Legacy of a Spy (16 page)

Slater went over to the window sill and picked up the automatic. He examined it a moment and then turned to Hollingsworth.

“Don’t you think,”
he
said slowly, “that this gadget would work better if you put some shells in the clip?”

George’s face flushed. His mouth moved a couple of times, but nothing came out.

“Weren’t you ever in the service?” asked Slater.

“I was too young for World War II, and the Foreign Service has kept me out of the army. To tell you the truth, I’ve never fired a revolver.”

George was embarrassed, but he was glad he had admitted his ignorance of firearms. Slater was amazed that there was a young man anywhere in this crazy world who did not know how to handle an automatic. He concealed his annoyance.

“Actually, George, carrying a revolver is sometimes more dangerous than not carrying one. However,” he added, “when you do need one, you usually need it bad; and there’s usually no adequate substitute, believe me.” Slater filled the clip, put an extra shell in the chamber and locked the automatic.

“You now have all the fire power this thirty-two will give you. Never fire at a target less than twice; point the automatic as you would your finger; make your own silhouette as low as possible; always keep some distance between the gun and the target; and never,” Slater smiled, “point the gun at someone you don’t intend to kill.”

George put on the safety and stuck the .32 in the right-hand pocket of his ski pants.

“When do you want me to try and make Krüpl’s contact?” he asked.

“In half an hour,” said Slater. “Wait here fifteen minutes after I leave, and then head for the bookstore. I’ll be there before you. Don’t acknowledge me, but return here as soon as you have finished your business, and we’ll have another little talk.”

Slater left the Hotel Zima and stepped out into the snow. It had finally stopped snowing, but the fresh wind, which was breaking up the clouds, was whipping up the snow and kiting it crazily into drifts. As Slater approached the station, he could see the plows in action. A snowfall, no matter how unexpected, was an old story to these mountain people, and Slater reflected that the main roadways would be cleared by this evening. He smelled the wind. It was surprisingly warm and moist. He looked up at the Hahnenkamm and shook his head. March was a strange, unpredictable month. The weather could turn unseasonably warm. It had been almost balmy three days ago. He didn’t like the warmth of the wind. A sudden change in temperature at this time of year after a heavy snowfall could mean avalanche weather, and with the passes blocked, many of the villages, even entire sections, would be cut off for days. He could imagine himself, Hollingsworth, Dinar, if he was still in the community, and the Communists all shut up in this happy valley. He muttered something to himself about life being just a bowl of cherries and entered the Kitzbüheler Buchhandlung.

The bookstore was crowded, and Slater joined the people who were browsing. The Europeans in general and the Germanic people in particular were very book conscious, and the publishing companies vied with each other to see which could turn out the most attractively bound and illustrated editions. Slater had had little time for much reading, and he turned now to his browsing with real pleasure. He looked up occasionally to see if he could recognize any of the staff or customers. He had not been there more than ten minutes when Hormsby entered, slipping smoothly through the crowd like a sharp knife through warm butter. Slater marveled at Hormsby’s thinness. He should have moved like a crane, but he was as smooth on his feet as a professional dancer.

Hormsby went over to the counter, handed the girl a package and said something to her. Slater moved in Hormsby’s direction. He wanted to have a closer look at the package. It certainly looked like a book. Hormsby was still talking to the girl when Slater stepped up behind him.

“Good day for reading, Mr. Hormsby,” said Slater, his mouth almost touching Hormsby’s right ear.

Being suddenly addressed from the rear apparently unnerved Hormsby, for he wheeled around. He had something in his hand which he was not quick enough to stuff in his pocket. Slater saw it just before it disappeared. It was the duplicate of Krüpl’s lighter. Slater had to get Hormsby out of the bookstore in a hurry. If Hollingsworth walked in there and tried to pass himself off as Krüpl with Hormsby looking on, George would be in for more trouble than he would ever be able to handle.

“Ah, Mr.
Slater,
isn’t it?” said Hormsby. “What a pleasant surprise.” Hormsby’s accent was
very
clipped.

“Now that,” replied Slater affably, “is just what I was thinking. How about letting me buy you a drink?”

