Legacy of a Spy

by Henry S. Maxfield

  “That’s a lie!” Wyman blurted out. “You’re just trying to twist things around. You’re the one under suspicion of being a Communist. I didn’t photograph those documents. Webber did, and I caught him.”

  That was what Slater wanted to hear, but he still hesitated to believe it.

  “It’s your word against Webber’s.” Slater was scornful. “Webber reported you, Wyman, and Webber’s dead.”

  “What do you mean?” For the first time Wyman appeared confused. “Webber’s not dead.” Wyman was suddenly angry again. “He’s right here in this hotel, and I’m working for him on a special project. You and that Wieland woman are the Communists!”

  Slater swore. He had been right. It was Webber he had seen talking with Anton. He should have known. At least, he should have been suspicious that Webber was alive. After all, it would be easy enough for Webber to remain under cover in Kitzbühel since he had a highly organized net at his disposal. Also, the note asking Slater to come to the farmhouse was in Webber’s own handwriting, and yet Slater had not seen Webber’s body. The whole business, all the evidence against Wyman, had been purely circumstantial and entirely too pat. Almost all of it had been contained in Webber’s letter to Putnam! There was still a lot to explain, but, Slater clamped his jaw tight, if he lived, he would find some way to get an explanation—from Webber himself, it that was possible.

  “Look, Wyman. Things look pretty bad for you. Webber’s a spy—and a damn clever one. He’s been using you, at the very least, both as a decoy and as a watchdog to keep an eye on me and Ilse. For your information, Wyman, Ilse is a member of German Intelligence.”

  Slater could see Hormsby, the Baron and Webber heading rapidly in his direction. “I haven’t time to explain any more. Just think over what I’ve said. If you do, I think you can put the pieces together and come up with the right answer.” Slater backed up to the door. “In the meantime, Wyman, don’t try to stop me. My hand is less than four inches from my revolver. One move toward me, and I’ll kill you!”

  Wyman appeared honestly confused. He did not seem to know what to do.

  “My guess,” said Slater, “is now that your usefulness is over, your life will be in danger. I’m taking the Fleck. If you want to get out of here, I’ll try to wait for you at the bottom, but I can’t wait long. Good luck!”

  Slater disappeared through the door just as Hormsby and Webber reached Wyman.

  chapter thirty

  SLATER RAN down the steps out onto the snow and grabbed his skis and poles on the run. He had to climb the elevation behind the hotel. He might have tried to ski around it, but it would have been slow going; and he estimated that, if he could make the top, he would get off to a much faster start. He kept his body as low as he could, but the skis and poles were awkward to handle, and the slope was fairly steep.

  He hadn’t gone fifty yards when he heard the flat reports of gunfire, and several bullets thudded into the snow below and above him. The sound made him go faster than he had thought possible. He was glad he had made Ilse go first.

  He got to the top and scrambled over it to the far side before he tried to put on his skis. He knew it would not be long before his pursuers would get their equipment and be after him. The Baron, or somebody, would telephone for assistance from below; that is, if there was anyone down there they could still rely on. There was always Rüdi, the headwaiter, Slater thought grimly. They could not be certain which trail he had taken so they would have to cover them all.

  Slater stood up. His skis were on. He pushed off and went into a low crouch for maximum speed. The way was open for at least two miles. The first drop was terrifying to take at top speed, but the danger from behind was worse. Slater squinted his eyes against the wind and the cold. He went down the hard-packed, wind-blown slope like a cannon ball and took the wide turn at the bottom at a speed of over sixty miles an hour. He had never hit such a high speed in his life. It was an exhilarating, almost balanceless feeling. When he came out of the turn, his pants whipping and his skis chattering, he could not tell for a second whether he was going to stay up or fall. His feeling of balance had not yet caught up with his terrific speed. He raced out onto the flat, and, still standing, swayed into a turn and plunged down again toward an enormous snowfield.

