“Good,” said George. “Isn’t W supposed to leave today?”
“Yes,” said Slater, “but I’m quite certain he won’t. If he asks for an extension of his leave, make certain he receives it.”
“Right.”
“I’m going to present you with a choice, George.” Slater knew it would only sound like a choice. “Either you get my office to send me a man or you can come down here yourself.”
“When do you want me?” said George without any hesitation. Slater cursed again, but he was pleased.
“As soon as possible.”
“Right,” said George. “I’ll be there this afternoon. Shall I take the train?”
“Yes.”
“Where will you meet me?” said George.
“Don’t worry. I’ll pick you up after you leave the station. You know the two places not to go. If for some reason,” Slater added, “I don’t contact you, find an inn and go have a drink and dinner at the Café des Engels.”
“Suppose I run into W?”
“Act surprised,” said Slater, “but don’t overdo it. Remember, this time, unlike Charlie, you’ve got a friend.”
“Right,” said George.
Slater wished Hollingsworth didn’t always say “Right!” with that eager-beaver inflection, but he made no comment.
“One more thing,” said Slater. “Contact my office before you leave. Tell them to send all the information I requested to Salzburg and hold any mail. Just say Annie doesn’t live there any more. I’ll phone Salzburg tonight.”
“Right!” said George. “I’ll see you this afternoon. I’m glad you want me to come down. Oh, by the way, your office refused to expose you to our Saxon friends. They think you’re too important.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Slater and then added, “Be prepared for a little surprise when we meet. Auf wiedersehen.”
Slater hung up. He had wanted to mention Mahler so that Putnam could do something for Mahler’s family, but his name might be picked up by an operator and connected with the corpse lying out in the snow.
Slater phoned the police, gave them the information about Heinz and hung up. He left the phone station and returned to the hotel and checked the train schedule. He still had several hours. He started on the way upstairs to his room to work out some way to get Rüdi alone when he felt a hand on his arm. He turned and there stood Ilse Wieland, her green eyes smiling up at him.
“Hello, Bill Slater,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten our engagement tonight?”
“No,” he smiled in spite of himself, “I haven’t.”
“You will take me then?” Ilse looked up at him anxiously.
“If you want to go,” said Slater.
“It was the only way I could think of to have your company.” She continued to look directly at him, but she was no longer smiling. “It was obvious you were not going to ask me anywhere.”
“Why don’t we go somewhere else then?” Slater was convinced she would object to that.
“But that would not be polite,” she said. “The Baron has asked us, and we have accepted. We must go.”
She’s more than a match for me, Bill thought. She’s too lovely and too appealing.
“Very well,” he said. “The Baron’s it is.”
“Are you going upstairs to visit someone?” she asked.
“No,” said Slater, “I’m going up to my room.”
“You have moved then?” she said.
Slater just stood there and looked at her, remembering all at once that when he had brought her back to the hotel from the Café des Engels he had left her on these stairs. She had remembered and noted that he had not, at that time, been a guest of the hotel.
“They didn’t have a room here when I arrived,” he said. “I wasn’t able to move in until Sunday afternoon.”
“I see,” she said.
Slater had to find out immediately who this woman really was and what she knew about him. Too much had happened for him to let her destroy his position—if she hadn’t already done so.
“Why,” said Slater, feeling strangely embarrassed, “why don’t you come up to my room and have a quiet drink with me?”
He could have cut out his tongue. He knew he had said it too fast. No woman would accept such an awkwardly put proposition on a staircase in a hotel lobby filled with people who had nothing better to do on a snowy day than eavesdrop. Much to his surprise, she accepted. She took hold of his hand and accompanied him upstairs. He couldn’t think of a thing to say, and it made him furious. He had always considered himself a man of the world.
He unlocked his door and stepped aside to let Ilse enter. He pointed to the easy chair and picked up the house phone. His own voice sounded strange.
“Please send up some Scotch, soda water, ice and two glasses to room twenty-seven, right away.”
Slater was, suddenly, desperate for a drink. He turned, expecting to see Ilse seated in the chair. To his consternation, she was standing right behind him. They were now face to face, their eyes almost on the same level.
“You Americans are so strange,” she said.
“I guess I am acting kind of crazy,” said Slater. “Why don’t you sit down?” It sounded more like a plea than a simple request.
“Because,” she said slowly, “I prefer to stand.” She paused and looked into his eyes almost as green as her own, tense, wary, tired eyes. “And because,” she continued, “I want you to kiss me. You want to. I know you do—and you need to. Please!”
Slater took Ilse into his arms. Her lips were unbelievably soft and willing. She stood up close to him. Her arms went around his neck and she returned his embrace. They stood close and kissed each other over and over again. She kissed his eyes, the corners of his mouth, his neck, and neither said anything intelligible until the bellhop’s knock on the door interrupted them, and they were forced to separate.
Slater thought the boy would never stop fussing around the room, pointing to the ice, commenting on the brand of Scotch, asking if there was enough soda water, until Slater was ready to throw him out. Slater locked the door after him, when the boy finally left. He turned back to Ilse.