“Excellent,” Hormsby smiled. “And then, I’ll buy you one.” Hormsby was apparently as eager to get out of there, now that he had an audience, as Slater was to get him out.

“And then,” said Slater, “I’ll buy you one.”

“And then,” Hormsby began his high-pitched giggle, “I’ll buy you one.”

“And then—”

“And then,” Hormsby cut in, “we’ll be as squiffy as a couple of owls.”

“Squiffier,” said Slater. “Here’s to a couple of squiffy owls.”

The two men went out into the street arm in arm and walked through the snow into the Winterhof. They entered the bar, still chattering away like long-lost drinking pals. They argued over who was to buy the first drink, and what the poison should be. Hormsby held out for a gin and lime, and Slater for a lime and vodka combination he called a skazzerak.

“My dear fellow,” said Hormsby frowning, “you’re not going to drink a Russian product?”

“Why not?” said Slater. “I like vodka.”

“I wouldn’t drink anything made in Russia!” Hormsby was vehement. “And as a good American, you shouldn’t either.”

“It’s their politics that I don’t like, not their alcohol.” Slater had to admit that this dapper cadaver sitting opposite him was most convincing in displaying his dislike of anything Russian, even though he was unquestionably the Communist paymaster for the area.

“Are you going to the Baron von Burgdorf’s party tonight?” Slater asked.

“I wouldn’t miss one of the Baron’s parties for the world.
Terribly interesting—always.”

“You don’t think all this snow will make the Baron decide to call it off?” asked Slater.

“Definitely not.”
Hormsby added, “Anyway, it’s stopped snowing. Bit of a wind, but I believe they’ll run the cable car all the same. Baron’s a very important man.”

“You English are more impressed by royalty than we Americans,” said Slater dryly.

“That’s funny,” said Hormsby, “I’ve had just the opposite impression.”

Slater reflected that Wyman was undoubtedly partly responsible for that. Now was no time to antagonize Hormsby, but Slater was on edge and his temper was very nearly out of control. He could not get the idea out of his mind that Hormsby was responsible for Mahler’s and Webber’s deaths. Hormsby was certainly at least number-two man in the area, if not number-one. It was odd that the discoveries were frequently such an anticlimax, but that was the way this business worked. It was not like apprehending criminals. Unless, in this case, Hormsby had violated Austrian law and Slater could prove it, there was nothing he could do except
notify
his office of Hormsby’s role and let someone unknown to Hormsby monitor his operations.

Slater hated these mercenaries. A citizen of the West, particularly of England and the United States, should know better than to sell himself to the Communists. It was obvious that Hormsby was in this for the money, and he probably did not get much of that now that they had him in their power and could blackmail him. There had been times, too many times in the past ten years, when he had actually helped Communist agents to escape the law of some European nation because in his professional opinion, and that of his office, the guilty person had been more useful alive, his espionage role known, than in prison or executed as he deserved and replaced by another unknown.

Slater’s impulse was to try and get Hormsby alone someplace and beat him until he told who number one was, and what their plans were to get Colonel Dinar. But to get the maximum intelligence “take” out of this, it would be smarter to get to number one through Hormsby without the knowledge of either and then alert his office to monitor all their future actions. Slater was very much afraid that Carmichael had already upset the apple cart, but Carmichael had not had much choice.

Eliciting information from a fellow professional made a subtle and charming dialogue for the movies or a spy novel, but it rarely paid off. Still, Slater realized, he had almost nothing to lose. They were on their third “and then I’ll buy you one” and Hormsby appeared to be mellowing.

Slater pulled out a cigarette, offered one to Hormsby and asked if he had a light. Hormsby fished around in his pockets and produced a package of matches.
Failure number one.

“I’m going to get a lighter one of these days,” said Slater. “I’m always running out of matches.”

“If you get a lighter,” said Hormsby, “you’ll always be running out of fuel. Anyway, I’ve never found one that worked yet.”

Failure number
two.

“Ah, Fräulein Wieland!”
Hormsby’s thin face
brightened,
and he stood up. “Won’t you join us? You are just what a couple of old bachelors need.”

Ilse stopped at the table, and without a glance in Slater’s direction, seated herself beside Hormsby.

