The Shadowers

by Donald Hamilton

“Shut up,” I said without turning my head.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “A moment for sentiment. Very well, but no tricks.”

  I looked down at the kid. There was some white paper sticking out of a pocket of her dusty black pants. I pulled it out. It was a crumpled envelope with my name written on it, or the name I was wearing currently: Mr. Paul Corcoran, Montclair Hotel—please forward. I could feel Kroch watching me closely, but he didn’t interfere as I opened the letter. It was not a letter, however. There was no writing inside. There were only three fifty-dollar bills.

  There had never been any mysterious message, just the money I’d left in her studio, the money her pride and anger had forced her to try to return, preferably by finding me and throwing it in my face. And still at the end, I remembered, she’d tried to warn me off. Mr. Corcoran, don’t come, she’d cried into the phone, don’t come, he’ll kill you!

  “That’s long enough,” Kroch said. “The period of mourning is over. It is too bad. She was quite pretty. You have very good taste, Eric. The one in Redondo Beach, she was extremely attractive. It hurt me to have to send her off the road to her death. Such a waste. But if they will associate with people like us, they must take the risks, hein?”

  There was suddenly a funny roaring sound in my ears, as if the beach had moved closer so that I could hear the surf.

  “Gail?” I said. “You killed Gail Hendricks, too?”

  “Was that her name?” he asked casually. “Didn’t you know? Let us say she helped kill herself. She was really driving much too fast for the amount of alcohol she had consumed. Her reflexes were, shall we say, ragged. When I pulled alongside in the curve, very close, and blew my horn loudly... well, at that speed it takes very little to send a car out of control.” He paused. “Surely you didn’t think it was an accident. Accidents do not happen to people like us, Eric. You should know that.”

  He was right, of course. I should have known it, but there had been no indication at the scene of the wreck and no motive that I could think of. As murder, Gail’s death still didn’t make sense as part of the case. He’d killed her before I’d even been given the assignment, before anybody could know I was taking it, since I didn’t even know it myself. I thought about this, or tried to think about it, but all that really came was the fact that he had killed her. That was two counts against Mr. Kroch. It was going to be very hard to keep him alive when the time came.

  His voice came, easy and confident: “Well, so it goes. So geht’s im Leben. All right, stand up. Put your hands against the wall. So.”

  Standing there, I felt his hands go over me. They found nothing of significance except the little case in my coat pocket. I felt that taken away.

  “No weapons, Eric?” He sounded puzzled and rather disappointed.

  “I stashed them,” I said. “There’s a tommy-gun hidden every five paces between here and the car.”

  “You hid nothing,” he said. “I was watching. And they would do you no good out there, anyway. You are not going out there again. Turn around, slowly.”

  I turned and looked at him for the first time that night. He was standing well back so I couldn’t grab the gun. He’d got no handsomer since the last time I’d seen him. His clothes were rumpled and dirty and he needed a shave. The bald dome of his head looked startlingly smooth and shiny above the craggy, lined face with its rough chin.

  The weapon in his hand looked like a Star, one of those Spanish automatics. It wasn’t the smallest gun in the world—the shape of the cartridge, tiny though it is, makes it difficult for technical reasons to build a really small .22 automatic pistol—but it looked like a child’s toy in his large fleshy hand.

  He was a big man. It didn’t worry me. The only thing that worried me, after seeing Toni’s body and learning about Gail, was that when the time came I might accidentally break him or tear him apart. I kept reminding myself firmly that this was still a business matter and had nothing to do with love or hate.

  “What’s this?” he asked, holding out the little case he’d taken from my pocket.

  “You’ve seen them before,” I said.

  “It’s a drug case.”

  “If you know, why ask?”

  “Why did you bring that and nothing else?”

  He was puzzled. It was a good way for him to be. He thought I had some elaborate plan, and he wanted to know what it was before he disposed of me. If I’d told him I’d just come there cold to take him and his silly little gun barehanded, he wouldn’t have believed me. So I told him.

