Legacy of a Spy (18 page)

When Slater finally put down his pen, he felt somewhat better. His time in Kitzbühel had, after all, been quite brief; yet he had been able to break their communication setup, and he could name every agent in the Kitzbühel operation but the number-one man. The last page had been a diagram of the local apparatus as he saw it.

He also enclosed the passports of Stadler, Krüpl and Hauser, the man who had killed Mahler, and ended his report with his future plans and an analysis of what the Communist plans might be. Almost as an afterthought, and because he realized it was his duty, he added Ilse Wieland’s name as the German Intelligence agent. Who could tell when the United States and Germany might be on opposite sides of the fence again?

He wrote his cover letter, filling the blank pages with innocuous thoughts on the beauties of Kitzbühel, the length and comparative difficulty of the various ski trails, the reasonableness of the local prices, and the general Gemütlichkeit of the area. He signed it again, “As always, Ben,” and sealed the heavy Manila envelope, knowing that Paris would be upset when they saw the big envelope. An agent who thought he still had a fighting chance almost never sent anything bigger than a conventional, personal letter.

The dinner arrived just as he was clearing everything away. The waiter was very solicitous and, to Slater’s mind, a little too curious for comfort. Slater had to be rude to get rid of him.

The food was well prepared, but Slater had to force himself to eat. He knew he needed the nourishment, and he finally managed to get everything down. The wine was the easiest. He would have liked to drink himself into a stupor. Tired businessmen frequently took a little too much alcohol, and even sleeping pills, to relieve tension and often with their doctors’ blessings. Slater could not permit himself such luxuries, not even one of those new “happy pills” his fellow countrymen were lately taking by the millions. He had to sit there alone with his nerves. He tried to rub the back of his neck to loosen the tightening muscles and start the circulation going again, but he got a cramp in his right arm from doing it. That made him more nervous so he gave up.

He stood up and stretched. He had to get out of his room or go berserk from claustrophobia, waiting there, all shut up and tense, for someone to come and murder him. He also had to get rid of the letter as soon as possible. It was his only legacy, and he wanted it to get into the proper hands.

Slater left the room and went downstairs into the lobby.

“Mr. Slater!”

He turned and saw Anton beckoning him over to the desk.

“Yes?” Slater approached the desk.

“I wonder, sir,” said Anton, “
if
you could tell me Mr. Carmichael’s forwarding address?”

Slater felt as though he had been struck across the face. He struggled to withhold any emotion.

“Mr. Carmichael?” he said. “I don’t think—”

“The night clerk tells me you were looking for him the other night,” Anton said smoothly.

Slater suddenly remembered that Anton had not been on duty when he had gone up to his room the last time. Slater had nodded to the night clerk.

“Oh yes, I remember,” said Slater, trying desperately to make the best of it.
“Tall, dark-haired fellow.
I only met him once.
Invited me to have a drink.
You know, fellow American on a foreign soil.” Slater knew he was talking too much, and he stopped too abruptly.

“Yes, sir,” said Anton, “that’s the man. He left here owing the hotel two hundred and sixty schillings.”

“That’s a shame,” said Slater.
“Didn’t seem that sort of a fellow to me.”
He shook his head. “That just shows you, you never know.”

“No, sir,” said Anton. His voice sounded tired again, and Slater noted it with something approaching relief.

“Do you know where we can reach him, Mr. Slater?”

“I’m sorry, but I only met him once. I have no idea where he went to. Guess it’s just as well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Slater left the hotel and went to the post office to mail the letter. He knew it was just a question of time now, and all because what he had at one time considered a smart move had now turned out to be a bad blunder. You could not foresee everything in this business. How was he to know, when as Slater he had asked the night clerk for
Carmichael, that
Slater would register at the Hotel Winterhof? If Anton were suspicious of the connection, he at least knew now that Slater had been in Kitzbühel before he had registered at the Winterhof. Some phoning around would reveal that Slater had not been registered anywhere else.

Anton Reisch looked after Slater’s broad back and watched him until he disappeared through the front door and into the now slushy main street. He picked up the house phone and asked for Slazov’s room.

“Hello, Herr Slazov.”

“Yes.”

“Anton here.”
Anton put his mouth close to the mouthpiece. “The person we discussed is the right man.”

“Are you sure?” asked Slazov.

“There is no question,” said Anton.

“Where is he now?”

“He has just left the hotel.”

“Good. I will be right down. Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Anton. “Just do your job.”

“I always do,” said Slazov.

AFTER MAILING the letter, Slater entered the nearest public telephone station and called his office in Salzburg. After he had properly identified himself, he was connected with a voice he had not heard in three years. The voice was deep and slightly accented. It belonged to an old friend and an old hand in the business, Lazio Kartovski, an overfed gourmet who raised cymbidiums and looked like Farouk.

Lazio was a man of many talents. He spoke five languages besides Polish, the language of his parents. His chief drawback as an operator was his chimeric disposition, which went in rapid succession from a state of high-living frenzy to the blackest despair, from a most affable expansiveness to an uncontrollable rage.

“Hello, you handsome devil!” exclaimed Lazio. “I suppose you have all the women at your feet down there.”

Slater winced. Lazio was in one of his most affable moods, and now Slater knew he would hear nothing but the wildest compliments about his supposed amatory achievements.

“It’s wonderful to hear your Slavic voice, Farouk. How many wives have you had since I saw you last?” Slater laughed. It had been a long time since he had talked with anyone he knew well enough to ask such a question and know the answer in advance.

“You think I will never marry, you rascal, but I did find a beautiful girl in Ankara. She is like a princess, my charming friend, and I will marry her someday.”

