It was a machine-made oasis at the edge of Tucson, fairly new-parts were still being built up-known as Saguaro Heights. It had reasonable-sized cinder-block houses in pink, blue, yellow, and green. Each house had a TV antenna on the roof and a little lawn out front. The farther out into the desert some people move, the stronger seems to be this compulsion they get to grow and mow grass.
I was sitting in the station wagon across the street from the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Head. The Heads had a small ornate evergreen tree and some gaudy semitropical flowers. Judging by a tricycle and other debris, they also had kids. A shiny new car, one of the new compact Pontiacs-a far cry from my massive relic-was parked on the short concrete apron that connected the garage with the street.
There was a space of about twenty feet between the Head house, blue, and the pink house next door. Looking through this gap I could see, diagonally across back yards full of swings and clotheslines, the open window from which the music seemed to be coming. Nothing had shown at it yet.
I glanced at my watch and yawned. Well, it was one of our significant interviews and Sheila was right to spend as much time as she decently could inside. Maybe she was learning something. However, the night was hot and the station wagon upholstery was lumpy with age. I yawned again, trying to find stretching room for my legs. The door across the street opened, and Sheila came out. She looked pretty and unfamiliar in her summer dress and high heels.
There were only the white-bandaged tips of her fingers to remind me of the tattered scrap of female humanity I'd helped haul out of the Costa Verde jungle. She crossed the street and came to my window.
"Well?" she asked eagerly.
"No picture but lots of sound," I said. "Selections from 'My Fair Lady'. Part of the Swan Lake Ballet Suite. Some waltzes, Strauss, and I think a bit of Lehar. She keeps getting tired of a piece and switching to something else. Currently, as you can hear, Siegfried is having a rough time getting to the Rhine. He may make it and then again he may not."
"Oh," Sheila said, disappointed. "I'm sorry. I guess I got you here for nothing."
"No strain," I said. "It's been a great cultural experience. Did you spot anything inside?"
She shook her head. "There was nothing out of line that I could see. Mr. Head sells cars. His wife is nice, a handsome dark woman, and the two kids are cute. There's a phonograph for the kids, and a TV of course, and there are three radios: a clock-radio in the bedroom, a little set in the kitchen for Mrs. H, and an expensive all-wave portable they bought recently to take along when they go camping. Mrs. H says she's listened to the BBC on it."
"That could mean something," I said. "A long-range receiver like that."
"Maybe. There was no hint of any sending equipment or other short-wave stuff." Sheila looked up, listening. "What's our music-mad lady playing now?"
"She's starting to pick them loud and brassy for a woman," I said. "From Wagner to Souse. 'King Cotton March.' Does it make you feel funny? Does it have associations?"
She shook her head. "Well, I guess that's all for tonight. I'll come back and clean up this block in the morning."
She started around the car, hesitated, and looked back. "Thanks," she said.
"For what?"
"For being nice about it. For not telling me Fm a silly fool, hearing things."
I regarded her for a moment, and told myself firmly I didn't really like thin little girls with big eyes that changed color disconcertingly.
"Come on, get in," I said. "Don't make me sit on these lopsided springs any longer than-"
I stopped. The distant music had changed again, and there it was, clear and unbelievable. It was a hell of a thing to hear on a starry night in a peaceful residential development in Tucson, Arizona. It took me back to another continent and another time. I was aware that Sheila had started to speak and stopped, realizing from my expression, I guess, that she didn't have to say anything.
After a moment I cleared my throat and looked at her. "For God's sake, Skinny. You mean you didn't recognize that?"
She licked her lips. "I still don't. Maybe it was played for us in training, but my memory for music is terrible. What-"
"Hold it," I said softly. "Easy does it. Laugh as if I'd said something funny."
I heard her laugh. I was looking past her, across the street. Strains of the music were still drifting across the back yards from the open, empty, lighted window. Nearer, a man was stumbling around the side of the Heads' garage towards us.
"Laugh and talk," I said. "Then look around casually. Is that Ernest Head?"
