someone was prodding him and opened his eyes, at the same time feeling for the butt of the Luger. Johnny Murphy squatted beside him. The blanket was down from the iron grill and a grey light seeped into the room. ‘Is it still raining?’ Fallon said softly.

The boy nodded. ‘It hasn’t let up all night.’ He held up a large thermos flask. ‘Get some of this into you, Mr. Fallon. It’ll do you a power of good.’

Fallon swallowed some of the hot liquid. It was coffee, strong and good. He sat up and rested his back against the wall. ‘How’s our friend doing?’ he said.

Murphy grunted in disgust. ‘Fast asleep. I don’t like that man at all, Mr. Fallon. It’s the look in his eyes puts me off.’

Fallon smiled softly. ‘Can’t say I blame you.’ He looked at his watch. It was a little after eight. ‘You’re early enough,’ he said. ‘What’s the news in the outside world?’

Murphy produced a paper and said, with a shake of the head, ‘It isn’t so good, Mr. Fallon and that’s a fact. They’re on to you. They haven’t had enough time to get much into the papers, but I listened to the seven o’clock news on the radio. You were recognized.’

Fallon swore softly. ‘Hell, I forgot about the damned peeler who bumped into me in the corridor. He recognized me. I had to dump him in the toilet. What did it say on the news?’

‘They spoke about you mostly. Gave a full description. Described the scar and said you were wearing a beard now.’

Fallon laughed tightly. ‘Well, that’s the first thing that has to go then. A pity. I’d grown rather fond of this beard.’

The boy smiled. ‘I thought of that myself. I’ve brought you the necessaries.’ He took a bundle from one pocket and unwrapped it. Inside was a razor and a tube of shaving cream. ‘I’ve put a new blade in it,’ he added. ‘I thought you’d probably need it.’

Fallon rubbed some of the cream well into his beard and started to shave it off. It was a painful business without hot water and he winced and cursed softly several times while Murphy sat back on his heels and watched him. It took about fifteen minutes to make a reasonable job and he put the razor down with a sigh of relief and wiped his face with a handkerchief. ‘How do I look?’ he said.

Murphy whistled. ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you. Mind you, there’s still the scar, but you look ten years younger.’

Before Fallon could reply there was a groan from the bed and Rogan pushed himself up on one elbow. He looked across at them, rubbing a hand across his eyes, and said, ‘What the hell are you two up to? What time is it?’

Fallon stood up and moved across the room. ‘No need to worry,’ he said. ‘It’s about eight o’clock.’ He turned to the boy. ‘Better give him some coffee.’

Rogan stared at him in surprise. ‘What’s happened to the beard?’ he said.

Fallon shrugged and handed him the newspaper. ‘If you look in the stop press you’ll see why. They’re on to me. They broadcast a description on the radio.’

Rogan read the item in the stop press column and snorted with disgust. ‘There’s hardly a mention of me here,’ he said. ‘It’s all about you.’

For a moment Fallon had an insane desire to laugh, but he controlled himself with an effort. ‘Obviously we’re going to have to stick close to this place. Perhaps for longer than we thought. They’ll raise the whole countryside.’

Rogan laughed harshly. ‘They needn’t think they’ll take me again so easily.’ He yawned and continued. ‘Well, as we don’t seem to be in any particular rush to get out of this hole I might as well go back to sleep again.’ He turned his face to the wall and pulled the blanket up about his neck.

Fallon went to the door with the boy. ‘You’d better stay away for the rest of the day,’ he said. ‘I’m not happy about this system. It only needs someone to see you coming through that graveyard and we’ve had it.’

The boy nodded. ‘I can’t come back until this evening anyway. I’ve got to help Kathleen in the shop.’

Fallon slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Then do that. We don’t want her to get suspicious. What about the car?’

‘I hired it for three days,’ Murphy said. ‘Shall I take it back?’

Fallon thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No, hang on to it. It might be useful if we have to get out of here in a hurry.’ He opened the door and gave the boy a push. ‘Go on! Off with you! I’ll see you sometime between five and six.’ Murphy flashed him a smile and hurried away through the rain.

When Fallon went back to his makeshift bed he found a brown paper parcel on the floor. He smiled. The boy must have forgotten to tell him about it. Inside he found sandwiches, two or three apples and some oranges. Also a pair of cheap shoes for Rogan. He ate a little of the fruit and lay back on the blankets and stared up at the vaulted ceiling, and after a while he followed Rogan’s example and went to sleep again.

