"Mr. Evans?" she said for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. "Mr. Evans, I'm Sheila Summerton. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. I was conducting some interviews on the other side of town, and I didn't think you'd get in so early."
"It's perfectly all right," I said. "I'm sorry you had to start on the job alone, but I simply couldn't break away sooner. Won't you come in?"
I stepped back to let her pass. It was the first time, I realized, that I'd seen her in a dress, a thin, sleeveless, full-skirted number in a gay summer print that somehow managed to make her look very small and fragile. I was a little startled to realize that I was as glad to see her as if she were somebody I knew and liked, instead of just a responsibility I'd taken on for some screwy reason of sentiment.
I closed the door. "Hi, Skinny," I said.
She frowned quickly, and glanced around the room. "Should we… I mean, is it safe to talk?"
"I've made a rough check. Do you have any reason to believe anybody's interested enough in us to bug our rooms?"
She shook her head. "No. It's been very dull. And very hot."
"How far have you got?"
"Two blocks completed. One almost finished. I should clean that up tonight or tomorrow morning."
I said, "You weren't supposed to kill yourself, Skinny. Your instructions were to take it easy. Three blocks in three days is overdoing it. You look like hell."
"Thanks," she murmured. "There's nothing like appreciation and flattery to make the troops feel good." Then she began to cry. She just stood there, holding a brief case in the hand that had the tips of the fingers individually bandaged now, looking at me with the tears running down her face. "Oh, d-damn it," She breathed. "I'm sorry. I guess I am a little t-tired."
"Sure," I said. I reached out and took the briefcase and set it aside. "Sit down before you fall down."
She didn't move at once. I put my arm about her shoulders to lead her to a chair, and everything kind of stopped in the room, if you know what I mean. She went perfectly still. After a moment she looked slowly from my face to the hand on her shoulder. The funny yellow light was in her eyes.
"Excuse me," I said, taking my hand away.
She went to the bed and sat down. After a moment she looked up and said in a perfectly normal voice, "I'm sorry. That's silly; I'll have to get over it. You don't happen to have a spare hanky?"
I got her a clean one out of the dresser drawer. While she was mopping up, I took the cardboard ice bucket provided by the management and went out to fill it at the machine near the office. When I returned, she was sitting where I'd left her, but her face was dry and she had the brief case at her feet, open.
"I'm sorry I made a scene," she said. "It's been pretty hot and my feet hurt. Do you want to hear my report?"
"If you want to give it," I said. "No rush."
"I've got two of the key interviews so far-the addresses that were visited by von Sachs' courier or recruiter ~r whatever he was. The first place, 2032 Montezuma Avenue. Fred Winter. A cheap little house in a trashy suburb. The payments are made by Mrs. Winter, a schoolteacher. Winter, a mechanic when he's working, seems to spend most of his time in front of the television drinking beer by the gallon
– judging by the empties-and complaining about his back and other things. Radio, TV. No phonograph or tape recorder. No short-wave equipment in evidence."
I put a drink into her hand. "Go on, I'm listening."
"Address number two, Y741/2 Rosario Lane. Eladio Griego. It's an adobe shack in Spanish-town, or whatever they call it here. The mother can hardly speak English. I interviewed her, since Eladio's been in jail since last week for knifing a man. It's happened before, I gather."
"But he wasn't in jail at the time the courier came around?"
"No. They've got a radio but it doesn't work. There's a functioning TV. No phonograph or tape recorder. The place was dark and full of broken-down furniture. There could have been all kinds of electronic equipment hidden in the mess, but I don't really think there was."
I frowned. "Of course, we don't know that it's the man of the house who's involved in every case. Come to that, we don't even know that every address that was visited is significant. The guy could have taken time off to call on his girl, or his favorite uncle, or something."
"Well, so far I'd say we have two good prospects," Sheila said. "I didn't meet Mrs. Winter, she was busy at school. But her husband is a surly brute with a grudge against society, which makes him a promising candidate. Old Mrs. Griego is feeble and half blind, but her Eladio is apparently a husky boy who'd kick your head in just for fun. Good strong-arm material."
"Unfortunately Eladio's not going to do us much good in jail," I said. "We'd have to pull too many strings to get at him. We have to find somebody we can work on easily, who knows where von Sachs-Quintana has his headquarters down in Mexico. This beer-swilling Winter character doesn't sound as if he'd be trusted with that kind of information, even if he is a member of the outfit." I sipped my drink. "Anything promising in this third block you've been working?"
Sheila glanced down at a paper in her hand. "Number three," she said, "1420 Mimosa Street. Ernest Head. He seems to be a little better off than the first two, judging by the house. He was in when I called, but he'd just got home from work and his wife said he was tired and asked me to come back after dinner. I-." She stopped, frowning.
"What is it?"
"There was something, funny. I've just remembered. I wanted to ask you about it."
"Go on and ask."
"I'm trying to think of it. There was a record player going in a house kind of catty-corner across the back yard. It was turned very loud and the window was open. One of the numbers that was played… it made me feel funny. I mean, it had associations. I'd heard it before, somewhere. I have a feeling it's important."
"Why?"
"I don't know. It just seemed terribly out of place, somehow. Dum dum dum dum, ta dum ta dum ta dum ta.
Do you recognize it?"
I grinned. "Well, not really."
"Oh, dear," she said ruefully. "I never could carry a tune. I wish I could remember where I'd heard it before."
"Did you check the house?"
"Of course."
"It isn't one of our key addresses?"
"No. I told you. I was going up to that when I heard this music from another place behind it." Sheila hesitated. "If you'd drive out there tonight with me, you could wait outside and listen. Maybe she'll play it again. I have a feeling you'd recognize it."
"She?"
"Apparently it's a woman. Miss Catherine Smith, it said on the mailbox."
I regarded her for a moment. "You really think this is worth my sitting in the car a couple of hours, Skinny?"
She moved her small Shoulders briefly. "Call it a hunch," she said. "I know it sounds silly, but-"
"You win," I said. "I didn't survive in this business by passing up anybody's hunches. But if it turns out to be Elvis Presley who makes you feel funny, you'll buy me a drink."
IX
IT WAS QUITE a concert. Miss Smith, if that was her name, had a lot of records, and her equipment had lots of volume. Even at the distance I was parked, I had no trouble identifying her selections. Her closer neighbors must have been either very tolerant or very deaf, to put up with the racket. But then, in a development like that, I guess you have to learn to live with each other's taste in music.
It was a machine-made oasis at the edge of Tucson, fairly new-parts were still being built up-known as Saguaro Heights. It had reasonable-sized cinder-block houses in pink, blue, yellow, and green. Each house had a TV antenna on the roof and a little lawn out front. The farther out into the desert some people move, the stronger seems to be this compulsion they get to grow and mow grass.