The Ambushers

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."

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.

The man came into the glare of the lights holding a cheap new soldering iron. The cord ran off into the darkness somewhere. The tool had obviously never been used before; you could smell the store finish burning off it. The man was considerably older than I. He had grizzled black hair and a face like an eroded farm. There was a big blade of a nose, a thin, almost lipless mouth, and a bony chin. His eyes, when he looked at me, were shiny and expressionless, but I didn't gather he felt a great deal of sympathy for my predicament. He was wearing dark wash pants and a white shirt with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up. I caught the hint of a gun under the armpit. He'd have to get past at least two buttons to reach it there, but in summer, in the coatless southwest, there aren't too many places a man can pack a concealed firearm.

He gave the hot soldering iron to Catherine, and came over to unfasten my sport shirt and pull it down as far as my tied hands and the back of the chair would let him, preparing the patient for the operation. He stepped back into the darkness. Catherine came forward.

"Von Sachs," she said quietly. "Where does he have his headquarters, Mr. Evans? We know it's south of the border in Mexico, but where?'

"Try scopolamine, honey," I said. "That mail-order gadget won't get you anywhere."

"Von Sachs," she repeated. "Where is Heinrich von Sachs?"

"You're taking a chance that close, honey," I said. "I used to be the champion spitter of Santa Fe County, New Mexico. PU put it right in your eye… Ahhh!"

After that, it got a little rough. I mean, it was worse than hitting your thumb with a heavy hammer or dropping a brick on your toe because it didn't stop. It was about like having a clumsy, persistent dentist working on you without Novocain. People have stood that and I stood this, but I don't pretend I was heroic about it. I grunted and sweated as it went on; I even considered screaming occasionally but decided against it. Things were tough enough without adding a gag to my discomforts.

"Von Sachs! Where is Heinrich von Sachs?"

After a while I passed out. I couldn't have been unconscious long, because when I opened my eyes she'd only stepped back a pace, waiting for me to revive. I noticed she wasn't as pretty as she had been. Sweat had turned her face shiny and streaked her make-up. Her big, fancy hairdo was starting to fall apart. She made no attempt to repair the damage. Perhaps she wasn't even aware of it. More likely she just let her wild-woman appearance alone because she knew she looked more scary that way. When she saw my eyes open, she lifted the iron and stepped forward again.

"Katerina."

It was the voice of the man behind me. Catherine glanced his way irritably.

"What is it, Max?"

So his name was Max, not Herman Smith. I'd learned something, after all. It hardly seemed worth the effort.

"It is no good," Max said. "In a week, maybe. In a month, yes. One can break any man in a month. But the construction crew will be here in the morning."

"I will burn his eyes out if he does not talk!" she said violently. "I will…"

She described the other ingenious things she would do to me. She was talking for effect, of course, to intimidate me, but there was no doubt in my mind now that her basic emotion was genuine. She wasn't bluffing, certainly. She really wanted to know where von Sachs could be found. She really thought I could tell her. She obviously didn't have the information we wanted, since she was searching for it herself.

It seemed that I'd come a long, painful way for a negative answer. I'd eliminated a possibility, that was all. As far as the job was concerned, I was back where I'd started. That wasn't strictly correct, either. I'd started from a comfortable motel room. I wasn't quite back there yet. I tried to think of the right card to play next. Now I had to convince these pleasant sadists, not only that I didn't have what they wanted, but that I'd do them no harm if they let me go. I wished that my head were clearer and that I didn't feel quite so much like being sick to my stomach.

Catherine had finished her catalog of horrors. She was back on her where-is-von-Sachs? kick. As she stepped forward, raising the soldering iron to continue the treatment, the small side door of the garage slammed open and Sheila stepped in, holding a little.38 revolver that, to my prejudiced eyes, looked prettier than any rose.