Legacy of a Spy Read online

  1. W said he was only going to Munich, but he went directly to Kitzbühel.

  2. He said he did not like or know how to ski, yet he had ski clothes and he rented skis the first day. I don’t remember the name of the rental place, but it is a little red shack across the road from the Talstation, on the right as you face the Hahnenkamm. I believe it’s the last one on the way to the practice slope. I observed him go up in the cable car and waited by the ski school in the hope that he would come down that trail. He did—and not very much later. This certainly would indicate some real skiing ability as the Streif is an Olympic run, very tricky and steep in parts.

  3. When he left Zurich, both his bank accounts—he has two, one under the name of Martin Hazel—were extremely low. (I have a friend in the Züricher Kantonalbank.) After the second day in Kitzbühel, W was suddenly quite affluent and was observed changing greenbacks to schillings.

  4. Although the weather has been perfect for skiing, he has only been out once in the three days up to now.

  5. He has been chummy with no one. He has tried, unsuccessfully I believe, to get acquainted with a redheaded German woman who calls herself Ilse Wieland.

  6. He is staying in room 28. He has eaten dinner at the hotel only once, and that was the first evening. His other lunches and evening meals have been taken at various other places in town.

  What has made me most suspicious is that I know I am being followed. I have tried to keep from being observed by W, but I am sure he has seen me, and somehow called out the watchdogs. Furthermore, they have become less subtle.

  I cannot describe them too well and I am only sure of two. I don’t believe they are local, but I think they are Austrians. One of them, the taller of the two, looks to be in his middle thirties and is over six feet with thin, straight, blond hair, heavy features and small eyes. He seems to be posing as a local resident, as he wears work boots and brown whipcord trousers that resemble riding breeches. The other is dressed like a tourist and recently moved into my pension, room 23. He is about five feet, nine inches, has dark, wavy hair, speaks German and is very clean shaven. His skin seems to have a waxy quality like an artificial apple. He’s lean and looks about thirty years old. He watches me like a hawk while I’m in the pension; and the other one takes over when I’m outside. I haven’t been able to get the dark-haired one’s name as yet, but I wanted to get this in the mail in case my time is running short.

  This letter is somewhat cryptic, because I’m having someone else mail it for me, and it might get in the wrong hands. The mailman is a German by the name of Heinz Mahler who says he was a prisoner of war in Russia. I believe he will mail it. He lives in Munich and works at the desk of the Bundesbahn Hotel.

  I realize the information is scanty, and you may feel it is my imagination. I hope that I will be able to talk to you in person soon. I intend to leave here tomorrow morning. If I’m not in Zurich by tomorrow evening, you should need no further proof that something is wrong. Needless to say, I hope you don’t get that kind of proof.

  Sincerely,

  C.L.W.

  P.S. You can check my personal file in the office for other info obtained in Zurich. The name of my banker friend is there. Please respect the confidence and protect him. He may be useful in the future.

  Slater folded up the letter and put it in his pocket.

  “That fellow Webber shows real promise. He was at a tremendous disadvantage. I’d like to talk with him.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t,” said George. “This letter was received a week ago, and we haven’t seen or heard from Webber since.”

  “Looks like whatever Wyman was up to was important, and his friends really meant business.” Slater turned to George. “What about Wyman? Is he back at the old stand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he really have two bank accounts?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?” asked Slater.

  “I phoned Herr Baumann,” said George, “and asked if Martin Hazel had an account there, and Baumann said yes.”

  “Did you find out how much Hazel had in there?”

  “Baumann didn’t want to tell me at first, but when I told him I was a member of the American Consulate, he said that Hazel had sent in a postal money order for $835.”

  “Well, he got quite a piece of change,” Slater shook his head. “I’m underpaid.”

  Hollingsworth looked shocked. George apparently had no sense of humor.

  “What about Wyman’s Swiss girl friend? Have you checked her?”

