The Ambushers mh-6

by Donald Hamilton

  I cleared my throat again. "Well, they have lots of interviewers. Let's say they don't trust all of them to be, er, completely objective. The head office wants to be sure of getting a random sampling in every block we survey."

  "You're doing this whole block, then?'

  "Yes, ma'am. That is, my assistant and I are doing it. She's been around here all day. Maybe you saw her, a girl in a blue Volkswagen. She was kind of tired tonight, so I said I'd finish up."

  The blue eyes were puzzled. Now I had an assistant; I was interviewing a whole block, not just Catherine Smith. It was a big deal. I had a raft of questionnaires, all looking very authentic. I had a dumb look and a corny line of patter. Maybe I really was just an innocent doorbell-ringer after all.

  I glanced down at the form on the table. I looked up and met her eyes deliberately. "In this case, Miss Smith, it just happens to work out that I'm supposed to interview the female head of the house."

  She got the message. She murmured, "That's lucky for you, since Papa happens to be out at the movies."

  Her voice was dry. She was smiling faintly. She knew me now. At least she knew, because I'd just told her, that if my questionnaire hadn't specified the female head of the household, I would have rigged it so it did-and as a matter of fact, I had. I answered her smile with a significant look she was free to interpret as she pleased. I was gambling for a real reaction, and I got it.

  She walked over to the record player and paused to look back at me dubiously. She was still not quite sure. Then she moved her shoulders in a reckless sort of shrug and bent over the machine. There was some clattering and scratching before she found the right band on the right record, followed by a few bars of music that could have led to anything. Suddenly the Horst Wessel Lied was filling the room, seeming to come from all around us.

  I've never been much of a stereo man. The idea of hearing a record poorly reproduced from two directions instead of one doesn't seem like a real acoustical breakthrough to me. first this case, however, perhaps because the volume was turned very high, perhaps because the music had strong associations for me, the effect was almost hypnotic. I could practically hear again the heavy boots striking the pavement in that ridiculous goosestep that hadn't been a bit funny at the time.

  I got up slowly. Catherine Smith was standing by the player watching me. She was a good-looking woman dressed for love, if you want to call it that, but for a moment it meant nothing to me and, I saw, nothing to her, either. The slightly parted lips, the bright eyes, with which she listened to the song that once shook the world, were signs of a different kind of passion.

  She'd made her move. It was my turn now. I faced her, waiting while the instruments worked their way through some fancy orchestration and hit the tune again.

  "Die Fahne hoch," I said, speaking the words in time to the music, "die Reihen jest geschlossen, SA nwrchiert mit ruhig festen schritt…" My accent wasn't half bad, I thought. I looked into the woman's eyes and went on, deadpan: "That's German, Miss Smith. It means, 'With banners high and closed ranks, SA marches with cairn and steady stride.' SA stands for Sturmabteilung. in English, you know, they were commonly known as Storm Troopers."

  Her eyes never left my face. We'd reached some more stuff with drums and brasses. She waited. The theme came through, clear and disturbing. At least I'd known it well enough, once, to be disturbed by it. It was like having a snake come back to life after you'd chopped off its head.

  Catherine Smith hummed softly along with the music.

  She let the first bars go by. Her accurate contralto picked up the tune and the closing words: es schaut auf Haakenkreuz vol Hofinung schon Millionen. Der Tag fur Freiheit und fur Brot bricht an!"

  The song came to an abrupt end. She reached out and switched off the record player without looking that way. Her eyes were very blue and bright, watching me steadily.

  "The Fraakenkreuz is the swastika, you know." Her voice was soft.

  "I know," I said. I hoped I was making the right responses.

  It was very quiet in the room with the record player still. "Freedom and bread!" she murmured. "It has been a long time since those great days, Henry Evans. A long time. But perhaps they will come again!"

  XI

  To BE HONEST, it wasn't exactly what I'd expected. When I'd first heard that music, and seen Ernest Head's panicky reaction to it, I'd assumed it was meant as a threat, a preamble of vengeance perhaps, a warning of retribution to come.

  Certainly he'd seemed to be taking it that way.

