Donald Hamilton: The Shadowers

"What are you driving at, Karl?" I demanded.

"You do not understand?" he asked. He seemed surprised. "Why, I am Karl Kroch, he/n? 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 ever 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 be 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 adrenaline 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 hail. "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.