The Shadowers

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 smell 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.

I don't mean we're all heroes; I don't mean we're all iron men. But he wasn't acting and he hadn't been acting-he wasn't that good; and they use a little harder material for agents than Dr. Harold Mooney had displayed this morning. This wasn't a man you'd send out to run the terrible risks involved in committing murder on signal. Olivia had been right. He was just a handsome phony.

I said, "Olivia says she doesn't want to see or hear from you again. We're getting married, you know."

"Yes." He licked his lips. "Yes, she told me. Just before that man-"

"In case you're wondering," I said, "in case you have the remotest little idea resembling, shall we say, blackmail or anything like that, I'd better tell you that I know all about it, you and her. There's nothing you can threaten her with, because she's already told me everything. I know I'm getting something pretty good, and I know I'm getting it on the rebound, and I don't give a damn…"

Well, you can complete the parting speech for yourself. I was the sterling character willing to forgive the poor girl one mistake; I was also the dissipated rounder reformed by a woman's love. Maybe it was inconsistent but it sounded swell. We parted on a very high plane indeed.

When I got back to Olivia's room, she was scrubbed and dressed and her bags were packed.

"How is he?" she asked.

I said, "I'm sorry I kept you waiting, but it took a little time to find the pliers."

She frowned quickly. "Pliers?"

"Sure," I said. "To pull out his fingernails and toenails by the roots. Wasn't that what you wanted? I had the iron heating while I did it so I wouldn't waste any time burning out his eyes afterwards-"

"Damn you," she said. "What are you talking about? I didn't hurt him deliberately. Well, not much." I didn't say anything. She looked down. "Paul," she whispered.

"Yes, Doc?"

"I still love him. You know that, don't you?"

"Sure," I said, "but the way you show it, I hope to hell I can keep you hating me. Come on, we've got a date to get married, remember?"