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Authors: Henry S. Maxfield
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Mahler.
“Well,” Slater smiled, “you might start off by answering some of my questions for a change.” They both laughed at that.
“I have no idea where Charlie is now,” Mahler began, “but I do know the name of one of the men who was following him.”
“The one who lived at the Eggerwirt?”
“Yes. He is called Stadler, Fritz Stadler. He has a German passport.”
“Webber described him,” said Slater, “as having a face like a waxed apple.”
“Is that another American expression?”
“No,” Slater chuckled.
“I like your American expressions. I don’t understand them, but they’re very comical,” said Mahler.
“They gain something in translation.” Slater smiled. “Is Stadler still at the inn?”
“Yes. He seems to be staying indefinitely.”
“Would you say that he is keeping an eye on you?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know. I’ve seen him talking with the other man Charlie suspected. I don’t know his name, but he is also here.”
Slater tried to assess what little information he now had. One thing was certain, he and Heinz Mahler had to organize their meeting times and places. Fortunately, on this occasion, the weather was beautiful, and a noontime stroll through the small back streets of the town was as good a way to get acquainted as any. Stadler and his rustic friend must be at least aware of Mahler, so there wouldn’t be much use in his trying to follow them; but Mahler could call him and let him know when Stadler was in or had just left. Slater debated telling Mahler of his dual existence, but decided to wait.
Finally, Slater said, “I will be at the Winterhof Hotel this evening. I expect to enter the dining room with Wyman, if possible. If I’m not with him, I will arrange to sit near him. I will find some way to point him out to you. To cover all possible times, I want you to be there, preferably at the center table, from six p.m. on until, let’s say, nine o’clock. If I haven’t shown up by then, forget about me.
“Tomorrow, if things go as scheduled, I will phone you and tell you what time I plan to go skiing. That will mean that Wyman has just left in his ski clothes. Incidentally, he wears black ski pants and a green and white ski sweater. I want you to go, as quickly as possible, to the red ski-rental shack near the practice slope and pick him up there. I want you to follow him and try to remember everyone he talks to, and what trails he takes.”
Heinz Mahler repeated the instructions carefully.
“One more thing, Mahler,” said Slater. “If you have a girl friend, it would be better if you could bring her along tonight—and tomorrow as well, if she’s a good skier. On second thought,” Slater continued, “you’d better bring a different one tomorrow, if you can arrange it.” He grinned.
“There are plenty,” Mahler smiled. “Anyhow, those who are good skiers eat too much.”
“I’m happy to know,” said Slater, “that I didn’t exhaust your supply of girl friends.”
“That’s not easy to do with a Rhinelander.” Mahler made a low graceful bow.
Slater found himself returning it.
“Here’s some money,” said Slater. “I’ll see you this evening.”
Mahler took the money reluctantly.
“Don’t you want a receipt?” he asked.
“No,” Bill smiled. “This is tax free.”
Mahler grinned and turned back down the narrow street. He waved and disappeared around the corner.
Slater stared after him for a few moments. Receipts were sometimes valuable. They were proof that a man had worked for you and could constitute a hold for the continuation of his services. Slater believed that, for the present at least, Mahler was acting out of sympathy for a friend and possibly ideologically against Communism, but that could change should some more important motivation or pressure come along. Suppose the German government had its own ax to grind and requested Mahler to act for his country in some way counter to United States’
“Well,” Slater smiled, “you might start off by answering some of my questions for a change.” They both laughed at that.
“I have no idea where Charlie is now,” Mahler began, “but I do know the name of one of the men who was following him.”
“The one who lived at the Eggerwirt?”
“Yes. He is called Stadler, Fritz Stadler. He has a German passport.”
“Webber described him,” said Slater, “as having a face like a waxed apple.”
“Is that another American expression?”
“No,” Slater chuckled.
“I like your American expressions. I don’t understand them, but they’re very comical,” said Mahler.
“They gain something in translation.” Slater smiled. “Is Stadler still at the inn?”
“Yes. He seems to be staying indefinitely.”
“Would you say that he is keeping an eye on you?”
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know. I’ve seen him talking with the other man Charlie suspected. I don’t know his name, but he is also here.”
Slater tried to assess what little information he now had. One thing was certain, he and Heinz Mahler had to organize their meeting times and places. Fortunately, on this occasion, the weather was beautiful, and a noontime stroll through the small back streets of the town was as good a way to get acquainted as any. Stadler and his rustic friend must be at least aware of Mahler, so there wouldn’t be much use in his trying to follow them; but Mahler could call him and let him know when Stadler was in or had just left. Slater debated telling Mahler of his dual existence, but decided to wait.
Finally, Slater said, “I will be at the Winterhof Hotel this evening. I expect to enter the dining room with Wyman, if possible. If I’m not with him, I will arrange to sit near him. I will find some way to point him out to you. To cover all possible times, I want you to be there, preferably at the center table, from six p.m. on until, let’s say, nine o’clock. If I haven’t shown up by then, forget about me.
“Tomorrow, if things go as scheduled, I will phone you and tell you what time I plan to go skiing. That will mean that Wyman has just left in his ski clothes. Incidentally, he wears black ski pants and a green and white ski sweater. I want you to go, as quickly as possible, to the red ski-rental shack near the practice slope and pick him up there. I want you to follow him and try to remember everyone he talks to, and what trails he takes.”
Heinz Mahler repeated the instructions carefully.
“One more thing, Mahler,” said Slater. “If you have a girl friend, it would be better if you could bring her along tonight—and tomorrow as well, if she’s a good skier. On second thought,” Slater continued, “you’d better bring a different one tomorrow, if you can arrange it.” He grinned.
“There are plenty,” Mahler smiled. “Anyhow, those who are good skiers eat too much.”
“I’m happy to know,” said Slater, “that I didn’t exhaust your supply of girl friends.”
“That’s not easy to do with a Rhinelander.” Mahler made a low graceful bow.
Slater found himself returning it.
“Here’s some money,” said Slater. “I’ll see you this evening.”
Mahler took the money reluctantly.
“Don’t you want a receipt?” he asked.
“No,” Bill smiled. “This is tax free.”
Mahler grinned and turned back down the narrow street. He waved and disappeared around the corner.
Slater stared after him for a few moments. Receipts were sometimes valuable. They were proof that a man had worked for you and could constitute a hold for the continuation of his services. Slater believed that, for the present at least, Mahler was acting out of sympathy for a friend and possibly ideologically against Communism, but that could change should some more important motivation or pressure come along. Suppose the German government had its own ax to grind and requested Mahler to act for his country in some way counter to United States’
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