  “Only enough to find out,” said George, “that she’s rather promiscuous—for those who can afford her. She showed me some of the expensive presents Wyman gave her. I don’t like women like that,” George added decisively. “I would suspect her of anything, but,” and George looked somewhat crestfallen, “I must admit I don’t believe she is involved.”

  Slater chuckled inwardly at such naïveté, but he was pleased that Hollingsworth had been so thorough.

  “Just one more thing, George. I like your thoroughness, but I hope you are not as free with names with other people as you have been with me. From now on don’t volunteer a name, unless I ask for it, and please refer to me only as Montague—even when talking with Putnam; he knows me by no other.”

  “Right!” George tried to cover his embarrassment. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  “Does Wyman appear to be suspicious that you are onto him?”

  “No,” said George, but there was some doubt in his mind. “I don’t think so. No one has confronted him with Webber’s disappearance. To my knowledge, no one has been assigned to watch him directly. Mr. Putnam apparently received orders from your office to leave him strictly alone.”

  “Good.” Slater nodded. “Do you happen to know if he’s planning another excursion?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, he has asked for permission to take another long weekend. He plans to leave Friday evening and be back on duty Tuesday morning.”

  “Do you have photographs of Wyman with you?”

  “Yes,” said George, secretly pleased, because the pictures had been his idea. “They aren’t too good, but I believe they are more or less characteristic.”

  George handed some snapshots to Slater. Slater looked them over carefully.

  “He’s a good-looking devil. Looks rather husky.”

  “He is,” said George. “He must weigh 190. His hands and wrists are big. His eyes are blue and his hair, as you can see in that profile, is short, wavy and thick. He has very expensive taste in clothes. He is aggressive and very sure of himself. His one weakness seems to be his desire to keep up with the so-called international set.”

  Slater was silent. He examined the photographs carefully, weighing the odds, and grimly considering what might have happened to Webber.

  “Have you a picture of Webber?”

  “Yes,” said George frowning. “I had a terrible time finding one.” George handed him a small passport-type photograph.

  “Is this the best you could get?”

  “It’s the only one.” George was apologetic. “But,” he added, “it’s a surprisingly good likeness. He’s slim, about five ten, and very pleasant looking, as you can see.”

  Slater looked at his watch. “You better turn around and take me back to Munich.”

  They were almost at the Rosenheim turnoff, and Hollingsworth made the change-over there.

  “We want to know,” said Hollingsworth, as he headed the car back to Munich, “what information Wyman is taking out, how it is transmitted, how he is paid, and by whom. We obviously would prefer that you do not disturb the mechanism, if possible, and, of course, we would like to get Webber back.”

  Slater stared out of the car window. He slumped low in his seat. There were a great many things he wanted to say in response to that last request. He was boiling inside, and he was tempted to take out his anger on Hollingsworth; but he knew Hollingsworth was only asking what Putnam had instructed him to ask
. Slater looked at the snow-covered hills which were higher on this side of Munich—hills, which grew larger and taller as you approached Salzburg, and then, if you turned south, suddenly became Alps.

  “That was quite a speech you just made,” said Slater finally. “Putnam must think I’m a one-man army.” He shrugged. “I should be used to it by now, but I’m not.” And then, suddenly, his anger got the better of him. “Tell me why, Hollingsworth! Why does Webber’s return rate such a low priority?”

  Hollingsworth was mortified. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carmichael, believe me! I know you don’t think much of us amateurs. I know now that Putnam was a fool not to have Wyman investigated at once, and probably Charlie Webber was crazy to try it on his own.” Hollingsworth took a deep breath and continued, “There was no order to my requests, or Putnam’s, I’m sure. Charlie Webber was one of us amateurs; and although he was somewhat aloof, he was greatly admired.”

