Legacy of a Spy (20 page)

And now for the Baron’s party, thought Slazov, smiling to
himself
. There was nothing he liked better than to mix business with pleasure. The poison in the Scotch was, after all, only just in case something should go wrong. Slazov laughed. Nothing had ever gone wrong before.

Slazov turned in his keys to Anton.

“He has gone?” said Slazov.

“Yes,” said Anton reproachfully. “I thought he wouldn’t be able to attend.”

“Our friend,” Slazov shrugged, “is too nervous. He is high-strung. Someday, who knows,” Slazov added, looking at Anton, “he may die of ulcers.”

Slazov moved off, his heavy laughter filling the lobby.

SLATER MOVED ALONG the freshly plowed streets toward the cable-car station. The snow was piled high on the sides, and the road was the only place to walk. The air was chilly again, because the night sky was clear and there was not the smallest cloud to catch the new warmth of the earth and hold it against the ground. If it got any colder, Slater was certain there would be great thick patches of advective fog. He hated to drive in that kind of weather. It was frustrating to be moving along briskly in the clear open air one minute and then, suddenly, plunge into a still, thick mist and have to throttle down to a crawl, knowing all the while that six to ten feet above the roof of the car the visibility was perfect. He wanted to put up his hood, but to do so would cut down on his visibility and hearing, and he had no doubt that either he was being followed or someone was waiting for him along the way. There was a crowd of party-goers up ahead, and he caught up with it as fast as he could, but did not join it, preferring to remain a few paces to the rear.

Slater broke off from the crowd as it turned beyond the railroad crossing toward the cable station and walked over to the red ski-rental shack. He had counted on its being open because of the big party at the top. He was relieved to find he was not the only one of the guests who thought that a moonlight ski, especially if well fortified with alcohol, would be an exciting adventure.

There were about ten people in the shack. Slater looked at them carefully. They were young, mostly, and European. He did not recognize any of them, and no one showed any apparent interest in him. He got his skis and poles without incident and, putting skis and poles under his left arm, moved awkwardly across the hundred and fifty yards to the cable car.

There is a certain amount of anonymity that ski clothes give a man, particularly at night. There was nothing distinctive about a black parka above black ski pants. As he approached the ring of light around the cable house, Slater saw at least twenty people who were dressed identically. There was a little rickrack on one parka, possibly an identifying ski patch on another, but at any distance they all looked pretty much alike.

Slater entered the basement, purchased his ticket and walked along the corridor to the side door. He looked up at the sky. There would be a moon before long, not a full one, but it would be too bright for comfort. He decided to remain in the shadow below the big wooden platform until his number was called. He could hear the shuffling feet and laughter of the people above him. Most of the conversation was in German, but there were so many voices he could pick up only an occasional phrase.

While Slater stood there in the darkness beneath the platform, he tried desperately to think, oppressed by the conviction that all the pieces of this puzzle were now in his possession. They must be, or the Communists would not have sent an assassin to murder him. The pieces were there somewhere in his mind. Up to now, he thought he had put them together very nicely, but something was radically wrong, for the pieces had apparently only appeared to fit because the picture was a preconceived one—one he had set up. Now, suddenly, they had all fallen apart.

Slater resorted to the one technique which experience had taught him was, if not infallible, at least the best method for solving any problem. It was a process, he suddenly realized with painful surprise, he had not employed nearly as much as he should have. He began to question himself. What did he really know? He must forget for the moment the functions of the people he suspected. Who were they? Slater was positive that Hormsby, Anton Reisch, Rüdi Petsch, Krüpl, Stadler, Hauser, von Burgdorf, Wyman, all of them were members of the Communist organization in Kitzbühel. What, he asked himself, was his proof that each of these men was a working member? He took each of them, one by one. He eliminated the most obvious ones first. Rüdi was guilty by his own confession. Krüpl and Stadler had tried to trap him. Hauser had killed Heinz Mahler.
Hormsby had delivered a package in the bookstore and owned an unusual lighter, identical to the one in Krüpl’s possession—a lighter which he had refused to produce in the bar in spite of all Slater’s provocations.
Anton had positively revealed himself when he had asked Slater if he knew Carmichael’s whereabouts. No desk clerk would try to collect on a guest’s bill when the shortage was the exact amount of the bribe the guest had found it necessary to offer to secure his room in the first place. Von Burgdorf was, at the very least, a front man for the Communists. The Office of Security, through Lazio Kartovski, had told him that.

