Legacy of a Spy (19 page)

“No, of course not,” said Anton expectantly.

“Well,” Slater sighed, “that’s a load off my mind. Thanks very much for listening, and I sure hope you catch up with him.”

Slater started to move away from the desk.

“But, Mr. Slater,” Anton called after him.

Slater turned. “Yes,” he said, looking blank.

“You haven’t told me where I can find Mr. Carmichael.”

“Oh.” Slater raised his eyes upward, shook his head disgustedly at himself. “I don’t know
what’s the matter with me
sometimes. I’d forget my head, if it wasn’t connected to you-know-what.”

Anton looked puzzled.
“No, what?”

“My neck.”
Slater laughed. “By golly, I got you that time.”

Anton looked as if he were in great pain. He waited until Slater had subsided. It took quite a while, for Slater was almost hysterical. He had played his part too well, and the pressure, plus Anton’s reaction, was almost too much.

“Mr. Slater,” said Anton very quietly, as if he were afraid any distraction might set Slater off course again, “please, tell me where you think Mr. Carmichael might be.”

“Well,” said Slater, “I think he might still be right around here someplace.”

“What makes you think that, Mr. Slater?” Anton’s voice actually sounded eager.

“Well, you see,” said Slater, “I met him Saturday here in Kitzbühel,” Slater paused. “The thing is, I got confused and got off the train at a place called Wörgl. I meant to come here instead. Anyway, I found a room in some peculiar little place in Wörgl, Saturday night; but there was nothing to do there, so I spent most of the day and that evening here. When I met this fellow Carmichael in the bar and told him about my predicament, he told me he didn’t think I could get a room anywhere in Kitzbühel on a Saturday night.”

“It is very difficult,” said Anton, and right away regretted it.

“You’re telling me!” said Slater. “I must have tried a hundred places. Every one of them filled up.
Standing room only, so to speak.”

“Please, Mr. Slater,” said Anton. “Go on.”

“Yes, well, that’s it.”

“What’s it?” asked Anton.

“Carmichael told me I could share his room for the night, but I never could find him in, so I had to go back to Wörgl.”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Slater,” said Anton, “but I don’t understand what that has to do with Mr. Carmichael’s present whereabouts.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Slater shaking his head again. “Carmichael also asked me all about Wörgl. He said he had a girl friend there he was planning to visit the next day. He wanted to know what kind of a town it was, what there was to do.” Slater shrugged. “Of course, I couldn’t tell him very much.”

“No,” said Anton with more feeling than the small word justified. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Slater.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Slater. “I don’t want you to think that all of us Americans are just like that fellow Carmichael.”

“I don’t,” said Anton, “I assure you.”

Slater went up to his room; and Slazov, who had been watching the whole performance, went over to the desk immediately.

“What was all that about?” Slazov asked Anton.

“I’m not sure,” said Anton thoughtfully. “If that man is an agent, he certainly knows how to perform exactly like an idiot. I will do some checking. Don’t do anything further until you hear from me. If you don’t get him now, you can take care of him at the party tonight.”

“I wish,” Slazov looked very annoyed, “you’d make up your mind.”

“I will,” said Anton. “In the meantime, don’t let him out of your sight.”

Slazov moved away from the desk and took a seat at the far end of the lobby where he could observe the stairs.

Slater bolted the door to his room, put a chair against it and walked over to the bed. He picked up the house phone and left a call for seven o’clock. He had made a play for time.
Time in which to sleep.
He prayed that he had won; because if he didn’t get some sleep immediately, he didn’t think he could go on. He took his gun from his waist holster and placed it on the bed. He removed his boots and stretched out on the bed. He fell asleep immediately with the revolver lying on his open right hand.

He was suddenly awakened two hours later by a heavy pounding on his door.

SLATER BEGAN the struggle back to the world of reality. He had the feeling of pushing his way through layer after layer of thick mist to a small orange-colored light. When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself on his back staring at the ceiling, his body bathed in sweat, and his right hand holding the clammy butt of his .38.

