Legacy of a Spy (2 page)

“If you don’t mind, Bruce,” said George, “I’d like to give you the picture chronologically. That way you can better form your own judgment.”

Slater looked at Hollingsworth critically for a moment. Hollingsworth could feel the appraisal.
“Sure thing.
Go right ahead.”

Maybe this guy Hollingsworth would turn out all right. Slater began to relax.

“It all started,” said George, “when a fellow named Webber, who is assistant to the political attaché, entered the Consulate late one evening and discovered a man named Wyman photographing some reports with the Recordak.”

“Who is Wyman?” asked Slater.

“Oh, yes. Excuse me,” said George. “Wyman is a young vice-consul like
myself
.” He paused.

“Go ahead,” said Slater. “You’re doing fine.”

“Right,” said George. “Well, when Wyman saw he was caught in the act, so to speak, he told Webber he was trying to get a permanent record of certain classified reports for a special project he had been assigned. He said, further, that he did not want to wait to pull these reports until they were old enough to be destroyed, as that might call undue attention to himself and his project.”

“This could be true, couldn’t it?” asked Slater. “I mean it’s possible that some documents are photographed by Consular officers in order to have a permanent record and, at the same time, avoid pinpointing their interests to those who have no need to know.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said George, “but
it’s
news to me. Actually, it sounds like a good idea.”

“Did Webber say why he was at the Consulate after hours?”

“Yes,” said George, “he said that he had come back to pick up one hundred Swiss francs which he had left in his desk. He told Wyman that and then went to his desk and took out the hundred-franc note.”

“Did Wyman accept that as Webber’s excuse?”

“I don’t know.”

Hollingsworth pulled over to let a Volkswagen pass. There was no speed limit on the autobahn, and in spite of the slippery road conditions, car after car, usually German, sped past them. Slater shook his head. He was forced by circumstances to take so many chances he couldn’t understand anyone taking risks who didn’t need to. The German road department had apparently never heard of rock salt or didn’t believe in using it. Although the roads were plowed, only the top layer of snow was off, and the road was covered with a thick, rutty layer of ice and hard-packed snow.

“What did Webber do about all this?” asked Slater as he watched the Volkswagen speed out of sight over the top of the hill.

“He went to Mr. Putnam, the Consul General, but apparently Mr. Putnam chose to ignore it. That,” continued George, “should have been the end of it, but Webber was disgruntled, and maybe even somewhat embarrassed. In any event, he decided to conduct his own investigation. Beyond the fact that Webber decided Wyman was definitely living beyond his income and was extremely interested in a redheaded Swiss girl by the name of Trude Kupfer, we have little to go on. Webber made some notes and put them in his personal file. All we really know is contained in a letter from him to Mr. Putnam.” Hollingsworth took a letter from his inside coat pocket and handed it to Slater. Slater opened it.

Dear Mr. Putnam:

I felt like such a damn fool in your office the other day that I resolved either to nail our subject down with facts or go and hide my head. I realize I have taken liberties, but please believe
me,
I have done what I have done with the best intentions. I’m writing you this because I’m very much afraid I won’t be permitted to give you this information in person, as I have gotten in way over my head; and I don’t know how to swim in these waters.

First of all, if I don’t return, I want you to know that it will not be because I don’t want to, and my disappearance or death—I don’t think I’m merely being dramatic—will be because of the subject under discussion.

I followed W to Kitzbühel. He put up at the Winterhof. For reasons of economy, and to avoid suspicion, I stayed at a nearby pension, the Eggerwirt. Here is the evidence so far:

1. W said he was only going to Munich, but he went directly to Kitzbühel.

2. He said he did not like or know how to ski, yet he had ski clothes and he rented skis the first day. I don’t remember the name of the rental place, but it is a little red shack across the road from the Talstation, on the right as you face the Hahnenkamm. I believe it’s the last one on the way to the practice slope. I observed him go up in the cable car and waited by the ski school in the hope that he would come down that trail. He did—and not very much later. This certainly would indicate some real skiing ability as the Streif is an Olympic run, very tricky and steep in parts.

