Legacy of a Spy

by Henry S. Maxfield

  Slater shrugged and smiled ruefully. After all, he was going to send someone else to meet Webber. He was going to send Carmichael.

  chapter twelve

  AT EIGHT-THIRTY that evening, Slater arrived at the garage in Kirchberg and picked up the car. It was already quite dark, but the night was clear and the moon would be up within an hour. Slater drove back toward Kitzbühel and turned off on a little side road about two kilometers from the village. He opened a paper-wrapped parcel beside him on the front seat and managed to dress himself as Carmichael. He had to get out of the car to change his trousers and realized, for the first time, how cold it was. His teeth chattered for several moments even after he was back in the car with the heater on. He knew it was more than the cold that made him shiver. He turned the car around and turned back onto the main road. After crossing the railroad tracks, he turned off the Schwarzseestrasse and drove into narrow streets that were little more than alleyways skirting the main section of town, across the Josef Pirchlstrasse and onto the Hornweg. He crossed the Ache river and the railroad, and started climbing up toward the Kitzbüheler Horn.

  According to the map, Webber’s farmhouse was on the left-hand side of the road, about halfway up the mountain, exactly two kilometers from the railroad. Slater took the mileage and switched on his bright lights. The road was steep all right, and icy in spots, but the Volkswagen skidded and lurched its way upward. According to the speedometer, he had less than four-tenths of a kilometer to go, and he kept his eye on the left side of the road. At exactly two kilometers he saw the farmhouse. It was about twenty yards above the road, and an ice-rutted driveway went up to the side door. Slater doubted that even the Volkswagen could negotiate that and he continued driving up past the driveway. He hadn’t intended to drive in, in any case. He drove for another kilometer, up and around the hairpin turns that seemed to meet each other coming backward. He finally found a place in which to turn around and then, putting the car in low gear and dimming his lights, allowed the car to go back down the mountain. Just above the farmhouse, he switched off the lights and motor and braked the car very cautiously past the farm house, coming to a full stop at the middle of the looping turn immediately below.

  Slater stepped out of the car quietly, tied crampons on his shoes, and started up the steep mountainside toward the farmhouse. He couldn’t see it now, because it was set well back above the ridge. The tip of a crescent moon appeared above the range of mountains behind him and cast its reflected sunlight down into the valley, etching everything for miles into silver and black. The moon rose above the mountains faster than Slater could climb and was soon bright enough to cast his shadow before him. Slater swore, but continued to dig into the snow with the steel points of his crampons. He had little trouble keeping his silhouette low, as the bank was steep, and he was forced to hug it as he climbed. It was the ridge he was worried about. At the top he would stand out like a great dark shadow on the snowfield above. Why, Slater asked himself, couldn’t he once be in a position where he could act like a sensible, normal human being? Why couldn’t he accept Webber’s letter as being genuine? It probably was, and the farmer might shoot him for an intruder or some wild animal, and who could blame him? Visitors with an open conscience didn’t come stealthily after dark across a snowfield. If Webber’s letter was not genuine, then he would probably get shot anyway. It was, Slater knew, simply the result of a nervous past, which made suspicion of everything and everyone second nature. He was doing this crazy thing because it might give him a slight edge in the event something went wrong. Even the slightest advantage made it worth the effort. The only thing Slater had no choice about was whether to investigate. He had to do that, but hugging ice-encrusted snow on a moonlit night in the Austrian Alps was not his idea of the best way to stay alive.

  Slater turned his head and looked down. The roadway was a black ribbon in the moonlight and seemed to curve downward forever. If he slipped now, his body would hurtle down the ice slopes until it crashed into an outcropping of ice-covered rocks or was smashed into bits at the bottom. Slater closed his eyes and dug in again with his feet. He shook his head to clear it and began to sweat. He waited for a moment for his heart to stop pounding and then started up again. He estimated that he couldn’t be more than a few feet from the top of the ridge.