  I'd jumped to certain conclusions about Head's past- after all, Head translates to kopf in German, and there are a lot of good Teutonic names ending with that syllable. I'd even done some fancy guessing about Catherine Smith's motives in broadcasting sweet Nazi sounds to drive him crazy. I hadn't really expected to find that she was a HeilHitler girl herself. Well, it's always a mistake to theorize on insufficient data. I'd followed her lead, and this was where we'd got.

  I walked over to the shelf and picked up one of the empty record sleeves. It looked authentic enough, decorated with a slick photo montage of marching soldiers in various uniforms, but the recording company was one I'd never heard of. The title was "Music Men Have Died By". It had the Marseillaise, Yankee Doodle, Dixie, and a bunch of national anthems. It also had the Internationale and the Horst Weasel Lied. Not a bad prop, I thought, just about as good as my fancy questionnaires.

  Her voice reached me. "Let us stop playing games, Mr. Evans. Why are you here?"

  I turned to look at her. It was a sensible question. I wished I had a plausible answer. Not having one, and not knowing exactly what was expected of me now, I resorted to doubletalk.

  I tapped the record sleeve and asked, "Didn't you invite me, Miss Smith?'

  "Who are you?'

  "Who are you?' I asked. "And why are you keeping people awake nights with reactionary old songs played too loudly?"

  "People?" she murmured. "And have people complained, Mr. Evans? People named Head, perhaps?'

  "It could be," I said, wondering how long I could get away with playing it cagey.

  "To you?" She watched me. "Then you must be a fairly important and influential person, Mr. Evans. If people can complain to you about minor annoyances and expect to have them attended to."

  I said, snapping a fingernail against the record sleeve:

  "I wouldn't say this annoyance was minor. It could cause a lot of trouble, if someone else in the neighborhood should happen to recognize it."

  I was still on the beam; this was obviously an attitude she'd expected. She had her answer ready: "Bah, these Americans! They make no effort to learn about their enemies. They are afraid to, lest their friends think them subversive.

  They talk loudly about Communism, but how many of them recognize the Internationale when they hear it? They complain peevishly about Fascism, and Nazism, but not one in a thousand, or ten thousand, recognizes the Horst Wessel Lied."

  "Still, it's a risk," I said. It seemed safe to bear down a little, and I went on: "I think it would be better if you did not play this record again."

  "A threat, Mr. Evans?" She came forward and took the cardboard envelope from my hand. She turned to get the record from the spindle and slipped it inside. She put the record on the shelf. "So. Not because you frighten me. Just because it has served its purpose."

  "Which is?"

  "To make contact," she said. "To make contact with someone in authority here. Perhaps you?'

  "Perhaps," I said.

  "I have credentials."

  "Credentials?' I said. "What kind of credentials, and from whom?"

  "From Argentina," she said. "From the Society for National Security, the SSN, of Argentina. Signed by-"

  I dredged out of my memory what I'd read about fascist movements in Argentina. I made an impatient gesture, interrupting her, and said, "Argentina is full of hotheaded, irresponsible, swastika-waving fools! The Tacuara and the Guardia Whatsisname Nationale and now your SSN. Some of these idio
ts, I suppose, are capable of signing their names to anything. In any case, credentials can be forged. To whom were you supposed to present these so-called credentials, Miss Smith."

  "In the first place, to a man who is dead," she said. "To a man who was to come here and take me to his superior. His, and I suppose, yours."

  "Just like that," I said scornfully. "You'd shake hands and stroll across the street together to meet this man, I suppose."

  She shook her head. "No," she said. "No, it was to be a difficult journey south to a secret destination in Mexico. I was warned to bring strong shoes and sturdy clothes, and a big hat and dark glasses for the sun. Other necessary equipment would be supplied by the courier. The rendezvous was to be the house of Mr. Ernest Head."

  I studied her for a moment. I took a chance and commanded, "If you know so much, tell me the real name of Ernest Head."

  "It used to be Schwarzkopf. Ernest Schwarzkopf. And his wife's name, in those days, was Gerda Landwehr."

