The Shadowers mh-7

by Donald Hamilton

  "It's not unusual. A lot of those lads didn't care who they swung a blackjack for as long as they were paid. And Taussig would be needing a lot of manpower for a scheme as ambitious as this one. A trained goon like Kroch could set his own price, almost. Washington likes Kroch better than Mooney, friend. They want you to put the show on the road as soon as possible. If Kroch follows and the other one doesn't, nab him."

  "Sure," I said. "And what if they both follow? Or neither does?"

  "Don't borrow trouble. Start driving and use the mirror, first. See what comes along behind. But watch yourself. This boy's no rabbit; it'll take more than a figure-four trap to catch and hold him."

  "It'll take more than a harsh word to make him talk, too," I said.

  "That's not your worry unless you want it to be. You present the body, breathing, and experts will take it from there. They'll get it out of him. Any more questions?"

  I hesitated. "One. Antoinette Vail. Is she being watched?"

  "She's covered. She hasn't shown yet this morning. Why?"

  "No reason," I said.

  I didn't really know why I'd asked the question. Toni didn't belong in the case, except that I'd dragged her in for a diversion. Nobody would thank me for being concerned about a kid who was just an irrelevant nuisance, not even the kid herself.

  XI

  THE COFFEE SHOP had a white tiled floor and old-fashioned-looking tables and chairs, but no booths or jukebox. I seated Olivia at a corner table, acting as if we'd just happened to meet in the doorway by accident.

  She was wearing a dress this morning, I noticed. It wasn't much to cheer about, one of the fashionably loose, baggy, blousy jobs that look very smart on a model built like a broomstick, which she wasn't. It was some kind of brownish jersey. They tell me that knitted stuff is very practical for traveling. I'm glad to hear it's good for something. Decoration-wise, it always looks like a variation of burlap to me.

  Still, it was a dress and it wasn't tweed. There were other changes.

  "For God's sake," I said.

  "What is it… Oh."

  She blushed a little and looked self-conscious. It was pink and innocuous, but it was real lipstick. Pretty soon she'd break down and powder her nose and everything. It gave me a funny feeling. I mean, after all, it was just a job for me. I didn't really want the responsibility of guiding the woman to a new view of life.

  I'd had enough of personal feelings on this job. I could still hear Antoinette's voice: Why, I really liked you! And you set me up for this! Dr. Olivia Mariassy was just another decoy, I reminded myself firmly. Unlike Toni, she knew she was being used, but God only knew what I'd have to set her up for in the end.

  "It isn't nice to stare," she said. "It isn't nice to make fun of me."

  "Who's making fun?"

  "I thought a bride-to-be would naturally pretty herself up a little," she said defensively "We're still getting married today, aren't we? Wasn't that the plan?"

  "That's still the plan," I said. "In fact we've got orders from Washington to put it into execution as soon as possible. They want us to separate the sheep from the goats, or the sheep from the goat, singular. Whichever of the two follows, we're supposed to take him and turn him over to the wrecking crew pronto."

  She glanced at me quickly. "The wrecking crew?"

  "The I-team," I said. "The interrogation team. The experts. That is, unless we want to ask the questions ourselves."

  She shivered slightly. "It isn't very nice, is it?"

  "Not very."

  "I wish there were some other way. I don't think it'll be a nice thing to remember, that I was a party to it and helped lure him into the trap. Whichever one of them it is. No matter if his job is to kill me, it won't be pleasant. Is this man Taussig really so important? What's he like?"

  "I've never met him socially," I said. "I gather, if you met him on the street, you might think you were looking at Albert Einstein. Well, Emil is kind of a genius, too, in his own field. As for his importance, that's not a question you're supposed to ask, Doc. What do you want, a long patriotic speech about how the lives of innocent people and the fate of nations all depend on somebody's getting to Taussig in time?"

  She sighed. "I know, some things you just have to accept. I'm not always happy about the uses to which science is being put these days, but I don't stop my research for that reason." She paused and said in the same tone of voice, "Talking about sheep-"

  "What?"