Sheila laughed again. "Oh, Mr. Evans, that's priceless!" she giggled, leaning against the car in a casual way that let her look across the street. Her voice reached me softly. "Yes, that's Head. Did you see his face?"
"I saw it," I said. "He's hearing music from the grave, I think. I am now telling a dirty joke about… Well, you name it. He's heading for his car. Be ready to get in. We're going to make like detectives if he drives off."
Head stopped by his new little Pontiac, a stocky, balding man in shirtsleeves. As he opened the car door, the courtesy light went on inside and showed me his face clearly. It was the face of a man who'd seen death, or heard it.
"But what is it?" Sheila whispered. "What is the piece?"
"I guess it was just a little before your time," I said. "And lots of people talked about it, but relatively few really knew it, in this country, at least. What you're hearing is an orchestral version of a ditty called the Horst Wessel Song. Somebody is being clever, I think, not to say mildly fiendish."
Across the street, Mr. Ernest Head, car salesman, backed his shiny new car away from his neat new house and drove away as if devils were after him, and I guess they were. I could hear them in the music, too, but they weren't my devils. Not now. They'd given me a hard time once-me and a few million other men-but now after nearly twenty years they were just some half-forgotten clowns in brown uniforms and heavy boots who'd had a catchy song and a funny way of marching. They'd presented a problem, sure, but we'd solved it the hard way. Or had we?
"Get in, Skinny," I said. "Here we go."
Driving away, I watched the rear-view mirror carefully. I studied the evening traffic around us. Tucson is a typical, sprawling southwestern city, with wide streets that make an inconspicuous tailing job relatively easy. The only trouble was, this would work two ways. Presently I turned off, letting the little Pontiac keep on going. Sheila glanced at me quickly.
"You're letting him go?"
"No sense having him spot us following," I said. "He saw the car parked by his house. I have a hunch he's just driving around to settle his nerves where his family can't see him, anyway."
"Then why-"
"I wanted to see if anyone else was interested In where he was heading. Nobody seems to be. Whoever's playing that tune, call her Miss Smith, either she's got no outside help to watch Head while she tends the turntable, or she's got reason to think he's going nowhere important, at least tonight." I grimaced. "Maybe it's a break. The question is how to use it. Let's get back to the motel and do some thinking."
Nobody followed us. I made sure of this. There were still kids around the pool when I drove past it and. parked the station wagon in the slot in front of my unit, around the corner.
"I'd ask you in for a drink, Miss Summerton," I said rather loudly, "if I could be sure my motives wouldn't be misconstrued."
She laughed. "Don't be silly, Mr. Evans. This isn't the reign of Queen Victoria, you know. Besides, we'd better decide how we're going to split the work tomorrow."
"Well, in that case-"
I unlocked and opened the door, switched on the light, waited for her to enter, and closed the door behind her.
"I think we're overdoing the Miss Summerton-Mr. Evans routine," she said after a moment. "We'd better get to be Sheila and Hank tomorrow, don't you think?"
I gave her a grin. "And honey and darling the next day?" It was just something I threw out without thinking. Li
ke my hand on her shoulder, it made her freeze up instantly. Her face got cold and remote and a little pale. I said quickly, "It's a good suggestion. Maybe I was hamming it up a bit. But now let's hear your thoughts about a disc jockey named Smith."
She didn't seem to hear me. She had turned away from me, perhaps so I wouldn't be able to see her face. I couldn't guess what she was thinking, except that it probably wasn't pleasant, or flattering to me. Well, I'd been clumsy again. On the other hand, as she'd said herself, she was going to have to get over it some day.
She caught sight of the long cardboard box marked Winchester that I'd left lying on the bed, on the theory that hiding eight pounds and three feet of high-powered rifle in a small motel room isn't really feasible and merely calls attention to what you're trying to conceal. In that part of the U.S. people tend to take hunting rifles for granted, anyway. Sheila stepped forward, opened the box, and looked at the weapon inside. After a moment she turned to look at me accusingly, as if she thought I'd been keeping things from her.