  His head appeared above the top, and then his shoulders and chest. He reached his arms over the bank and tried to get a hold with his fingers, but the icy crust was too thick, and he had to push himself over the ridge and onto the sloping snowfield with his feet. He lay there, finally, all of him on the gentle slope, and panted heavily, his breath forming a halo of mist in the cold night air. He looked in the direction of the farmhouse and saw the pale lights in the downstairs windows. The farmhouse was steep roofed and loomed very large in the moonlight. Slater picked himself up and crunched through the snow, diagonally, toward the rear of the house. The crust held his weight and the walking was much easier, but Slater swore that he would go back via the road no matter what happened in that farmhouse. He got all the way to the rear of the main building before he heard a dog barking, and he waited in the shadow of a bare-limbed tree in the yard.

  He didn’t have to wait long before he heard a man’s voice shouting at the dog to be quiet. Slater looked at the radium dial of his watch. It was nine-fifty. He was right on time. He heard the side door open and saw a man come out alone. The man was big and stoopshouldered, and was carrying a rifle. He walked carefully toward the front of the house and then turned back toward the rear. Slater jumped him as soon as the man was opposite the tree, chopping him in the back of the neck with the side of his hand. The man dropped to the snow without a sound. Slater took his rifle and gagged him with his scarf, then took the rawhide laces from his high boots and tied his wrists behind him with one and his ankles with the other. Slater dragged him behind the tree and looked him over carefully. The man was, undoubtedly, a farmer. If Webber was right, the farmer was slightly on the greedy side, but otherwise okay. If Webber was wrong, Slater had just reduced whatever odds might be against him by one man.

  Slater looked over the driveway carefully for a moment, bent over and untied his crampons, and then went to the side door. He turned the handle and let himself in. He found himself in a poorly heated hallway. Coats and jackets were hanging from hooks along the walls. Cautiously, he opened the door at the far end and came face to face with the barrel of a Luger.

  chapter thirteen

  BEHIND THE GUN was the man Webber had described as having a face like a waxed apple and whose name, according to Mahler, was Fritz Stadler.

  “I came to see Herr Webber,” said Slater.

  “You are right on time,” said Stadler, “but you were supposed to bring a car.”

  “I preferred to walk. It’s such a lovely night.” Slater smiled. “Where’s Webber?”

  “Herr Webber is no longer with us,” said Stadler.

  “You mean he’s dead.”

  “He died for his country.” Stadler’s expression was very pious. “I have someone,” he added, “who would like to have a talk with you. Come!”

  The gun indicated the direction, and Slater led the way through a crude living room and into the family room. There was the tiled stove in the corner and a long heavy table with straight-backed chairs around it. At the far end of the table near the stove sat Herr Krüpl. The eye without the eyelashes looked enormous in the half light from the table lamp beside him, and the round indentation in his forehead gaped like an empty eye socket.

  “Sit!” Krüpl indicated a chair at the opposite end of the table. When Slater hesitated, the Luger was pressed into the back of his neck. Slater sat down. Stadler remained standing behind him.

  “I don’t believe we have met,” said Krüpl.

  “No,” said Slater.

  “Your name?”

  “There’s a farmer tied up in the snow out there,” said Slater. “He’ll freeze to death if someone doesn’t go and get him.”

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p; “There’s plenty of time to get him,” said Krüpl.

  “Pretty cold out,” said Slater insistently.

  “Your name?” Krüpl’s voice was steady.

  “Jones,” said Slater. “What’s yours?”

  “My name is not important,” said Krüpl.

  Slater could not understand why Stadler hadn’t searched him. He would not find any identification papers, but Slater was a walking arsenal. Possibly Stadler had assumed, since Slater had entered the farmhouse without waving a revolver around, that Slater had come unarmed. He had not entered, revolver in hand, because he had been quite certain that, if it was a trap, whoever was inside would want to talk to him first to find out how much he knew. Had he entered with a gun, they might have been forced to kill him immediately. And why didn’t Stadler go outside and release the farmer? It wasn’t simply callousness, Slater felt certain. An ally with a rifle would be handy to have around. Slater decided that Krüpl must be unarmed and did not want to be left alone.

