Legacy of a Spy (15 page)

George put his head down and stepped out into the world of thickly falling snow. He walked slowly, not able to see more than a few feet ahead, wondering just how Carmichael would pick him up in this storm, when he felt a sudden bump in his right side and heard someone say, “Excuse me.
Didn’t see you in all this snow.”
Hollingsworth turned, fully expecting to see Carmichael. Instead, he saw a ruddy-faced man in ski clothes
who
must be heavier than he appeared because the bump had given George quite a jar. He could not immediately determine the color of the stranger’s hair because it was covered with snow. When George looked at the green eyes, the wary, tense eyes, he knew it was Carmichael.

“Hello, Bruce,” said George, proud of himself at having known him almost immediately.

“Hello, George,” said Slater, surprised at Hollingsworth’s quick identification but relieved that he wouldn’t have to go into any lengthy proof.

“If I’m that obvious,” said Slater, “the Carmichael routine was a waste of time.”

“Not at all,” said Hollingsworth. “It was because I was expecting you. I couldn’t see you too well at first, and I recognized your voice.”

That much was true, thought George, but it’s his eyes. They’d give him away to anyone who took the trouble to look. George could not get rid of the impression that Slater was really a man with black, not brown hair. Slater would always be Carmichael to Hollingsworth. Possibly it was because he had met him first as Carmichael. The suntanned man who now stood beside him looking like a person who lived out of doors would appear to the casual observer to be a free spirit whose facial lines, those around the outer corners of his eyes and mouth, had been caused by smiling into the sun and wind, and laughing at the rain. Maybe, thought George, when this is all over, those eyes will relax again.

“I’ve got a reservation at the Zima,” said George. “I believe it’s the last place over toward the practice slope.”

“We might as well turn around,” said Slater. “That’s as good a place to talk as any. Here, let me take your suitcase.”

Slater took the bag before Hollingsworth could protest that it really was not very heavy and led the way back toward the station and across the railroad tracks. Hollingsworth slipped in the snow but managed to keep his feet. His shoes and ankles were wet, and he suddenly realized how poorly equipped he was to be plowing through a snowstorm. He hurried to catch up with Slater. As Hollingsworth moved up, he noticed a short stocky man coming, head down, straight for Slater, apparently totally unaware that there was anyone in this blurry white world but himself. The stocky man bumped into Hollingsworth’s suitcase.

“Excuse me,” said Slazov, looking carefully up at Slater’s face. “I guess I couldn’t see where I was going. The snow is so thick.”

Slazov’s English was heavily accented, but very smooth.

Hollingsworth had come up to the two men. He noticed that Slater was looking Slazov over very carefully.

“That’s quite all right,” Slater said slowly, but he didn’t smile. He glanced at Slazov’s suitcase.
Neither man seemed disposed to move along, and
George was beginning to feel the cold.

“I am going in the correct direction for Winterhof Hotel?” asked Slazov.

“Yes,” said Slater.

“When it’s white like this, everything looks the same.” Slazov smiled. “Thank you.”

Slazov tipped his hat and disappeared behind the thick curtain of snowflakes.

Slater started off again toward the Zima, trying to remember whether he had ever seen the stranger before. He had obviously just arrived.

Slater had to admit he was disturbed. A collision in a snowstorm was not too unusual, but a collision with a newly arrived Russian, who was definitely more interested in what Slater looked like than he was in finding his way to the Winterhof, was upsetting. There were other Russians in Kitzbühel, but Slater had not met any of them, and, so far, the dirty work had all been done by the locals. Slater shrugged. He was entirely too jumpy, and there were more important things to attend to at the moment.

THEY ARRIVED at the Zima Hotel, and Slater waited impatiently while George registered. The lobby and public rooms were almost deserted. The guests must be in their rooms reading and writing letters. The place would be jammed this coming weekend because of the new snow.

George’s room was very simply furnished, but it was spotless, and the casement windows were facing out toward the practice slope. On a clear day the view would be lovely. Slater remembered that the white exterior of the inn was covered with murals in vivid colors. Slater stretched out on the bed while George unpacked and changed into his ski clothes.