  Slater thanked God for the moon. It had been his enemy before, but it was a blessing now. He raced on through the night, and his legs began to tighten up and tremble. He had to check his speed or fall. He was certain he was going to fall. He hit another flat and a slight rise. He check-turned on the tips of his skis, coming down sharply on his heels between times. It had an effect similar to that of pumping lightly on the brake pedal of a car. He topped the rise at half speed.

  It was a good thing he had slowed down as the track suddenly dropped almost vertically away below him. None of the previous skiers had taken it straight, and the course was crisscrossed with the deep ruts made by those who had S-turned it to the bottom. Between the turns, all the way down, was deep, soft, powder snow which would trap his skis if he did not follow the S-shaped path. He had to make the split-second decision whether to take it straight and risk a broken leg or worse, or to follow the sensible path that others had made.

  He tried to compromise. He pointed his skis straight down, hoping to be able to check himself when necessary by turning in the loops of the hard-packed snow. He raced through powder so deep he could not see his boots, but it didn’t appear to slow him down. The slope was too steep and he went faster and faster. Spotting a hard-packed area ahead, he tried to swing into it. The strain on his leg muscles was terrific. He could feel them tighten up and grow rigid as he dug in with the downhill edges of his skis. The snow piled up against the bottom of his skis, braking him suddenly. He had overdone it. It was like hitting a stone wall, and his body kited crazily down the mountain. All he could think of was his effort to keep his skis from tangling somehow, or he would snap his legs in two. He finally came to a stop far below.

  Slater tried to get up, but he couldn’t. He had lost his poles, and the snow was deep where he was lying. He tried to untangle himself, but every time he put out his arms to push himself up into a sitting position they would sink into a fluffy white nothingness which appeared to have no bottom. He cursed the last snowfall, but that didn’t help, and he found himself becoming panicky. He couldn’t just lie there! He had to get up! He was losing his time advantage. He tried to talk to himself calmly and consider his position. If he could just work his skis around and, somehow, get them under him. He tried that over and over again until he was forced to lie back exhausted.

  It was then, as he lay there, that he heard above him the whipping noise that must be a skier coming down like seven devils. Slater wrenched his body around, fumbled for the heavy .38 in his parka and pointed it uphill, determined to pick them off one by one, if necessary. If he could get them and keep from freezing to death until morning, he would be all right.

  He picked out the skier above him in the moonlight. He was moving fast all right, and he made a poor target. Slater got to him in his sights, gauged the skier’s speed, tracked him with his revolver, but he did not fire. He thought he had recognized the green and white sweater. He fired twice, but he fired straight up in the air and waited. He watched anxiously as the figure started to check and finally swung into a snow-spraying turn. There was no question about it, thought Slater with envy, that man Wyman could ski! Wyman fell into the snow.

  “It’s all right, Wyman,” Slater yelled. “It’s me, Slater. I’ve taken quite a spill. I don’t think anything’s broken, but I’m in snow up to my neck and I can’t seem to get out.”

  Wyman stood up cautiously. “Use your poles!” he yelled.

  “I lost them!”

  Wyman located Slater’s voice and skied over to him. He reached out his pole; Slater grabbed it and pulled himself up. His legs trembled, but he managed, still hanging on to Wyman’s pole, to get himself out of the deep snow and back onto the track.

  �
�Thanks, Wyman,” said Slater. “I guess I’m not the skier I thought I was.”

  “Bad stretch back there,” he said. “If you can travel, we’d better get moving. I’m afraid the boys are not far behind.”

  Slater nodded and handed Wyman the revolver.

  “There are two shots gone, but you’d better take this.”

  “What about you?”

  “I have another one,” said Slater. “Let’s go!”

  The two men started down the long snowfield side by side.

  “Pretty fair going,” yelled Wyman, “from here on! We hit a patch of woods below here, but the trail isn’t bad and then we hit an open stretch the rest of the way to the bottom.”

  Slater wished that the woods extended to the road. They would present too good a target should anyone be waiting for them at the bottom. Wyman’s company reassured him and his legs felt better. The skiing was much easier, not nearly so steep. Going straight as they were, they could not have been going over forty miles an hour.

