The Shadowers

XXI

His NAME was Emil Taussig, but in St. Louis, Mo., he called himself William Kahn. He was an old man with white hair and kindly brown eyes. At least the people in the neighborhood were quoted later as saying they thought his eyes had looked kindly. I never got close enough, myself, to form an independent judgment. I was seventy-five yards behind him, across the street, and he was starting up the steps to his apartment house, when he fell down and died.

There was a doctor handy to make the examination and call it a coronary, carefully ignoring the tiny bullet hole at the base of the skull. Karl Kroch wasn't the only one who could use a.22, and the caliber does have certain advantages. You can use an efficient silencer with it, for one thing. Silencers don't work too well with the heavier calibers.

After that a lot of things happened all over the country, as the shadowers that had been identified by other agencies were picked up in a nationwide net which had been prepared and held in readiness pending Taussig's demise. Many that had not been identified escaped, no doubt; and a few struck back. It didn't go quite as smoothly and bloodlessly as Washington had hoped, even with the top man dead, but when did it ever? There were also, I was told, a few international adjustments made at this time which may or may not have been connected with the affair.

That part of it didn't really concern me. Anyway, I was in the hospital with a badly infected leg. Another characteristic of the.22 is the fact that the greasy little bullet carries a lot of dirt into a wound; and maybe I hadn't stayed as quiet as I should.

A gentleman from Washington visited me while I was still fiat on my back and told me I was a hero and had probably saved the world or some small part of it. They've got a department for the purpose, I think. They call it internal public relations, or something. I wanted to tell the guy to go to Florida and make his speech to a lady with a degree in astrophysics, but it wouldn't have been diplomatic. Neither did I succumb to the temptation to ask him just what the hell made him think any part of the world was saved. It was spring when I visited Pensacola again, on instructions from Mac.

"The lady wants you to sign some papers," he'd said, in Washington. "I told her you'd stop by when you could."

"Sure."

"Incidentally, you may run into young Braithwaite down there. He didn't work out for us. He's back with his ship." Mac threw me a glance across the desk. "You gave him a rather rugged introduction to the work, Eric. There was no need for him to witness the interrogation of the girl, for instance."

"He'd had a part in catching her," I said. "I thought he might as well get used to seeing a job through."

"After watching the I-team at work on Miss Darden- she died afterward, you know-Lieutenant Braithwaite apparently decided he didn't want any part of the glamorous life of an undercover agent." Mac was looking at me in a speculative way. "Perhaps that was what you had in mind, Eric?"

"Perhaps," I said. "Is my, er, wife still living at the same address?"

She was, Mac said, but when I wanted to call the house from the Pensacola Airport, I couldn't find the name Mariassy in the phone book. Then I realized what I was doing wrong and turned to another section and there it was: Corcoran, Paul, 137 Spruce, 332-1093. It gave me a funny feeling to see the name again. I hadn't used it since the previous autumn.

I called the number and got a maid who said Miz Corcoran was out but if I was Mr. Corcoran I was supposed to pick her up at the lab-Building 1000 at the Naval Air Station. She was expecting me.

A taxi took me through the gate and across the big base, past a drill field where some kind of a military ceremony was in progress. There was a reviewing stand that seemed to contain a lot of naval rank. Solid masses of lesser officers stood on the side lines. The colors were just coming onto the field, followed by a long column of naval aviation cadets or midshipmen or whatever the Navy calls them.

My driver managed to find a street that wasn't blocked and got me down to the waterfront, from where I could look out across the harbor at Santa Rosa Island, but I couldn't see anything that looked like a deserted fortification out there. I probably wouldn't recognize it in daylight, anyway. I could still hear the brassy sound of the Navy band as I went to the front door of the building. That was as far as I got, not having the particular clearance required to penetrate farther into the sacred mysteries of science.

"Mr. Corcoran?" said the elderly guard. "Yes, sir. Please have a seat. I'll call Dr. Corcoran. She's expecting you."

Then she was coming down the stairs. At least the approaching woman looked in a general way like the woman I remembered from last fall, but her hair was styled in a different and softer way, and the lipstick was obviously firmly established now, smoothly and expertly applied. She was wearing a brown sweater and a tailored brown skirt that made her look tall and slim. Only the legs hadn't changed. They were still very fine, nicely displayed by nylons and high heels.

I got to my feet, not knowing exactly what to expect. She came across the lobby and put her arms around my neck and kissed me hard, which surprised me in more ways than. one. We hadn't parted exactly friends.

