The Ambushers

by Donald Hamilton

  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 I fill 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.”

  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. In 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 the
ir 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 fest geschlossen, SA marchiert 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 calm 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 Hoffnung 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 Haakenkreuz 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!”

  11

  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 promise 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 Heil-Hitler 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 Wessel 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 cagy.

  “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 Guardi a Whatsisname Nationale and now your SSN. Some of these idiots, 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 Wessel 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?”

  “Tha
t 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 Señor 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 I 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.”