“Why don’t you take a nap for a little while?” said George. “You look beat.”

Slater closed his eyes. A nap was a wonderful idea. He needed more than a nap to recover from the last twenty-four hours.

“Thanks for the suggestion,” he said, his eyes still closed, “but there’s a lot to be done, and I’m afraid there isn’t enough time to do it in.”

Slater heaved a sigh, squeezed his eyes shut, and then snapped them open, and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He fished some papers out of the chest pocket of his parka and spread them out on the bed.

George put on a heavy ski sweater and walked over to the bed.

“What are all these?” he asked.

“I need a fresh approach, George,” said Slater. “These are the personal papers and personal effects of a man by the name of Krüpl.”

Slater reached again into his parka and brought forth a cigarette lighter and a small leather notepad.

“Who is Krüpl?”

“Well, for one thing,” said Slater, picking up Krüpl’s sand-colored passport and handing it to George, “Krüpl is an Austrian. He lives in Kirchberg; and he is, if my suspicions are correct, the Communist paymaster in this area.”

He picked up Krüpl’s wallet and showed Hollingsworth the sheaf of bills.

“From the looks of the money he must at least be in the black market,” said George.

“So is everyone in Europe,” said Slater. He sounded very tired. “Somewhere in this mess,” he continued, “there must be a clue to Krüpl’s contact.”

George looked puzzled.

“Again,” said Slater, “if my surmises are correct, Krüpl receives this money from a person he doesn’t know, probably through some blind or other, or maybe some hiding place to which both he and the man who pays him have access. I’ve got to find out where, when, and how Krüpl got this money, and who the man is
who
pays him. You see, George,” Slater looked up at him, “I want you to take Krüpl’s place.”

“What about Krüpl?” George frowned.

“Krüpl is dead.”

“Dead?”
George swallowed nervously.

“He was killed last night,” said Slater calmly. “I buried him and a man named Stadler at about midnight.”

“You mean—” George suddenly found it necessary to sit down on the bed. This wasn’t turning out at all the way he had expected. “You mean you killed two men last night?”

“Not exactly,” said Slater. “I killed Stadler, and Stadler’s bullet killed Krüpl. They are the men who murdered Charlie Webber,” he added, “if that makes you feel any better.”

It should, thought George, but it didn’t. It made him awfully damned nervous.

George took another long look at Slater. How could this man sit there, so calmly for once, and talk about burying two men? He took a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. Furthermore, he was uncomfortably aware of how little he really knew of this man Montague, Carmichael, Slater, and God knew how many other names.

Slater was aware of the sensational effect his calm announcement was having on Hollingsworth and decided that, for the present, he had better not mention Mahler and Mahler’s assassin. There was no need for Hollingsworth to know. Slater proceeded to bring Hollingsworth up to date and then turned once again to Krüpl’s personal effects, which he handed to George one by one, requesting him to examine them carefully.

George took the lighter and looked it over. He did something which Slater had not done. He tried to light it. The lighter did not work.

“I’m probably grabbing at straws,” said George, “but not only is this lighter out of fluid—there are no flints in it.”

“Which leads you,” said Slater, “to what conclusion?”

“Well,” George said thoughtfully, “I don’t know exactly, but this is an unusual lighter. Looks like an American Zippo, but this design was done by hand.”

“What do you make of the design?” asked Slater.

George held up the lighter and examined the engraving.
“Looks almost oriental.”

Slater nodded. “Have a look in Krüpl’s notepad.”

George took the notepad and thumbed through the pages.

“All I can see are some addresses, phone numbers, and what appears to be a shopping list.” George looked at the inside back cover. “This was bought at the Kitzbühel Buchhandlung—the Kitzbühel Book Exchange.” He frowned. “I didn’t know Kitzbühel had one.”

George stood up and looked down at Slater. “I wish you would tell me what I’m looking for. It would be a big help.”

“I’m glad I didn’t.” Slater smiled. “I know what to look for. At least I should by this time,” he added. “But you’re the one who may have found it.”

