I was sitting in the station wagon across the street from the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Ernest Head. The Heads had a small ornate evergreen tree and some gaudy semitropical flowers. Judging by a tricycle and other debris, they also had kids. A shiny new car, one of the new compact Pontiacs-a far cry from my massive relic-was parked on the short concrete apron that connected the garage with the street.
There was a space of about twenty feet between the Head house, blue, and the pink house next door. Looking through this gap I could see, diagonally across back yards full of swings and clotheslines, the open window from which the music seemed to be coming. Nothing had shown at it yet.
I glanced at my watch and yawned. Well, it was one of our significant interviews and Sheila was right to spend as much time as she decently could inside. Maybe she was learning something. However, the night was hot and the station wagon upholstery was lumpy with age. I yawned again, trying to find stretching room for my legs. The door across the street opened, and Sheila came out. She looked pretty and unfamiliar in her summer dress and high heels.
There were only the white-bandaged tips of her fingers to remind me of the tattered scrap of female humanity I'd helped haul out of the Costa Verde jungle. She crossed the street and came to my window.
"Well?" she asked eagerly.
"No picture but lots of sound," I said. "Selections from 'My Fair Lady'. Part of the Swan Lake Ballet Suite. Some waltzes, Strauss, and I think a bit of Lehar. She keeps getting tired of a piece and switching to something else. Currently, as you can hear, Siegfried is having a rough time getting to the Rhine. He may make it and then again he may not."
"Oh," Sheila said, disappointed. "I'm sorry. I guess I got you here for nothing."
"No strain," I said. "It's been a great cultural experience. Did you spot anything inside?"
She shook her head. "There was nothing out of line that I could see. Mr. Head sells cars. His wife is nice, a handsome dark woman, and the two kids are cute. There's a phonograph for the kids, and a TV of course, and there are three radios: a clock-radio in the bedroom, a little set in the kitchen for Mrs. H, and an expensive all-wave portable they bought recently to take along when they go camping. Mrs. H says she's listened to the BBC on it."
"That could mean something," I said. "A long-range receiver like that."
"Maybe. There was no hint of any sending equipment or other short-wave stuff." Sheila looked up, listening. "What's our music-mad lady playing now?"
"She's starting to pick them loud and brassy for a woman," I said. "From Wagner to Souse. 'King Cotton March.' Does it make you feel funny? Does it have associations?"
She shook her head. "Well, I guess that's all for tonight. I'll come back and clean up this block in the morning."
She started around the car, hesitated, and looked back. "Thanks," she said.
"For what?"
"For being nice about it. For not telling me Fm a silly fool, hearing things."
I regarded her for a moment, and told myself firmly I didn't really like thin little girls with big eyes that changed color disconcertingly.
"Come on, get in," I said. "Don't make me sit on these lopsided springs any longer than-"
I stopped. The distant music had changed again, and there it was, clear and unbelievable. It was a hell of a thing to hear on a starry night in a peaceful residential development in Tucson, Arizona. It took me back to another continent and another time. I was aware that Sheila had started to speak and stopped, realizing from my expression, I guess, that she didn't have to say anything.
After a moment I cleared my throat and looked at her. "For God's sake, Skinny. You mean you didn't recognize that?"
She licked her lips. "I still don't. Maybe it was played for us in training, but my memory for music is terrible. What-"
"Hold it," I said softly. "Easy does it. Laugh as if I'd said something funny."
I heard her laugh. I was looking past her, across the street. Strains of the music were still drifting across the back yards from the open, empty, lighted window. Nearer, a man was stumbling around the side of the Heads' garage towards us.
"Laugh and talk," I said. "Then look around casually. Is that Ernest Head?"
Sheila laughed again. "Oh, Mr. Evans, that's priceless!" she giggled, leaning against the car in a casual way that let her look across the street. Her voice reached me softly. "Yes, that's Head. Did you see his face?"
"I saw it," I said. "He's hearing music from the grave, I think. I am now telling a dirty joke about… Well, you name it. He's heading for his car. Be ready to get in. We're going to make like detectives if he drives off."
Head stopped by his new little Pontiac, a stocky, balding man in shirtsleeves. As he opened the car door, the courtesy light went on inside and showed me his face clearly. It was the face of a man who'd seen death, or heard it.
"But what is it?" Sheila whispered. "What is the piece?"
"I guess it was just a little before your time," I said. "And lots of people talked about it, but relatively few really knew it, in this country, at least. What you're hearing is an orchestral version of a ditty called the Horst Wessel Song. Somebody is being clever, I think, not to say mildly fiendish."
Across the street, Mr. Ernest Head, car salesman, backed his shiny new car away from his neat new house and drove away as if devils were after him, and I guess they were. I could hear them in the music, too, but they weren't my devils. Not now. They'd given me a hard time once-me and a few million other men-but now after nearly twenty years they were just some half-forgotten clowns in brown uniforms and heavy boots who'd had a catchy song and a funny way of marching. They'd presented a problem, sure, but we'd solved it the hard way. Or had we?
"Get in, Skinny," I said. "Here we go."
Driving away, I watched the rear-view mirror carefully. I studied the evening traffic around us. Tucson is a typical, sprawling southwestern city, with wide streets that make an inconspicuous tailing job relatively easy. The only trouble was, this would work two ways. Presently I turned off, letting the little Pontiac keep on going. Sheila glanced at me quickly.
"You're letting him go?"
"No sense having him spot us following," I said. "He saw the car parked by his house. I have a hunch he's just driving around to settle his nerves where his family can't see him, anyway."
"Then why-"
"I wanted to see if anyone else was interested In where he was heading. Nobody seems to be. Whoever's playing that tune, call her Miss Smith, either she's got no outside help to watch Head while she tends the turntable, or she's got reason to think he's going nowhere important, at least tonight." I grimaced. "Maybe it's a break. The question is how to use it. Let's get back to the motel and do some thinking."
Nobody followed us. I made sure of this. There were still kids around the pool when I drove past it and. parked the station wagon in the slot in front of my unit, around the corner.
"I'd ask you in for a drink, Miss Summerton," I said rather loudly, "if I could be sure my motives wouldn't be misconstrued."
She laughed. "Don't be silly, Mr. Evans. This isn't the reign of Queen Victoria, you know. Besides, we'd better decide how we're going to split the work tomorrow."
"Well, in that case-"
I unlocked and opened the door, switched on the light, waited for her to enter, and closed the door behind her.
"I think we're overdoing the Miss Summerton-Mr. Evans routine," she said after a moment. "We'd better get to be Sheila and Hank tomorrow, don't you think?"