As we approached the part of the development that was under construction, I saw that the half-built houses were all deserted except for some kids playing on the piles of dirt thrown up by a mechanical ditch-digger. The garage in which I'd spent an unpleasant hour the night before looked different in the fading daylight, raw and new and unfinished. I parked the VW around the corner, took the .22 from Sheila, and told her what to do. Then I made my way silently around to the side door of the garage and waited for her to do it.
I heard her come running up to the big roll-up front door, laughing and breathless. Her voice reached me, high and childlike: "Hey, kids, let's see what's in this one!"
As she rattled the door handle at that end of the garage,
I swung the side door open and stepped inside. It worked like a charm. Max was caught flat-footed looking the other way. I hadn't been sure he'd be here, of course, but I'd hoped for it, and he wasn't a man I wanted to walk in on without some small advantage.
He sensed my presence and turned, reaching into his shirt, but stopped when he saw Head's long-barreled.22 aimed at him.
"Easy," I said. I raised my voice. "Okay, Skinny. Everything's under control. Keep your eyes open out there."
Max was watching the gun. "The weapon isn't necessary, Mr. Evans," he said.
"The hell it isn't," I said. "I told your girl friend, if there's a doublecross all bets are off. What does this look like?"
I gestured towards the woman tied in the chair I'd had the privilege of occupying the night before. Mrs. Gertrude Head, once the belle of the Third Reich, sagged limply against her bonds, wearing only a pair of sandals and a pair of pink trousers, the kind of cheap, tight, tapering high-water pants that have taken the place of the old-fashioned housedress in which my mother used to do her cooking and cleaning. I suppose that comes under the heading of progress. Mrs. Head had obviously been caught by surprise, at home. Her dark hair was in curlers, some of which had come unwound. She was quite dead.
Well, they could hardly have turned her loose to talk. Maybe, after what had been done to her, she'd even been glad to have it come. Make it schnell, Ernest Head had said, finish it. It hadn't been swift, but at least it was finished. I thought the bone-deep brand on the forehead an unnecessary embellishment.
Max stirred. "We got the information unexpectedly. We were going to tell you as soon as-"
"Sure," I said. "Sure, you were going to tell me. As soon as you got von Sachs out of Mexico, you were going to tell me. I bet Catherine's on the road right now." His expression told me I was right. I said, "You had to wait here to take care of me-you knew I'd be along-and to get the evidence out of here; you were going to join her later. Well, don't hold your breath waiting for that happy reunion, Max."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"You have a choice," I said. "If you'll let me take your gun peacefully, I'll get some people in 'here who'll just hold you where you can't interfere. On the other hand, if you simply can't resist scratching that itch under your armpit, well, we can work it that way, too."
"You won't shoot." His furrowed face was scornful. "You will not dare! You are an American agent. We have done nothing against America."
"I believe there's a law on the books about murder," I said. "I'll have to check to be absolutely sure."
"Murder? Killing a Nazi slut who entered this country illegally-"
I said, "Max, you're making a mistake, friend. You'll never reach that gun."
His deep-set eyes stared at me, daring me to act. His hand moved under his shirt. I shot him accurately through the forehead, and he came down joint by joint like a marionette when you release the strings from above. The little.22 cartridge seemed to make quite a racket in the confined garage, but I doubted that outside it would 'have been heard very far away.
It had been heard by Sheila, of course. She was waiting for me outside. Her face was pale. "You killed him?" I nodded, and she said accusingly, "You knew you were going to, when you had me bring Head's gun along!"
I said, "It's always a possibility when you're dealing with people like Max. If it had to happen, I didn't want to arouse the neighborhood by firing off a big.38."
She licked her lips. "But they're not enemies, Eric! I mean, regardless of their methods… I mean, how can you justify…" Her voice faltered.
"I know what you mean," I said. "And I gave the man a choice, what more could I do? He was there to stop us, or at least delay us. That's why she left him behind and went on alone."
"You don't know that!"
"He didn't deny it," I said. "And he was ready to make a sacrifice play to keep us off Catherine's trail; he wouldn't let me take him prisoner. I wasn't about to monkey with him and get myself killed. Anyway, you shouldn't be too quick to take things for granted."
"What am I taking for granted?" she demanded.
"You're thinking of Max and Catherine as agents of some earnest anti-Nazi group with an ancient grievance, like the people who got Eichmann, aren't you?"
"Grievance! That's a mild word for it! You can hardly blame them for the way they feel after-" She stopped and frowned at me. "Aren't they? She said they were."
"Catherine says a lot of things," I said. "Some of them may even be true, but we have no real proof this one is."
Sheila blurted, "That's just rationalization! You're just saying that because you shot him!"
I sighed. "Sure."
"And Gerda? I suppose she's dead, too!"
I said, "She's dead."
"You knew she would be, didn't you?"
I said, "Let's continue the argument in the car, if you don't mind. We've got things to do. We've got to make a phone call and find somebody who'll dispose of the bodies, dead and alive, without too much embarrassing publicity. I don't envy them the job. And then we've got to pick up our gear at the motel and get after Miss Smith."
I reached for Sheila's arm to guide her over the rough ground around the half-built house. She pulled away, but after we'd got into the Volkswagen she drew a long breath and looked at me.
"I'm sorry. Maybe I was… a little childish. It was just so unexpected."
I said, "It was real nice in the old movies where the good guys wore white hats and the bad guys wore black ones."
She smiled, but it was obvious she wasn't quite sure which color hat I ought to wear. It's a question I've sometimes wondered about myself. Presently she stopped smiling and frowned.
"But how do you expect to catch up with the woman now?" she asked worriedly. "She may have several 'hours' head start."
I said, "You don't have much faith in the old maestro. We know where she's going in a general way, don't we? There's only one road into Mexico she can reasonably take. And one of the nuggets of information I picked up along the border that I neglected to share with her is the fact that the international gate at Antelope Wells closes Saturday afternoon-it closed a couple of hours ago. She couldn't possibly have got into New Mexico fast enough, after working over Gerda, to catch it open. And it doesn't open again until Monday morning. By that time we'll be lying in the hills above the town watching her go by."
XVIII
IT WASN'T QUITE that cut and dried, of course; and some thirty-six hours later, watching the sunrise from a barren knoll behind Antelope Wells, New Mexico, I kind of wished I'd made the statement sound a little less definite.
There was, after all, no law saying that Catherine Smith absolutely had to go through the town below to reach the Nacimiento Mountains. I mean, there was only the one road, but like most roads it had two ends. By making a detour of several hundred miles yesterday, she could have found a place where the border was open all weekend, and then swung far down into the Mexican state of Chihuahua to approach the Nacimientos from the south. It would have involved a lot of hard driving, but it could have been done. If it had been, we could wait here forever and get nothing but a few cactus needles for our trouble.