Free The Shadowers by Donald Hamilton Page B

you, Harold!”
    “You were going into his room!” Harold, whoever he was, had a fine baritone, with indignant overtones.
    “And why not? It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gone into a man’s room, would it? Not quite the first!”
    “Look at you!” he cried, ignoring this. “Letting a cynical reporter—oh, I asked about him at the desk—ply you with liquor until you can hardly stand and bring you up here! He was laughing at you, Olivia, couldn’t you see? He just thought it was an amusing way to spend an evening. It meant nothing to him, nothing at all.”
    She said fiercely, “That’s right, nothing! No more than it meant to you. You’re a fine one to criticize other men’s motives!”
    “Olivia—”
    “Do you think I didn’t know what he was doing?” she demanded. “All right, so it amused him to be charming to the mousy lady scientist. Maybe it amused me to play up to him! Maybe I thought it would be entertaining to deliberately let a slick, experienced character like that get me drunk and... and lure me to his room for immoral purposes. After all, I seem to be susceptible to slick characters, and what does it matter now? At least he was honest, Harold. At least he said nothing about love!”
    I would have liked to listen to them longer, but they were being pretty loud and somebody in a neighboring room might get tired of the noise and call the manager. I’d learned about as much as I could hope for. I stirred, therefore, groaned, and opened my eyes. I sat up dazedly. Olivia helped me. I looked up at the man who had slugged me.
    He was in his late twenties or early thirties with a roughhewn touch of Lincoln or Gregory Peck about the physiognomy, carefully cultivated. It was obvious that regardless of what might have come between them lately, he and Olivia were born to be soulmates. His tweeds were every bit as tweedy as hers, and his glasses were no less thick and black in the rims. They gave him a sincere and earnest look.
    “If you’d only let me explain!” he was saying.
    She wasn’t looking at him any more. “Are you all right, Paul?” she asked.
    “You’re making a terrible mistake,” Harold protested. “If you’d only listen, darling! You completely misunderstood what you heard in the office that day. Miss Darden and I were only—”
    She didn’t turn her head. “Haven’t you done enough? Do you have to wake the whole hotel, too? You can’t persuade me there was any misunderstanding. You and your nurse made it all perfectly plain. I could hear you clear out in the waiting room, every word. You should really close the door before you indulge in private jokes with your employees, Harold!”
    “It wasn’t what you thought—”
    “I heard my name quite plainly.” Her voice was harsh. “The GLP complex, you called it, meaning grateful lady patient. Apparently it’s a recognized syndrome and one of which unscrupulous medical practitioners sometimes take advantage, as you did. Well, this lady patient is no longer grateful, Dr. Mooney. Good-bye!”
    She helped me to my feet. The guy was still standing there, still protesting, but she never looked at him. She just led me into my room and closed the door behind us. Then she turned and locked it carefully. Finally she faced me again and raised both hands to her hair, smoothing it back from her temples wearily.
    “Phew!” she said softly. “Well, there you have my private reason for not receiving telephone calls, Mr. Corcoran. I hope you approve of the performance I put on for him.”
    “A little more practice and we’ll have you in the movies,” I said.
    I stepped up to the door and listened. There was no sound outside. Presently I heard the elevator doors clang shut far down the hall. I turned back to Olivia to find that she’d gone over to sit in the big chair with which my room, like hers, was provided.
    “Dr. Harold Mooney,” I said. “Doctor of what?”
    “Obstetrics and gynecology,” she said. “He’s a