Legacy of a Spy

by Henry S. Maxfield

  Slater left the Hotel Zima and stepped out into the snow. It had finally stopped snowing, but the fresh wind, which was breaking up the clouds, was whipping up the snow and kiting it crazily into drifts. As Slater approached the station, he could see the plows in action. A snowfall, no matter how unexpected, was an old story to these mountain people, and Slater reflected that the main roadways would be cleared by this evening. He smelled the wind. It was surprisingly warm and moist. He looked up at the Hahnenkamm and shook his head. March was a strange, unpredictable month. The weather could turn unseasonably warm. It had been almost balmy three days ago. He didn’t like the warmth of the wind. A sudden change in temperature at this time of year after a heavy snowfall could mean avalanche weather, and with the passes blocked, many of the villages, even entire sections, would be cut off for days. He could imagine himself, Hollingsworth, Dinar, if he was still in the community, and the Communists all shut up in this happy valley. He muttered something to himself about life being just a bowl of cherries and entered the Kitzbüheler Buchhandlung.

  The bookstore was crowded, and Slater joined the people who were browsing. The Europeans in general and the Germanic people in particular were very book conscious, and the publishing companies vied with each other to see which could turn out the most attractively bound and illustrated editions. Slater had had little time for much reading, and he turned now to his browsing with real pleasure. He looked up occasionally to see if he could recognize any of the staff or customers. He had not been there more than ten minutes when Hormsby entered, slipping smoothly through the crowd like a sharp knife through warm butter. Slater marveled at Hormsby’s thinness. He should have moved like a crane, but he was as smooth on his feet as a professional dancer.

  Hormsby went over to the counter, handed the girl a package and said something to her. Slater moved in Hormsby’s direction. He wanted to have a closer look at the package. It certainly looked like a book. Hormsby was still talking to the girl when Slater stepped up behind him.

  “Good day for reading, Mr. Hormsby,” said Slater, his mouth almost touching Hormsby’s right ear.

  Being suddenly addressed from the rear apparently unnerved Hormsby, for he wheeled around. He had something in his hand which he was not quick enough to stuff in his pocket. Slater saw it just before it disappeared. It was the duplicate of Krüpl’s lighter. Slater had to get Hormsby out of the bookstore in a hurry. If Hollingsworth walked in there and tried to pass himself off as Krüpl with Hormsby looking on, George would be in for more trouble than he would ever be able to handle.

  “Ah, Mr. Slater, isn’t it?” said Hormsby. “What a pleasant surprise.” Hormsby’s accent was very clipped.

  “Now that,” replied Slater affably, “is just what I was thinking. How about letting me buy you a drink?”

  “Excellent,” Hormsby smiled. “And then, I’ll buy you one.” Hormsby was apparently as eager to get out of there, now that he had an audience, as Slater was to get him out.

  “And then,” said Slater, “I’ll buy you one.”

  “And then,” Hormsby began his high-pitched giggle, “I’ll buy you one.”

  “And then—”

  “And then,” Hormsby cut in, “we’ll be as squiffy as a couple of owls.”

  “Squiffier,” said Slater. “Here’s to a couple of squiffy owls.”

  The two men went out into the street arm in arm and walked through the snow into the Winterhof. They entered the bar, still chattering away like long-lost drinking pals. They argued over who was to buy the first drink, and what the poison should be. Hormsby held out for a gin and lime, and Slater for a lime and vodka combination he called a skazzerak.

  “My dear fellow,” said Hormsby frowning, “you’re not going to drink a Russian product?”

  “Why not?” said Slater. “I like vodka.”

  “I wouldn’t drink anything made in Russia!” Hormsby was vehement. “And as a good American, you shouldn’t either.”

  “It’s their politics that I don’t like, not their alcohol.” Slater had to admit that this dapper cadaver sitting opposite him was most convincing in displaying his dislike of anything Russian, even though he was unquestionably the Communist paymaster for the area.

  “Are you going to the Baron von Burgdorf’s party tonight?” Slater asked.

