The Ambushers

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."

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!"