  "Talking about sheep and goats, we have company, Mr. Corcoran." She was looking beyond me. She leaned forward and covered my hand with hers. "Paul," she said, "darling-"

  I got the idea. "Sweetheart!" I said, looking into her eyes with adoration.

  Then Mooney was standing there with his horn-rims and heavy tweeds, looking as if he hadn't had much sleep. Despite his haggardness, I noticed, he was smoothly shaved. I caught a whiff of some masculine-smelling lotion as I got to my feet. He raised his hand quickly.

  "Please! I'm not… I just came to apologize. I just wasn't myself last night."

  I said aggressively, "Whoever you were, that guy's got a couple of punches coming."

  Olivia was still holding my hand. She pulled me back. "Please, darling. It's such a lovely morning, let's not spoil it. If Harold wants to apologize, why don't you let him?" Her voice was smooth. She smiled at Mooney. "Go on, Harold. Apologize. Tell Paul you're sorry you hit him when he wasn't looking."

  I said, "He'd be a damn sight sorrier if he'd hit me when I was looking!"

  "Paul! You're not being nice. Please, darling… Go on, Harold."

  She smiled at him sweetly until he mumbled something; then she made us shake hands like two quarrelsome boys. Finally she asked him to pull up a chair and join us. It wasn't the most pleasant breakfast I've ever eaten, but she enjoyed it thoroughly. She had a fine time making him squirm. It was a side of her character I hadn't seen before, and it made me feel better. A girl with that much acid in her system wasn't going to be hurt as easily as I'd feared.

  Finally she pushed back her chair and patted my hand. "You finish your coffee, darling. I'm going upstairs to pack." She turned to Harold. "Why don't you come up and watch me, Harold. There's something I want to tell you.',

  I watched them rise together. Being just a slob of a Denver reporter, I didn't get up. "I'll be along as soon as I've finished," I said.

  She leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, "Don't hurry," she said, laughing, "and don't be jealous, darling. I'm perfectly safe with Harold, aren't I, Harold?"

  Harold didn't answer. He was taking in the kiss and the endearments. He'd already spotted the unaccustomed lipstick and the way she couldn't seem to keep her hands off me, and he was obviously wishing he'd taken the opportunity to jump up and down on me with both feet last night. Whether he was truly jealous, or whether I was interfering with plans that had nothing to do with love, remained to be seen.

  I watched them leave together. Olivia was prattling away happily, making him wait for the big news until they were alone. She obviously had no doubt about the nature of his feelings, and she was getting a big kick out of being able to announce her forthcoming marriage to him and tell him that he really hadn't hurt her a bit. Quite the contrary, he'd helped her, like the ugly duckling, to discover her true, swanlike self in marriage to a fine man like me.

  Well, she had it coming. It was her payment for helping us. She'd probably earn every happy, sadistic moment of it before she was through. But it was also revealing, and I couldn't help thinking wryly that Olivia Mariassy was turning out rather different from the cool, detached, scientific personality with whom I'd been expecting to work.

  The waitress refilled my coffee cup, but it just wasn't my morning to finish anything, shaving or eating, for that damn instrument invented by Alex G. Bell. I'd just taken a couple of sips when a phone buzzed in the corner. The girl who answered it looked around, spotted me sitting there alone, and came over.

  "Are you Mr. Corcoran? You're wanted on the hous
e phone."

  I went over fast, but not fast enough to keep from realizing that I'd slipped badly. Daylight and Kroch's continued absence had made me careless, and I'd let Olivia go upstairs without protection, unless you wanted to count Mooney, who might be just the opposite.

  "Yes?" I said into the mouthpiece. "Corcoran here."

  "Paul?" It was Olivia's voice, but very different from the gay, bright, malicious tone she'd been using when last heard. "Paul, come up to my room right away, please!"

  "Sure."

  I took the stairs rather than wait for the elevator. I had the little knife in my hand as I approached the door. It's not a switchblade, but there are ways of opening it fast, one-handed, just the same. I knocked on the door and went through it fast and hard when it started to open.