  “Did you enjoy the $170, Herr Carmichael?” Krüpl smiled. The smile made his face look more grotesque than ever. “It isn’t that we cannot afford the money, Herr Carmichael, it’s simply that we like our people to earn it first.”

  “My name is Jones,” said Slater.

  “Your name,” said Krüpl, “may not really be Carmichael, but it is unquestionably not Jones.” Krüpl stared at Slater for a moment, as if trying to see through him. “Tell me,” said Krüpl finally, “how did you discover our methods of payment?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Slater.

  Krüpl drummed his fingers on the table and Slater felt the impact of the Luger as Stadler hit him a glancing blow across the back of the head. Slater’s fingers went numb, and the light from the table lamp seemed to dance up and down for a moment, and then his head cleared and began to throb violently. He bit his lips to keep from yelling at the pain.

  “Don’t knock him out,” said Krüpl. Slater said nothing.

  “Answer my questions please.” Krüpl’s voice was dispassionate. “I understand your interest in the late Herr Webber, but like your friend, your curiosity may cause you considerable difficulty. Have you told your employers,” Krüpl smiled at the word, “about our ingenious payment organization?”

  “I have no employers,” said Slater, “only friends. They know whatever I know.”

  Slater couldn’t understand what Krüpl’s connection with the $170 could be. He tried to think, but his head was aching so that he couldn’t be positive. He thought that he had met Krüpl as Slater, not Carmichael, and that Ilse Wieland had made the introduction at the Café des Engels.

  “How much did you pay Rüdi?”

  Krüpl expected an answer, and Slater realized he had better give one. He couldn’t afford another crack on the head. It would put him out of commission. The trouble was, Slater did not really know anything.

  “Until I met you,” said Slater, “I thought Rüdi had paid me.” Slater steeled himself for another blow.

  “I think, Herr Carmichael, that you are telling the truth.”

  The conceited fool, thought Slater. Krüpl has so much faith in his own ability that he can’t believe anyone could suspect Rüdi of being anything more than a cog in the machinery.

  “Why did you kill Webber?” asked Slater.

  Krüpl hesitated.

  “Because,” he said, “he was too curious, and not valuable to us, but you, Herr Carmichael,” Krüpl smiled, “are no amateur. I believe you have a history which would be of great interest to us. We are expecting some friends,” again Krüpl smiled, “who will be here soon and who know how to persuade a man to give his entire history.”

  So that, thought Slater, was why there was no car in evidence. He had better move fast, while the odds were still only two to one. Slater felt in his coat pocket for his revolver. His hands were under the table, and he didn’t believe Stadler would notice. The Luger went off, and a slug burned itself into the edge of the table in front of him. The noise in the room was deafening.

  “Stand up! Put your hands above your head! Schnell!” Stadler’s voice was as staccato as a machine gun.

  Slater complied, and Stadler moved quickly into him and pressed the Luger into his stomach.

  Slater was now standing away from the table with his back at a forty-five-degree angle to Krüpl. When Stadler started to reach for Slater’s right-hand coat pocket, Slater suddenly twisted his body to the right, at the same time hitting the gun barrel with his left elbow. The Luger went off for the second time, and Slater smashed his fist into Stadler’s jaw and went after the gun which was still in Stadler’s hand. Slater grabbed the man’s wrist, his thumbs pressing into the back of Stadler’s hand, and twisted. The gun dropped, but Stadler threw his body across Slater’s hips, and the two men crashed to the floor. Slater’s hair-piece fell off as he wrestled to get free so he could get at his revolver, but his snub-nose .38 fell out of his pocket; and when he finally rolled away and regained his feet, Stadler had done the same, and the two men stood facing each other across the room. The Luger and the .38 were lying on the floor between them.

