Slater walked carefully back to the barn and put the shovel and the bucket inside the door. The moon had disappeared, and Slater groped his way along the driveway to the tree. He found his crampons and went, stumbling and slipping through the frozen cart tracks to the road.
He walked as fast as he could in the darkness, prepared at any moment to fling himself into the snowbank at the side of the road. He reached the car, let off the brakes, and braked the car down to the bottom of the mountain. He turned on the ignition and put it in gear at the bottom, and drove, still without lights, until he had crossed to the other side of town. He drove halfway to Kirchberg, stopped the car by the side of the road, got out and silently retched into the snow.
chapter fourteen
SLATER’S BIGGEST PROBLEM at the moment was what to do with the Volkswagen. Carmichael had checked out, and from now on Carmichael was dead. But the car was signed into Austria in Carmichael’s name.
Slater got back in the car and drove thirty kilometers beyond Kirchberg to Wörgl. He registered as Carmichael at a hotel near the railroad station and spent what was left of the night in a very small, but extremely comfortable, room. He was furious with himself for getting sick, but reflected that it was bad enough to have to kill one man without having to bury two corpses in the snow by the light of a waning moon. It was too bad Krüpl was a local. The police would double their efforts to find his body should the opposition decide to report him missing. Slater had no doubt that they would.
He took Krüpl’s wallet from his coat pocket and emptied the contents on the bed. There were several hundred American dollars and Austrian schillings in large denominations. He didn’t bother to count them. Krüpl had obviously been the paymaster, but how did he know when and to whom to make the payments? The obvious answer, and one that Slater immediately rejected, was that Rüdi had direct contact with Krüpl and simply told him, but Krüpl was too smart for that. He knew Rüdi, but Slater doubted that Rüdi knew Krüpl, so how was the information communicated, and how did Krüpl know the exact amount to be paid the agents? Even Communists didn’t pay all their agents the same amount. Slater thought he had the answer to the latter. He had performed the ritual with Rüdi on the 17th, and both he and Wyman had received $170, or $10 for every day of the month.
Slater had to find out how the communication between Rüdi and Krüpl was made. He knew he was counting on what might well turn out to be a very dangerous assumption, but there wasn’t time to confirm or deny it. A group of disgruntled, unpaid Communist agents crawling around Kitzbühel would ordinarily be a very pleasing prospect to Slater; but if everything were to stop too abruptly, he’d have every spy and strong-arm goon in the area looking for the man who had caused all this; and he would not have the chance to find out what he really wanted to know, namely: the man who supplied Krüpl with the money. That man must be number one, and directly responsible to an Intelligence officer in the Russian Embassy in either Munich or Vienna. That was the way their organization worked. The Communists rarely gave any of their agents more than one job and, invariably, isolated them from the knowledge of one another and from their superiors whenever possible.
Slater counted on his theory that Krüpl received his supply of funds in some mechanical way through an inanimate channel, such as through the mails or some hiding place to which both he and his superior would have easy access, but at different times. He hoped that the communication of information was done only occasionally and by one of those two methods. If he was right, he might be able to continue the payoff until he could discover the identity of number one.
Slater shook his head. All of his, assumptions might be correct; but if Krüpl had already alerted his superiors to his suspicions of Carmichael, Slater was about to put both feet into a worse trap than before. Slater believed that Krüpl’s ego had made him decide to conduct his own investigation first. He could have known about Wyman, because he had paid Wyman before, and he might have been the one assigned to eliminate Webber. Krüpl had obviously known all about Webber.
Slater’s head began to ache again, and he flopped onto the bed. He had to have help. He needed another man desperately. He could no longer trust Mahler.
The thoughts of Mahler brought him up short. If Mahler had been on the level as far as the letter was concerned, his life would be in danger from the Communists. If Mahler had set him up for this, Slater would kill him. Slater had told Mahler to get out of town by 6 p.m. tomorrow, if he had not received any word from Slater. Nothing like warning your double-crosser, if that’s what Mahler was. Slater tried to plan the next day’s activities, but he was too exhausted and he fell asleep.
When Slater awoke the next morning, the bedclothes were twisted and rumpled. The bed looked as if he had been having a fight in it. The throbbing in his head was gone, but his body ached all over and he was still unbearably tired.
He had a quick breakfast and checked out of the hotel as Carmichael and left the Volkswagen parked in a garage in Wörgl.
As Slater, he boarded a train back to Kitzbühel and returned to his room at the Winterhof without anyone’s seeing him. He dressed in his ski clothes, tore up his bed, and went back down to the desk and turned in his room key.
“I don’t know when I’ve had such a good night’s sleep,” he said.
“I’m very glad that you did, sir.” Anton did not look as though he had had any sleep. Slater thought that Anton looked more tired every day.
“There must be something special about the air in Austria,” Slater continued.
“There must be, sir.” Anton looked bored.
