Donald Hamilton: The Shadowers

"That won't be necessary," I said. "Just take off your shoes and shake them out upside down… That's fine. I apologize, Miss Darden. When we get out of here, you can slap my face. Mr. Braithwaite, you're next."

He was quite red, and he was having a hard time keeping his eyes off the well-developed little girl beside him. Very calm and self-possessed, even smiling a little, she started putting her clothes back on as casually as if she were in her own apartment. You'd have thought no man was within miles of her as she dressed; certainly no young man with whom she'd been keeping company, to use the old-fashioned expression, earlier in the evening.

"Mr. Braithwaite," I repeated.

He started, "What, sir?"

"You, sir," I said.

Dottie giggled. "It's your turn, Jackie. Take them off, Lover-boy. Give us girls a thrill."

He glared at her, and at me. "Sir you can't think I… You can't suspect me.

I said, "Sonny, you're temporary help. You haven't been trained. To the best of my knowledge, you haven't even been properly cleared yet. They just picked you off the street to help out in a minor way. Why did you want to leave a soft Navy berth to work for us, anyway? Sure, I suspect you. Somebody in this room slipped a hypo into Dr. Mooney. Why not you?"

I made a gesture with the gun. He undressed very quickly. He was a good-looking young fellow, lean and sunburned. Dottie stared at him boldly and whistled admiringly to torment him. I wondered if he still thought her a nice kid. Well, her morals weren't my concern, and on the whole I found her attitude more convincing than if she'd put on a show of blushing embarrassment. After all, she was a trained nurse, and Queen Victoria was dead.

There was no hypodermic in Braithwaite's clothes. I threw them back to him and drew a long breath. We'd had a million laughs, and we'd seen a couple of fine young bodies, and we'd stalled long enough. I turned.

"Well, Doc," I said. "That puts it up to you."

Olivia faced me stiffly. She'd lost most of her unaccustomed lipstick during the course of the evening. She looked plain and rather dowdy, like the woman I'd met on the carrier a few days ago. She was back where she'd started. It was almost as if nothing had ever happened between us-almost but not quite.

There was the memory of that in her eyes. There was also the fact that, like me, she was somewhat older than the other two. I was asking her to discard her adult dignity, along with her clothes, in front of a couple of relative youngsters, one of whom she had reason to hate.

"I haven't got it, Paul," she said stiffly. "You're being absurd. Why should I kill Harold?"

Dottie laughed. "I can think of a reason!"

"Shut up," I said, and to Olivia: "Maybe Mooney wasn't killed to silence him. Maybe you just saw a chance for revenge and took it. You're a doctor, you know how to handle a needle, and maybe you can even tell the stuff that's deadly from the stuff that isn't, by smell or taste or something. Maybe the killing has nothing to do with what I'm after, but I've got to know who did it."

"Well, I didn't!" she breathed. "You've got to believe me-".

I said, "And maybe all this personal stuff between you and Mooney is sheer camouflage and there are things I don't know about. You hinted at something like that once, something very mysterious. Anyway, the hell with motives, for the time being. You told me definitely that Kroch was dead, Doc. That means you must have given him some kind of an examination. You were also called over to look at Mooney, says Miss Darden. From Kroch to Mooney, the way the needle went. Where is it?"

"I tell you," she said, "I haven't got it."

"I'm sorry. You're going to have to prove it just like the others did."

She said quietly, "I am not going to undress for you, Paul. You will have to… to strip me by force."

"I can do that, too," I said. "But why make it so tough if you've got nothing to hide? You're a doctor. Before that you were a medical student. What's so secret about the human body? I want that hypo, Doc. Or I want to know you haven't got it. Will it help if I say please?"

She shook her head minutely. She faced me, very straight, waiting. There was an odd kind of panic in her eyes, however; and I remembered that although I'd been allowed to make love to her, I'd never been allowed to see her naked: she'd kept a slip on or asked for a moment to change into a sexy nightie. Maybe she did have a thing about it, doctor or no. Maybe that was all it was. Or maybe she had something else to hide. There was only one way to find out.

I took a limping step forward. Olivia awaited me unmoving, but when I reached out to grasp the neck of her dress with both hands-one holding the gun-she drew a sharp breath and caught my wrists.

"No!" she gasped. "Paul, no! Please. I haven't got it. I swear. You can't-" she hesitated, and looked me in the eye, and said deliberately: "You can't do this to me, Paul!"

I returned the look. Hell, anybody can look. I said harshly, "You have to make this just as tough as you can, don't you?"

"Yes," she said fiercely, "yes, and when you've shamed me without finding what you're looking for, I hope you remember the rest of your life that I told you, swore to you, that it wasn't there!"

"I'll remember," I said. I shook her off and reached for her dress collar again. I saw defeat come into her face.

"Wait!" she gasped. "Wait, I'll do it." She hesitated. "Just let me… Just one thing first, Paul. A favor."

"Granted," I said. "With reservations. What is it?" She put out a hand. I stepped back quickly. "Hold it! What do you want?"

"Just the comb," she said.

"Comb?"

"The comb in your breast pocket. Just a cheap little pocket comb. You can examine it carefully before you give it to me. I wouldn't want you to take any chances!" Her voice was bitter.

I regarded her for a moment, wondering what was in her mind. Then I shrugged, took the comb from my pocket, and gave it to her.

"Now what?"

"Now," Olivia said, and turned abruptly to look at Dottie Darden, "now I want permission to comb her hair."

There was a dead silence. Dottie raised her hands protectively toward the elaborate golden beehive-a little wispy now-that crowned her head, that any stupid policewoman would have made her take down as part of a thorough search. It wasn't the brightest evening of my life.

Olivia took a step forward with the comb, and Dottie broke for the door. I did have sense enough to stick my foot out and trip her. My wounded leg gave way, and I came down heavily beside her. I saw what she was doing, and grabbed for her to keep her from getting her hand to her mouth. It took a bit of brutal wrestling to get the death pill away from her.

Then I struggled to my feet and looked at the deadly little capsule in my hand and at the shapely little girl in hospital white, disheveled and dusty now, with her fancy hairdo disintegrating into sagging tufts and loops above a face that suddenly looked much older and not nearly as pretty as it had before.

Above one ear, like an exotic jewel, a bit of metal and glass gleamed among the tumbled blonde strands. She reached up, felt for it, found it, snatched it out, and hurled it at me. Her aim was poor. I heard it shatter against the concrete wall behind me.

"I'll never tell you anything!" she panted. "You can't make me talk!"

They always say that.

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.