Legacy of a Spy (6 page)

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, Wyman entered the dining room alone and was conducted to an empty table. Slater entered less than a minute later and looked for Mahler. He was seated at the center table talking to a very busty blonde German girl with a peaches-and-cream complexion. Slater stood in the entryway until he caught Mahler’s attention and then asked the waiter to show him to Wyman’s table. The dining room was almost full and there was nothing unusual in Slater’s request, since the custom in Europe was to fill up every available seat.

“Excuse me,” said Slater, as Wyman looked up, “I hope you don’t mind my joining you.” Slater appeared to hesitate. “You are an American, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Wyman looked annoyed. Slater didn’t seem to notice.

“My name’s Carmichael, Bruce Carmichael. I’m over here on a buying trip—leather business. What’s your business?”

“My own,” said Wyman dryly.

“Nothing like being your own man, I always say.” Slater looked cautiously around the room. “Confidentially, I’m really here on a pleasure trip. My father owns the department stores—at least he will be the owner. He runs them for my grandfather. They think I’m an idiot, and they just want to get me out of the way, but,” Slater’s smile was positively ingenuous, “I’m not so dumb.” He looked very smug.

Wyman inspected Slater. The “department stores” hadn’t landed on deaf ears.

“My name is Ronald Wyman. I’m vice-consul at the American Consulate in Zurich.”

“A diplomat!
Well, this is an honor, Mr. Wyman.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carmichael, but I’d much rather own some department stores.” Wyman’s smile was charming.

“Why, for heaven’s sake? It’s terribly dull.”

“There’s more money in it.”

“Money isn’t everything, you know,” said Slater cheerfully. He could tell that Wyman was growling inwardly at his fatuous remark.

The headwaiter was nearby, and Wyman signaled him to come over.

“Rüdi,” said Wyman, “I want you to take my order personally. I want to make certain I get better service than I did this morning.”

“Yes, sir.
I’ll be happy to take your order.” Rüdi appeared very uncomfortable.

Slater noticed that he seemed to bulge all over. His collar was too tight, and his body strained at every button. He had a face like a great chunk of dough.

“I want whatever you recommend, Rüdi,” Wyman smiled. “I’ll leave everything in your hands.”

“Yes, sir.
A Chateaubriand, perhaps, medium rare, and a bottle of dry red wine, Beaujolais.”

“Sounds excellent, Rüdi,” said Wyman, “except for the wine. I would prefer a bottle of Tuborg beer.”

“Ah—yes, sir—,” Rüdi hesitated.

Slater had been watching him carefully. Something had happened between Rüdi and Wyman that had suddenly changed their relationship. For the moment, whatever it was escaped Slater.

“And what would you like to order, sir?” Rüdi turned to Slater.

“Steak sounds fine, but I would prefer that dry red wine you were talking about.”

“Yes, sir.”
Rüdi appeared relieved. It was difficult to tell exactly, but Slater thought that Wyman also appeared relieved.

Slater leaned across the table after Rüdi had left and said to Wyman in a stage whisper, “These Kraut waiters are an obsequious bunch. No wonder we beat them in a war.”

Several heads turned in their direction. Slater was pleased to note that Wyman actually looked embarrassed.

“Do you ski, Mr. Carmichael?” Wyman asked stiffly.

“No. Who wants to ski?” said Carmichael. “I came here to find something young and tender. I like some of those English girls I’ve noticed around here.”

“What’s the matter with the German girls?” asked Wyman.

“They’re too fat. They look too much like peasants—thick ankles, big feet, heavy arms. I wouldn’t mind having one for a maid—if you get what I mean?” Slater practically cackled.

Wyman winced, and Slater decided he’d better not overdo this rich moron, but he was beginning to get a kick out of making Wyman uncomfortable in public.

Wyman looked across the dining room and, suddenly, stood up. “Excuse me, Carmichael, but I see someone I know. I want to see if she’ll join us.”

“Sure thing,” said Slater.

He turned and watched Wyman intercept Ilse Wieland as she entered the dining room. The two of them stood near the entrance. From where Slater was sitting, it looked as though Wyman was pleading his cause and not doing very well. Finally, she appeared to accept reluctantly, and Wyman guided her over to their table. Slater stood up.