“Who is it?” Slater called.

“It’s the room clerk, sir. The operator tried to call you at seven o’clock, and then at a quarter past, but you didn’t hear so I was sent up to find out if you are all right, sir.”

“What time is it now?” asked Slater.

“Twenty-five minutes past the hour, sir. Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m glad you called me.”

Slater was suddenly alert. He had heard that voice before, but he could not remember where. The accent was peculiar. Whoever was out there was no Austrian. He checked his watch. It was 7:25. He had, unquestionably, overslept. Slater looked at the door. The man had been trying to break in. If his assassin was out in the hallway, this was as good a time to have a showdown as any.

Slater slipped out of the bed quietly and went over to the door in his stocking feet, removed the chain and slid back the bolt. He stepped back about five feet and, keeping the revolver well out in front of him, said, “Come on in. I would like to thank you for your consideration.”

Slater waited tensely, prepared to fire at the slightest sign of trouble, but there was no answer.

“Come in,” he called again, trying to sound cheerful and friendly. “The door is unlocked.”

There was still no answer, and Slater could feel his heart beating in his throat. He lowered the revolver and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He stood there, breathing heavily, still five feet from the door. Had the man gone away, or was he waiting out in the hall for Slater to open the door, too smart to be the first one to expose
himself
?

Slater clamped his jaw tight, and the muscles rippled in his cheeks. He knew he couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. The whole thing was probably a result of his overworked nerves. He looked around the room, knowing beforehand it was useless. There was no other way out of the room. Slater tried to collect his thoughts. He did not want to step out into that hallway until he somehow satisfied himself that there really was no one there. He went to the phone and picked up the receiver.

“Room service, please.”

“Yes, sir.”
The operator’s voice sounded very reassuring.

“Room service,” a voice answered.

“Please send up a bottle of Scotch, some ice, and soda water to room twenty-seven, right away.”

“Yes, sir!
Right away, sir!”

Slater replaced the receiver on the cradle, walked over to the door, bolted it again and started putting on his ski boots. His fingers were clumsy, and it took him quite a while to lace them up. He opened his suitcase and pulled out a clean shirt and a Paisley scarf. He was in the process of knotting the scarf around his neck when he heard a knock on the door. He picked up his revolver and stepped behind the door.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Room service with your order, sir.”
It was a different voice.

“Come in. The door is unlocked,” said Slater, sliding back the bolt.

The door opened slowly, and Slater waited until he saw the man appear with the tray. He put the gun in his pocket and asked the waiter to put the tray on the table.

“Was there anyone in the hallway as you came in?”

“Why no, sir.”

Slater picked up the house phone. When the operator answered, he asked her if she had called room twenty-seven at seven.

“Yes, sir,” she said immediately, “and I called you again at 7:15, but you didn’t answer either call. I’m very sorry, sir,” she added. “I was about to try again.”

“That’s all right,
miss
,” said Slater. “The extra sleep did me good.”

“I’m glad, sir.” The operator sounded relieved.

“By the way,” said Slater, “you didn’t send anyone up here to wake me, did you?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Slater hung up and turned to the waiter, who was standing by the table respectfully.

“Shall I make you a drink, sir?” the waiter asked.

“Yes, please,” said Slater. Anything to keep the man here, he thought. “Tell me,” said Slater, “do you have any foreigners on your staff?”

“No, sir.
All the employees of this hotel are Austrian. Most of us were born right here in this valley.” The waiter carefully poured the whiskey over the ice into the glass and then filled the glass with soda.

Slater turned back to his suitcase and closed it.

“Do you like Scotch whiskey?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the waiter, “but it’s too expensive for me.”

“Pour
yourself
a drink,” said Slater. “We’ll drink a toast to Kitzbühel, and then we will go down to the lobby together.”

