“Oh yes, I was there all right.” Meehan lit a cigarette. “There’s one thing I don’t understand.”
“And what would that be?”
“You could have put a bullet in my head last night instead of into that mirror. Why didn’t you? I mean, if da Costa is so important to you and you think I’m some sort of threat to him, it would have been the logical thing to do.”
“And what would have happened to my passport and pass-age on that boat out of Hull Sunday night?”
Median chuckled. “You don’t miss a trick, do you? We’re a lot alike, Fallon, you and me.”
“I’d rather be the Devil himself,” Fallon told him with deep conviction.
Median’s face darkened. “Coming the superior bit again, are we? My life for Ireland. The gallant rebel, gun in hand?” There was anger in his voice now. “Don’t give me that crap, Fallon. You enjoyed it for its own sake, running around in a trench coat with a gun in your pocket like something out of an old movie. You enjoyed the killing. Shall I tell you how I know? Because you’re too bloody good at it not to have done.”
Fallon sat there staring at him, his face very white, and then, by some mysterious alchemy, the Ceska was in his hand.
Meehan laughed harshly. “You need me, Fallon, remember? Without me there’s no passport and no passage out of Hull Sunday so put it away like a good boy.”
He walked to the door and opened it. Fallon shifted his aim slightly, following him, and Meehan turned to face him. “All right then, let’s see you pull that trigger.”
Fallon held the gun steady. Meehan stood there waiting, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. After a while he turned slowly and went out, closing the door behind him.
For a moment or so longer Fallon held the Ceska out in front of him, staring into space, and then, very slowly, he lowered it, resting his hand on the table, his finger still on the trigger.
He was still sitting there when Jenny came in. “They’ve gone,” she said.
Fallon made no reply and she looked down at the gun with distaste. “What did you need that thing for? What hap-pened?”
“Nothing much,” he said. “He held up a mirror, that’s all, but there was nothing there that I hadn’t seen before.” He pushed back his hair and stood up. “I think I’ll get a couple of hours” sleep.”
“I39
He moved to the door and she said diffidently. “Would you like me to come up?”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her and went out quietly, trapped in some dark world of his own. She sat down at the table and buried her face in her hands.
When Fitzgerald went into Miller’s office, the Superintendent was standing by the window reading a carbon copy of a letter.
He offered it to Fitzgerald. “That’s what we sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions.”
Fitzgerald read it quickly. “That seems to sum up the situation pretty adequately to me, sir,” he said as he handed the letter back. “When can we expect a decision?”
“That’s the trouble, they’ll probably take a couple of days. Unofficially, I’ve already spoken to the man who’ll be handling it by telephone.”
“And what did he think, sir?”
“If you really want to know, he wasn’t too bloody hopeful.” Miller’s frustration was a tangible thing. “Anything to do with religion, you know what people are like. That’s the English for you.”
“I see, sir,” Fitzgerald said slowly.
It was only then that Miller noticed that the Inspector was holding a flimsy in his right hand. “What have you got there?”
Fitzgerald steeled himself, “Bad news, I’m afraid, sir. From CRO about that Ceska.”
Miller sat down wearily. “All right, tell me the worst.”
“According to the computer, the last time a Ceska was used to kill someone in this country was in June, nineteen fifty-two, sir. A Polish ex-serviceman shot his wife and her lover to death. They hanged him three months later.”
“Marvellous,” Miller said bitterly. “That’s all I needed.”
“Of course they’re circulating arms dealers in the London area for us,” Fitzgerald said, “It will take time, but something could come out of that line of enquiry.”