When he awakened, Rogan was sitting on the floor by the boxes with some of the weapons spread out around him. He had a length of string which appeared to be fastened to one of the hand grenades and he stood up and backed away, paying the string out as he went. ‘What are you supposed to be doing?’ Fallon asked.

Rogan looked over his shoulder and grinned. ‘Just experimenting,’ he said. ‘This is a good way of exploding a grenade by remote control. The string is attached to the pin – pull the string and up she goes.’

Fallon frowned. ‘For God’s sake mind you don’t pull the string now.’ There was an obvious irritation in his voice which he made no attempt to conceal. He was getting little tired of Patrick Rogan.

The small man shrugged, an expression of unconcern on his face. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t tell me the great Martin Fallon is losing his nerve?’ He laughed malevolently and picked up a canvas belt. ‘Now this is the great stuff – plastic gelignite. It’s even waterproof. I’ve pulled off some good stunts in my time using this.’

Fallon gazed at him in disgust There was something unclean about him, something completely inhuman. ‘For Christ’s sake keep your mouth shut if that’s all you can talk about,’ he said coldly and lay back against the blankets again.

The rest of the day passed slowly. The two men only spoke when it was necessary and Rogan paced backwards and forwards over the stone flags, growing more and more impatient as the day advanced. Fallon slept again during the afternoon, and the evening was drawing in when he awakened. He glanced at his watch. It was almost five o’clock. Rogan was standing at the grill looking out into the graveyard. ‘What’s the weather like?’ Fallon said.

The small man spoke without turning round. ‘Bloody awful! I don’t think it’s ever going to stop raining.’

The room seemed smaller as the shadows lengthened in the corners and Fallon got up and walked across to the door and opened it slightly. The rain hammered down from the leaden sky, splashing deliberately into the mounded graves. He lit a cigarette and stood looking across the gravestones down to the wall, dimly seen in the gloom. The graves were uncared for, for the most part, with grass and weeds running wild, and all at once he was filled with a terrible sadness at the emptiness and the futility of life. There was a creaking of rusty hinges as the door in the wall opened and Murphy hurried through the gravestones towards him.

Fallon opened the door and the boy slipped inside. His face was white with excitement. ‘Jesus, help us, Mr. Fallon! I’ve never seen so many peelers as I have today. The town’s crawling with them.’

‘Have you got another newspaper?’ Fallon demanded. The boy nodded and produced one from his pocket. There was nothing new in it. The story was headlines now and there were pictures of Fallon and Rogan side by side. The one of Fallon was not a very good one and he grunted in satisfaction. ‘That’s a lousy photo,’ he said. He passed the paper across to Rogan and added thoughtfully. ‘I wonder why they’ve concentrated the police in Castlemore. You’d think they would be combing the countryside.’

Rogan rapped out an oath and threw the newspaper away from him in a rage. ‘It’s that bastard Stuart,’ he said. ‘The clever one, he is. I’ll fix him before I’m through.’

‘For Christ’s sake cut that out and let’s discuss something important,’ Fallon said, and then a blast of cold air hit him in the back of the neck as the door creaked open behind him.

Fallon turned slowly as a voice said, ‘What’s going on here? What’s the meaning of this?’

A small, shrivelled old man in a clerical collar and shabby black raincoat was standing just inside the door. There was complete silence as he looked at them and then recognition dawned in his eyes. ‘Follon!’ he said. ‘Follon and Rogan.’ Very deliberately he brushed past them and stood looking down at the explosives in the boxes by the bed. For a moment he remained with his head bowed and then he turned and there was pain and anger in his voice. ‘How dare you!’ he said. ‘How dare you use God’s house for your filthy work. Gunmen, murderers, the lot of you.’

‘For God’s sake, Father,’ Fallon began, but the old man cut in on him.

‘I’m going to phone for the police.’ His voice was ice-cold now, but his whole body was trembling with rage. ‘That gives you five minutes at the most to get out.’

As the priest started forward Rogan moved quickly and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Not so fast,’ he snarled. ‘You aren’t going anywhere.’