  I could have saved myself the melodrama. There were only two people inside, Olivia and Mooney. She was the one who'd let me in. There was blood on her hands. He was lying on the bed with his coat off and his shirt-sleeve ripped away. His face was gray. There was a hotel towel under his bare arm to catch the blood that dripped from a bullet hole in his biceps.

  XII

  OLIVIA closed the door gingerly, leaving smears on the knob nevertheless.

  I said, "So he's a heel. You didn't have to shoot him." She glanced at me irritably. "Don't be silly. Where would I get a gun?"

  I could have told her. She hadn't been far from the one I carry in my suitcase on several occasions during the night. But even supposing she could have swiped it for purposes of vengeance or something, one blast from that sawed-off regulation cannon would have aroused the whole hotel. It also would have nearly torn Mooney's arm off. He'd obviously been shot with something considerably smaller and quieter than a.38 Special. I remembered that there was a man around who specialized in small-caliber weapons, according to the report I'd just received that morning.

  "Olivia…!" That was Mooney's voice, weak and panicky.

  "It's all right, Harold. You're not really losing much blood. Let it wash itself out." She turned to me. "Help me off with my dress, please. Be careful, my hands are kind of messy. I don't want to get blood all over it." She waited while I unfastened the belt and zipper and worked the dress down her arms and, cautiously, over her hands; then she stepped out of it while I held it low. "Hang it over that chair and get my bag out of the closet, a brown leather bag," she said.

  I glanced toward Mooney. "Hadn't he better have a tourniquet or something?"

  She said, "Get the bag, Paul. Leave the practice of medicine to me, please."

  "Sure."

  She was in charge, there was no doubt about it. There was no seductive lingerie today, just a white slip without frills. Although a little bare on top, it could have been a surgeon's gown the unselfconscious way she wore it. By the time I'd got the bag, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, examining the wound. Mooney gasped with pain and she shook her head irritably.

  "Don't be such a baby, Harold." She glanced at me as I came up. "Just put it down there and open it. Then follow my directions carefully…

  "Wait a minute!" I said, remembering that, as far as Mooney was concerned, I was supposed to be a reasonably law-abiding character, as least where serious matters like gunshot wounds were concerned. "Wait a minute. I don't know what the hell happened in here, but hadn't we better call the police?"

  "It was a man," Mooney whispered. "A big, bald man with protruding ears. I'd recognize him anywhere. He was hiding in the bathroom. I told him… I protested…"

  Olivia said, with a meaningful glance at me, "That's right, Paul. It was a prowler. I haven't had time to see if anything is missing, and I haven't anything worth stealing anyway. I can't imagine what he was doing here, maybe just working from room to room."

  Her voice was cool and matter of fact. She was pretty damn good, I had to admit. She might have been clumsy yesterday evening but she was catching on fast.

  I said in my innocent role, "Sure, but what about the cops? They like to be notified in cases like this. It's a notion they have."

  She looked at the man on the bed. Her voice was tart. "I don't really think Harold wants the folks back in Pensacola to read in the papers that be was shot in my hotel room in New Orleans, no matter how innocently he happened to be there."

  Mooney shook his head quickly. "No. Please. If we can avoid publicity-"

  "I'm quite capable of fixing up a little bullet hole," Olivia said. "Now please open my bag, Paul, and get the bottle of peroxide, hydrogen peroxide, and the applicators

  Oh, and twist up a towel or something for Harold to bite on when he feels like screaming, will you? We're going to have to do this without anesthesia, and Harold is rather sensitive about pain, aren't you, Harold? I mean, his own pain, of course."

  Her face was expressionless, but the peroxide bubbled viciously as it hit the raw flesh of the wound. Actually it doesn't really sting, not like iodine or Merthiolate, but watching it you'd think you were being consumed alive. Mooney started by watching the proceedings bravely enough, but he quickly turned his face away, looking sick.

  "So much for the preliminaries," Olivia said calmly. "Now we're going to have to go in and clean it thoroughly. Fortunately the bullet went clear through, but it may have carried along dirt or scraps of cloth… All right, Paul."

