Legacy of a Spy

by Henry S. Maxfield

  The guests were too busy with their own merry-making to notice them, or care one way or the other—all but a few, and they cared a great deal.

  “I can see Hormsby,” said Ilse in Slater’s ear.

  “What’s he up to?” asked Slater.

  “He’s talking to Wyman. I think he’s going to cut in. Please,” said Ilse, “let’s go to the bar now.”

  Slater took Ilse’s hand, and they left the dance floor. Ilse looked along the wall and saw Dinar again, still sitting at the same table.

  “He’s a fine-looking man,” said Slater. “I hope he can ski.”

  “He’s been here before at this hotel. He must be able to ski,” she said. “Anyway, he’s wearing ski boots.”

  If he can’t, she thought, we haven’t a chance.

  She stole a quick glance at Slater. We’ve got to get out of this alive, she thought. I have waited too long for this man to lose him now.

  Ilse and Slater moved into the crowd by the bar.

  “You’re right, you know,” he whispered. “If either one of us is observed talking to him, it’s the kiss of death.”

  Ilse nodded and Slater got the attention of a bartender long enough to order two drinks.

  “Have you ever seen the man at the table next to him?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Can’t you think of any other way?”

  Slater shook his head. “But I’m wide open to suggestions.”

  “I don’t like it,” she said.

  “Neither do I,” said Slater, looking the man in question over carefully. He was not very big, but he was big enough.

  Slater picked up the drinks, gave one to Ilse, and led the way out of the crowd.

  “Are you going to do it now?” Ilse asked anxiously.

  “Why wait?”

  They both knew the answer to that.

  “Have you got it?”

  “In my right hand,” he said.

  “Well,” Ilse pressed his hand, “good luck.”

  Slater left her, took a gulp of his drink and started uncertainly over to the table beside Dinar’s. His walk was that of a man not completely drunk but well on the way. He blinked his eyes and then opened them wide as if that would help him to see the world as it really was. He held his head awkwardly, a little forward and to one side, as if to tell the world that his head was all right, as any fool could see, and the rest of his body would follow one way or the other. When he was opposite the table, his eyes fastened on a very pretty young German girl seated with a heavy-set young man who was speaking to her with almost dignified ardor. Slater approached the table, stopped and looked down at them with uncertain eyes. He tried, unsuccessfully, to take a swallow of his drink, but he could not get his mouth and the glass together. He stared at the glass as though it were a naughty child that would not behave properly.

  The young couple looked up at him uncertainly. Slater looked down on them, tried to put out his arm to steady himself, missed, and ended up on his knees with his arms on the table. He remained there, looking vague at both of them.

  “You,” he said to the man slowly but very distinctly, “are in love with her.” He nodded for emphasis.

  “And you,” he said turning slowly and trying very hard to focus on the girl, “are in love with him.” Slater nodded again.

  The girl tried a tentative smile. Her escort did the same.

  “’S a toast to love!”

  Again Slater tried to get the glass to his mouth and failed miserably. He managed to get to his feet. He looked at the offending glass again, frowned, and then calmly poured the contents over the head of the man.

  The young man swore as the liquor trickled down his face and into his collar. He stood up, grabbed Slater by the front of his sweater and struck out with his fist. Much to his surprise, Slater twisted suddenly, and the young man’s fist smashed into Slater’s shoulder instead of his jaw; but Slater went down heavily on his right side, almost at Dinar’s feet. In that brief second, Slater tugged at Dinar’s trouser, pulled his shoelace and left a piece of paper on the floor beside Dinar’s shoe. Slater immediately rolled his body away from the table into the center of the room and tried to get up.

  The enraged young man, encouraged by his success and feeling the power of delivering a crushing defeat while his girl friend was looking on, rushed over to renew the attack. Ilse intercepted him.

  “You bully!” she shouted. “You leave him alone. Can’t you see he is drunk? He meant no harm. Go away!”