"Just an item that may come in handy," I said. "I picked it up on my way through town this afternoon."
"But you must have found a lead of some kind down along the border or you wouldn't have-"
I shook my head. "No such luck. It's just that kind of wide-open country, clear down into Mexico. Even when we get von Sachs' mountain hideout located, we may not be able to work in very close."
I watched her lift the gun out of the box and, like any well-trained marksman, slip the bolt back to make certain the piece was unloaded. It gave me a funny feeling to watch her and remember that this small, frail-looking person had gone to a very tough school and learned, among other things, how to handle a large number of lethal weapons, many of which the average man had never seen or heard of.
"Careful," I said. "You'll get your dress dirty. It's right off the rack; it's still got the factory preservative."
She laid it back In the box and rubbed her hands together. "You haven't fired it yet?'
"No," I said. "We'll have to sneak off tomorrow and find a place where we can sight it in."
She gave me a sharp glance. "We?"
"I want you to have the feel of it, too. We don't know how this will break." I looked at her. "Unless, of course, you have some objection."
"No," she said quickly. "No, of course not." After a moment she said, "Then you didn't have much luck on your border trip?"
"Well, I didn't really expect to pick up any information on von Sachs. That's what we're here in Tucson for. I did get some road information from some anthropologists digging up old pots on one of the ranches down there. They were down the road past the Nacimientos, well down into Mexico, earlier this summer. Apparently it's no place to go for a Sunday drive. They used jeeps. An ordinary car might make it, they said, but it would be a real rough trip. Anyway, I learned enough from them that I figure once we get some kind of a lead to von Sachs' mountain hideout, I can probably find my way there."
"But they hadn't seen him?'
"They hadn't actually been up in the rocks. They didn't seem to think there was anything back there except lizards and gophers and a few caves that might have been inhabited by humans a thousand years ago but weren't now. Apparently it's great country for caves." I glanced at my watch. "Well, I think I'll head back to Saguaro Heights and tackle the musical Miss Smith."
Sheila frowned. "Do you think that's wise?'
"I can't see any reason not to stick to our market-research cover just because some gal plays a few records," I said. "You'd better take the body around the corner and put it to bed. See you in the morning."
X
MISS SMITH'S HOUSE was green, even newer than the one in front of which I'd waited for Sheila, earlier. The lawn wasn't fully established yet. The tree in front was a small, new weeping willow, the pale yellow-green variety that's considered to have more class-in landscaping and gardening circles-than the old-fashioned dark green. There were no tricycles or roller skates.
By the time I got back there, the concert was over for the evening, or at least for the time being. I had to ring twice before anything happened inside. Then footsteps approached the front door. There was that funny little moment that comes when you reach what may be the turning point of a job, when you don't know whether a door is just going to open or the world is going to blow up in your face. The lighting fixture above the front steps came on. A chain was unhooked, a lock was unlocked, the door swung back, and there she was.
It was quite a production. There was a good deal of fine, artificial-looking, pinky-blonde hair fluffed and pinned about her head in an elaborate fashion. It looked like the nylon hair they put on dolls these days. There were baby-blue eyes with long black lashes and lots of surrounding makeup, the kind that looks as if it ought to glow in the dark. There was a big, soft, promising red mouth, and there was a figure constructed to back up the promise, more or less veiled by a short black negligee, like a ruffly, semi-transparent, knee-length coat.
What was worn under the negligee, although partially obscured, seemed to be black also, short on coverage and long on interest. There was a pair of very handsome legs in smoky stockings, and there was a pair of high-heeled, bedroom-type slippers or mules without much to hold them on except the little black rosettes at the toes. It was fairly obvious that Miss Smith had expected her musical invitation to be accepted by someone, and had dressed accordingly.
"Ye-es?' she said in a husky voice.