  “I wouldn’t miss one of the Baron’s parties for the world. Terribly interesting—always.”

  “You don’t think all this snow will make the Baron decide to call it off?” asked Slater.

  “Definitely not.” Hormsby added, “Anyway, it’s stopped snowing. Bit of a wind, but I believe they’ll run the cable car all the same. Baron’s a very important man.”

  “You English are more impressed by royalty than we Americans,” said Slater dryly.

  “That’s funny,” said Hormsby, “I’ve had just the opposite impression.”

  Slater reflected that Wyman was undoubtedly partly responsible for that. Now was no time to antagonize Hormsby, but Slater was on edge and his temper was very nearly out of control. He could not get the idea out of his mind that Hormsby was responsible for Mahler’s and Webber’s deaths. Hormsby was certainly at least number-two man in the area, if not number-one. It was odd that the discoveries were frequently such an anticlimax, but that was the way this business worked. It was not like apprehending criminals. Unless, in this case, Hormsby had violated Austrian law and Slater could prove it, there was nothing he could do except notify his office of Hormsby’s role and let someone unknown to Hormsby monitor his operations.

  Slater hated these mercenaries. A citizen of the West, particularly of England and the United States, should know better than to sell himself to the Communists. It was obvious that Hormsby was in this for the money, and he probably did not get much of that now that they had him in their power and could blackmail him. There had been times, too many times in the past ten years, when he had actually helped Communist agents to escape the law of some European nation because in his professional opinion, and that of his office, the guilty person had been more useful alive, his espionage role known, than in prison or executed as he deserved and replaced by another unknown.

  Slater’s impulse was to try and get Hormsby alone someplace and beat him until he told who number one was, and what their plans were to get Colonel Dinar. But to get the maximum intelligence “take” out of this, it would be smarter to get to number one through Hormsby without the knowledge of either and then alert his office to monitor all their future actions. Slater was very much afraid that Carmichael had already upset the apple cart, but Carmichael had not had much choice.

  Eliciting information from a fellow professional made a subtle and charming dialogue for the movies or a spy novel, but it rarely paid off. Still, Slater realized, he had almost nothing to lose. They were on their third “and then I’ll buy you one” and Hormsby appeared to be mellowing.

  Slater pulled out a cigarette, offered one to Hormsby and asked if he had a light. Hormsby fished around in his pockets and produced a package of matches. Failure number one.

  “I’m going to get a lighter one of these days,” said Slater. “I’m always running out of matches.”

  “If you get a lighter,” said Hormsby, “you’ll always be running out of fuel. Anyway, I’ve never found one that worked yet.”

  Failure number two.

  “Ah, Fräulein Wieland!” Hormsby’s thin face brightened, and he stood up. “Won’t you join us? You are just what a couple of old bachelors need.”

  Ilse stopped at the table, and without a glance in Slater’s direction, seated herself beside Hormsby.

  “Sorry, Slater,” said Hormsby, “I was speaking for myself. I don’t know whether you’re a bachelor or not.”

  “I am,” said Slater looking at Ilse. But I wouldn’t be for long, he thought, if she were real—or if I were real, for that matter.

  “Are you coming to the Baron’s party tonight, Fräulein Wieland?” Hormsby asked.

  “Yes,
Mr. Hormsby,” Ilse still ignored Slater. “As a matter of fact,” she continued, “I was told to tell anyone I might see, whom I knew was invited, that the party will be informal because of the snow.”

  “You’ve told him,” said Slater, exasperated in spite of himself at her attempt to ignore him. “Now, why don’t you tell me?”

  “You have already admitted you heard, Mr. Slater.”

  Ilse looked at him then, and Slater decided, spy or no spy, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. You could not refer to Ilse Wieland as a girl. There was too much knowledge behind her eyes—the kind of depth and knowing that would seem promiscuous in a young girl, but promising in a mature woman.

  Hormsby looked from Slater to Ilse and back at Slater.