“This is Mr. Carmichael,” said Wyman. “We just met this evening. May I present Miss
Wieland.
Miss Wieland,” Wyman added pointedly, “is from Munich.”

“How do you do, Miss Wieland,” Slater said.

She was wearing a smartly tailored, dark wool dress that clung to her. In ski clothes, Ilse had looked a vibrant and healthily mature young woman, but now she looked very chic and smart, cool and self-assured.

“Mr. Carmichael was just telling me,”
said
Wyman, “that he preferred English girls.”

“Really, Mr. Carmichael?”
Ilse turned her green eyes on Slater. “The English girls are very lovely.” She turned back to Wyman. “I don’t blame Mr. Carmichael.”

Slater did. He was mentally kicking Carmichael all over the dining room. Carmichael could have been anybody. Why had he chosen to make him a fool? It was all right in front of Wyman, but not with Ilse Wieland looking on.

“Tell me, Miss Wieland,” said Wyman, “what do you do in Munich?”

“I have a small dress shop,” she said.

“Business must be good,” said Slater, hating himself for the remark, but deciding that he must say something.

“Why?” Ilse looked at Slater questioningly.

“You can afford to take a vacation,” said Slater.

“Austria is not expensive,” she said.

“Not for an American,” said Bill doggedly.

“Or a German.”
Ilse’s tone was icily sweet.

Slater wondered if Wyman’s apparent ignorance of Fräulein Wieland’s history was just for his benefit. Certainly the implication was that they did not really know one another. Anyway, Slater was determined to play out his role.

“Switzerland,” said Wyman, apparently trying to smooth things over, “is very expensive for everyone, and it isn’t as much fun as Austria.”

“Have you ever been to Switzerland, Miss Wieland?” asked Slater.

“No, Mr. Carmichael, I’m afraid I haven’t, but not,” she added, “because business is poor.”

“You Germans have made quite a comeback since the war,” said Slater.

“The Germans,” said Wyman hastily, “are a very industrious people.”

“I wish I were industrious,” said Slater, “but I simply can’t make myself. No incentive, I guess.”

“Incentive, Mr. Carmichael?” said Ilse very sweetly. “Or something else?”

“Most people,” said Slater, “work for money. Since I have plenty of money, Miss Wieland, there is no point in my working, so,” he added smugly, “I don’t.”

There was a lull in the conversation, and Slater could see that Wyman was definitely disgruntled. But he had proved his judgment of Wyman. Wyman, obviously, couldn’t decide what to do. Ilse Wieland was a very desirable woman. On the other hand, a man with more money than brains was a contact he didn’t want to lose. Slater was beginning to enjoy himself. He looked in the direction of the center table. Heinz Mahler and the busty blonde with the peaches-and-cream complexion were gone, and
an older couple were
being seated. The man was built like a barrel. Slater noticed his hands as he reached for the napkin. They were enormous, and the fingers were fat and without any apparent joints. They curved like sausages when he grasped the napkin. His bright blue eyes were almost concealed in the flesh of his face. His mouth was ultra sensual, and Slater noticed that the man was continually licking his thick lips. The woman was considerably younger and quite thin.

“That,” said
Wyman,
“is the Baron von Burgdorf.” Wyman smiled in his direction and received a friendly nod.

“Who is the Baron von Burgdorf?” asked Ilse. Slater was very interested himself.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve always wanted to meet a real baron.”

“This one is real all right,” said Wyman. “His
family haven’t
worked for generations. They made their money from beer.”

“He’s a good advertisement for his product,” said Slater.

Ilse glanced at Slater. The comment was out of character for Carmichael, and she seemed to notice it. Slater determined to be more careful. “He’s built like a beer barrel,” he added.

“You should see his place outside of Munich,” said Wyman, ignoring the reference to von Burgdorf’s shape. “It’s like a castle.”

So this, thought Slater, must be the contact in Munich that Wyman had mentioned at the bar of the Baur-au-Lac Hotel.

“The Baron,” Wyman continued, “has been spending the last two months here. He throws a good many parties.”

“Who is the woman with him?” asked Ilse.

“I’ve never seen her before,” said Wyman. “The Baron isn’t married, and none of his women last very long.”

If he picked on such little ones, thought Slater, it was no wonder. The beer baron must have weighed all of three hundred pounds.