  “Krüpl!” yelled Stadler. “Kill him! um Gottes willen!”

  Both men looked toward Krüpl. Slater expected to feel a slug burning its way through his body, then suddenly remembered Krüpl was not armed. Stealing a brief glance at Krüpl, Slater saw that his face was all smashed and bloody. Stadler’s bullet had hit him right in the middle of the face. Krüpl’s hand was still holding a .32 automatic. Slater’s calculations had been all wrong.

  Stadler’s face was wax white now, except for a bruise which was beginning to spread across its right side.

  “We make a deal,” he said. “I tell you what you want to know, you walk out of here alive.”

  “No deals, Stadler!” Slater knew the man was stalling for time until his “friends” arrived.

  “I won’t tell that you have brown hair instead of black.” Stadler looked desperate.

  Slater knew he would have to kill Stadler, if he could. Stadler had probably been the one who had killed Charlie Webber in any case. Slater took a step toward the weapons. Stadler did the same, pulling out a long pocket knife. He pressed the button and a thin, slightly curved blade switched out.

  Maybe it was the click of the knife, the thought of Charlie Webber, or Wyman’s treachery, or maybe it was the whole rotten business of ten years of fear, living a life of lies in which everything—even a beautiful woman—was denied him because of his profession; but Slater suddenly went berserk with a hate that would conquer any fear. Every muscle was as tight as a piano wire.

  Neither man said a word from that moment on. They circled for position, and nothing could be heard but their shuffling feet and the sound of the clock ticking in the corner. Slater watched Stadler’s eyes. They were filled with fear and a hate that matched his own. Stadler was an old hand at infighting. He held the knife low and away from his body. Every time Slater feinted to get him off balance, he narrowly missed being cut. Slater backed toward the table, occasionally feinting, his arms wide like a football tackler’s. His right hand closed over the top of the chair he had been sitting on, and he swung it in one powerful motion. The heavy chair slammed into Stadler’s left side and carried him to the floor. Slater dived for his .38 and fired twice at close range into Stadler’s body. The second shot was unnecessary.

  Slater picked up his hairpiece, went over Stadler’s body and removed his wallet, his passport and all his other identification. He did the same with Krüpl. He was surprised to find that Krüpl was an Austrian, and his home address was Kirchberg. Also Krüpl had a large number of American ten-and twenty-dollar bills.

  Slater took a handkerchief from Stadler’s pocket and went outside to the tree. The farmer was still there, and he was trying to move his body to keep it warm. Slater hit him over the head from behind, blindfolded him with the handkerchief, dragged him inside and left him, bound, in the hallway. He went back to
the living room and dragged Krüpl’s body out into the snow, beyond the driveway and about thirty yards from the back of the house. He didn’t use the crampons, because he didn’t want to leave any marks on the crust. He went inside the house again and repeated the process with Stadler. Stadler was heavier than he looked, and Slater found it hard going. He was getting desperate because time must be running out. He went back in the house for the last time, rummaged around until he found a shovel and a wooden bucket. He filled the bucket with water and lugged it and the shovel to the spot where the bodies were, and started to dig. Trying to get through the crust was like trying to dig through cement. He had to jam the shovel against it with all his strength and then jump straight-legged on the upper edge. It took him fifteen minutes to break through. The rest was relatively easy going. He dug a pit more than deep enough for the two bodies; and after shoveling the crusty part of the snow in first he dragged the bodies to the edge and rolled them in. He shoveled the snow in on top of them and stamped it down around them with his feet. Carefully, he smoothed the top layer with the back of his shovel. He turned to the bucket. A thin layer of ice had already formed over the top. He broke it with his shovel and poured the water evenly over the grave. In an hour, the top layer would freeze and it would meld with the unbroken snowfield.