“I found it?” George looked bewildered. “Found what?”

“George, let me ask you a question,” said Slater. “If you had the problem of giving money, in fairly large amounts, to someone you didn’t want to discover your identity, but someone you’d like to keep an eye on from time to time, how would you do it?”

“Well, I—”

“Wait a minute,” Slater broke in. “There’s another important condition I left out.”

“What’s that?” asked George.

“You also wish to make certain the money is delivered, and to the right person.”

“Must this delivery take place in Kitzbühel?” asked George.

“Not necessarily in Kitzbühel, but somewhere in this general area.”

“What about mail, c/o John Smith, General Delivery?”

“Yes,” Slater nodded, “that’s possible. However, there are some disadvantages to that method, not the least of which being that the Austrian government could decide to investigate. Of course,” he added, “there are inadequacies in any such setup. These are what the counterespionage agent counts on.”

Slater pushed himself off the bed and onto his feet and began to pace the small room slowly as he talked.

“That, George, is precisely the greatest difficulty with all espionage activities. Because they are not normal, because almost all such activity is based on distrust and fear, even between societies working on the same problem, rather than on a normal exchange between co-workers, the individual agents frequently give themselves and each other away. Theoretically, the clever organizer does his best to make all communications between his agents appear normal, but they almost never come off that way.”

Hollingsworth sat on the bed fascinated and, once again, bewildered by this many-sided individual who was now holding forth, in the language a professor would have found suitable, on the theory of espionage.

“Perhaps,” Slater continued, “if some espionage organization were to adopt the revolutionary policy of having all of its agents know and trust one another implicitly, a real aura of normalcy might be established; but,” he paused, “I assure you, no organization ever will adopt such a policy.”

“What have I discovered that may have given you a clue to Krüpl’s contact?” asked Hollingsworth.

“You noticed two things that I didn’t, George.”

“I did?” George was obviously pleased.

“First, that Krüpl’s lighter was not used for lighting cigarettes. In fact, I don’t believe Krüpl smoked.”

“I didn’t know that.” George sounded downhearted about discovery number one.

“No,” said Slater, “you couldn’t have. I could have. I never saw him smoke. He had neither cigarettes nor pipe on his person, but,” he shook his head, “I didn’t.” Slater smiled ruefully. “The other thing you noted that I overlooked was the name of the store where this notebook was purchased. I’m inclined to think it’s important because it is so obvious as to be overlooked, and a store is not only a good place to be able to deliver goods but also makes an excellent observation point for Krüpl’s boss to keep an eye on Krüpl.”

“Where does the lighter fit in?” asked George, completely carried away by the academic side of this counterespionage problem.

“Probably for identification,” said Slater. “I’ve never seen one like it before. I seriously doubt that there are many others—maybe only one other.”

“And that,” said George excitedly, “is in the possession of Krüpl’s boss.”

“Possibly,” said Slater, “but don’t count on seeing it. Whoever has one will not be likely to display it under any but the most unusual circumstances. Here,” he said, handing the lighter back to Hollingsworth, “from now on this is yours.”

George took the lighter again, this time handling it gingerly. He had the distinct feeling that the academic side of this affair was about to come to an abrupt end. He was right.

“Here’s what I want you to do, George,” said Slater. His tone was now very businesslike. “I want you to go to the Kitzbühel Buchhandlung and go up to the counter. When you get one of the clerk’s
attention
, I want you to put the lighter on the counter and ask if there is a book for you.”

“Suppose I don’t get any reaction?” said George.

“Leave immediately,” said Slater. “If you do receive a package, bring it back to your room and wait here for a call from me. Do you have a gun?”

George sheepishly pulled a .32 automatic out of his pocket.

“Why look embarrassed?” asked Slater. “You may need it before you’re through. Don’t forget to make me identify myself before you let me in.”

George laid the automatic gingerly on the window sill. “If I get this money, am I supposed to go around making the payoff?”

“No,” said Slater. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think there’s time for that. If there is, I will have someone local take care of it. I’ve made some other plans which I won’t tell you about just now.”