I gave her a grin. "And honey and darling the next day?" It was just something I threw out without thinking. Like my hand on her shoulder, it made her freeze up instantly. Her face got cold and remote and a little pale. I said quickly, "It's a good suggestion. Maybe I was hamming it up a bit. But now let's hear your thoughts about a disc jockey named Smith."
She didn't seem to hear me. She had turned away from me, perhaps so I wouldn't be able to see her face. I couldn't guess what she was thinking, except that it probably wasn't pleasant, or flattering to me. Well, I'd been clumsy again. On the other hand, as she'd said herself, she was going to have to get over it some day.
She caught sight of the long cardboard box marked Winchester that I'd left lying on the bed, on the theory that hiding eight pounds and three feet of high-powered rifle in a small motel room isn't really feasible and merely calls attention to what you're trying to conceal. In that part of the U.S. people tend to take hunting rifles for granted, anyway. Sheila stepped forward, opened the box, and looked at the weapon inside. After a moment she turned to look at me accusingly, as if she thought I'd been keeping things from her.
"Just an item that may come in handy," I said. "I picked it up on my way through town this afternoon."
"But you must have found a lead of some kind down along the border or you wouldn't have-"
I shook my head. "No such luck. It's just that kind of wide-open country, clear down into Mexico. Even when we get von Sachs' mountain hideout located, we may not be able to work in very close."
I watched her lift the gun out of the box and, like any well-trained marksman, slip the bolt back to make certain the piece was unloaded. It gave me a funny feeling to watch her and remember that this small, frail-looking person had gone to a very tough school and learned, among other things, how to handle a large number of lethal weapons, many of which the average man had never seen or heard of.
"Careful," I said. "You'll get your dress dirty. It's right off the rack; it's still got the factory preservative."
She laid it back In the box and rubbed her hands together. "You haven't fired it yet?'
"No," I said. "We'll have to sneak off tomorrow and find a place where we can sight it in."
She gave me a sharp glance. "We?"
"I want you to have the feel of it, too. We don't know how this will break." I looked at her. "Unless, of course, you have some objection."
"No," she said quickly. "No, of course not." After a moment she said, "Then you didn't have much luck on your border trip?"
"Well, I didn't really expect to pick up any information on von Sachs. That's what we're here in Tucson for. I did get some road information from some anthropologists digging up old pots on one of the ranches down there. They were down the road past the Nacimientos, well down into Mexico, earlier this summer. Apparently it's no place to go for a Sunday drive. They used jeeps. An ordinary car might make it, they said, but it would be a real rough trip. Anyway, I learned enough from them that I figure once we get some kind of a lead to von Sachs' mountain hideout, I can probably find my way there."
"But they hadn't seen him?'
"They hadn't actually been up in the rocks. They didn't seem to think there was anything back there except lizards and gophers and a few caves that might have been inhabited by humans a thousand years ago but weren't now. Apparently it's great country for caves." I glanced at my watch. "Well, I think I'll head back to Saguaro Heights and tackle the musical Miss Smith."
Sheila frowned. "Do you think that's wise?'
"I can't see any reason not to stick to our market-research cover just because some gal plays a few records," I said. "You'd better take the body around the corner and put it to bed. See you in the morning."
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?"