  "You've done your homework well," I said. "But then, an impostor would, wouldn't she?"

  She drew herself up. "I was no impostor, Mr. Evans. Let me show you my-"

  "I'm not interested in your credentials. I'm sure you have them or you wouldn't be trying to wave them under my nose. And I'm not about to travel to Argentina to check up on them. And if I put in a call, I'll have to ask you for the number, won't I? And I'm sure you'll have arranged to have the right person answer. Why didn't you present these pretty papers at the house over there?"

  "When I telephoned, I was told to stay away," she said. "There was trouble, I was told. The courier had been followed on his previous trip. He'd had to run for the border. He had been caught, and had killed himself. It was not yet known how much of the local apparatus had been compromised. Everybody was sitting very tightly. I was a complication; I was not wanted; I was told to go away and not make things worse."

  "And instead you bought this house and started playing the Horst Weasel with the window open."

  "I asked to be put in touch with someone in authority. My request was refused." She faced me defiantly. "Your local troubles are not mine, Mr. Evans. I have my mission. I have come a long way to carry it out. I was supposed to get cooperation here. I intend to get it, one way or another."

  She was quite a girl. I said, "You could get something else, honey. Like a fist or a bullet." She did not react. I asked, "Just what's supposed to be your purpose in making this long and difficult journey?"

  "That can be told to only one man," she said. "The man

  I am to meet in Mexico."

  "His name?"

  "You know his name."

  "I know it," I said. "Let's hear if you do."

  "In Germany he was known as Heinrich von Sachs." She looked up at me coldly. "Perhaps, in return, you had better tell me the name he uses in Mexico before we talk any more. So I have some way of knowing I'm talking to the right man."

  I said, "You're in no position to make demands or set conditions, honey. But the name is Kurt Quintana." I saw her relax slightly, reassured. I went on, still playing it by ear, "And I don't believe Senor Quintana is interested in dealing with a bunch of South American hoodlums, male or female. And if he were, we'd have been notified that you were coming through here."

  "You were notified," she said quickly, and I knew I'd made a mistake. "The message was sent and acknowledged."

  "From here? We received no such message." I was bluffing hard now.

  "No, the acknowledgement came from Mexico City." It was a break. I was still safe. She grimaced. "I am not responsible for the inefficient communications between your various cells, Mr. Evans. And 1 am neither a hoodlum nor am I a South American. There are a great many of us, of German extraction, down there; many of us who have memories in common."

  I said scornfully, "Memories! Hell, you were learning the multiplication table when Der Fuehrer marched his troops into Poland. You were probably just learning about men when he…" I put a little catch into my voice… "when he died in the Bunker in Berlin. What memories can you have?"

  "I was old enough to see both victory and defeat," she said. "I remember. The tradition lives, Mr. Evans. The new generation is ready. There are two continents here for the taking. I do not believe General von Sachs will scorn our help. After all, for his great purpose, he was not above dealing with Fidelista communists in Costa Verde." Maybe I showed surprise that she'd have that information; maybe she just thought I did. Anyway, she went on with a confident little smile: "You see? I am no impostor. I know a great deal."

  "Perhaps too much," I said harshly.

  "Always the threats," she murmured. She took a step forward and placed her hands fiat against the front of my shirt, and smiled up at me. "Would you hurt me, Mr. Evans? Would you beat me? Would you kill me?"

  She was very good. And the man in the bedroom was pretty good, too, but not quite good enough. I'd heard him come in and take up his post. I was a hunter of sorts before I went into this line of work, and I'd waited in a good many stands, listening for the rustle in the nearby brush, the rap of a hoof or antler against a log or branch, that would tell me game was near. The only trouble was, I was pretty sure this game was stalking me. Well, it didn't seem likely they'd go to all this trouble just to kill me; and you have to take a few risks now and then, if you want information. I looked down at Catherine Smith like a man getting certain ideas, and I reached out with finger and thumb and plucked at a little black bow of ribbon at her throat. The negligee fell open in front.