"I'm sorry to bother you ma'am," I said humbly. "My name is Evans, ma'am. I work for a company called Market Research Associates. We're doing a survey in this area, and I wondered if you'd be kind enough to let me ask you a few questions-"
"A survey?" Her attitude was impatient. "What kind of a survey?"
"We're studying people's buying habits, ma'am," I said, "with particular reference to television sets, radios, phonographs, and tape recorders. It's kind of impertinent, I guess, but I'm supposed to find out what you own in this line, when you bought it, where you keep it, and how often you use it."
She studied my face for a moment. The blue eyes with the mascara-blackened lashes were surprisingly keen. She was by no means the dumb sexpot she was pretending to be. I knew what she was thinking. I wasn't the person she'd expected. I might even be a perfectly Innocent interviewer for a perfectly respectable research outfit, an irrelevant nuisance. And then again, I might not be.
'Well, all right," she said reluctantly. "Come in, Mr. Evans. I hope this isn't going to take too long. It's getting pretty late."
"I'll make it as snappy as I can, ma'am," I said. "I certainly appreciate-"
"Never mind that. Just come in and ask your damn questions."
"Yes, ma'am."
Inside, there was wall-to-wall carpeting and mass-production furniture of more or less modern design. There were some crates and boxes shoved away in corners, and traces of excelsior to indicate recent unpacking. A medium-priced stereo record player held court at the front of the living room with both speakers aimed towards the window in the dining area at the rear that was essentially part of the same room. Beside the machine was a shelf of records. Several empty cardboard sleeves lay on top, presumably belonging to the records currently on the spindle.
Miss Smith closed the front door and came over to switch on a light by the sofa. She indicated the low, glass-topped cocktail table.
"You can spread your stuff there. Just what did you want to know?" She watched me sit down, open my brief case, and take out a questionnaire form before answering. "My God," she said, "if we're going to collaborate on a damn book, I need a drink. What about you?"
I was still busily organizing my materials and listening to her voice. She was good, very good, but she'd picked too difficult a part to play. She was working hard to sound like a crude and obvious American person, but there was a hint of an accent that gave her away. The hardest thing in the world is to swear convincingly in a language that isn't your own.
'What did you say, ma'
am?' I asked.
"Do you want a drink?'
"Oh, no, ma'am." I was laying it on thick, also, but then I wanted her to know I was playing a part. It would be interesting to see who she thought I was, if I wasn't Henry Evans, interviewer. "No, thank you, ma'am. Now, this is 103 Maple Drive, isn't it? And the mailbox says your name is Smith, Catherine Smith. Is that right?'
She'd moved over to the corner to pour herself a drink at a little cabinet that apparently served as a bar.
"That's right. You have sharp eyes, Mr. Evans."
"Oh, we learn to notice things like that," I said smugly. "Now, are you the female head of the household, Miss Smith?'
She laughed. "Well, I'm female, I pay the bills, and it's my house. I just bought it. As you can see, we're not all moved in yet."
"Then you don't live here alone?"
"No, my father's living with me. Papa's retired, and he hasn't been well since Mama died… What are you doing now?'
She'd come to stand over me disturbingly. There was a high concentration of some heavy perfume. Fortunately, I've never been particularly susceptible to smells; I react better to visual stimuli. However, she was being quite generous with those, too.
I cleared my throat and said, 'Well, it's a statistical thing, Miss Smith. I fill in your name in this little box, so. Then it's in your dad's name-"
"Herman Smith," she said when I paused. "It used to be Schmidt, a good Kraut name, but Papa had it changed."
I wrote it down. "Herman Smith. Now some statistician back at the company has put an X in the box of this particular questionnaire opposite the person I should interview here if the household contains two people. Every questionnaire is pre-marked that way. That's so I don't talk to only the pretty girls in the homes I visit."
I looked up and grinned boldly. She smiled back, but her eyes remained sharp and searching.
"You mean they don't trust you, Mr. Evans?' Her voice was light. "Why, you look terribly trustworthy to me! I'd never have let you into my house at this hour if you didn't."
The Ambushers mh-6 Page 7
