Legacy of a Spy (11 page)

BEHIND THE GUN was the man Webber had described as having a face like a waxed apple and whose name, according to Mahler, was Fritz Stadler.

“I came to see Herr Webber,” said Slater.

“You are right on
time
,” said Stadler, “but you were supposed to bring a car.”

“I preferred to walk. It’s such a lovely night.” Slater smiled. “Where’s Webber?”

“Herr Webber is no longer with us,” said Stadler.

“You mean he’s dead.”

“He died for his country.” Stadler’s expression was very pious. “I have someone,” he added, “who would like to have a talk with you. Come!”

The gun indicated the direction, and Slater led the way through a crude living room and into the family room. There was the tiled stove in the corner and a long heavy table with straight-backed chairs around it. At the far end of the table near the stove sat Herr Krüpl. The eye without the eyelashes looked enormous in the half light from the table lamp beside him, and the round indentation in his forehead gaped like an empty eye socket.

“Sit!” Krüpl indicated a chair at the opposite end of the table. When Slater hesitated, the Luger was pressed into the back of his neck. Slater sat down. Stadler remained standing behind him.

“I don’t believe we have met,” said Krüpl.

“No,” said Slater.

“Your name?”

“There’s a farmer tied up in the snow out there,” said Slater. “He’ll freeze to death if someone doesn’t go and get him.”

“There’s plenty of time to get him,” said Krüpl.

“Pretty cold out,” said Slater insistently.

“Your name?”
Krüpl’s voice was steady.

“Jones,” said Slater. “What’s yours?”

“My name is not important,” said Krüpl.

Slater could not understand why Stadler hadn’t searched him. He would not find any identification papers, but Slater was a walking arsenal. Possibly Stadler had assumed, since Slater had entered the farmhouse without waving a revolver around, that Slater had come unarmed. He had not entered, revolver in hand, because he had been quite certain that, if it was a trap, whoever was inside would want to talk to him first to find out how much he knew. Had he entered with a gun, they might have been forced to kill him immediately. And why didn’t Stadler go outside and release the farmer? It wasn’t simply callousness, Slater felt certain. An ally with a rifle would be handy to have around. Slater decided that Krüpl must be unarmed and did not want to be left alone.

“Did you enjoy the $170, Herr Carmichael?” Krüpl smiled. The smile made his face look more grotesque than ever. “It isn’t that we cannot afford the money, Herr Carmichael, it’s simply that we like our people to earn it first.”

“My name is Jones,” said Slater.

“Your name,” said Krüpl, “may not really be Carmichael, but it is unquestionably not Jones.” Krüpl stared at Slater for a moment, as if trying to see through him. “Tell me,” said Krüpl finally, “how did you discover our methods of payment?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Slater.

Krüpl drummed his fingers on the table and Slater felt the impact of the Luger as Stadler hit him a glancing blow across the back of the head. Slater’s fingers went numb, and the light from the table lamp seemed to dance up and down for a moment, and then his head cleared and began to throb violently. He bit his lips to keep from yelling at the pain.

“Don’t knock him out,” said Krüpl. Slater said nothing.

“Answer my questions please.” Krüpl’s voice was dispassionate. “I understand your interest in the late Herr Webber, but like your friend, your curiosity may cause you considerable difficulty. Have you told your employers,” Krüpl smiled at the word, “about our ingenious payment organization?”

“I have no employers,” said Slater, “only friends. They know whatever I know.”

Slater couldn’t understand what Krüpl’s connection with the $170 could be. He tried to think, but his head was aching so that he couldn’t be positive. He thought that he had met Krüpl as Slater, not Carmichael, and that Ilse Wieland had made the introduction at the Café des Engels.

“How much did you pay Rüdi?”

Krüpl expected an answer, and Slater realized he had better give one. He couldn’t afford another crack on the head. It would put him out of commission. The trouble was
,
Slater did not really know anything.

“Until I met you,” said Slater, “I thought Rüdi had paid me.” Slater steeled himself for another blow.

“I think, Herr Carmichael, that you are telling the truth.”

The conceited fool, thought Slater. Krüpl has so much faith in his own ability that he can’t believe anyone could suspect Rüdi of being anything more than a cog in the machinery.

“Why did you kill Webber?” asked Slater.

Krüpl hesitated.

“Because,” he said, “he was too curious, and not valuable to us, but you, Herr Carmichael,” Krüpl smiled, “are no amateur. I believe you have a history which would be of great interest to us. We are expecting some friends,” again Krüpl smiled, “who will be here soon and who know how to persuade a man to give his entire history.”

So that, thought Slater, was why there was no car in evidence. He had better move fast, while the odds were still only two to one. Slater felt in his coat pocket for his revolver. His hands were under the table, and he didn’t believe Stadler would notice. The Luger went off, and a slug burned itself into the edge of the table in front of him. The noise in the room was deafening.