  “What do I need,” I asked, “to take a loudmouth like you, Kroch? An armored regiment? But I had to bring something along to keep you quiet after I’d taken that popgun away from you and rammed it down your throat or elsewhere. It was either that or a rope, and I didn’t have a rope.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously; then he laughed. “You are bluffing, Eric. No, you are taunting me deliberately to make me angry. Why? What clever scheme have you got in mind?”

  Off in the corner, Dr. Harold Mooney wiggled uncomfortably against his bonds and tried to say something through his gag. We paid him no attention.

  “Clever?” I said to Kroch. “They wanted me to be clever, but I said what the hell it’s just Karl Kroch, isn’t it? If you want him, I’ll go get him for you. Alive? Sure, I’ll take him alive, I said. A dangerous man I might have to shoot, but not old Kroch.”

  His hand tightened on the gun—tightened and relaxed. He laughed harshly. “Childish, Eric,” he said. “Very childish. But I wish I knew what you had in mind. “Then he frowned. “Why would your superiors want me alive? Why would they care?”

  The truth was doing all right for me, so I stayed with it. “Well,” I said, “they want to ask you some questions about a gentleman named Taussig, Emil Taussig. I said I was sure you’d be glad to cooperate after I’d worked you over a little.”

  He ignored the jab, still frowning. “Taussig?” he said. “The old man in Moscow? The white-haired old man who is so clever for the Communists? I only know what everyone in the business knows about Taussig. I have never even met him. Why would they want to question me about him, Eric?”

  I laughed in his face. “Now who’s bluffing, Karl? We have an odd notion you just might be working for that white-haired old man. As a kind of specialist, say. Not in Moscow, but right here.”

  He looked at me for a moment. He seemed displeased. He shook his head slowly. “But that is not so,” he said, almost reproachfully. “You must know it is not so, Eric. You must know about me, by this time, enough. I gave you my name; you will have got a report by this time. You know who I am. You know where I came from. Why should you think such a thing of me?”

  I had a sudden cold feeling that something was wrong, that everything was wrong. Gail had died before the case even started, as far as I was concerned; and now Kroch was being very sincere and earnest, and a little indignant, about something that shouldn’t have bothered him a bit, if he was what we’d thought him. I remembered that I’d never been really satisfied with his behavior.

  “What are you driving at, Karl?” I demanded.

  “You do not understand?” he asked. He seemed surprised. “Why, I am Karl Kroch, hein? I might work for the Communists if I needed the money, that is true. What are politics to me? I am a professional, like you. But even a professional must draw the line somewhere, even in this decadent world we inhabit now with the Fuehrer gone. I am Karl Kroch. I do not work for Jews.”

  It was childish, if you wanted to look at it one way, or vicious, if you wanted to look at it another. But it was also completely convincing. I didn’t like to think what it implied.

  I asked sharply, “Well, if you’re not working for Taussig, damn it, why the hell are you trailing Olivia Mariassy around like Mary’s little lamb?”

  He stared at me. “But I was not following the lady scientist!” he protested. “Why would I do that? I was following you.”

  “Me?”

  “I have been looking for you e
ver since last summer, Eric. Ever since I caught up with you in Redondo Beach a week ago, I have been following you, waiting for the right moment to deal with you properly.”

  And there it was. I didn’t doubt him for a moment. There had been too many indications along the way; indications that I’d ignored or allowed myself to be talked into disregarding. I could have blamed Washington, I suppose, but I hadn’t really put up a good fight for my doubts and reservations, not good enough to allow me to pass the buck now.

  I’d sensed that Kroch was after me, of course. I’d been practically certain I was the one he’d been waiting for in Olivia’s hotel room, for instance. But I’d assumed that I was merely an annoying detail he wanted to dispose of so he could get on with the main job. It had never occurred to me that I might be that job.

  Yet as a man trailing Olivia, Kroch had never been completely convincing. As a man stalking me, whatever his motive, he became quite logical, if still a little melodramatic. I had to face the fact that I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion at the outset—we all had. Gail had died, Tom had died, and I might die, at the hands of the wrong man, a man who knew nothing significant about Emil Taussig. A lot of other people might also die...