“I mean,” said Slater, rattling on, “I never go to bed early at home—in the States, I mean,” Slater gave a nervous little chuckle, “because I’m always afraid I won’t sleep, but last night I went to bed at eight o’clock, and I didn’t wake up until half an hour ago.”
“I’m very glad, sir,” said Anton.
“You don’t look as though you get much sleep, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Slater added the apology hastily.
Another guest came up and engaged Anton’s attention so that Anton was spared the necessity of a reply.
Slater left the hotel, muttering something about getting a breath of God’s clean air, and, once outside, headed for a nearby hotel and went into one of the pay stations near the lobby. His number rang several times before anyone answered.
“Good morning, Pension Eggerwirt.”
Slater recognized the voice of Herr Nadler, the “old” young proprietor.
“Good morning,” said Slater. “Is Herr Mahler there?”
“One moment, please.”
Slater waited several moments. He put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece.
“Herr Mahler here. Hello.” It was Mahler’s voice.
“We got your friend Herr Carmichael. Thank you for your co-operation.” Slater’s accent was very thick.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who is this?” Mahler’s voice was very excited.
“We take care of you later,” said Slater.
“Wait! Who is—”
Slater hung up and remained seated, his hand still on the receiver. Of course, it didn’t necessarily mean anything positive, but Mahler’s excitement did seem real enough. On the other hand, Krüpl, Stadler, or someone else could have prearranged a code for the opening of any telephone contact, in which case Mahler would have immediately been on guard. Slater tried to imagine what his next move would be if he were Mahler and really innocent of any collusion with Krüpl and company. There were only two things Mahler could do. The first would be to get out of Kitzbühel as fast as possible. The second would be to get to a pay station and call Hollingsworth. As far as Slater knew, Mahler had no car so he would have to take the morning train. Slater looked at his watch. Mahler had an hour to make it to the station—provided he was innocent.
Slater stepped out of the telephone booth and out of the lobby into the street. He crossed the street and joined the skiers on their
way to the cable car. The sky was overcast and bleak, and there were not as many skiers as would be normal, even for a Monday morning. Slater took up a position at the corner of the railroad station platform nearest the crossing gates, positive that he could not miss Mahler, if Mahler appeared.
A half an hour went by and it started to snow. The snow came down heavily, and the skiers on their way to the cable station stopped and turned back to their inns and pensions. Slater turned for a moment and looked up at the mountain. The top was shrouded in a cloud, and a cable car suddenly emerged from the mist, coming down to the valley station. Apparently, only one was still running, and that was empty except for the attendant. Possibly the skiers already up at the top preferred to remain, hoping the snow would let up and allow them a day’s skiing.
From where Slater was standing, it did not look as though the snow would stop at least until the evening. He stood there on the edge of the now deserted platform and, protected by the eaves of the station’s roof, watched the visibility close down as the snow increased. He had never seen such a quiet snowstorm. The big flakes fell straight down by the thousands, one on top of the other, and would soon blanket every man-made thing and smooth out the rough edges of the world around him.
Slater peered through the curtain of snowflakes toward the road. Mahler should have been there by now, if he were coming. He must have been one of Krüpl’s men after all. And then Slater saw the figure of a man trudging through the snow. He was lugging a suitcase, his eyes straight ahead looking toward the station. By the time Slater could make certain it was Mahler, he heard what sounded like a shot, and he saw Mahler pitch headlong into the snow.
Slater ran across the tracks to Mahler. He tripped on one of the now invisible railroad ties and fell on his face ten yards from Mahler’s suitcase. The fall undoubtedly saved his life, for he heard another shot which seemed to come from nowhere. The snow made sounds impossible to trace. Slater cursed, his mouth full of snow, and waited. A man finally appeared and approached Mahler cautiously. He stopped about fifteen yards from the other side of Mahler’s body and took careful aim with what looked like an automatic. Another shot sounded, and the man toppled into the snow, a bullet in his throat.
Slater waited another minute, put his .38 back in his parka, got back on his feet and crouched down beside Mahler. Mahler was still face down in the snow. There was a bullet hole underneath his left shoulder blade. Slater rolled him over gently, and Mahler opened his eyes and looked up, his mouth open and his eyes vague and puzzled.
“Heinz,” said Slater. “This is Carmichael.”
“You,” Heinz gasped for breath. “You don’t look like Carmichael.”
“I know,” said Slater, “but I am. I was wearing a black wig. Don’t you recognize my voice, Heinz?” Slater’s voice was urgent. It was, suddenly, terribly important to him that Heinz believe he was a genuine person. “My name is really Slater, Bill Slater.”
“Why—” Heinz nearly went under “—did you shoot me?”
“Dear God,” said Slater, frantic now that Mahler, who had really been a friend, would die thinking he had shot him. “I didn’t. I just killed the man who shot you. Look, Heinz, please! Listen to me! It was I who telephoned you this morning. I was suspicious of you because I got mousetrapped last night.” The tears were streaming down Slater’s face.
“Mousetrapped?” Heinz’s eyes were vague. “Trapped by—a mouse. What—” Heinz Mahler never finished the question.