“Why wait, Farouk?” Slater chuckled. “Even Farouk cannot keep a princess waiting.”

“Oh, I would! I would, but I am so broke all the time. It takes money to be married.”

Slater wished he could keep their conversation going on like this forever, to stay in this world of pleasantries with an old friend, but he couldn’t. It had served its purpose, and now he had to ask for the report.

“Listen, moneybags,” said Slater, “have you bureaucrats up there got a report for me?”

“Moneybags!”
Lazio yelled. “I am broke, flat, busted,
kaput
.” He paused. “Yes, but it will not be much help, I’m afraid. We know nothing about any of the people mentioned—except the beer merchant with the title.”

Slater shook his head. He had been afraid of that. Well, he had added a whole new list to the rogues’ gallery.

“I guess I hit the jackpot, all right,” said Slater. “All but three, who are no longer with us, will be worth further acquaintance. The young lady is an associate of” and Slater mentioned a code name for German Intelligence.

“So you have been up to your old tricks,” said Lazio. “I am referring to the three who have retired.
Sounds to me as though you need a friend.”

Slater was deeply grateful for the offer, but he decided to ignore it. Lazio was about as subtle as a herd of elephants—besides, there just was not time enough.

“Tell me more,” he said, “about the merchant of distinction.”

“He is real enough,” said Lazio, “but he is as misguided as some of our inheritors of great wealth. He has championed the cause of the common man about whom he knows nothing. He is used for his money, and the front he can put up. He throws parties for them. He has a doublesized belly and an undersized brain.”

Slater laughed at Lazio’s description.

“Don’t laugh, my handsome friend,” said Lazio. “The man is a moron, but he is dangerous.”

“I liked your choice of words,” said Slater soberly.

“But not my big feet and heavy hands, eh?” said Lazio.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know very well. You don’t consider me an appropriate friend just now. You don’t want my big feet tromping all over the place down there.” Lazio paused, and Slater knew he would be hurt, but there was nothing to say.

“All right!
All right!” said Lazio finally. “But you are my friend, all the same, you slayer of women. And if anything happens to you, you will never forgive yourself.”

“You’re so right, Lazio,” said Slater.

“When will I hear from you again?” asked Lazio.

“Tomorrow, I hope.”

“If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow afternoon, I will bring the marines and crush a few skulls.”

“Do that,” said Slater.

“Auf wiederschauen, mein schöner Freund,” said Lazio.

“I hope it won’t be another three years.”

Slater hung up. He hoped he could call Lazio tomorrow. He shuddered to think what Kitzbühel would look like after Lazio got through turning it upside down. Kartovski had been the despair of the Office on several occasions when he had taken things into his own hands. He had been kicked out over and over again, but he was so valuable most of the time that he was always immediately rehired.

Slater left the phone booth and headed back for the hotel. It was a fortunate circumstance for him that the main street was neither crowded nor empty. Slazov liked crowds for his work, and Slazov was following Slater, impatient to get his job over with. If there had been no one, he would have shot Slater from a distance from the cover of a doorway. Had the street been crowded, Slazov would have punctured Slater with a sharp needle, and Slater would have died in agony within five minutes. The hunted never has the advantage that the hunter does, particularly when man is the subject of the hunt.

Slater was at a tremendous disadvantage. He was not out to kill, but to stay alive and accomplish his mission. He did not realize he had seen the face of his murderer; but, even if he knew Slazov, his only chance to even the odds would be to turn murderer himself.

Slater entered the lobby. Anton was at the desk. Slater stared at the clerk and wondered not only what he knew, but what his position in all this really was. The diagram had obviously been wrong. If the Baron was not top man, who was? Someone, thought Slater, as yet unknown, or the tired, greedy Anton Reisch? He was in an excellent position to be the principal agent. The problem of communication and observance was solved for a man in such a job.

Slater suddenly felt reckless. A crazy impulse moved him over to the desk.

“Yes sir, Mr. Slater?” Anton was unusually cheerful.

“I kept thinking,” said Slater, “about the fellow Carmichael.”

“Yes?” Anton was wide awake. “What about Mr. Carmichael?”

“Well,” said Slater, trying to talk in the style of the ingenuous, somewhat absentminded character he had created for Slater, as far as Anton was concerned. “Like I said, I’ve been thinking over what you said about Carmichael, and, well, it’s a damn shame that an American would come over here and cheat on his hotel bill. I mean it creates a bad impression.” Slater frowned and looked at Anton. “I’m not going too fast for you, am I? I mean,” Slater looked embarrassed, “you understand my English okay?”

“Oh yes, sir,” said Anton.

“Well, you know how it is,” said Slater smiling awkwardly. “I sprech a little deutsch, and I guess my accent’s pretty good because right away the guy I’m speaking to floods me with a whole lot of German in a row, and I’m lost.”

“I assure you, sir,” Anton said very gently, “I can understand your language very well.”

“You people,” said Slater admiringly, “sure are clever when it comes to picking up all those foreign languages.”

“What,” said Anton, no longer quite so patiently, “did you wish to say about Mr. Carmichael?”

“Oh, yes, sure.” Slater gave an
embarrassed
laugh. “Well, when you asked if I knew where Carmichael might be now, at first I didn’t think I had any idea; and then when I remembered something he’d said to me in the bar, I decided not to say anything about it. You know, seeing that he was a fellow American and all that.”

“That’s quite understandable, Mr. Slater,” said Anton sympathetically.

“Yeah, I mean, you know,” said Slater shrugging his shoulders, “you don’t like to tell on a fellow countryman, so to speak.”