  “Did she not tell you?” Kroch said. “The beautiful lady in the Cadillac? I hoped she would live long enough to tell you about the ugly man who’d frightened her into the ditch. I wanted you to know I was after you, Eric.”

  “No,” I said slowly. I remembered the policeman saying Gail had asked for me before she died. “No, she didn’t tell me. She had no chance. She was dead when I got there.”

  “And the little girl here on the floor? Did she not tell you either? I told her to be sure to let you know Karl Kroch was after you and would strike when he was ready.”

  I said, “She said something like that, but I was working on another business and misunderstood your meaning.” “Misunderstandings,” Kroch said sadly. “Always misunderstandings. I am sorry. I wanted to give you a fair chance, Eric. At least as much chance as you gave another man; a man we both remember.”

  I frowned at him. “What man?”

  “A man named Von Sachs. General Heinrich Von Sachs. Now do you understand? Now do you remember?”

  It was beginning to add up at last. “I remember Von Sachs,” I said. “I don’t remember you. You weren’t down there in Mexico last summer when I went after him.”

  “No. I was in Europe on business for the General. I had been with him a long time, Eric; a very long time. I came back to find him dead and his great plan in ruins, due to one man. You, Eric.”

  “His great plan was a pipe dream,” I said. “He’d never have made a fascist empire on this continent. I merely prevented an international mess by killing him.”

  “It is a matter of opinion,” Kroch said. “But you did kill him. You played on his pride and his sense of honor; you taunted and insulted him until he consented to fight you with machetes, and then you cut him to pieces and killed him. He was a great man, but he had that weakness about honor, and you found it. When I learned what had happened, I swore I would find you and kill you the same way, Eric.”

  I said, “Any time. Bring on the machetes.”

  He laughed. “I am not so great a fool as that. What I mean is, you tricked and taunted my General into fighting under conditions favorable to you; now I have turned the technique against you, Eric. I did not think you were vulnerable through honor—it is not a common failing in the profession—but I did think you might be reached through your women. You Americans are very sentimental about women. And in spite of misunderstandings, it worked, did it not? You are here because of what I did to your women.”

  “Well, you might say that. What happens now?”

  “What do you expect? I had hoped you would give me a better contest, but here we are. And now that you understand why you must die, I will kill you as you killed General Von Sachs. Slowly. Only, since I am not so good with edged weapons, I will not cut you to pieces, I will shoot you to pieces.”

  The gun in his hand steadied. I tried to remember the exact penetration of the little cartridge, in terms of one-inch pine boards—the usual standard—or human flesh. Well, one bullet had gone clean through Mooney’s arm. It wasn’t really a toy. I didn’t think it would gain me anything to point out that I had not actually cut Von Sachs to pieces, I’d merely worn him down until I could drive my machete through his heart.

  Taking aim, Kroch paused to glance at the gun in his hand. He chuckled, “It is a small-caliber weapon, Eric, shooting a very light cartridge. You will take a great many bullets before you die.”

  “I’m counting on that,” I said.

  He frowned quickly. I was ready when the pistol came steady again, and I knew I could make it. Now he wasn’t even aiming for the chest or head; he wanted to have his fun before he killed me. You don’t stop a man with that kind of peripheral marksmanship, not if you’re shooting a .22. And as I’d told Olivia, while an angry man is usually easier to handle, he may be harder to stop. I had all the adrenalin I needed in my bloodstream to get me from here to there.

  The little .22 settled on a point of aim and his finger put pressure on the trigger. I was aware of the strangled breathing of Harold Mooney, watching fearfully and making no effort to intervene. That was all right. I didn’t want any help. I just wanted to get my hands on Karl Kroch. At that moment I was very happy he had no information anybody wanted. I didn’t have to treat him gently. I didn’t have to catch him and preserve him like a delicate scientific specimen. I could smash him like a cockroach, and I was looking forward to it; and I didn’t care how big he was or how many guns he had. He was dead.

  I was ready, but suddenly I became aware of a new sound: the sharp, hasty rapping of high heels in the corridor outside.