Slater’s body
stiffened,
and he withdrew deeper into the dark protection of the space beneath the veranda. He heard Wyman’s voice loud and aggressive, as Wyman passed out of the exit from the ticket office. Wyman stood in the light from the doorway, turned and called back to someone inside.

“Come on, Ilse,” he said. “It’s beautiful out here.” He looked up into the night above him. “There
are
nothing but stars. Not a cloud anywhere.”

Ilse Wieland appeared, and Slater noticed she was carrying skis.

“Here, I’ll carry those,” said Wyman, “although I can’t see why you wanted to bring skis along.”

Wyman seemed annoyed, but he took the skis and poles from Ilse, and the two disappeared around the corner of the uprights supporting the veranda and joined the crowd on the steps.

And then there is Wyman, thought Slater. There was more evidence against Wyman than anyone else. Slater tried to keep his personal feelings out of his assessment of Wyman. It was difficult. To Slater, Wyman was a social opportunist, apparently without conscience, who would do anything to get the money to realize his social ambitions. He traded on his good looks and athletic ability. Slater frowned. He knew he had to forget his own opinions. Opinions did not often trap spies. He reviewed the damning evidence against Wyman.

First, there was the bogus bank account in Zurich in the name of Martin Hazel. A bank account opened over the telephone and created by a postal money order. Hollingsworth had checked that. What was it George had said? Slater tried to remember exactly. George had called the bank clerk mentioned in Webber’s letter and asked if there was an account in the name of Martin Hazel. There was, and it had $835 in it. Eight hundred thirty-five dollars was the amount of the money order. Hollingsworth had neglected to ask if Martin Hazel and Wyman were the same man.

Second, there was Wyman’s girl friend in Zurich, Trude Kupfer. George had gone to see her, and she had shown him some of Wyman’s expensive gifts. Slater began to wonder. Was a Trude Kupfer the kind of a girl a social climber like Wyman would go for? Slater wished he had interviewed her when he was in Zurich. Now that it was too late, he could think of a few questions he would have asked.

The new hypothesis which was beginning to force its way into Slater’s mind was badly damaged when he considered the third bit of evidence. Why, he asked himself, had Wyman purchased a round-trip ticket to Munich and then changed trains? No, thought Slater, I must be losing my mind. He had followed Wyman, when Wyman had asked for Schlessinger’s skis. He had intercepted the message in those skis. The message had said that Wyman would collect $170 from Rüdi. Slater stopped abruptly. He forced his mind back to the interview with the waiter. Rüdi had said that he had received orders not to put Wyman’s room number on the menu. At the time, he had not questioned the remark. He had immediately decided that Wyman had become too greedy, and the number-one man had given orders to turn off the golden supply. That could still be the reason, but was it? Slater smashed his fist into his open palm. The only things he had actually seen himself which incriminated Wyman were his purchase of the Munich ticket, his asking for skis, and his routine with Rüdi. By that time, thought Slater savagely, my mind had already been conditioned, but the whole idea was fantastic. The bitter, hard-earned lessons of ten years told him that nothing in this world was impossible. The greatest single mistake a man could ever make was to underestimate the enemy or accept any bit of evidence at face value. He knew this as well as any operator alive. He had been a fool, a blunderer of the worst kind, and that was the reason he was now standing alone in the cold darkness underneath the veranda, knowing his life might be the price he would have to pay.