“Who are you, for the love of God? If you’re something else I can’t believe in, I’m going to go crazy! Maybe this is an everyday thing in your book, but it’s not in mine.”
“I know.” Ilse’s voice was soothing. “I could see it in your eyes, Bill Slater, Bruce Carmichael—or whatever your real name is.”
Ilse started toward him again, but Slater backed away and she stopped.
“Who are you?” said Slater.
“I am Ilse Wieland. I have a dress shop in Munich. I am on a special assignment for the West German Government,” she said. Her statements seemed to be spoken mechanically.
“And just who do you think I am?” Slater’s eyes were still tense.
“I think you are here for your government to meet a Hungarian colonel by the name of Imré Dinar.”
Slater had finally regained his composure and concealed any reaction to the name.
“Have you any way of identifying yourself?”
“No,” she said. “Have you?”
Slater did not answer, and Ilse took another step in his direction.
“Please, Ilse,” he said, “sit down and let me think a while.”
The one time in his life when he had wanted his office to expose him they had refused. Lord knows, they had done so, inadvertently, enough times. The Germans had already refused to reveal their agent’s identity. That was the real reason for his office’s refusal, Slater was certain. It wasn’t because they didn’t believe he was not expendable. And now what? Her knowledge of Dinar proved only that she was either what she claimed, a member of German Intelligence, or in the employ of the Communists. This tender scene might be a perfect provocation to take him off his guard, to find out what he knew. The Communists couldn’t have picked a better instrument. Ilse was, without any doubt, the most compelling woman he had ever known
. He refused to admit any more than that. Nor could the Communists have chosen a more opportune time. In that crazy, emotional outburst, he might have—Slater snapped his mind shut and looked across the room at her.
“Care for a drink?” he asked. His mind was steady, but his hands were not.
“I would be delighted, Liebchen,” Ilse smiled slowly. She was now sitting on the bed. “You can think what you like, but you will not be able to close your mind to me, Bill Slater. I will wait.”
chapter sixteen
BILL SLATER handed Ilse her drink and retreated across the room. He sat down in the chair and took a long swallow of his drink.
“Just let us suppose that you are working for your government,” he said slowly, not looking at Ilse. “How do you expect to find this Hungarian colonel?”
“I have a picture of him and identification signals to exchange with him,” she said. “The difficulty is that the Communists have captured my predecessor and may have the passwords also—as well as better pictures.”
Slater took another long swallow of his drink.
“Do you have a prearranged meeting place?”
“Yes,” she said. “The Colonel has only been to Kitzbühel once in his life before. At that time he stayed at the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel. I am to meet him there.”
“When?” Slater tipped his glass, but it was empty, and he got up to pour himself another drink.
“I was supposed to meet him,” she said, “the day I met you and Herr Wyman; but if you remember, Herr Wyman accompanied me to the hotel, and we had coffee together. If the Colonel was there, I didn’t see him.”
“Does the Colonel know what you look like?” Slater watched her face carefully.
“No,” she said. “How could he?”
“I just wondered.” Slater frowned. “Tell me, do you think that the Colonel will be at the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel this evening?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think that the Baron’s party tonight is a coincidence?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Ilse appeared to look thoughtful. “I have only known the Baron since I am here.”
“What about this thin Englishman, Hormsby?” Slater asked. “Had you known him before?”
“No.”
“What do you think of Wyman?”
“Herr Wyman is a very handsome young man,” said Ilse. Slater felt himself becoming angry. “But,” she continued, “he is a weakling.”
“He’s an excellent skier,” Slater said, torturing himself.
“Not any better than you, Bill Slater.” Ilse’s reply was very quick. “He cares more about showing off than he does about his neck.”
“He wanted you to admire him,” said Slater, wondering why he couldn’t get off the subject of Wyman.
“I don’t admire him, Liebchen.” Ilse looked at Slater with such gentleness in her eyes that he nearly went over to her and took her in his arms.
“Why did the Baron invite you to his party?”
“Because I am an attractive woman,” Ilse’s reply was matter-of-fact.
“You are a beautiful woman, Ilse—whatever else you may be.” Slater had not meant to say that. It just slipped out.
“Oh, Liebling!” Ilse started to get up again.
“Sit down!” Slater shouted, and Ilse sat very still. “If you are what you say you are, Ilse, you must realize that you are in danger.”
“Not until I have established myself with the Colonel,” she said. “There is just the possibility that my predecessor did not give the Communists the identification procedure.”
“You called me Carmichael a few minutes ago. Why?”
“Your height can change,” she said, “the color of your hair—even your voice, but not your eyes or hands.” Ilse smiled and then looked at him, her face suddenly quite serious. “Don’t you know, William: Slater, that you cannot fool a woman in love?”
Slater poured himself another drink.
“Help yourself, if you’d care for another,” he said. His voice was gruff.