“Stand up! Put your hands above your head!
Schnell!”
Stadler’s voice was as staccato as a machine gun.

Slater complied, and Stadler moved quickly into him and pressed the Luger into his stomach.

Slater was now standing away from the table with his back at a forty-five-degree angle to Krüpl. When Stadler started to reach for Slater’s right-hand coat pocket, Slater suddenly twisted his body to the right, at the same time hitting the gun barrel with his left elbow. The Luger went off for the second time, and Slater smashed his fist into Stadler’s jaw and went after the gun which was still in Stadler’s hand. Slater grabbed the man’s wrist, his thumbs pressing into the back of Stadler’s hand, and twisted. The gun dropped, but Stadler threw his body across Slater’s hips, and the two men crashed to the floor. Slater’s hair-piece fell off as he wrestled to get free so he could get at his revolver, but his snub-nose .38 fell out of his pocket; and when he finally rolled away and regained his feet, Stadler had done the same, and the two men stood facing each other across the room. The Luger and the .38 were lying on the floor between them.

“Krüpl!” yelled Stadler. “Kill him!
um
Gottes willen!”

Both men looked toward Krüpl. Slater expected to feel a slug burning its way through his body, then suddenly remembered Krüpl was not armed. Stealing a brief glance at Krüpl, Slater saw that his face was all smashed and bloody. Stadler’s bullet had hit him right in the middle of the face. Krüpl’s hand was still holding a .32 automatic. Slater’s calculations had been all wrong.

Stadler’s face was wax white now, except for a bruise which was beginning to spread across its right side.

“We make a deal,” he said. “I tell you what you want to know, you walk out of here alive.”

“No deals, Stadler!” Slater knew the man was stalling for time until his “friends” arrived.

“I won’t tell that you have brown hair instead of black.” Stadler looked desperate.

Slater knew he would have to kill Stadler, if he could. Stadler had probably been the one who had killed Charlie Webber in any case. Slater took a step toward the weapons. Stadler did the same, pulling out a long pocket knife. He pressed the button and a thin, slightly curved blade switched out.

Maybe it was the click of the knife, the thought of Charlie Webber, or Wyman’s treachery, or maybe it was the whole rotten business of ten years of fear, living a life of lies in which everything—even a beautiful woman—was denied him because of his profession; but Slater suddenly went berserk with a hate that would conquer any fear. Every muscle was as tight as a piano wire.

Neither man said a word from that moment on. They circled for position, and nothing could be heard but their shuffling feet and the sound of the clock ticking in the corner. Slater watched Stadler’s eyes. They were filled with fear and a hate that matched his own. Stadler was an old hand at infighting. He held the knife low and away from his body. Every time Slater feinted to get him off balance, he narrowly missed being cut. Slater backed toward the table, occasionally
feinting,
his arms wide like a football tackler’s. His right hand closed over the top of the chair he had been sitting on, and he swung it in one powerful motion. The heavy chair slammed into Stadler’s left side and carried him to the floor. Slater dived for his .38 and fired twice at close range into Stadler’s body. The second shot was unnecessary.

Slater picked up his hairpiece, went over Stadler’s body and removed his wallet, his passport and all his other identification. He did the same with Krüpl. He was surprised to find that Krüpl was an Austrian, and his home address was Kirchberg. Also Krüpl had a large number of American ten-and twenty-dollar bills.

Slater took a handkerchief from Stadler’s pocket and went outside to the tree. The farmer was still there, and he was trying to move his body to keep it warm. Slater hit him over the head from behind, blindfolded him with the handkerchief, dragged him inside and left him, bound, in the hallway. He went back to the living room and dragged Krüpl’s body out into the snow, beyond the driveway and about thirty yards from the back of the house. He didn’t use the crampons, because he didn’t want to leave any marks on the crust. He went inside the house again and repeated the process with Stadler. Stadler was heavier than he looked, and Slater found it hard going. He was getting desperate because time must be running out. He went back in the house for the last time, rummaged around until he found a shovel and a wooden bucket. He filled the bucket with water and lugged it and the shovel to the spot where the bodies were, and started to dig. Trying to get through the crust was like trying to dig through cement. He had to jam the shovel against it with all his strength and then jump straight-legged on the upper edge. It took him fifteen minutes to break through. The rest was relatively easy going. He dug a pit more than deep enough for the two bodies; and after shoveling the crusty part of the snow in first he dragged the bodies to the edge and rolled them in. He shoveled the snow in on top of them and stamped it down around them with his feet. Carefully, he smoothed the top layer with the back of his shovel. He turned to the bucket. A thin layer of ice had already formed over the top. He broke it with his shovel and poured the water evenly over the grave. In an hour, the top layer would freeze and it would meld with the unbroken snowfield.

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.

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.