The number of his car was announced over the loudspeaker. The blaring sound startled him. He had to make his appearance now. Slater tucked his skis and poles under his left arm again and moved quickly into the light of the exit, walked around the platform and started up the stairs. The platform was crowded and he was extremely uncomfortable. He didn’t want anyone too close to him. He was well aware of the advantages a crowd could provide an assassin. He also was familiar with some of the techniques.

Slater handed his skis and poles to the attendant and entered the cable car. He pushed his way to the far side and stood with his back against the window, facing the center. Wyman and Ilse would not be able to get a car for another twenty minutes. At that moment, Slater would have given almost anything to have Ilse beside him. It was a selfish wish, he knew, but two pairs of trained eves were far better than one, and he had something he wanted very much to tell her. He hoped he would have the chance, but in the meantime, for her sake, he would have to keep away from her when anyone else was around. If Slater’s calculations were correct, any obvious partnership between himself and Ilse would endanger her life. He was now firmly convinced that Colonel Imré Dinar must be at the Hotel Ehrenbachhöhe. Dinar was probably one of the guests of the hotel. This
much
the Communists were undoubtedly sure of. What they apparently did not know was exactly which of the guests he was. Somehow, they had discovered that the Ehrenbachhöhe Hotel was to be the meeting place. Possibly the previous German agent had told them that much, and they were now counting on Ilse to identify Dinar. A plan was taking shape in Slater’s mind. He wished he had persuaded Ilse to show him Dinar’s photograph.

The cable car was jammed. In Slater’s opinion, it was too full. The operator had permitted too many people on board and had definitely exceeded the safety limits. Moreover, the occupants were excited at the prospect of a big party. Undoubtedly, some of them had been drinking. They moved and jostled each other restlessly, and there was a great deal of laughter. The voices called to each other in the semi-darkness, as they swung up into the starry night. Slater could hear the inevitable comments about broken cables and swaying cable cars. One clown expressed the hope, in a state of high glee, that the snow was as soft as it looked, because it was a long way down.

Slater was unusually conscious of things he did not normally notice: the beauty of the night outside the windows, the black bulk of the mountains opposite, the ever increasing vista of the valley below. For once he did not want to see these things. He was afraid to take his attention from the activity immediately around him, but these things outside were real. They were the wonders and beauties of life, to be enjoyed and appreciated; but even these simple pleasures were now denied him as he forced his attention back to the people around him.

The light was poor, but of those individuals he could distinguish, none looked familiar; and no one appeared particularly friendly, except in that inept way that strangers have when meeting one another at a party—a look of innocuous cordiality which went no deeper than the vapid smile that represented it. If he were killed in their midst, they would get away from the unpleasant reality of his corpse as fast as they could, angry at him for trying to spoil their meaningless party. They would rush to the hotel, hold the center of the stage for a brief period as the bearers of sensational tidings, and then be the gayest of the gay as compensation for their brush with death. All but a few, thought Slater grimly, who would solemnly question the why of it all and philosophize on the impermanence of life.

How he envied them at this moment. But he hated them too, because they could offer him no help. They didn’t know this party, about which they were so excited, was a front behind which the Communists intended to capture and destroy a man dedicated to a small nation which demanded freedom from slavery, a man whose capture might mean the annihilation of thousands of people. Slater wanted to shout at them, to shake them, to tell them what was happening, but it would be useless he knew.

The cable car slowed and nudged its way between the cement piers. Slater breathed a sigh of relief. He was at the top, and he was still alive.

ILSE HAD SEEN Slater
pass
without so much as a glance in her direction. She watched him step on board, and the other passengers close in behind him. She kept her eyes on the car as it was pulled up and away into the night.

He is so stubborn, she thought, so afraid to believe in anyone. This life is bad for us.

“Are you sure,” said Wyman, “that you never knew that fellow Slater before?”

Ilse was startled, but turned calmly to Wyman. Apparently he had been watching her.

“Yes,” she said truthfully.