  “Paul!” It was Olivia’s voice, echoing throughout the hall. “Paul, where are you? Paul!”

  Then she was in the doorway, and Kroch was distracted for an instant, and it was time to go and I went. He looked back to me. The little pistol started spitting as I threw myself forward. It sounded like a much larger weapon in the concrete room. Something nicked the side of my neck, something plucked at my shirt, something rapped at my thigh, and then all hell broke loose in that underground chamber.

  It sounded as if the great coast guns that had once guarded this place had opened up, rapid-fire. Lead began bouncing from concrete to concrete in there. I saw Olivia in the doorway, following my instructions to the letter. Standing there in her good tunic dress and high heels, looking very lady-like and respectable, she was holding my sawed-off Smith and Wesson in both white-gloved hands and pulling the trigger smoothly and rapidly, wincing only a little at each crashing, reverberating discharge.

  I started to shout at her. Hell, Kroch was mine. I tried to yell at her to leave him alone. I didn’t want him full of bullet-holes, I wanted to kill him with my bare hands. Then common sense returned, a little, and I realized this was no place to be standing up in. I threw myself down, but a ricochet beat me to it. I felt a heavy blow above the ear, and things went bright red, and the redness faded slowly into black, but not before I’d heard the .38 click empty and Kroch fall.

  20

  “Paul,” somebody said breathlessly. “Paul, wake up. Please wake up!”

  I opened my eyes. Olivia was kneeling beside me.

  “Kroch?” I whispered.

  “He’s dead. Paul, I’m sorry.”

  Well, she should be sorry, shooting down people other people had promised themselves the pleasure of killing... I pulled my thoughts together and realized she’d been apologizing for a different reason. She didn’t know we’d been working on the wrong man. She thought she’d spoiled everything by putting Kroch where he’d never talk.

  I remembered belatedly that I was an agent of sorts, not an avenging angel wielding the sword of retribution. There was a man I was supposed to find, a wicked old man with white hair. I wasn’t any closer to finding him than I’d ever been. Or was I?
I looked up at Olivia.

  “What the hell are you doing here, anyway?” I asked.

  “Well, you don’t act very grateful!” she protested. When I didn’t speak, she went on: “I couldn’t let you get killed. It was suicidal, going after an armed, trained man with nothing but a hypodermic. It was crazy! I made Jack Braithwaite bring me here.” She gave a strained little laugh. “I pointed your gun at him and made him drive me, just like in the movies. To hell with Emil Taussig! I don’t give a damn if they never find him!”

  “Don’t swear, Doc,” I said. After a little, I asked, “What’s the damage?”

  “You have a .22 bullet in your leg. It will have to come out later. I just stopped the bleeding temporarily.”

  I said, “Hell, we just dug a slug out of there last year. I seem to stop everything with that one damn leg. And my head.”

  “You may have a slight concussion.” She held out her hand and showed me a flattened bullet. “That’s what hit you. I didn’t know they would splash and bounce like that. I thought I’d killed you!”

  “Where’s Jack Braithwaite?” I asked. I still didn’t feel energetic enough to sit up and look around.

  “Here, sir.”

  He came into my field of vision, and he wasn’t alone. He was supporting the little blonde nurse on one arm. She was still in her uniform and her silly, formal hairdo; but she didn’t look quite as fresh and glowing as she had in the Flamingo Lounge. She’d seen violence and death since then.

  I said, “You seem to have misinterpreted my instructions, Mr. Braithwaite. That’s not the lady I instructed you to keep safe, if necessary at the cost of your life.”

  He licked his lips. “Sir, she had a gun—”

  “So? Where did she shoot you? You don’t seem to be bleeding very copiously. And what the hell are you doing here?” I asked Dottie Darden.

  She looked indignant. “Why ask me? You sound as if I had a choice! When somebody has a little time, I’d appreciate being told what this is all about!” Anger made her strong enough to stand alone. She freed herself from Braithwaite’s supporting arm. “Stop pawing me you... you phony Romeo! Using my apartment and pretending... Keep your hands to yourself!”