The Shadowers by Donald Hamilton Page A

stuff. She picked them up and counted them and looked up quickly.
    “And just what do you think you’re paying for, Mr. Corcoran, an easy conscience?” she demanded scornfully. “You’ve been around, you know perfectly well this cheesy little satin number didn’t cost any two hundred dollars. It was thirty-nine fifty on sale last year. Ten bucks will cover the rest. The bruises will heal, and I don’t put a price on my self-respect or whatever you want to call that . Here!”
    She held out three of the four fifties I’d given her. There was nothing to do but take them. I looked down on her small, hurt, hating face for a moment. I tried to reassure myself with the thought that the fate of nations and the lives of important people were at stake, and that what happened to one little girl wasn’t really important, but I didn’t try to sell the idea to her, perhaps because I wasn’t sure I bought it myself.
    I turned and walked to the door. A faint sound made me look back. She was again lying face down on the bed. Maybe she was crying. I couldn’t be sure. The one thing I could be sure of was that I wasn’t the man to console her. I paused by the door to slip the three fifties under her gloves before I went out. After all, by the looks of the place, she’d had a lot of stuff ruined in here besides a dress.
    Maybe I was trying to buy an easy conscience, as she’d charged. At a hundred and fifty bucks it would have been a bargain if it had worked, but it didn’t.

7
    But it was no time for sentimental luxuries like consciences. They’re not supposed to be part of our equipment, anyway. I got back to my hotel room as quickly as possible and called Washington by way of Denver, Colorado, since that’s where I was supposed to be from and communications had been set up accordingly. I was put through to Mac right away.
    “Emergency, sir,” I said. “How fast can you make contact with our lady genius? I’d rather not call her directly if I can help it, at this point in the proceedings.”
    “It shouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes,” Mac said. “What is the message?”
    “Tell her to make sure her door is locked. There’s a wild man loose. I have some other instructions I want you to forward, but they can wait while you get the electrons moving.”
    “Very well. Hold on.”
    Waiting, I happened to glance across the room. It was a mistake. The mirror above the dresser caught my eye. The guy who looked back at me wasn’t a nice guy. There wasn’t anything humorously satanic about him, either. He just looked plain mean.
    “They are setting it up.” Mac’s voice was back in the phone, crisp and business-like. “You’d better bring me up to date while we wait.”
    “Yes, sir,” I said. “We goofed the contact earlier in the evening. The Mariassy is no Lady Barrymore, to say the least. She gave the show away, or something did, although I broke up the performance when I saw we weren’t putting it over. Now, if she’s followed orders, she’s in her room waiting to hear from me, according to the emergency routine we set up. The further instructions I want you to pass along are that she’s to go down to the bar in exactly half an hour—that’ll give me time to look around a bit and get into position to cover her. She’s to enter the lounge looking moody and disconsolate as if her New Orleans vacation wasn’t panning out too well. I’ll come in shortly. I’ll walk up and offer to buy her a drink by way of apologizing for my past rudeness. Presently more liquor will flow. She will absorb her share, at first, with dignified restraint and reluctance, later more willingly to the point of vanishing inhibitions. Seduction will follow. At least it will seem, to follow, to anyone watching. How’s that call coming? I’d like to be sure she has sense enough to keep her door shut like she was told.”
    “They’ll ring when they’re ready.” Mac was silent for a moment. I sensed his disapproval.