The Shadowers Read Online Free PDF Page A

landings, as we birdmen say.”’
    Thinking of this now, I felt old and cynical. To cheer myself, I looked for the neat little fanny in pink, but it was gone. Presently I spotted the tight, shiny dress some twenty degrees farther along the curving bar than it had been. My first thought was that the kid had moved to another stool. Then I realized that the great circular contraption, occupying the whole center of the room, was actually rotating like a real merry-go-round, but much more slowly.
    I’d been briefed on this earlier, of course, but it had slipped my memory for a moment. Being reminded of it, and seeing it in action, came as kind of a shock, particularly since it was something I wasn’t supposed to forget. It was part of our plan. At the same time I became aware that a woman was being seated at the table to my left, only a few feet down the upholstered bench that ran along the wall.
    “Waiter,” I said, carefully ignoring her, “waiter, either I’m drunk on one Martini or that thing is moving.”
    There was a quick laugh from the woman who’d just sat down. “It certainly is!” Olivia Mariassy said. “What a dreadful thing to put in a bar! I thought I was intoxicated, too, when I came in here this afternoon and saw it.”
    This was the approach that had been decided on. I guess Hollywood would have said we were meeting cute. The words were right, but she wasn’t the greatest actress in the world, and I don’t suppose she’d ever picked up— or been picked up by—a man in a bar before. The laugh was strained and the voice was forced. It wasn’t good.
    I looked around the way a man might, addressed by a strange woman in a strange place—that is to say, hopefully. After all, I wasn’t supposed to know it wasn’t Brigitte Bardot who’d sat down beside me. I let my face go disconcerted for a moment before I covered up politely. Dr. Mariassy hadn’t altered much since I’d last seen her. Of course, it had been only a few hours, but there are women who can manage a change of clothes and a light application of lipstick in that length of time.
    Our scientist lady was still wearing her clumsy tweeds, however. The pulled-back straight hair, the lack of makeup, and the heavily rimmed glasses still gave her the look of a frustrated old-maid schoolteacher. She had made only one change: she’d put on high heels. The table, and the poor light, made it hard to estimate the extent of the improvement, but I got the impression that her legs weren’t half bad.
    Her smile was pretty awful, however. It obviously hurt her to have to smile at me. Maybe it would have hurt her to smile at anybody. I encouraged myself with that thought.
    “Well, it is kind of a strange notion, ma’am,” I said politely. “I wonder how long it takes to go around.” This was also part of the prepared dialogue. It gave her an opportunity, in line with her scientific character, to suggest breaking out the watches and doing some timing. As the circular bar actually took some fifteen minutes to complete one revolution, we’d be practically old friends by the time this research project was finished and checked—old enough friends, at any rate, for me to buy her a drink and, a few drinks later, ask her to take pity on a lonely Denver character who knew nothing about New Orleans, not even where to find a decent meal.
    It was a good enough opening for a pickup romance, but we weren’t putting it across. I hoped she could feel it. I hoped she’d have sense enough to stall a little with the cigarette bit, giving me a chance to play gentleman-with-a-match, before she pitched into the act in earnest.
    Then I remembered she didn’t approve of smoking. I could see her gathering herself to deliver her next line, and I knew it would be about as convincing as a schoolboy’s excuse for playing hooky—and a man was watching us from the door.
    He made no bones about it. He just stood there regarding us thoughtfully, and I knew he was the one. I