I heard her voice in my ear. "Play up, damn you! The guard's a terrible old blabbermouth. Don't just stand there!" Presently she stepped back and said a little breathlessly, "I've missed you, darling."

"I tried to get back sooner, but they've been keeping me busy. You're looking great, Olivia."

"Am I?" She did something embarrassed and feminine with her hair. I remembered that she'd always been a great girl for fussing with her hair after a kiss. "Did you have a nice trip?" she asked.

"Moderate. It was a little rough over the mountains, but not too bad."

"I'm sorry I couldn't meet you at the airport but something came up. The car's right outside." She took my arm and led me out into the sunlight. "Thanks, Paul," she said in a different tone. "Some of them in there have been acting as if they didn't really believe I had a husband. The guard will put them straight, the old gossip." She laughed apologetically. "After all, I do have a career and a reputation to maintain, now that I'm no longer a desperate undercover agent."

"Sure."

"Do you want to look around? I can't show you our work, of course, but they've got some interesting equipment here that isn't too highly classified, like the human centrifuge and the rotating room in which they study problems of equilibrium… Well, it was just a suggestion. Paul?"

"Yes?"

"I wanted to apologize afterward, but you were gone."

"Apologize? What for?"

"For making it harder for you. That night. There was a reason why I just couldn't undress in front of everybody. I didn't mean all the nasty things I said." She hesitated and glanced at me with a hint of mischief in her eyes. "Would you really have stripped me naked?"

"Sure," I said.

She laughed softly. "I'm glad. I don't like people who talk tough and act mushy. I don't like people who mix sentiment with business or science. At least you're a consistent monster. I am glad to see you again, Paul. I mean, really."

"I like you, too, Doc," I said. "Shall we go sign those papers?" I mean, it was nice talking over old times, but somebody had to bring the meeting to order.

She stopped smiling. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course."

She still had the same little black Renault; she hadn't even managed to put many miles on it, I noticed. I remembered to fasten my seatbelt without being told. She drove, but after a couple of blocks we were turned back by a base policeman: the ceremony was still going on. The next street wasn't any better. We were at the side of the field but they wouldn't let us drive along it. I heard commands being snapped out. The cadets, or whatever they were, were about to pass in review.

"Come on," I said. "Leave it here and let's look. I'm a sucker for parades."

She looked unenthusiastic, but I pulled her out of the car and dragged her over to the field and found a spot where we could get up close. They were coming along the edge of the field toward us, four abreast, in perfect step, with the colors out front. I remembered to take off my hat. The military spectators were saluting.

Olivia nudged me, and I looked where she was looking, and there was Lt. (jg) Braithwaite among the others near the reviewing stand, in uniform, holding his salute smartly as the flag passed. He looked happy and untroubled. He was back where he belonged.

The cadets marched by, looking sternly ahead, and the band followed, belting out "The Stars and Stripes Forever." It was all very corny and obsolete, of course. There had been a time when they would march right up to the guns like that, with the drums going, but we don't fight that way any more. Perhaps it's just as well. Maybe we're better off just leaving the drums out of it.

The Navy musicians were right on top of us now, giving Sousa everything they had. I knew Olivia wanted to stick her fingers in her ears, but I was remembering standing on the island of an aircraft carrier bathed in a different kind of sound, watching the jets being catapulted into the wind.

I remembered that I'd been feeling rather superior to the kid pilots and their noisy toys that day last fall; but now I came to the conclusion that I hadn't had a very sound basis for that feeling. They might not be much good at doing what I did, but then, there were times when I wasn't very good at it myself. And I'd play hell trying to do what they might have to do some day, Braithwaite included. It was a humbling thought.

"Let's blow," I said, and ten minutes later we were entering the house with the picture window, in the development with the French-curve streets. It wasn't entirely a good feeling, coming into the familiar room after the better part of a year. "Well," I said, "show me where to make with the pen and paper, Doc. Where's this stuff you want signed?"

"There isn't any stuff," she said. "That is, the lawyers have something, I think, but it isn't here."

I turned to look at her. There wasn't anything to say, so I didn't say it. I waited.

"I had to get you down here," she said.

"So you could lure me to the laboratory and show me off as your husband?"

"Yes," she said. "That was one thing. Don't say anything, Paul. There's something I want you to see before you say anything. This way." She walked quickly across the living room and down the hail past the door of the big bedroom I remembered. She opened a door on the other side of the hall. "In there," she said, stepping back to let me by.