  Suddenly, Slater heard some shots behind him, and his lack of speed was no longer at all attractive. Whoever was behind them must be taking that bad stretch wide open. If he didn’t fall, he would be bound to catch up.

  Slater crouched as low as he could and Wyman did the same. Wyman began to pull ahead. His extra weight made him go faster than Slater. The woods were still fifty yards below them.

  Slater prayed that they would make them in time. The bullets were coming closer. It might have been his imagination, but he could have sworn he had felt the hot breath of a slug passing his right cheek. Wyman disappeared into the wood below, and Slater hear another volley of shots behind him. He felt the slug burn its way into the flesh of his shoulder just as he entered the woods.

  The trail dipped suddenly and turned sharply at the same time. Slater picked up speed again, never so grateful for woods and a steep run in his life. He tore down through the woods like an Olympic downhill champion. Death was riding at his heels, and the speed meant nothing. He took every turn wide open. The wind tore at his clothes and burned his cheeks. The filtered moonlight gave the trail an eerie look as the trees on either side cast crazy deceptive shadows.

  Slater flew out into the open. He could see the roadway below. Wyman wasn’t twenty yards ahead of him. Slater felt exalted and very lightheaded. He was skiing with the best and going like hell. The two men sped down across the open field and christied to a full stop at the bottom by the road. They tore off their skis and scrambled up the embankment. More shots rang out, and this time they were really close.

  Wyman and Slater threw themselves, face down, on the snow. Slater looked wildly around for the car. He couldn’t see very much. The snow was in his eyes, but there was no car across the street. It looked as though he and Wyman would somehow have to stand and fight.

  “Afraid I’ve gotten you into a worse mess than you were already in,” Slater said to Wyman, who was lying in the snow beside him.

  “Not on your life,” said Wyman. “I tried to face Webber with the truth up there, and that scrawny little rat Hormsby tried to finish me off. I damn near never got out of that hotel.”

  Slater managed to get the revolver at his waist. He winced at the pain in his right shoulder. Wyman already had the gun out that Slater had given him. They inched their way around so that they would be facing anyone foolish enough to appear above the embankment.

  Suddenly they heard the sound of shots. Slater thought for a moment that Webber and Hormsby were firing to keep him pinned down, while the two of them rushed up the embankment. Then he heard the car. He turned his head in time to see a Volkswagen coming toward them from the direction of Kitzbühel. The shots were coming from the car, and they were aimed over his head at the embankment. The back door opened as the car pulled up opposite them. The car was moving much more slowly, but it was still moving. Slater saw Ilse holding open the door.

  “Come on, Wyman!” yelled Slater, getting to his feet. “Run like hell and fire behind you at the same time.”

  Wyman did not need to be told twice. The two men sprinted for the car on the other side of the road. Slater jumped in first, and Wyman followed quickly right behind him.

  “Gun it, Hollingsworth!” yelled Slater. “Let’s get out of here!”

  George put his foot all the way to the floor. Wyman fired out of the window, but no one appeared above the embankment.

  “Sorry I didn’t meet you immediately,” George was out of breath, “but after I picked up Miss Wieland and the Colonel, she told me to back the car up out of sight until she could make sure it was you.”

  “Can’t you go any faster?” Ilse was looking out of the rear window.

  “I’ve got the pedal down to the floor now.”

  “You have any trouble getting here?” asked Slater.

  “Yes. Some tall thin fellow tried to stop me at the bottom about a hundred yards from the cable station.”

  “What did you do to him?” Slater remembered noticing that Anton had looked a little mussed.

  “I knocked him out and left him lying in the snow.” George sounded quite proud of himself. “I may have killed him! I never hit anyone that hard before!”