  Slater was silent. His outburst was inexcusable. He knew well enough that Webber, and he as well, were expendable. How he hated that word, that word and two others—the “big picture.” The Webbers and Slaters, or Carmichaels and Montagues, were all infinitesimal in the “big picture,” but he had only himself to blame. This was a voluntary job like all the others. It was simply that now he knew what to look forward to. Find Webber. Who is Wyman’s employer? Who’s making the pay-off? How? What has Wyman already told? What will be Wyman’s next job? To Hollingsworth those requests probably sounded like an exciting challenge—a strenuous little game of cloak and dagger. To Slater they meant fear, naked stinking fear with death at the end, and no recognition should he, by some miracle, be successful. This was the last assignment—win, lose or draw. After that, somebody else could take his place. In the meantime, he was going to stay alive.

  Slater looked at George. “Forget it, George,” he said. “I guess I’m a little on edge. We haven’t much time. I suggest we arrange our future contact procedure.”

  “Yes,” said George uncertainly. He took his eyes off the slippery road for a minute to have a look at Carmichael.

  For the first time, George noted the lines of worry. Carmichael couldn’t be more than thirty-five, and he looked hard-muscled and very fit, possibly too much so, like an overtrained athlete. Hollingsworth suddenly realized Carmichael was like a watch that has been wound too tight. Someone or something would open the back, and the tight mainspring would snap out of its case and strew the works all over the place. George felt apprehensive, but not for himself. He didn’t want to see this man, whose exploits were legend, suddenly come apart at the seams. It was George’s turn to get angry, angry at the people who continued to put the pressure on a man who had already done so much. Why couldn’t they give him a rest? Montague, or Carmichael, was battle-happy.

  Slater knew he was being assessed and he didn’t like it. He wanted no judgments from a young, smooth-faced diplomat.

  “Give me your phone number in Zurich,” said Slater, “and always leave a number there where you can be reached at any time of the day or night. I don’t want you to call me under any circumstances, at least for the present. I will arrange for some method of two-way communication, when I get located. When I call you, I will call myself Karl. Don’t be alarmed if you don’t recognize my voice. I will know yours, and I will always ask you the time before I give you any instructions. Do you speak German well enough to understand a phone conversation?”

  “Yes. I also speak the Zurich dialect.” George was proud of his linguistic accomplishments. Much to his surprise, Carmichael immediately switched to Zurich Deutsch. George was glad he hadn’t been bluffing.

  Slater was pleased. There weren’t half a million people in Europe who could speak or understand Swiss German. The Swiss Air Force had spoken it on their intercom during World War II and had driven the Germans crazy trying to understand it.

  “All right,” said Slater, “now let’s set up our meeting places. If I suggest on the phone that we have a drink in Munich at the Bundesbahn Hotel at ten hundred, that means I’ll meet you on the southwest corner of the Staatsbrücke in Salzburg at eleven hundred. That goes for all meeting times: they will always be one hour later than either of us indicates on the phone.

  “If I suggest the Winkler Café in Salzburg, we shall meet where we met by the Hofbraü Haus. If you say no, I will expect you to be there. If you say yes, but mention another time, I will add one hour to your suggestion and be waiting for you at the new time. Should either of us give an unqualified yes, that will mean the meeting is out of the question.

  “If, for reasons of emergency, either of us wishes to break into clear conversation, he must ask, ‘How is Horst?’ and if the reply is, ‘He has been ill lately,’ we can go ahead. If, on the other hand, the reply is, ‘He’s fine and wants to be remembered to you,’ that will mean we can’t talk now, and the one who has given the answer will try to call back from somewhere else later or will give another number where he can be reached in an hour.” Slater paused and then asked, “Do you think you have all this straight?”

  George frowned. “I think so. Let’s see, all meeting times will be one hour later than stated. The Winkler Café in Salzburg means the Hofbraü Haus in Munich, and the Bundesbahn Hotel means the southwest corner of the Staatsbrücke in Salzburg. A negative answer means everything is understood and will be complied with. A qualified yes with another hour means okay, same place, but at the new time, again plus one hour. An unqualified yes means the meeting can’t be held. I’m not to call you yet. You will identify yourself as Karl, and we will speak Swiss German. You will identify yourself by asking immediately for the correct time. Should either of us wish to break into clear conversation, we should ask how Horst is. If the answer is that he’s ill, it’s okay to go ahead. But if the person says that he is fine, then that person will call back as soon as he deems it safe to do so or will give another number where he can be reached in an hour.”