All the dislike that Fallon had been nursing, all the hatred and the disgust at his own part in this welled up in a spasm of furious anger. He jerked Rogan away, whirled him round, and sent him spinning across the room to land with a crash on the bed. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said. ‘Sorry for a lot of things. You can go now.’

For a moment he and the priest stood facing each other and a curious expression came into the old man’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry too,’ he said. He hesitated in the doorway as if he was going to say something more and then his shoulders sagged and he went slowly out into the rain.

Fallon sighed deeply and a tiny, ironical laugh escaped from his mouth. The boy handed him his coat and hat. ‘For God’s sake, Mr. Fallon, he’ll put the peelers on us for sure. We’ve got to get out of here.’ His face looked sickly and yellow under the naked bulb. He was frightened to death.

Rogan picked himself up from the bed and straightened his clothes. ‘That was a fine thing to do,’ he said. ‘Now they’ll know we’re in town for sure.’

Fallon ignored him. ‘Did you come in the car?’ he asked Murphy.

The boy nodded. ‘It’s parked in the lane.’

Fallon pulled on his coat and said decisively, ‘Right then! We’ll have to make a run for it. If we can get out of town we might stand a chance yet. It’s another filthy night. They’d have a job finding us in those country lanes.’ He caught the boy by the shoulder and pushed him through the door. ‘Come on, you,’ he said over his shoulder to Rogan. ‘We haven’t any time to waste.’

He ran through the dripping gravestones after the boy. The door stood ajar in the wall and when he reached the car Murphy was already fumbling with the keys. He opened the door and scrambled behind the wheel and Fallon followed him into the front seat. The boy switched on the ignition and pressed the starter. The engine coughed protestingly, shuddered for a brief moment, and roared into life. ‘Where’s Rogan?’ Murphy demanded and there was a crack in his voice.

Fallon swore violently and got out of the car and went back inside the graveyard. As he stood fuming and peering through the gathering gloom Rogan appeared, running. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Fallon snarled.

‘I forgot something,’ Rogan said breathlessly and Fallon pushed him towards the car and they scrambled in.

Murphy took the car away in a burst of speed and Fallon grasped him by the shoulder. ‘Now steady down,’ he said. ‘We can’t afford to attract any attention. Just take us through the town at a nice steady thirty miles an hour.’

The boy was sweating and Fallon lit a cigarette and pushed it between his tips. ‘Thanks, Mr. Fallon,’ Murphy said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

‘You’re doing fine, son,’ Fallon told him. He lit a cigarette himself and leaned back in the seat watching the road ahead of them.

‘The kid’s scared to death,’ Rogan said. ‘What good is he? We should drop him.’

Fallon turned and said deliberately, ‘If I drop anyone it’ll be you.’ Rogan lapsed into silence and Fallon turned his eyes back to the road. He knew the hopelessness of their position. Already the town might be ringed with police. By the time they got the old priest’s message they would have every road blocked with patrol cars. Their only chance was to beat the road blocks. Even as this thought flashed through his mind Murphy slowed down until they were crawling. There was a queue of cars in front of them, and Fallon realized with a sinking heart that they were too late.

‘What shall I do, Mr. Fallon?’ Murphy said, and now his voice was steady and controlled.

‘Cut into the next side street,’ Fallon told him. ‘We’ll try the other road.’ But he knew they were wasting their time.

The car twisted and turned through the back streets and came out into another main road. As they emerged from the turning Fallon saw another procession of vehicles in front of them and he tapped the boy on the shoulder and said, ‘Turn right and go back to the centre of town.’

Rogan was cracking. There was panic in his voice. ‘What are we going to do? We don’t stand a chance.’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Fallon told him, and at that moment he glanced into the mirror and saw the black car that was creeping up behind them. ‘Get moving!’ he screamed and Murphy rammed his foot down on the pedal and took the car away in a burst of speed.

‘It’s the polis,’ Rogan said. ‘We’ll never beat a car like that.’

‘They must have seen us turn away from that queue,’ Fallon said. He watched the speedometer needle creep up to sixty and there it stopped.

‘My foot’s flat on the boards,’ Murphy said desperately.

Fallon nodded and glanced back. The police car was pulling up on them. ‘This is what we’ll do. Change down and take the next turning on your right. Then take the first turning on the left, brake hard, and we’ll jump out. Is that clear?’