  “What’s this, a lovers’ quarrel?” Hormsby looked at Slater’s somber expression and began to giggle. “This is priceless! I thought you two were coming to the party together.”

  “Apparently, Fräulein Wieland would rather go alone,” said Slater.

  He was acting damn childish and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Ilse made no reply.

  “Oh, Fräulein Wieland will not be alone, I assure you,” said Hormsby.

  “I’m sure she won’t,” said Slater and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, please, I have some things to attend to.”

  As Slater was leaving the bar, Hormsby called after him.

  “I’ll buy you a lighter as a consolation prize, old boy, although I assure you they never work.” Hormsby giggled again.

  Slater never turned, but his broad back felt twice normal size and very exposed. It could have been an innocent enough remark, but it probably was not. The elicited, as usual, had probably learned more than the elicitor.

  chapter twenty

  GREGORY SLAZOV checked in at the Winterhof and had a private conversation with Anton Reisch in Slazov’s room.

  Slazov was seated in the armchair. His short stubby body filled the chair, and the arms creaked almost every time he breathed. Anton was standing respectfully.

  “Normally, Herr Reisch,” Slazov said, “we would not have contact, you and I, but when you told me at the desk that Mr. Carmichael had checked out, this was indeed bad news.”

  “I’m very sorry, Herr Slazov,” said Anton. “I should have gotten a forwarding address. But—”

  “I doubt that it would have been a real one.” Slazov looked thoughtful. “Tell me about this man Carmichael. What did he really look like?”

  “He was tall with straight dark hair, strong features, high-bridged straight nose and green eyes.”

  “How old?” asked Slazov.

  “In his thirties,” said Anton. He was tired of standing.

  “What were his habits?”

  “Very conservative,” said Anton. “Very,” he added remembering the ten dollars. “He spent a lot of time in his room.”

  Slazov was angry. For a man who spent so much of his time in his room, Carmichael had apparently caused considerable trouble. How could he, Gregor Slazov, find a man he knew nothing about? As usual, the party had not told him enough. The only contact they gave him was this idiot Anton, who looked as if he was about to fall asleep.

  “Have you any suggestions how I can find this Mr. Carmichael?”

  “I have the license number and description of the car he left here in yesterday. I have made some inquiries of the various hotels west of here.” Anton paused.

  “Well!” Slazov said emphatically. “Continue.”

  “A man by the name of Carmichael spent last night at the hotel in Wörgl,” said Anton.

  “Then he has probably left Austria by now,” said Slazov disgustedly.

  “I don’t think so, Herr Slazov,” said Anton. “You see, Wörgl is less than one hour’s drive from here, and Carmichael did not check in there until three in the morning. He left here about three in the afternoon. Also,” added Anton, “he left Wörgl very early this morning, but I don’t think he left Austria. I think he is here in Kitzbühel.”

  This was news! Slazov looked at Anton with grudging respect.

  “I think I have met Carmichael. He arrived on the train this afternoon. He is very tall and has straight dark hair, a diplomat—a very young diplomat not over twenty-five, at the most twenty-nine. He was met,” Slazov added, “by a husky American with green eyes and,” Slazov paused, “strong, prominent features.”

  “A man of about thirty-five, with strong even teeth and very short, brown, slightly wavy hair,” Anton added. “That would be Herr Slater. He checked in the hotel after Carmichael checked out. Both Carmichael and Slater appear to know Fräulein Wieland.”

  Gregor Slazov pushed himself out of his chair. “Are you trying to tell me that Carmichael and Slater are the same?”

  Anton hesitated. “I think so, but I’m not sure. Herr Slater has been out all day, since nine o’clock this morning. I didn’t get the report from Wörgl until after that, but Herr Slater made a great point of telling me this morning how well he slept last night. When I see him again, I will know.”

  Gregor Slazov paced the room. It could be so. Disguises were rare in this business, but they were used. Slazov had a pair of elevator shoes to make him taller, but he knew it was useless to try and change the face of a peasant. If Carmichael was Slater, Slazov was sorry he had exposed himself. Such a man as Slater would be dangerous, but, Slazov smiled to himself, it would also make the game more interesting.