  The young man was no match for those flashing green eyes, and he retreated as Ilse helped Slater to his feet.

  “You were wonderful, Liebchen,” she whispered in his ear. “You should have been an actor. You were so funny.”

  “Did he get the note?” asked Slater.

  “Yes,” she said, leading Slater over to a vacant table on the far side of the room.

  “I hope he believes it’s genuine.”

  “Here, Liebchen,” said Ilse loudly, “sit here, and I will get you some coffee.”

  Ilse sat him down and ordered a waiter to bring a pot of coffee.

  “Do you think anyone saw me deliver the note?”

  “No, your shoulder was in the way.”

  “Where were Hormsby, Wyman and the Baron at the time?”

  “I don’t know; I didn’t see them.”

  Slater was suddenly angry.

  “You know that guy would have taken another swing at me, if it hadn’t been for you!”

  Use looked surprised. “What did you expect after pouring a glass of whiskey over his head?”

  “But I was drunk,” Slater grumbled. “As far as he knew, I was defenseless.”

  “That’s what you get for being drunk,” said Ilse primly. Slater looked at her and she gave way immediately and smiled.

  “Well?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I guess we’ll just have to wait a while.”

  “What time is it now?” asked Ilse.

  Slater looked at his watch. “Ten minutes to one,” he said. “We’ve got all night. This party won’t break up until after dawn.”

  “Maybe the party won’t, but I don’t think we will be permitted to stay that long. Somebody will miss Slazov.”

  “Yes,” said Slater thoughtfully. “Who do you think it will be?”

  “It could be any of them—Hormsby, Wyman, the Baron. Possibly, all of them,” said Ilse.

  “I don’t think so,” said Slater. The waiter brought the coffee, and Slater pretended to have difficulty drinking it. “Maybe one of them, maybe not. But certainly not all three.”

  “Why not all three?”

  “You know, Ilse. That’s not the way they work. Only the top man will know Slazov. Even he,” Slater added, “may not know him by sight. Slazov may have been told to contact one of the lower echelon in Kitzbühel. After all, the assassin’s identity must be protected from potential informers within his own organization. He is the one man in this crazy business who is committing a legal crime.”

  The truth of this statement hit Slater with a strange force. After all, what crimes had Hormsby, the Baron, or even Wyman committed for which they could be prosecuted? He could not even prove that Wyman was a traitor to his country—anyway, not in a court of law.

  “And the number-one man,” said Ilse, “might very well not choose to reveal himself to an assassin who might one day be used to eliminate him.”

  “Exactly,” said Slater. “This very need for secrecy, for compartmentation, is the weakest link in espionage activity. The one man who knows Slazov by sight may not be here.”

  “But, Liebchen, the very fact that you’re still alive may bring him up here immediately—if he’s not already here.”

  “That’s the chance I had to take,” said Slater. “We had to give Hollingsworth time to get that car.”

  “How far is it from the cable car to the bottom of the Fleck Trail?”

  “Only about three miles.” Slater frowned. “The trouble is that Slazov saw
me with Hollingsworth. Undoubtedly Slazov will have tried to put someone on Hollingsworth. I hope George can get hold of a car.”

  “Do you think he’ll make it?” asked Ilse.

  “He’s got to,” said Slater evenly, looking thoughtfully at Ilse.

  She returned his look and smiled gently.

  “I know,” she said finally and very quietly. “He’s got to.”

  “I’d like very much to dance with you right now,” he said.

  “You’re still too drunk to dance.” Ilse smiled. “Besides, we might get separated that way. We’re safer together.”

  Slater nodded in agreement, reflecting that the solid wall at his back felt reassuring. Ilse was not a bad ally for many reasons. She had courage, probably more than he had, and she certainly knew how to handle that .32. Hollingsworth had been gone for over an hour. He must have gotten to Klausen by now.

