The Ambushers

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 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 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.