There Fell a Shadow Read Free

the room, fixed and fascinated by something at the front of the bar.
    The man shook the match out. He sank into shadow. He sat huddled in the smoke from his cigarette as if for warmth.
    I turned, following his gaze. The door to the club had opened. Three men had come in.

T hey stood together in the doorway, stomping the snow off their shoes, shaking it off their overcoats. They cursed the blizzard in booming voices. They sounded like men who had drunk and eaten well.
    I knew them. I knew two of them, anyway.
    One of them was a friend of mine, Solomon Holloway. He was the bureau chief for one of the wire services here. He was a chubby, elfin man. Dignified in his way. Bald on top with a halo of gray. Small, round, friendly features with mischievous eyes. Chocolate-colored skin that gleamed in the light.
    On his left was Donald Wexler, the editor in chief of Globe , the newsweekly. Short, thin, small boned. Graying yellow hair, well coiffed. A delicate face, sagging a little. Moist eyes and pursed lips. He tried to hire me from the paper once. We were still on decent terms.
    I didn’t know the third man. A long, lean, wiry fellow. Tan and rugged. Looked like a cowboy.
    They peeled off their coats, draped them over the hatcheck counter. I turned to look again at the haunted man on the other side of the room. His shadow had faded away completely. He was gone.
    When I turned back, Holloway had spotted me.
    â€œJohn Wells!”
    Wexler looked my way and smiled. “Wells it is!”
    I saluted them. They approached our table, the third man trailing.
    Holloway gestured at him. “Timothy Colt, I’d like to introduce you to the dean of New York crime reporters.”
    â€œHe’d like to,” I said, standing. “But I’m all he’s got.”
    Colt and I shook hands. I’d heard of him. I’d read his stuff. He was one of those guys who travels around the world, following the sound of gunfire. A foreign correspondent, and one of the best. He had a way of writing about war as if there were nothing in it but sadness. No right, no wrong, just sadness. I was pleased to meet him.
    I introduced McKay. Then I introduced Lansing. Colt’s eyes narrowed at her. The three grabbed chairs and sat down with us. Colt made sure he got his seat in next to hers.
    A waitress came over. A pretty blond in regulation black tights, white skirt. The three newcomers ordered. Again, I glanced toward the table in the rear. Still empty. Cigarette smoke hung over it.
    â€œSo who are you busting today, Wells?” Holloway said. “Am I gonna have something for the morning?”
    â€œDon’t look at me,” I said. “Our banner’s the tiger.”
    â€œA farewell to arms.” Holloway laughed.
    â€œYeah,” said Lansing proudly, “but our skyline’s a bribe to Brooklyn’s borough prez.”
    Holloway’s lips parted. “Robins?”
    â€œRead about it in the bulldog, Solomon,” I said.
    The waitress brought the drinks. A beer in front of Colt, a brandy in front of Wexler, a martini in front of Holloway. Holloway sipped the martini, stared at me over the rim of the glass.
    He set the glass down. “Corlies Park, you bastard. You finally got Corlies Park.”
    â€œIt’ll cost you thirty-five cents to find out,” I said. “But for that, you get the sports and columns, too.”
    â€œYou bastard,” he said.
    â€œOh, when will you turn away from the vain life of daily headlines,” said Donald Wexler, sniffing at his brandy, “and come to the tropic paradise of the weekly magazine?” He drank.
    Before I had a chance to avoid answering that, Colt chimed in. His voice had a rich twang to it. Oklahoma, was my guess.
    â€œWells, John Wells.” He pointed a lazy finger at me. “I’ve seen yer stuff. Corruption in city government, that kind of thing.”
    â€œThe voter’s friend, that’s me,” I