He seated himself in the chair again and watched her as she moved across the room. She was in her ski clothes, and her motions were as smooth as a cat’s.
She made herself a drink, her back toward him, and then turned and raised her glass.
“Prosit,” she said and drank. “I don’t think anyone else realizes your dual identity,” said Ilse. “I thought at first that Wyman was the American agent. It was not until I realized your double identity that I was convinced you were the one.”
“What made you think there should be an American agent?” asked Slater.
“My superiors told me your government had sent someone down here.”
“Tell me, Ilse, if you meet this colonel, what then?”
“This,” said Ilse thoughtfully, “is a problem.” She turned to Slater and smiled. “I had thought you might help me with that.”
“I see.”
Slater turned his mind inward and tried to think. Ilse had still not told him anything that the Communists might not want him to know. That the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel was the meeting place might or might not be true, but the possibility would be enough to guarantee his presence there, and that was probably what they wanted. On the other hand, the party might be an excuse to get everyone under suspicion under one roof, where the Baron or someone else could take care of them. Slater knew the questions to ask Ilse which might establish her identity, but he was strangely reluctant to do so.
“Ilse?”
“Yes.” She was back on the bed.
“What is the identification procedure?” Slater hung on her answer.
“My orders are not to reveal it,” she said quietly. “I can’t,” her face was suddenly contorted, “not even to you!”
“Why not?” Slater knew why. It was because she was his enemy.
“Because they might capture you and torture you for it, Liebchen! It is safer that only one of us knows!”
“What about the picture?”
“I haven’t got it with me,” she said. “I would show it to you tonight, but I think it might be dangerous to take it with me.”
“I see.”
“No,” she cried. “You don’t see! You are so full of suspicion, you can no longer see anything!” Ilse stood up. “You can’t even see love when it looks at you.”
She moved across the room and stood in front of Slater’s chair. “You are so full of fears, and you are so tense inside, you are going to blow up in a million pieces.” Ilse’s eyes filled with tears. “It isn’t wrong to kiss a woman, even if you think she is your enemy. You want too much from life, William Slater.”
She started for the door and unlocked it. “I can’t love a bunch of stretched wires, a tortured creature who is no longer human and is even afraid of a woman’s kiss. Good-by Herr Slater!”
Ilse slammed the door behind her.
chapter seventeen
SLATER POURED himself half a water glass of whisky and drank it down. He stared at the closed door for a moment and shook his head. He did not have much time to discover the things he had to know before that party tonight. It was one party he could not afford to miss.
Slater picked up the house phone and called the dining room.
“Is Rüdi on duty now?”
“No, sir,” said a voice that Slater had never heard. “Rüdi does not come on duty until four o’clock today.”
“Do you know where I can reach him?”
“Just one moment please, sir.”
Slater waited patiently until he heard the receiver being picked up again.
“He lives on the Hornweg, number twenty-five.” The voice gave Slater Rüdi’s phone number in addition, and the conversation was at an end.
Slater left his room, went downstairs and out into the snow. He turned left on the Bichlstrasse and left again down some stone steps and into the first of the back streets of the village. The snow was still coming down thickly from a motionless gray sky. He stopped for a min
ute and stood at the corner of a narrow street and listened. There was no traffic of any kind, and the absolute quiet was unnerving. The snowflakes gathered on his bare head and coated his eyebrows. He tried to peer through the snowflakes and penetrate the wall of gloom around him, but he could not see more than a radius of twenty feet. It was not, he admitted, that he had heard anything suspicious, but he had the uneasy feeling someone was watching him. If Kitzbühel was, as he suspected, the pay center for Communist agents, eliminating all possible pursuers would be like trying to dig a hole in the ocean.
Slater started walking through the snow again, a little faster this time. He rounded a corner and stopped suddenly, his back against the wall of a house. He waited and held his breath, but no one appeared around the corner. Ilse was right. He was a bunch of stretched wires. Hollingsworth had noticed it, Slater knew, but how much of this sort of thing could a man take—even a man without fear? He resumed his walking, turned into the Hornweg and followed it, until he came to number 25. The tracks going up to the front door were partially filled in. There was only one set of footprints, and they definitely were going into the house and not away from it. Slater stepped into the prints. His were slightly larger. He was wearing his ski boots, and there was no way of knowing what the person who had made the tracks had worn. He knocked on the door and waited.
The door was opened by a short stout Hausfrau with grayish hair. She looked surprised.
“Ja? What do you want?” she said.
“Is Herr Rüdi Petsch at home, please?” Slater smiled. “I would like to talk with him.”
The woman hesitated a moment. “I will see if my husband is awake yet. He works late, you know,” she added. “Wait here.”
She closed the door and left Slater standing in the snow. It was several minutes before the door opened again and Rüdi stood on the threshold. He was only half dressed. His night shirt was bulging over his pants. He no longer looked like the immaculate headwaiter whose body strained against every button, but he was still dough-faced and shapeless.
“I,” he hesitated, “I don’t believe we have met, Herr—?”
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