Slater remained on his knees in the snow and stared through his tears at Mahler’s blood, as it spread slowly into the whiteness. He could not be sure, of course, but he thought, he hoped, there was just the trace of an impish smile on Mahler’s dead face.
Slater lifted Mahler’s body up by the shoulders, trying not to realize how really slight he was, and then turned him so he was facing the dead stranger, and laid Mahler down on his stomach in the snow again. He took out his .38, wiped it clean and put it in Mahler’s right hand.
Slater walked over to the body of Heinz’s assailant and removed all the personal papers from inside his corduroy jacket. The face meant nothing to him, but the clothing did. He was dressed like a local citizen of medium circumstances. He must have been Stadler’s partner. Slater turned away and groped through the snow back toward the town. In an hour, when the snow had covered up his tracks, he would call the police from a phone booth. They would discover an unidentified body, a gun with two shots fired and his friend Mahler with a .38, the serial number of which had long ago been removed with acid.
Slater never looked back. There was too much back there he wanted to forget, but it would take more than a heavy snowfall to smooth the rough edges of his world, and more than acid to eat the memory of Heinz’s death from his brain. It was truly a rotten world he lived in, which prevented him from personally acknowledging the death of a friend. Slater’s outline disappeared from the scene behind the lacy curtain of soundless snowflakes.
chapter fifteen
WHEN SLATER reached the Bichlstrasse, he found it almost deserted. It was still early, and the skiers were not yet aware that they were to become shoppers because the snow was going to continue through the day. The public lounges, the library, the cocktail bars and cafés were going to be filled. Possibly a few of the vacationers would suddenly realize how tired they really were and would take the opportunity to catch up on their sleep while the world around them turned whiter and, somehow, newer again.
As Slater scuffed through the snow, he tried to keep down the feeling of hate which was stealing its way, unwanted, into his consciousness. It was a feeling he had had often. It was the one bulwark which kept out, momentarily at least, the more shameful emotion of fear. But to Slater, whose career had been made from man’s fear and hate, this was no solution, because his hate was fast extending to the world—a world in which no nation could entirely trust another, which in turn reflected itself in the actions of its citizens. Economic idealism, thought Slater, which brought death to the Webbers and Mahlers and paid the wages for more than a million people like himself all over the world to further exploit, foster and develop still more hate. Slater believed in his country, but no longer on a right or wrong basis. He detested the politicians who made political capital of the misery of others. Worst of all, he felt trapped. There was no honorable way out for his conscience. He hung on to his sanity by believing that he, at least, was attacking what he knew was bad. He was not forced to spread lies or half-truths about the perfection of his own nation, nor did he directly encourage enslaved peoples with the visions of a Utopian democracy to hurl their defenseless bodies against steel tanks. Slater was still able to cling tenaciously to the conviction that what he was assigned to fight was inherently bad. The Krüpls and Stadlers were pawns of the most inhuman political machine the world had ever seen; and this was what kept him fighting his fears and, consequently, the enemies not only of his nation but of the people his enemies pretended to represent.
But Slater had had too much experience in the international scene not to be a realist; and he was continually plagued with the feeling a climber must get when, on a shale-covered mountainside, after two steps upward, the slippery rocky soil slides out from under him, and he is carried, against his will, one step backward. Slater was a sensitive man, an idealist, a man who wanted to believe; and because of his ability to feel, to sympathize, to fear, to understand even his enemies, he was a dangerous, effective counterespionage agent and not simply a thug or a brainless adventure seeker. For ten years he had worked, not for pay, but because he had believed. But there had been too many casualties for his beliefs—too many Heinz Mahlers. Now Slater felt he, too, was becoming a casualty—the way he had to live, full of suspicion that turned to fear and then, as a bulwark against his fears, into hate. Slater knew there must be something better for him. He was becoming sick with the politicians’ and militarists’ glib discussions of expendables in the big picture. He hadn’t known Webber and had only just begun to know Mahler, bu
t he had known many others, men and women of character, who had lost their lives for a cause. They were not expendable. There are never enough of those kinds of people to go around. And now, thought Slater, I’m about to call in another—for the cause.
He opened the glass door to the sidewalk telephone station. The door left a fan design as it pushed back the snow. Slater called Zurich, identified himself to Hollingsworth and requested clear conversation immediately. George had been about to leave for the Consulate. “Bankers’ hours, George?” asked Slater.
“I was up a little late last night.” George sounded embarrassed.
“Your hours are your own affair, George,” Slater hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic. “Charlie’s been killed. I didn’t see the body,” he added, “but I’ve no reason to doubt that he’s dead.” Slater cursed inwardly. There just wasn’t any gentle way to break that kind of news.
“I’m sorry, Karl,” said Hollingsworth after a moment. “I’m sure you did all you could.”
Slater was grateful for that remark.
“I’ve made some progress down here,” said Slater, “and I think I’m about to make some more.”
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