3. When he left Zurich, both his bank accounts—he has two, one under the name of Martin Hazel—were extremely low. (I have a friend in the Züricher Kantonalbank.) After the second day in Kitzbühel, W was suddenly quite affluent and was observed changing greenbacks to schillings.

4. Although the weather has been perfect for skiing, he has only been out once in the three days up to now.

5. He has been chummy with no one. He has tried, unsuccessfully I believe, to get acquainted with a redheaded German woman who calls herself Ilse Wieland.

6. He is staying in room 28. He has eaten dinner at the hotel only once, and that was the first evening. His other lunches and evening meals have been taken at various other places in town.

What has made me most suspicious is that I know I am being followed. I have tried to keep from being observed by W, but I am sure he has seen me, and somehow called out the watchdogs. Furthermore, they have become less subtle.

I cannot describe them too well and I am only sure of two. I don’t believe they are local, but I think they are Austrians. One of them, the taller of the two, looks to be in his middle thirties and is over six feet with thin, straight, blond hair, heavy features and small eyes. He seems to be posing as a local resident, as he wears work boots and brown whipcord trousers that resemble riding breeches. The other is dressed like a tourist and recently moved into my pension, room 23. He is about five feet, nine inches, has dark, wavy hair, speaks German and is very clean shaven. His skin seems to have a waxy quality like an artificial apple. He’s lean and looks about thirty years old. He watches me like a hawk while I’m in the pension; and the other one takes over when I’m outside. I haven’t been able to get the dark-haired one’s name as yet, but I wanted to get this in the mail in case my time is running short.

This letter is somewhat cryptic, because I’m having someone else mail it for me, and it might get in the wrong hands. The mailman is a German by the name of Heinz Mahler who says he was a prisoner of war in Russia. I believe he will mail it. He lives in Munich and works at the desk of the Bundesbahn Hotel.

I realize the information is scanty, and you may feel it is my imagination. I hope that I will be able to talk to you in person soon. I intend to leave here tomorrow morning. If I’m not in Zurich by tomorrow evening, you should need no further proof that something is wrong. Needless to say, I hope you don’t get that kind of proof.

Sincerely,

C.L.W.

P.S. You can check my personal file in the office for other info obtained in Zurich. The name of my banker friend is there. Please respect the confidence and protect him. He may be useful in the future.

Slater folded up the letter and put it in his pocket.

“That fellow Webber shows real promise. He was at a tremendous disadvantage. I’d like to talk with him.”

“I’m afraid you can’t,” said George. “This letter was received a week ago, and we haven’t seen or heard from Webber since.”

“Looks like whatever Wyman was up to
was
important, and his friends really meant business.” Slater turned to George. “What about Wyman? Is he back at the old stand?”

“Yes.”

“Does he really have two bank accounts?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?” asked Slater.

“I phoned Herr Baumann,” said George, “and asked if Martin Hazel had an account there, and Baumann said yes.”

“Did you find out how much Hazel had in there?”

“Baumann didn’t want to tell me at first, but when I told him I was a member of the American Consulate, he said that Hazel had sent in a postal money order for $835.”

“Well, he got quite a piece of change,” Slater shook his head. “I’m underpaid.”

Hollingsworth looked shocked. George apparently had no sense of humor.

“What about Wyman’s Swiss girl friend? Have you checked her?”

“Only enough to find out,” said George, “that she’s rather promiscuous—for those who can afford her. She showed me some of the expensive presents Wyman gave her. I don’t like women like that,” George added decisively. “I would suspect her of anything, but,” and George looked somewhat crestfallen, “I must admit I don’t believe she is involved.”

Slater chuckled inwardly at such naïveté, but he was pleased that Hollingsworth had been so thorough.

“Just one more thing, George.
I like your thoroughness, but I hope you are not as free with names with other people as you have been with me. From now on don’t volunteer a name, unless I ask for it, and please refer to me only as Montague—even when talking with Putnam; he knows me by no other.”