“Sorry, Slater,” said Hormsby, “I was speaking for myself. I don’t know whether you’re a bachelor or not.”

“I am,” said Slater looking at Ilse. But I wouldn’t be for long, he thought, if she were real—or if I were real, for that matter.

“Are you coming to the Baron’s party tonight, Fräulein Wieland?” Hormsby asked.

“Yes, Mr. Hormsby,” Ilse still ignored Slater. “As a matter of fact,” she continued, “I was told to tell anyone I might
see,
whom I knew was invited, that the party will be informal because of the snow.”

“You’ve told him,” said Slater, exasperated in spite of himself at her attempt to ignore him. “Now, why don’t you tell me?”

“You have already admitted you heard, Mr. Slater.”

Ilse looked at him then, and Slater decided, spy or no spy, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. You could not refer to Ilse Wieland as a girl. There was too much knowledge behind her eyes—the kind of depth and knowing that would seem promiscuous in a young girl, but promising in a mature woman.

Hormsby looked from Slater to Ilse and back at Slater.

“What’s this, a lovers’ quarrel?” Hormsby looked at Slater’s somber expression and began to giggle. “This is priceless! I thought you two were coming to the party together.”

“Apparently, Fräulein Wieland would rather go alone,” said Slater.

He was acting damn childish and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Ilse made no reply.

“Oh, Fräulein Wieland will not be alone, I assure you,” said Hormsby.

“I’m sure she won’t,” said Slater and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, please, I have some things to attend to.”

As Slater was leaving the bar, Hormsby called after him.

“I’ll buy you a lighter as a consolation prize, old boy, although I assure you they never work.” Hormsby giggled again.

Slater never turned, but his broad back felt twice normal size and very exposed. It could have been an innocent enough remark, but it probably was not. The elicited, as usual, had probably learned more than the elicitor.

GREGORY SLAZOV checked in at the Winterhof and had a private conversation with Anton Reisch in Slazov’s room.

Slazov was seated in the armchair. His short stubby body filled the chair, and the arms creaked almost every time he breathed. Anton was standing respectfully.

“Normally, Herr Reisch,” Slazov said, “we would not have contact, you and I, but when you told me at the desk that Mr. Carmichael had checked out, this was indeed bad news.”

“I’m very sorry, Herr Slazov,” said Anton. “I should have gotten a forwarding address. But—”

“I doubt that it would have been a real one.” Slazov looked thoughtful. “Tell me about this man Carmichael. What did he really look like?”

“He was tall with straight dark hair, strong features, high-bridged straight nose and green eyes.”

“How old?” asked
Slazov.

“In his thirties,” said Anton. He was tired of standing.

“What were his habits?”

“Very conservative,” said Anton. “Very,” he added remembering the ten dollars. “He spent a lot of time in his room.”

Slazov was angry. For a man who spent so much of his time in his room, Carmichael had apparently caused considerable trouble. How could he, Gregor Slazov, find a man he knew nothing about? As usual, the party had not told him enough. The only contact they gave him was this idiot Anton, who looked as if he was about to fall asleep.

“Have you any suggestions how I can find this Mr. Carmichael?”

“I have the license number and description of the car he left here in yesterday. I have made some inquiries of the various hotels west of here.” Anton paused.

“Well!” Slazov said emphatically. “Continue.”

“A man by the name of Carmichael spent last night at the hotel in Wörgl,” said Anton.

“Then he has probably left Austria by now,” said Slazov disgustedly.

“I don’t think so, Herr Slazov,” said Anton. “You see, Wörgl is less than one hour’s drive from here, and Carmichael did not check in there until three in the morning. He left here about three in the afternoon. Also,” added Anton, “he left Wörgl very early this morning, but I don’t think he left Austria. I think he is here in Kitzbühel.”

This was news! Slazov looked at Anton with grudging respect.

“I think I have met Carmichael. He arrived on the train this afternoon. He is very tall and has straight dark hair, a diplomat—a very young diplomat not over twenty-five, at the most twenty-nine. He was met,” Slazov added, “by a husky American with green eyes and,” Slazov paused, “strong, prominent features.”