  “If Carmichael and Slater are the same, who was the tall, dark-haired young man with him near the station?”

  Anton shook his head. “I don’t know but I will find out.”

  “Who is this woman that knows both Carmichael and Slater?” asked Gregor.

  “Fraulein Ilse Weiland,” said Anton. “She is a member of German Intelligence.”

  “They are working together then?” said Slazov.

  “I don’t think so,” Anton said thoughtfully. “Anyway, not yet. This is what we wish to avoid.”

  Slazov looked at Anton closely. Somehow, Anton Reisch did not look quite so tired or so completely fit the role of desk clerk. Reisch was a smart man. Maybe Gregor Slazov should find out more about this man. It was time Slazov became more than an assassin.

  “From whom do you take orders, Herr Reisch?” Slazov’s question sounded like a command.

  “Not from you, Herr Slazov,” said Anton quickly. He drew himself up to his full height. He was six inches taller than Slazov.

  “No,” said Slazov. “Nor from anyone else in this area.” He hated anyone who was taller than he.

  “You may think what you like, Herr Slazov, but you must keep your thoughts to yourself. You have been sent here to dispose of a man named Carmichael. I will help you to find him, if he is here. Who I am, what my job is, why Carmichael is to be eliminated is not your affair.”

  Gregor Slazov grumbled. This man was as bad as the Comrade General Stottoff.

  “When Herr Slater returns,” said Anton, “I will let you know my opinion. In the meantime,” Anton took a calling card from his pocket and handed it to Slazov, “remain in your room until I phone you.”

  Anton opened the door and left.

  Slazov looked at the card. He read the message on the back first.

  My Dear Herr Slazov,

  Any friend of Adolph’s is a friend of mine. I would be honored if you could come to my party tonight. It will be at the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel. Please dress in ski clothes because of the heavy snow fall.

  E. v. B.

  Slazov frowned and turned the card face up. Engraved in neat German script was the name Baron Erich von Burgdorf. Slazov continued to look puzzled for a moment and then smiled slowly. Apparently Carmichael or Slater was expected to attend. Slazov hoped so. A murder was much easier at a party where there were a lot of people. Carmichael would not be the first corpse Slazov had disposed of in the snow.

  chapter twenty-one

  SLATER KNOCKED on Hollingsworth’s door at the Zima, and George let him in.r />
  “I got it!” said George. “I got the book!”

  Slater had to smile at George’s enthusiasm, but he was surprised.

  “You mean you simply went up to the clerk, laid the lighter on the counter and asked if there was a book for you, and it worked?”

  “Yes,” said George. “Well no, not quite. At first she looked at me kind of funny.”

  “I should think she might have,” said Slater dryly.

  “Yes,” said George, “she did. But then I told her I was picking up the book for a man who looked like Krüpl. I mean,” he said, “I described Krüpl, and then she gave me this.”

  George held up the package. “I’ve been dying to open it.”

  Slater ignored the package and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Depending on what was in the package, he had certainly gotten a break this time.

  While Slater was obviously lost in thought, a thought struck Hollingsworth. He put the package on the bed and sat down heavily himself.

  “You never expected me to get this package,” he blurted out, “did you, Carmichael?”

  “No.” Slater still looked thoughtful. “I thought that if you stumbled into the store like an amateur, showed the lighter, and asked for a package, you would be followed by the paymaster, if he were there, or by someone else. Then,” Slater added, “I could have followed him right to your room.”

  Slater was saying all this calmly, academically, completely unaware of the devastating effect his words were having on George.

  “I would have invited him inside,” Slater continued, “for what would probably have been a very rewarding chat. You see, the lighter was only additional identification. Undoubtedly the procedure Krüpl used for getting the package was simply to ask if there were a package for a Mr. Blank. The trouble was I didn’t know the name. I don’t think you would have gotten the package if the paymaster had not just delivered it in person and, for some unexplainable reason, had been checking his own lighter. We really got a break for a change.”