  “Good,” said Slater. “This may all seem like hogwash to you, but I assure you it’s of the utmost importance. Don’t forget it.

  “Now,” he continued, “the next thing to arrange are the danger signals.” George looked puzzled. “I’ve got to know,” said Slater, “if you think someone is following you. That’s for my protection. For your protection, you need the same information.”

  The word “protection” and the idea of being followed caused a responsive twinge in Hollingsworth, but his admiration for the man he knew as Carmichael was rapidly increasing.

  “In Munich, I will be standing by the blue-and-white parking sign nearest the Hofbraü, and I will be looking for this Mercedes. Remember, George, you must always use the same car. If my hat is on, keep right on going and wait for me at the Bundesbahn Hotel restaurant, where we first met. If I don’t show within two hours, forget me and go home. I’ll try to phone. If I take my hat off, everything is all right as far as I know. If the meeting is to be in Salzburg, follow the same procedure, but wait for me at the Hotel Horn in the Getreide Gasse. Better get a city plan, so you will know where it is. In both cases take at least fifteen to twenty minutes to get to the second meeting place.”

  “Sure,” said George, “but why?”

  “Because,” said Slater evenly, “if I get there first, I can watch you go in and satisfy myself that you aren’t being tailed.”

  “I see.” Putnam had been right; Carmichael was not going to trust him entirely. “What do I do to indicate that I’m being followed?”

  “In the case of Salzburg, you will be turning right to cross the Staatsbrücke. Turn on your right directional signal and move past me. I’ll know. In Munich you will be turning left. Use your left signal and keep on going. My arrival, before you, at the second meeting place will allow me to tell whether you are clean. If I don’t meet you, you’ll know you’re still under surveillance.” Slater looked carefully at George. “If you think you have all that, repeat it. If not, let’s go over it again.”

  The two men went over and over the entir
e procedure. George was finally convinced he had never learned any lesson so thoroughly. By the time Slater was satisfied that George had the signals straight, they had reached the outskirts of Munich.

  “I have one more request to make, George, before you drop me at the Hofbraü. I want you to have Wyman at the bar of the Baur-au-lac Hotel in Zurich at 10:30 tomorrow morning. You can invite him for coffee.”

  “I’ll try, but Wyman and I aren’t on very good terms.”

  “Then get someone else to invite him, Putnam himself, if necessary, but get him there. I would like to look Wyman over in the flesh.”

  “Right.” It was obvious that Carmichael really knew his business. “I don’t suppose I could drive you to Zurich?” George smiled.

  “I’m afraid not.” Slater returned the smile.

  The Mercedes maneuvered nicely through the narrow streets and George pulled into the parking place by the Hofbraü Haus. Slater got out and grabbed his suitcase. He set the suitcase on the sidewalk and, keeping the door open, poked his head inside.

  “Hollingsworth,” he said, “sorry to have been quite so ornery. I think you can see this is no business for amateurs, but I think you’ll do.” George was obviously pleased. “And one more thing, don’t worry about me. I’ll admit I’m honed down pretty fine at the moment, but I’m not going to bust apart.” George flushed scarlet. “If Webber’s still alive, I’ll get him out.”

  Before George could say anything, Slater had shut the door, picked up his bag and was walking across the street toward the main entrance to the Hofbraü Haus. The wind had picked up the bottom flap of his coat, and he was forced to hold onto his hat with his free hand. To George, he looked a lonely figure, tall and slim and straight, despite the wind. Slater disappeared into the beer hall, and George put the car in gear and drove off.

  Carmichael—Montague—was a strange man, also positively clairvoyant. George’s face flushed again at the thought that he had been caught in judgment. As George turned the corner, he realized that, in spite of their long conversation, all he could distinctly remember of Carmichael was a strong face, dark hair, green eyes and a surprisingly gentle smile. If, as he had said, Webber was alive, Carmichael would find him.