The Shadowers by Donald Hamilton

specialist in women’s diseases. Also, I’m afraid, in women. He’s quite a specimen, isn’t he? Genus Casanova, species phony. He’s come all the way from Pensacola to plead for forgiveness, he says, but what he’s really frightened of is that I’ll make a scandal and ruin his profitable practice. As if I’d want to let people know what a fool I’ve been!”
    She drew a long, uneven breath, fished for her glasses in her pocket, and put them back on. After a moment, she unbuttoned her jacket, unfastened the snug round collar of her silk blouse, sighed with relief, leaned back comfortably, and stuck her legs out in front of her, a little apart. Her attitude was mildly defiant as if she was aware that this pose was neither graceful nor ladylike and to hell with it. She looked up and saw me rubbing my jaw.
    “I thought you people were supposed to be able to take care of yourselves,” she murmured with a touch of malice.
    I said, “What did you want me to do, pitch him out of a fifth-floor window with a judo throw, or crack a couple of vertebrae with a karate chop to the neck? Besides leaving us the problem of disposing of a body, those are hardly techniques you’d attribute to a dissipated lecherous Denver reporter. Besides, there’s the possibility that we may want the guy alive.”
    She frowned quickly. “What do you mean?”
    I looked down at her. Her relaxed posture allowed a lot of leg to show. There was even some lingerie on display; a nice bit of cream-colored slip with darker, coffee-colored lace, pretty and provocative and completely out of character—but then, so was a love affair with a handsome doctor. Somebody had obviously slipped, digging out her background; she’d managed to keep some things well concealed. There was obviously more to Dr. Olivia Mariassy than her plain, tweedy, unpromising exterior had seemed to indicate.
    “Where did you meet this guy?” I asked.
    “In his office. Although we’re kind of attached to the Naval Air Station and use their facilities, we don’t officially rate attention from the Navy doctors, and being a doctor myself I detest people who try to scrounge free medical service they’re not entitled to. Later, I met Dr. Mooney at a cocktail party in town. He remembered me, which was flattering. Most men don’t, as a person, although they may remember me as a scientist.” She spoke in a dry, detached voice. “We talked about medicine and other things. We had dinner together that night and other nights. You can guess the rest.”
    “Sure.” I crossed the room to the phone, and activated the New Orleans-Denver-Washington circuits for the second time that night. “Never mind switching me upstairs,” I said to the girl when I got the number. “Just have them run a fast check on Mooney, Harold—M.D. in obstetrics and gynecology and don’t ask me how to spell it. Home base, Pensacola, Florida. Let me have it here in the morning, whatever you can get at once; in the meantime tell them to put somebody to really digging for dirt. Check his home, his office, everything. Any word on Karl Kroch yet?”
    There wasn’t, which was odd. Generally they can run down a man with a record in the business pretty fast, and I was willing to bet Kroch’s record was long and gaudy. I hung up. Olivia hadn’t moved.
    “Karl Kroch?” she said. “Is that the man—”
    “The one who was watching us in the bar downstairs, earlier this evening. The one who was so mean to the little girl in pink. The one we wanted, I thought. Now I’m not so sure.”
    “Because of Harold?” Her eyes followed me as I came back across the room. “You’re wrong, Mr. Corcoran. I can see your line of reasoning, of course, but you’re wrong.”
    I said, “We put on an act, Doc. We met cute, we got drunk cute, we indicated we were going to make love cute, just to see who’d be interested. Well, there were distractions, but a fish finally took the bait, didn’t he? Your friend Mooney had obviously