“Right!”
George tried to cover his embarrassment. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”

“Does Wyman appear to be suspicious that you are onto him?”

“No,” said George, but there was some doubt in his mind. “I don’t think so. No one has confronted him with Webber’s disappearance. To my knowledge, no one has been assigned to watch him directly. Mr. Putnam apparently received orders from your office to leave him strictly alone.”

“Good.” Slater nodded. “Do you happen to know if he’s planning another excursion?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he has asked for permission to take another long weekend. He plans to leave Friday evening and be back on duty Tuesday morning.”

“Do you have photographs of Wyman with you?”

“Yes,” said George, secretly pleased, because the pictures had been his idea. “They aren’t too good, but I believe they are more or less characteristic.”

George handed some snapshots to Slater. Slater looked them over carefully.

“He’s a good-looking devil.
Looks rather husky.”

“He is,” said George. “He must weigh 190. His hands and wrists are big. His eyes are blue and his hair, as you can see in that profile, is short, wavy and thick. He has very expensive taste in clothes. He is aggressive and very sure of himself. His one weakness seems to be his desire to keep up with the so-called international set.”

Slater was silent. He examined the photographs carefully, weighing the odds, and grimly considering what might have happened to Webber.

“Have you a picture of Webber?”

“Yes,” said George frowning. “I had a terrible time finding one.” George handed him a small passport-type photograph.

“Is this the best you could get?”

“It’s the only one.” George was apologetic. “But,” he added, “
it’s
a surprisingly good likeness. He’s slim, about five ten, and very pleasant looking, as you can see.”

Slater looked at his watch. “You better turn around and take me back to Munich.”

They were almost at the Rosenheim turnoff, and Hollingsworth made the change-over there.

“We want to know,” said Hollingsworth, as he headed the car back to Munich, “what information Wyman is taking out, how it is transmitted, how he is paid, and by whom. We obviously would prefer that you do not disturb the mechanism, if possible, and, of course, we would like to get Webber back.”

Slater stared out of the car window. He slumped low in his seat. There were a great many things he wanted to say in response to that last request. He was boiling inside, and he was tempted to take out his anger on Hollingsworth; but he knew Hollingsworth was only asking what Putnam had instructed him to ask. Slater looked at the snow-covered hills which were higher on this side of Munich—hills, which grew larger and taller as you approached Salzburg, and then, if you turned south, suddenly became Alps.

“That was quite a speech you just made,” said Slater finally. “Putnam must think I’m a one-man army.” He shrugged. “I should be used to it by now, but I’m not.” And then, suddenly, his anger got the better of him. “Tell me why, Hollingsworth! Why does Webber’s return rate such a low priority?”

Hollingsworth was mortified. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carmichael, believe me! I know you don’t think much of us amateurs. I know now that Putnam was a fool not to have Wyman investigated at once, and probably Charlie Webber was crazy to try it on his own.” Hollingsworth took a deep breath and continued, “There was no order to my requests, or Putnam’s,
I’m
sure. Charlie Webber was one of us amateurs; and although he was somewhat aloof, he was greatly admired.”

Slater was silent. His outburst was inexcusable. He knew well enough that Webber, and he as well, were expendable.
How he hated that word, that word and two others—the “big picture.”
The Webbers and Slaters, or Carmichaels and Montagues, were all infinitesimal in the “big picture,” but he had only himself to blame. This was a voluntary job like all the others. It was simply that now he knew what to look forward to. Find Webber. Who is Wyman’s employer? Who’s making the pay-off? How? What has Wyman already told? What will be Wyman’s next job? To Hollingsworth those requests probably sounded like an exciting challenge—a strenuous little game of cloak and dagger. To Slater they meant fear, naked stinking fear with death at the end, and no recognition should he, by some miracle, be successful.
This was the last assignment—win
, lose or draw. After that, somebody else could take his place. In the meantime, he was going to stay alive.

Slater looked at George. “Forget it, George,” he said. “I guess I’m a little on edge. We haven’t much time. I suggest we arrange our future contact procedure.”