  Slater smiled, but he decided not to disillusion him. Instead he said, “Thanks, George. You did a good job.” George was so startled by the praise he nearly drove off the road.

  chapter thirty-one

  SLATER GAVE INSTRUCTIONS to Hollingsworth to drive to Wörgl and told him to stop in front of the small garage where Slater had left his car only two days before. The owner lived in an apartment above and, encouraged by a generous number of schillings, offered the group some food and the warmth of his kitchen in the rear of his apartment.

  Slater closed the kitchen door and went to the phone in the hallway. He asked for a number in Salzburg and waited patiently while the number rang and rang.

  “Hello.” The voice at the other end sounded overeager, as though its owner had been asleep and didn’t want it to be obvious.

  “Slater, here,” he said. “Connect me with Kartovksi.”

  “Give me your number, and I’ll have him call you.”

  Slater looked at the dial and gave the number.

  “Is it urgent?” said the voice. “Shall I have him call right away?”

  “You’re damn right it’s urgent.” Slater was disgusted. “Why in hell else would I call at this hour? Have him phone me immediately. And,” Slater added, “you’d better stay awake next time.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Slater hung up. “Damn fool!” he muttered and went into the kitchen.

  Dinar and Hollingsworth were seated at the table. Ilse was standing by the window, looking outside, and Wyman was helping the old man to prepare the food.

  “Do you speak English?” Slater asked the old man.

  “Nein.”

  Slater insulted him in English a few times, decided the answer was the truth and turned to Wyman.

  “Do you have more than one bank account in Zurich?”

  Wyman looked surprised and then grinned. “No,” he said, “and the one I do have isn’t exactly chock full.”

  “Do you know a girl named Trude Kupfer?”

  Wyman frowned. “Only by reputation. She isn’t exactly my dish of tea.”

  “Did you ever find any money in your room at the Winterhof?”

  “Are you kidding?” Wyman was incredulous.

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” asked Slater.

  “No.” Wyman was immediately subdued.

  George was listening with great interest. He decided that Slater was fast becoming his old self.

  “Did you receive any American money while you were in Kitzbühel?”

  “Well—yes. Webber gave me some ten-dollar bills.”

  “I knew it,” said George. “Wyman’s a spy after all.”

  “What are you talking about, Hollingsworth?” Wyman turned on George. “Hold your jaw, while you’ve still got one!”

  “That
’s enough,” said Slater. “Things still don’t look too good for you, Wyman.”

  “Well,” said Wyman, shaking his head, “I’ve obviously been mixed up with the wrong team, but I didn’t know it.”

  “That’s all right, Wyman,” said Slater. “I believe you, but,” he added, “I have one or two more questions.”

  “Go ahead,” said Wyman.

  “Why did you buy a round-trip ticket to Munich the night you left Zurich, and then change trains?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Answer my question,” Slater said.

  “Webber told me to,” said Wyman, “as a precaution against being followed.”

  “Wise man, that Webber.” Slater was bitter. Someday, maybe—“Webber told you a lot of things, didn’t he?” Wyman nodded.

  “Webber also told us a lot of things—about you.” Slater handed Wyman Webber’s letter to Putnam. “Go ahead, read it!”

  The phone rang and Slater went out into the hall. “Hello.”

  “Hello, lover!”

  Slater smiled. “Farouk?”

  “That’s I’m!” said Kartovski. “You want my big feet now?”

  “Yes,” said Slater. “I want your big feet. I need them, and a couple of other pairs about the same size. I’ve got the man you’re looking for and a couple of tea drinkers who have turned out okay.”

  “I’ll leave here in fifteen minutes. Give the directions.” Slater gave detailed directions and hung up. Lazio had promised to arrive in a couple of hours.

  When Slater returned to the kitchen, George and Wyman were having an argument.

  “I’m telling you, George,” said Wyman, waving Webber’s letter in his hand, “I caught Charlie Webber photographing classified material!”

  “Then why didn’t you report him?” said George.

  “Because I’m as new to all this as you are, and Webber was the senior man.” Wyman frowned. “He actually made me feel guilty for catching him.”

  “Man, were you fooled!” said George.