  I used both hands to slip it off her shoulders. She let her arms fail, and it dropped to the rug about her feet, leaving her clad only in an interesting black dual-purpose garment designed to give support both to the breasts above and the stockings below.

  I suppose my grandmother would have spoiled everything by calling it a corset, being a prosaic old lady; Madison Avenue has undoubtedly invented a much more glamorous and seductive name for it. I'd never encountered one in actual use before, perhaps because my tastes normally run to lean girls who don't require so much support. It made a novel and stimulating picture. There was an old-fashioned air about it that was kind of sweet, if you know what I mean, reminiscent of Lillian Russell and Lily Langtry.

  I could have given it more attention if I had not heard the door opening behind me.

  I couldn't help wondering if it was going to be a blackjack job or if he knew his stuff well enough to hit the right pressure point barehanded. It was distracting, but I managed to take the intriguingly half-naked Miss Smith into my arms in the crudely passionate way of the aroused male. Her lips responded to my kiss, her hands gripped me fiercely-and moved down suddenly to pin my arms to my sides. She was a strong girl. Then the needle went into my neck.

  Whatever they were using in the hypo worked fast enough that I never knew when I hit the floor.

  XII

  I WAS IN A CAR for a while. It was hard to tell how long.

  I kept leaving, so to speak, and coming back. The car stopped. I was carried a very short distance. Then everything was peaceful and I slept for a while and woke up tied to a wooden chair in front of a pair of blinding headlights belonging to a station wagon, the shape of which looked vaguely familiar.

  It was a garage long enough to take the big car and still leave some space in front. Perhaps the architect was expecting Detroit to make them even bigger in the future; or perhaps the man of the house was supposed to use the extra space for a workbench for his do-it-yourself projects. The garage was still in the process of construction. Raw ends of wiring stuck out of junction boxes here and there. Bags of cement and plaster were stored in one corner, along with other odds and ends of building materials.

  I tested my bonds as a matter of routine. I didn't expect to find any slack in the cords or any weakness in the chair, and I didn't. It had been a smooth, pro job from the start. These were people who knew what they were doing. The problem was finding out just what the hell that was.

  "He is awake."<
br />
  It was Catherine Smith's husky voice. Her shape came between me and the headlights. After a little I could make out that she'd got out of her sexy pinup costume and into a loose flowered blouse and tight white shorts, still not a picture of demure innocence.

  "How do you feel, Mr. Evans?" she asked.

  "Frustrated," I said. "Things were just getting interesting, as I recall. What happens now?"

  "You talk," she said.

  "About what?"

  "You tell us where to find Heinrich von Sachs, or if you prefer, Kurt Quintana."

  I suppose I should have expected it. After all, I was supposed to be a mysterious Nazi character with influence and authority, if she really believed that. The question was, what did it make her?

  I said, "Go to hell, honey."

  Her eyes narrowed. "I am not bluffing, Mr. Evans."

  Well, that was what I had to prove, or disprove. If she really wasn't bluffing, if she really didn't know where Hem-rich was, and really thought I did, then I was wasting my time on her. But there were things about her story I didn't buy, the Argentina part for one. It sounded like one of those cover stories that are carefully designed to sound plausible and be hard to check. Besides, I'm pretty good at spotting accents, particularly Spanish accents. I've lived with them in New Mexico, off and on, since I was a boy. She should have had some trace of one if she'd spent a lot of time in Spanish-speaking Argentina, and she didn't. I couldn't identify the faint accent that flavored her English, but it wasn't Espaсol.

  "Go to hell," I repeated bravely. "Whatever your needle expert's cooking up back in the corner, have him trot it out. He'll find it's a lot easier to stick a man from behind than to make him talk."

  She hesitated. Then she held out her hand toward the man outside the lights, the man I hadn't yet seen who was presumably named Herman Smith, or at least went by that name, her alleged father. She snapped her fingers impatiently when nothing was handed her at once. So she was going to do the work herself. I suppose this made her a dreadful person, in conventional terms; but it had been a long time since I'd dealt in conventional terms. It increased my respect for her. I mean, I don't go for these delicate types, male or female, who want the cattle branded but can't bear to touch the iron themselves.