He went out and Fallon lit a cigarette and waited. It was a good ten minutes before Rupert reappeared.
'I'll take you up now, sir,' he said, and with a flashing smile led the way out into the hall.
'And where would up be?' Fallon asked him.
'Mr Meehan's had the attics of the three houses knocked together into a penthouse suite for his personal use. Beautiful.'
They reached a small lift and as Rupert opened the door Fallon said, 'Is this the only way?'
'There's the back stairs.'
'Then the back stairs it is.'
Rupert's ready smile slipped a little. 'Now don't start to play games, ducky. It'll only get Mr Meehan annoyed, which means I'll end up having one hell of a night and to be perfectly frank, I'm not in the mood.'
'I'd have thought you'd have enjoyed every golden moment,' Fallon said and kicked him very hard on the right shin.
Rupert cried out and went down on one knee and Fallon took the Ceska out of his right-hand pocket. He had removed the silencer, but it was still a deadly-looking item in every way. Rupert went white, but he was game to the last.
'He'll crucify you for this. Nobody mixes it with Jack Meehan and passes the post first.'
Fallon put the Ceska back in his pocket. 'The stairs,' he said softly.
'All right,' Rupert leaned down to rub his shin. 'It's your funeral, ducky.'
The stairway started beside the entrance to the Chapel of Rest and they climbed three flights, Rupert leading the way. There was a green baize door at the top and he paused a few steps below. 'That leads directly into the kitchen.'
Fallon nodded. 'You'd better go back to minding the shop then, hadn't you?'
Rupert needed no second bidding and went back down the stairs quickly. Fallon tried the door which opened to his touch. As Rupert had said, a kitchen was on the other side. The far door stood ajar and he could hear voices.
He crossed to it on tiptoe and looked into a superbly furnished lounge with broad dormer windows at either end. Meehan was sitting in a leather club chair, a book in one hand, a glass of whisky in the other. Billy, holding the whippet, stood in front of an Adam fireplace in which a log fire was burning brightly. Donner and Bonati waited on either side of the lift.
'What's keeping him, for Christ's sake?' Billy demanded.
The whippet jumped from his arms and darted across to the kitchen door. It stood there, barking, and Fallon moved into the lounge and crouched down to fondle its ears, his right hand still in his coat pocket.
Meehan dropped the book on the table and slapped a hand against his thigh. 'Didn't I tell you he was a hard-nosed bastard?' he said to Billy.
The telephone rang. He picked it up, listened for a moment and smiled. 'It's all right, sweetheart, you get back to work. I can handle it.' He replaced the receiver. 'That was Rupert. He worries about me.'
'That's nice,' Fallon said.
He leaned against the wall beside the kitchen door, hands in pockets. Donner and Bonati moved in quietly and stood behind the big leather couch facing him. Meehan sipped a little of his whisky and held up the book. It was The City of God by St Augustine.
'Read this one, have you, Fallon?'
'A long time ago.' Fallon reached for a cigarette with his left hand.
'It's good stuff,' Meehan said. 'He knew what he was talking about. God and the Devil, good and evil. They all exist. And sex.' He emptied his glass and belched. 'He really puts the record straight there. I mean, women just pump a man dry, like I keep trying to tell my little brother here only he won't listen. Anything in a skirt, he goes for. You ever seen a dog after a bitch in heat with it hanging half out? Well, that's our Billy twenty-four hours a day.'
He poured himself another whisky and Fallon waited. They all waited. Meehan stared into space. 'No, these dirty little tarts are no good to anybody and the boys are no better. I mean, what's happened to all the nice clean-cut lads of sixteen or seventeen you used to see around? These days, most of them look like birds from the rear.'
Fallon said nothing. There was a further silence and Meehan reached for the whisky bottle again. 'Albert!' he called. 'Why don't you join us?'
The bedroom door opened, there was a pause and a man entered the room who was so large that he had to duck his head to come through the door. He was a walking anachronism. Neanderthal man in a baggy grey suit and he must have weighed at least twenty stone. His head was completely bald and his arms were so long that his hands almost reached his knees.
He shambled into the room, his little pig eyes fixed on Fallon. Billy moved out of the way nervously and Albert sank into a chair on the other side of Meehan, next to the fire.
Meehan said, 'All right, Fallon. You cocked it up.'
'You wanted Krasko dead. He's on a slab in the mortuary right now,' Fallon said.
'And the priest who saw you in action? This Father da Costa?'
'No problem.'
'He can identify you, can't he? Varley says he was close enough to count the wrinkles on your face.'
True enough,' Fallon said. 'But it doesn't matter. I've shut his mouth.'
'You mean you've knocked him off?' Billy demanded.
'No need.' Fallon turned to Meehan. 'Are you a Catholic?'
Meehan nodded, frowning. 'What's that got to do with it?'
'When did you last go to confession?'
'How in the hell do I know? It's so long ago I forget.'
'I went today,' Fallon said. 'That's where I've been. I waited my turn at da Costa's one o'clock confession. When I went in, I told him I'd shot Krasko.'
Billy Meehan said quickly, 'But that's crazy. He'd seen you do it himself, hadn't he?'
'But he didn't know it was me in that confessional box - not until he looked through the grille and recognised me and that was after I'd confessed.'
'So what, for Christ's sake?' Billy demanded.
But his brother was already waving him down, his face serious. 'I get it,' he said. 'Of course. Anything said to a priest at confession's got to be kept a secret. I mean, they guarantee that, don't they?'
'Exactly,' Fallon said.
'It's the biggest load of cobblers I've ever heard,' Billy said. 'He's alive, isn't he? And he knows. What guarantee do you have that he won't suddenly decide to shoot his mouth off?'
'Let's just say it isn't likely,' Fallon said. 'And even if he did, it wouldn't matter. I'm being shipped out from Hull Sunday night - or have you forgotten?'
Meehan said, 'I don't know. Maybe Billy has a point.'
'Billy couldn't find his way to the men's room unless you took him by the hand,' Fallon told him flatly.
There was a dead silence. Meehan gazed at him impassively and Albert picked a steel and brass poker out of the fireplace and bent it into a horseshoe shape between his great hands, his eyes never leaving Fallon's face.
Meehan chuckled unexpectedly. 'That's good - that's very good. I like that.'
He got up, walked to a desk in the corner, unlocked it and took out a large envelope. He returned to his chair and dropped the envelope on the coffee table.
'There's fifteen hundred quid in there,' he said. 'You get another two grand on board ship Sunday night plus a passport. That clears the account.'
That's very civil of you,' Fallon said.
'Only one thing,' Meehan told him. 'The priest goes.'
Fallon shook his head. 'Not a chance.'
'What's wrong with you, then?' Meehan jeered. 'Worried, are you? Afraid the Almighty might strike you down? They told me you were big stuff over there, Fallon, running round Belfast, shooting soldiers and blowing up kids. But a priest is different, is that it?'
Fallon said, in what was little more than a whisper, 'Nothing happens to the priest. That's the way I want it. That's the way it's going to be.'