Wyman had signaled for Rüdi, and the waiter arrived with the check and set it beside Wyman. Slater started to reach for it, but Wyman beat him to it.

“Allow me,” he said and smiled. Slater shrugged his shoulders. This was out of character. He would have bet a month’s salary that Wyman would have juggled the check back to him, but he would have lost. Wyman signed the bill and put down his room number.

Rüdi looked at the signature, thanked Wyman very much and left.

“Are you ready, Miss Wieland,” asked Wyman, “to let me show you around Kitzbühel?”

“Thank you, Mr. Wyman,” she said. “The dinner was delightful, but I want to get to bed as I plan to get up early for the skiing tomorrow.”

Ilse stood up and so did the two men. She turned to Slater.

“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Carmichael.” She looked up at him and smiled. “You are deceptively tall.” She offered her hand, and Slater shook it. Her grip was strong. There was something about her smile that made him feel uncomfortable. She thanked Wyman for the dinner, and the two men watched her move off between the tables.

“Do you still prefer English women?” Wyman asked.

It was a question that didn’t require an answer, and Slater didn’t give one. Wyman grinned.

“There’s something about European women, particularly German women, that is irresistible,” said Wyman. “They’re feminine, of course, but they don’t really flirt. There’s
an intensity
about them. They seem to take your measure. If they like what they see, they let you know it immediately, and you’re hooked.”

Slater thought that was a remarkably sage observation. It came very close to paralleling
his own
feelings. An American woman endangered a man’s independence, because she was so demanding and independent. The European was a threat for opposite reasons. Anyway, he thought, there was no room in his life for Ilse Wieland, no matter how irresistible she might be.

He wondered what she meant by his being deceptively tall. Slater knew that it was more difficult to maintain a disguise when there was a woman involved. A woman noticed so many things like the color of a man’s eyes, the shape of his hands. This voice was the toughest problem. Fortunately, Slater had spoken to Ilse mostly in German, and that helped to change his inflection as well as the sound of his voice. But he could change his voice when necessary.

“Would you care to meet the Baron, Mr. Carmichael?” asked Wyman.

“Very much,” said Slater. “Maybe he can give me some advice.”

“Advice?”
Wyman frowned.
“On what?”

“In America a man who doesn’t work for a living is generally looked down on,” said Slater. “Here a man in the same position is apparently looked up to.”

Wyman laughed. “Just jealousy in the States,” he said. The Baron von Burgdorf didn’t stand up when the two men approached, but he was very gracious and invited them to sit down, which Wyman did immediately. Fräu Waldecker was a sour young woman and was obviously displeased at the interruption. Slater noticed that the entire dining room seemed interested in their conversation.

“I am having a party Monday night, Mr. Carmichael. I would be honored if you would attend.”

“Thank you, Baron,” said Slater. “I would be delighted.”

“I am giving the party at the Hotel Ehrenbachhöhe.”

“That’s on top of the mountain to the right of the cable-car station,” said Wyman. “Better be prepared to stay all night.”

“Sounds like quite a party,” said Slater.

“All of the Baron’s parties are unusual,” Wyman’s tone was proprietary. He spoke smugly, as though the Baron’s party were his party.

“Well, good night, Fräu Waldecker, Baron. It’s been a pleasure.” Slater turned to Wyman. “Thank you for the dinner.”

Slater went into the bar. He ordered a brandy and asked the waiter to find Rüdi. He sipped his brandy and wondered if what he was about to do would produce any results. Procedure was very important in espionage activities, and Slater was extremely sensitive to any exchange that sounded rehearsed.

Rüdi came up to him, and Slater took him to one side.

“Yes, sir,” said Rüdi. “May I help you?”

“Rüdi,” Slater began seriously, “I meant to ask for you earlier tonight and put myself entirely in your hands.”

Rüdi frowned and looked puzzled.

Slater began to doubt his approach, but he continued, “I would have asked for Tuborg beer instead of wine.” Slater paused and looked carefully at Rüdi. Rüdi was silent. “I would have signed for the check with my name and room number, Rüdi.”

“Why didn’t you—sir?” Rüdi had almost forgotten his position.

“Apparently,” said Slater slowly, “there were two of us.”

“I see,” he said. “Excuse me, sir, but,” Rüdi hesitated. His dough-white face looked strained. “This is highly unusual.”