  Slater looked at the entrance to the bar. A familiar figure was standing in the doorway. He was talking urgently to another man who was only partially visible, but who also looked vaguely familiar. Unfortunately, the brighter light was behind them, and Slater could not see them distinctly. He put out his hand and squeezed Ilse’s arm, nodding in the direction of the doorway. Ilse gave a sudden start and turned back to Slater.

  “That’s Anton Reisch, the desk clerk,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Slater, “and he’s not here as an employee. I was quite certain,” he said slowly, thinking back to that afternoon, “that Anton must be the one who knew Slazov by sight.”

  “We don’t have much time then,” said Ilse. Her voice was calm, but Slater thought that her eyes looked greener than he had ever seen them.

  Slater frowned. He could not be certain, but he thought Anton appeared somewhat the worse for wear.

  chapter twenty-nine

  HAVE YOU EVER SEEN the other man?” said Slater. “The one Anton is talking to.”

  “No,” Ilse shook her head. “I don’t think so. He looks like an American.”

  Slater frowned. “Maybe he is.”

  An American, thought Slater, that’s it! He wished he had brought along a certain passport-sized photograph to be sure.

  “Ilse,” he said urgently, “I know that man, not personally, but I’m almost positive I know who he is.”

  “Is he important?” Ilse looked alarmed.

  “Important!” Slater whispered. “If I’m right, he’s the number-one man in this operation. Not only that,” he added, ruefully, “but possibly the most diabolically clever agent it’s been my misfortune to run across—a man who has ruined the reputation of a possibly innocent associate, and deliberately sacrificed the lives of three members of his own organization for the success of his mission.”

  Slater shook his head. “He is the living personification of the theory that the end justifies the means.”

  Ilse was caught by the urgency of Slater’s voice. “What are you going to do about him?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s the frustrating part of it. I may not be able to do anything. Either we win or lose, as far as our lives and Dinar’s are concerned; but unless I’m way off base, when the results are in, plus or minus, that man will be safely behind the Iron Curtain. In the meantime, the odds are still at least four to two against us. And at the moment it doesn’t look as though we’re in any position to fight back.”

  Slater looked up at the doorway as Anton moved into the bar and found a seat at a table near the door. He could not miss them when they went out.

  Slater whispered to Ilse, “Is there any other way out of here?”

  “There’s the servants’ exit on the far side of the bar,” she said. “I believe it leads to the kitchen behind the main room.”

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to use it,” said Slater. “Anton’s got the main door covered.”

  Ilse pressed Slater’s hand, and he followed her glance. Hormsby had just entered the room and was talking with Anton. The conversation was brief. Then Hormsby walked to the far end of the bar and stationed himself there.

  “Well,” said Slater dryly, “I see the boys are finally getting acquainted.”

  “And,” Ilse added, “all for our benefit.” She tried to match Slater’s tone, but her voice faltered.

  At that moment the Baron von Burgdorf appeared, his gross body completely filling the entrance. He looked around the room for a moment, licked his lips absent-mindedly, and moved in the direction of their table. Before Ilse was aware of what was happening, Slater had her in his arms, kissing her. Ilse automatically returned his embrace.

  Slater whispered in her ear, “Even the Baron will think twice before interrupting lovers. Anyway, our time has run out. We had to give the signal.”

  Slater underestimated the Baron’s persistence.

  “I hate to break up such a tender scene, my dear,” he said, looking at Ilse. His eyes were so small Slater could hardly see them in the half-light. “But,” he licked his lips again and smiled, “I have come to claim a host’s privilege—a dance with the loveliest lady at my party.” His voice was gentle and deep, but there was power behind the request.

  Slater released Ilse, but his hand closed over the edge of the table, and the blood drained from his knuckles.

  “Oh, Baron,” said Ilse. Slater could feel her body tremble, but her voice was steady. “You are so kind, I would be honored to dance with you.” Her smile was enchanting. “But I am afraid to let this American out of my sight. I am a very jealous woman, and you have invited so many lovely ladies.”