I moved past her and stopped. It was a small room. The wallpaper had bunnies on it. There was a crib, and in the crib was a baby, an unmistakable human child. It was sound asleep, wearing blue knitted booties. As a onetime daddy, I knew that blue booties meant a boy.

I turned to look at Olivia. Her face was expressionless. She put a finger to her lips. I went back into the living room, leaving her to close the door. When I heard her coming, I was standing by the picture window, thinking that I would never understand why people built picture windows just so they could look across a street at other people's picture windows; but that was kind of beside the point.

"Now do you understand?" she said, beside me. "I told you it wasn't my secret. It was his. He had to have a name. Well, he has one. It's the name of a man who doesn't really exist, but that doesn't matter. It's legal, and that's what counts. Nobody can take it away from him."

I turned to look at her. She looked slender and attractive in her nicely fitting sweater-and-skirt outfit. I remembered the loose, clumsy clothes she'd worn. All the pieces fitted into the puzzle perfectly.

"I was going to be very clever," she said quietly. "I'd agreed to marry an unknown government man-very reluctantly, of course. And I planned to arrange it so that you… so that the government man, after the wedding, would never protest that the child wasn't his. He might guess, but he'd never know. But of course you do know whose it is."

"Now that you say it."

"When I learned I was pregnant, I went to Harold and, well, you know what happened that day. I probably didn't make much sense to you where Harold was concerned. I despised him and still… and still, I'd loved him once, and I was carrying his child." She drew a long breath. "Well, he's dead. He'd never have married me, anyway. The most he would have condescended to do was operate. You know what I mean. I'm not really the maternal type, but I didn't want that."

I looked at her. "Just what do you want, Olivia?" I asked.

She faced me steadily. "His name is Paul Corcoran, Junior. I suppose he'll grow up being called Junior. Anyway, he has a name. There was a little pause. I'd like him to have a father, too," she said. "Not much of a father, necessarily. Just a man who comes around now and then, a man who's off on business most of the time, but seems to be a pretty nice guy when he does turn up."

"I'm not a pretty nice guy," I said.

She smiled. "I know that, and you know it, but he doesn't have to."

I said, "You're working hard for this kid."

She hesitated. "It isn't entirely for the kid, Paul or Matt or whatever your real name is. I… it's been a very lonely winter."

There was another little pause. "Sure," I said. "But you're a good-looking woman. You can find somebody who can make it a full-time job."

"I'd hate him," she said. "I'd hate him, going to his stupid insurance business or law office with his stupid briefcase every day of the year. I'd despise him. I'd be brighter than he, and I'd have to hide it."

"You're brighter than I am," I said.

"Technically speaking, maybe, but it doesn't matter," she said. "With us, it doesn't matter. Don't make me throw myself at your head, Paul. We're the same kind of people, in a funny sort of way. We could make it work. It's as much marriage as either of us needs, but we both need that much. You, too."

I said, "You're a cold, calculating wench, Doc."

She shook her head minutely. "No," she said softly. "No, I may be calculating but I'm not… not cold. You know that, unless you've forgotten."

I said, "I haven't forgotten."

We stood by the big window, facing each other wearily, almost like enemies. Then I had her in my arms, slim and hard and responsive; and then I was looking over her shoulder at something lying on the little table behind her.

"What is it?" Olivia whispered after a moment. "What is it, darling? What's the matter?"

I let her go and walked past her. I picked up the knife and remembered who had given it to me. I remembered how Gail had died, and why. I remembered kneeling by Toni's body, knowing that I was responsible for her death, too, because anybody with whom a man in my line of work associates is bound to attract danger sooner or later.

Olivia was watching me. Her face was pale. "I put it out so I wouldn't forget," she said. "I thought you'd want it back. The knife, I mean. Paul, what's the matter?"

I didn't know how to say it without sounding like a pompous jackass or a self-pitying martyr to duty, or something. I didn't know how to tell her that she was a swell girl and I liked her proposition fine but she'd better find herself a man who wasn't a human lightning rod, if not for her own sake then for the baby's. I was glad when the telephone began to ring noisily. Somehow I knew it was for me. With that kind of timing it could only be Mac. It was.

"Eric? I was hoping to catch you before you left," he said. "Have you finished your business with the lady? Can you get over to New Orleans fast? You know the number to call when you get there."

I looked at Olivia. "Yes, sir," I said into the phone. "I'm finished here. I'll be there before midnight."

I stuck the knife in my pocket, picked up my hat, and left. The first three steps toward the door were the hardest. After that it got easier, a little.