Legacy of a Spy (22 page)

Slater went over to her and took Ilse’s face in his hands. They looked at each other for a moment, and neither said anything. Slater must have noticed her trembling, for he bent over quietly and started to rub her legs vigorously. Ilse felt the circulation returning and with it, a grateful warmth. The trembling stopped.

“Let me see your right hand,” he said, and he took off her ski mitten and proceeded to massage her hand. The feeling began to return.

“Have you any more shells?” he asked.

Ilse nodded and pointed with her left hand to the chest pocket of her parka. He unzipped her pocket and brought out the .32 and a small box of shells. He reloaded the automatic and returned it.

“You may need it again, Liebchen.” He had been speaking to her in German, and he had been using the familiar “du” form.

“What about your hands?” she said.

“Maybe you’ll warm them for me later,” he said.

The tall young man approached them. Ilse had noticed that he had been busy with Slazov’s body.

“I got all his papers,” he said. He appeared extremely nervous.

“Good,” said Slater, turning to the young man. “We’ll dispose of the body, George.”

“No, no!” said George. “I killed him,” George hesitated, “the least I can do is get rid of him.”

Slater smiled. “I’ve something else for you to do, George.”

“Well,” George hesitated, doubtfully, but he was obviously relieved.

“I want you to get back down to the village as fast as you can and get hold of a car. I want you to have it waiting at Klausen, headed for Kirchberg, at the foot of the Fleck Trail. Make certain there’s plenty of gas in it and start the motor as soon as you see or hear any activity on the trail.”

George still hesitated.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get with it!”

“You sure,” he said, “everything will be all right here?”

“I hope so,” Slater smiled.
“And, George.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks a lot for everything.”

Hollingsworth grinned. “Right,” he said. “I’ll be there waiting.”

Hollingsworth turned and headed for the cable house. Slater turned to Ilse. “That Hollingsworth is crazy. He’s never fired a gun before, and I told him not to fire less than two shots at a human target.” Slater shook his head. “He must have fired the entire clip!”

“Who is Hollingsworth, and how did he get up here?” Ilse was confused.

“He’s in the Foreign Service,” said Slater. “He’s been helping me here.” Slater frowned. “We had a little argument this afternoon. Told me he was checking out of this whole business. I told him to go ahead, and I thought he would. He phoned me at the hotel up here while you were flirting with the Russian. He asked me if there was anything he could do. My first thought was to tell him to go to hell. It’s awfully easy, Ilse, to forget the sensibilities of someone new to this business. Ever since I told him to get out of Kitzbühel, I was worried about his wandering around loose. The only thing he knew which might have been useful to the opposition was my real identity, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before they’d figure it out anyway. The thing is there have already been too many innocent victims, and I had called George to come down here in the first place. He obviously wanted to help and he was ashamed of his performance this afternoon.

“I needed help. There was no question about that. Even amateur assistance I thought would be better than nothing. I had spotted our bald friend just before you asked him to dance. I knew they had sent someone to dispose of me and I remembered seeing him by the station. I figured he was following me then. I asked Hollingsworth if he remembered him. When he said he did, that decided me. I told him to come on up to the ridge above the Streif trail marker; and as soon as I passed below it, he was to fire at the Russian. I made him promise to fire.” Slater added, “And I thought he would.”

“But you told me he’d never fired a gun in his life.”

“I know, but I didn’t really care whether his shots were accurate. I hoped they would be, of course, but the main thing was for Hollingsworth to create a diversion long enough for me to turn and shoot.”

“But I fired first.”

“Yes, and that confused me. I couldn’t decide at first whether my assassin had another ally. That was when I scrambled for cover.”

“I heard shots coming from your position.”

“They didn’t do much good. All I could do from there was to keep him hugging the side of the ridge.”

“Apparently Slazov tried to climb up the ridge and get you from above.”

“That’s when George emptied his clip.” Slater looked over Ilse’s shoulder at Slazov’s bulky body, lying face down in the snow, his head downhill. “You haven’t looked at the body,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“Your first three shots threw off the Russian’s aim, and mine pinned him to the ridge; but the two shots that killed him were from the front, not from the rear.” Slater looked at Ilse and smiled. “You see, Liebchen, Hollingsworth missed.”

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes!” Slater put his hand on her shoulder. “So you see,” his smile was gentle, “I owe you my life. Are you going to make me pay?”

Ilse looked up at him, trying to make her eyes noncommittal.

“I think so,” she said slowly.

She wished this moment could be prolonged somehow, but she knew that was impossible.

“Let’s bury this monster.” She said it in a whisper. “Even in death he frightens me.”

Slazov was extremely heavy and awkward, and it took both of them to carry him along the ridge. They buried him as deep as they could and packed the snow in above him. Even in the cold moonlight, the burial plot was fairly obvious, but there was no time to do a better job.

“I have spotted Dinar,” said Ilse when they had finished.

“I know,” said Slater. “I was watching you untie and retie your boot. That’s why I sent George for the car.”

“But how did you know which man was Dinar?”

“I was given his description. Are you certain you have found the right one? Did you give the proper signal?”

“Yes,” said Ilse, “but now that I’ve found
him,
I haven’t one idea how to get him away from there.”

Slater and Ilse discussed the problem on the way back up the wide slope to the hotel. Ilse went inside first, and Slater waited for about ten minutes and then entered.

George Hollingsworth had to wait fifteen minutes for a cable car to arrive. The cars ran on demand instead of on schedule, and he became more and more impatient and apprehensive as the time passed.

He was alone on the concrete pier. The machine operator had disappeared upstairs into the warmth of the control room. George stood there, staring out into the night, wondering where any man could have found the courage to turn his back on his murderer and lead him alone into an uncertain ambush. Hollingsworth heaved a heartfelt sigh. He felt so terribly inadequate beside Slater. His country should thank God for such a man. George was suddenly ashamed. He knew he had missed Slazov. The girl had shown more courage than he had, and they were both counting on him now. He frowned. He would not let them down this time, if he had to steal or kill to get that car.

A black speck appeared below him and grew rapidly larger, until the cable car was near enough for him to see the moonlight reflected by its windows. George stepped gratefully into the car, and the attendant, who was the only other occupant, closed the door, gave the signal, and the car started slipping down quietly into the village below.

WHEN SLATER entered the hotel, he saw Ilse dancing with Wyman. He edged his way toward them through the dancing couples. He stopped long enough to watch her for a moment. He decided they made a very handsome pair. Ilse followed Wyman effortlessly and smoothly. Wyman was as good on the dance floor as he was on skis. The thought angered Slater, and he cut in sooner than he had intended.

“Your hands,” said Ilse, “are freezing.”

She put her left arm around his neck and pushed up very close to him. He could smell the fragrance of her hair and feel the warmth of her body. They could have been any young couple who had just discovered they were in love. They should have been able to dance all night, to confess their love, to drink a toast to one another, to escape on skis into the village at dawn as many others at the party obviously planned to do. They should have but they were not just any young couple, and they could not act as others would. But the love was there all the same for anyone not totally blind to see.

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.