Free The Ambushers by Donald Hamilton Page B

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 or 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, 174½ 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