  She made a sharp little gesture. I was in position; I had the twisted towel in both hands, like a garrote. I got it between his teeth as he opened his mouth to yell, and I held it there. It wasn't the first time I'd helped patch up a guy when silence was necessary. Presently he fainted, which was nice for everybody.

  "There," Olivia said at last, completing a neat white dressing that covered both entry and exit holes. She grimaced. "I look as if I'd been sticking pigs, don't I?" Her voice was light.

  I said, "Cut it out. You don't have to impress me, and he's out cold. I don't like working with screwballs, Doc. Don't let this vengeance kick get out of hand."

  She looked at me across the bed. "What do you mean?" she asked innocently.

  "What's this about not having any anesthetic? I bet you could have squirted something into him to make it easier if you'd wanted to."

  She turned away and went to the bathroom door and looked hack. "Why should I want to make it easy for him, my dear?" she asked quietly. "Bring him to and get him out of here. He's doctor enough to know how to treat it while it heals, I hope. Tell him I hope he has the decency not to try to see me or speak to me again. Not that decency is a word I'd normally associate with him!"

  She went into the bathroom and pulled the door closed behind her.

  I cleaned up around the place, wiping the phone and doorknob where she'd left traces, and making a bundle of the stained towels. They presented no problem. Everybody swipes hotel towels. Finally I took a careful look around and saw where the bullet had ended up in the plaster wall after passing through Mooney's arm. I dug it out with my knife, fingered it-a.22-and dropped it into my pocket. By the time 1 was through, the patient was beginning to stir uneasily. I went over to him. He opened his eyes to look at me.

  "She says you'll live, much to her regret," I said. "Let's get your jacket on and I'll see you to your room. But first I'd like a rundown on what happened. You say there was a man in the bathroom?"

  Mooney licked his lips. "Yes. Olivia went in there for her toothbrush or something. I heard her gasp; then she was backing out stiffly as if she'd just missed stepping on a snake. This man followed her in. He had a little tiny pistol. It looked like a toy. He had tremendous hands."

  "Go on," I said.

  "He was a big man," Mooney said. "He made us stand against the wall over there. He looked at me and asked who the hell I was. He seemed very annoyed with me for being there. I told him my name and I told him… well, I protested against his manner. He was really very rude and overbearing. I told him…" He stopped.

  I looked at the man on the bed wearily. He still smelled of that virile, masculine shaving lotion. Nowadays we men are supposed to sme
ll pretty, too. I remembered a number of good men I'd known who'd generally smelled of sweat or horses or fast-car lubricants, sometimes of smokeless powder or that acrid variation the British call cordite. I felt old and tired.

  "I know," I said gently. "Oh, I know. You told him he couldn't get away with it."

  Mooney looked startled. "Why, yes! How did you know?"

  "Because that's how damn fools always get themselves shot, trying to sound brave at the point of a gun," I said. "If you'd kept your trap shut, you probably wouldn't have got hurt. They ought to have a high-school course in not talking back to a man with a gun. It might save more lives than driving lessons."

  "I couldn't believe he'd be crazy enough to really shoot!" Mooney protested. "I mean, it was so pointless. What did it gain him?"

  I said, "Well, for one thing, it shut you up, didn't it?"

  Kroch had obviously been on edge. Listening to the pompous grandstanding of an amateur hero had been too much. Well, it showed that the opposition was subject to nerves and irritability like anybody else; it also showed he didn't kid around much. But it didn't explain his motive for being there. Obviously Mooney's presence had surprised and annoyed him. The question was, had he been waiting for Olivia, hoping to catch her alone, or had he hoped to catch me, too?

  I picked up Mooney's jacket. The holes were almost invisible in the thick tweed, and what blood there was, was on the inside.

  "On your feet," I said. "Let's get this on you so you look respectable. Our prowler friend didn't happen to indicate what he was looking for in here, did he?"

  "No. No, he didn't give any intimation… Ahh, that hurts!"

  I had to steady him and work the jacket on gently; then, when we reached his room, I had to help him off with it again. I looked at him sitting on the edge of the hotel bed, pale and sick in his stained, half-sleeveless shirt, and I knew I'd been wrong about him. He wasn't our man.