Slater went to the bathroom door. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

He closed the door and checked his equipment. An informal party would nevertheless indicate wearing a sport jacket above the ski pants. Many Germans and Austrians wore sport jackets while skiing. Slater was glad to have the cover for he preferred to wear his revolver in a belt holster. He believed the revolver was less conspicuous and easier to get at than if it were kept in his pocket or in a shoulder holster. Part of it, he realized, was purely a matter of habit and personal preference, but the position of the gun was also largely determined by his build. He was deep in the chest and slim in the waist. Consequently, all of his jackets were loose at the waist and offered more than enough room for a gun. Slater bent over and felt the inside of his calf. The knife was there and so was the thin file on the other side. He had grown so accustomed to wearing them he could forget they were there. He checked his pipe lighter to make certain the .22 long
cartridge
was in place and the firing mechanism was functioning. He pulled the small white handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently unfolded it. Two
round
, transparent gelatin capsules, which were filled with a watery substance, lay in the palm of his hand. One of them would kill him within a matter of seconds. He looked at them for a moment and shook his head. He knew he could never stand up under torture, but he wondered if he would have the courage to take one of the pills. The gelatin was purposely thick. A man could put one in his mouth, and the temperature of his body would not melt it. The idea was that if an agent believed himself in immediate danger of capture, he could put one into his mouth and save it until all possibility of escape was gone. At that time, he could bite down on it, and the poison would kill him immediately. One of the chemists who prepared the “L” tablets had told him never to bite unless he really wanted to die because there would be no turning back.

Slater checked the Belgian .32 in his right jacket pocket and then pulled on his parka. In the chest pocket was a regular Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, a weapon of which he was particularly fond. The barrel was long enough to make it accurate in practiced hands, and a .38 slug would stop a man cold. In the chest pocket also were three Swiss chocolate and fruit bars, and in his right hip pocket was a small flask of brandy.

Slater had long ago gotten over any feeling of self-consciousness at loading himself with so much equipment. There had been too many times when he had had occasion to use every item but the “L” pills. Maybe, he thought, looking at his face in the mirror, they are what I will have to use this time.

He emerged from the bathroom, completely dressed and ready to go. The waiter had poured his own drink but was waiting politely for Slater.

Slater picked up his glass. “To Kitzbühel,” he said.
“And to your success and mine.”

“A long life to us both, sir,” said the waiter.

Slater looked at him over the rim of his glass. Now why, he thought, should anyone wish me a long
life.

The two men finished their drinks simultaneously. The waiter preceded Slater out of the room, and Slater turned the key in the door. It wasn’t until then the realization suddenly dawned on him that, besides bolting his door and putting a chair against it, he had also locked it from the inside. Whoever had tried to break in had either had the key or known how to pick the lock. Slater accompanied the waiter downstairs, wishing he had taken another drink, somewhat comforted by the fact that the bottle of Scotch would be waiting.

When the waiter and Slater had disappeared around the corner and down the stairs, a door at the end of the corridor opened, and Slazov’s short thick body stepped into the hallway and moved unhurriedly to Slater’s room. Slazov knocked and then waited and listened. After the second knock, he took out the key Anton had given him and opened the door. Closing the door quietly behind him and bolting it, he stood in the middle of the room and, rocking back and forth gently on his feet, looked carefully at everything. He went over to the bottle of Scotch, unscrewed the top, lifted it to his lips, and tasted it cautiously. He put down the bottle and made a face. He did not like Scottish whiskey. He pulled a small vial from his coat pocket and removed the stopper. It looked like a perfume bottle. He carefully poured the contents into the whiskey, shook the mixture and replaced the empty vial in his pocket, leaving everything as he had found it. Slazov tried to open Slater’s aluminum suitcase but gave up in disgust after five minutes of fruitless effort. He did not really care what Slater had in there. Anton could pick up the suitcase later and open it with a blowtorch. Slazov put back the bag and left the room, locking it again from the outside.