Cry of the Hunter. Jack Higgins
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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.
2
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