  “Now, now, Ilse,” said Slater soothingly. “You have no need to be jealous of any woman.” Slater made himself smile up at the Baron. “Nicht wahr, Herr Baron?”

  “Come,” said Slater, getting to his feet and pulling a confused and unwilling Ilse up with him. “I will accompany you and the Baron,” he bowed at the Baron, “to the dance floor. After all,” Slater continued, “the Baron is our host, a most charming host.”

  Ilse glanced at Slater sharply. This man is a chameleon. What idiocy is this?

  Slater took her left arm, the Baron her right, and the three of them promenaded out of the bar. As he left, Slater looked over at Dinar’s table, but the table was empty, Dinar had gone. He had received and understood their signal.

  When the three had disappeared into the next room, Anton signaled Hormsby, who moved quickly from his position by the bar over to Anton’s table. They had a brief conference and followed Ilse, Slater and the Baron.

  Once inside the ballroom, Slater turned to the Baron.

  “I’ve changed my mind, Baron,” he said quickly. “I think I’m the jealous one. Come on, Ilse, let’s dance.”

  Before the Baron could do anything, Ilse had disengaged her arm and was dancing with Slater.

  It was a strange sort of dance. Slater was continually whispering, almost fiercely, into her ear. He steered her first into the center of the crowded floor and then toward the main entrance. At the cloak room, just to the right of the door, he ordered her to get their parkas; and he faced the crowd, his hand staying just above the revolver resting in his waist holster. Ilse thought he looked a little wild. She managed to get their parkas and tugged at Slater’s jacket.

  “You leave first,” he said quickly. “Dinar should be waiting just below the Fleck Trail marker.”

  Ilse hesitated.

  “Get out!” he said. His voice was low, but it was intense.

  “We’ll wait for you on the trail,” she said.

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind—and don’t wait at the bottom for more than ten minutes. If I don’t show up, drive to Zurich as fast as you can get there.”

  Slater could see Wyman walking along the edge of the dance floor toward them.

  “Here comes Wyman,” said Slater. “Now, will you please go!”

  Ilse touched Slater’s left hand for a second, opened the outside door and closed it behind her.

  Slater felt trapped. He had the almost irresistible impulse to cut a
nd run. Everything he had ever wanted had just gone out that door. But Dinar’s safety and the information he possessed were more important to his country, possibly to the world, than either Ilse or himself. This, he thought bitterly, was the “big picture” viewed by the little man. And suddenly Slater knew a kind of hate he had never known before. It was a hate he could almost taste, except at that moment his mouth was dry and his hands were hot.

  Slater stood his ground and let Wyman approach him.

  “Hello, Slater,” he said. “Didn’t I see Ilse go outside just now?”

  “Maybe.” There was no point in denying the obvious. Wyman moved a little closer. Slater shifted his balance casually. He had to look up at Wyman.

  “Looks like you’re planning to do the same.” Wyman looked pointedly at the parka in Slater’s left hand.

  “No,” said Slater, “I just came in. I was about to check it.”

  “Don’t try to kid me, Slater,” said Wyman. “I saw her get your parka for you. Where did Ilse go?” Wyman looked as though he was about to take some action.

  “I don’t see that where she’s gone should concern you,” said Slater evenly. He stared at Wyman.

  The look in Slater’s eyes was so menacing that Wyman was visibly startled. The two men had reached an impasse. Any moment something would snap. One of them would have to give way or a fight would start. Slater did not want to be forced to shoot Wyman, especially in view of what he thought he had discovered in the bar. There just was not time to make absolutely certain.

  “I’m an American Intelligence officer.” Slater’s voice was pitched very low, and he spoke fast. “I was sent down here by Putnam to investigate you. You’re under suspicion of espionage, Wyman!”

  Wyman’s face flushed and he tried to cut in, but Slater continued relentlessly. “You were observed photographing classified material in the Zurich Consulate.”