Legacy of a Spy Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Henry S. Maxfield
bed. He turned to face the mirror and looked at himself closely. He believed he looked natural enough, as long as he could keep some sort of a tan. He removed his hat. He moistened one of the hand towels and dampened the top of his forehead and his temples. Deftly, he removed the toupee and laid it carefully on a piece of tissue paper which he took from the suitcase. He turned back to the mirror and scrubbed his eyebrows. A good deal of the black came off. Next, he bent over and untied his shoes. When he stepped out of them, he was three inches shorter or about five feet, ten inches in his stockinged feet. With regular shoes on he was about five feet eleven.
Slater went back to the mirror and smiled. Everybody couldn’t be six feet one with his shoes on. Who wanted a widow’s peak anyway? Slater’s own hair, now very short, was brown and coarse and his natural hairline was higher than the wig. The first touches of gray were noticeable at the temples.
Slater took a very small half-moon piece of foam rubber from inside each cheek. His face now had a flatter, longer look; his cheek bones were a little more prominent, and he looked more Teutonic.
Slater dressed himself and checked his appearance once again. He could have been a young executive on a holiday. There would always be the impression that, whatever else he did, he managed to spend time out of doors. Preston would have said that Slater was “quite acceptable—good background and all that.”
There was one more important detail. He had to put Carmichael’s American passport carefully away and take out his own. Since he had entered Germany as Slater, he would have no trouble leaving as Slater. At some future date, if he thought it advisable, he would have to copy the entrance and exit stamps into Carmichael’s passport. He wasn’t going to do it now, as he might need an alibi for his whereabouts someday, and a Carmichael who hadn’t left Germany, or possibly hadn’t even entered, might come in handy. There were some things it didn’t pay to do immediately. Papers were a problem to Slater, particularly in Europe, but, fortunately, an American didn’t require visas in most of Europe; and there were times when the travel regulations could be extremely useful.
Slater carefully put everything back in his suitcase, including his hat. He put on his overcoat, picked up his suitcase and, leaving the key in the door, walked down the two flights of stairs, past the small lobby and into the street. Luckily, there had been no one in the lobby.
Slater hailed a taxi and drove through the late afternoon crowds to the station. He never could sleep on trains, particularly European trains, which screeched through the night like banshees and continually threatened to jump the corrugated roadbeds. He preferred to take the next train, instead of the later sleeper, and check into a hotel in Zurich. He wouldn’t get to bed until late but he could sleep until nine the next morning.
On the train, Slater sat by the window and watched the countryside flash by. There was a timelessness about the European scene. An observer had the feeling he was witnessing a vast pastoral setting which hadn’t changed for hundreds of years and wouldn’t change for many, many years in the future. Horses and oxen still pulled the wagons. The farmers milked by hand. Everything was done today as it had been over a century ago. Only the main roads were modern.
Even the people were the same. Wars didn’t seem to have any lasting effect. The farmers went right on planting and harvesting their crops, getting ready for winter; and now that winter was almost over, they were patching and mending, preparing to begin the cycle all over again.
Slater continued to watch until darkness enveloped the scene, and he could no longer look anywhere but inward. He hadn’t wanted to but before he knew it, he was remembering.
The Office of Security, or whatever it had called itself in 1948, had first approached
Slater went back to the mirror and smiled. Everybody couldn’t be six feet one with his shoes on. Who wanted a widow’s peak anyway? Slater’s own hair, now very short, was brown and coarse and his natural hairline was higher than the wig. The first touches of gray were noticeable at the temples.
Slater took a very small half-moon piece of foam rubber from inside each cheek. His face now had a flatter, longer look; his cheek bones were a little more prominent, and he looked more Teutonic.
Slater dressed himself and checked his appearance once again. He could have been a young executive on a holiday. There would always be the impression that, whatever else he did, he managed to spend time out of doors. Preston would have said that Slater was “quite acceptable—good background and all that.”
There was one more important detail. He had to put Carmichael’s American passport carefully away and take out his own. Since he had entered Germany as Slater, he would have no trouble leaving as Slater. At some future date, if he thought it advisable, he would have to copy the entrance and exit stamps into Carmichael’s passport. He wasn’t going to do it now, as he might need an alibi for his whereabouts someday, and a Carmichael who hadn’t left Germany, or possibly hadn’t even entered, might come in handy. There were some things it didn’t pay to do immediately. Papers were a problem to Slater, particularly in Europe, but, fortunately, an American didn’t require visas in most of Europe; and there were times when the travel regulations could be extremely useful.
Slater carefully put everything back in his suitcase, including his hat. He put on his overcoat, picked up his suitcase and, leaving the key in the door, walked down the two flights of stairs, past the small lobby and into the street. Luckily, there had been no one in the lobby.
Slater hailed a taxi and drove through the late afternoon crowds to the station. He never could sleep on trains, particularly European trains, which screeched through the night like banshees and continually threatened to jump the corrugated roadbeds. He preferred to take the next train, instead of the later sleeper, and check into a hotel in Zurich. He wouldn’t get to bed until late but he could sleep until nine the next morning.
On the train, Slater sat by the window and watched the countryside flash by. There was a timelessness about the European scene. An observer had the feeling he was witnessing a vast pastoral setting which hadn’t changed for hundreds of years and wouldn’t change for many, many years in the future. Horses and oxen still pulled the wagons. The farmers milked by hand. Everything was done today as it had been over a century ago. Only the main roads were modern.
Even the people were the same. Wars didn’t seem to have any lasting effect. The farmers went right on planting and harvesting their crops, getting ready for winter; and now that winter was almost over, they were patching and mending, preparing to begin the cycle all over again.
Slater continued to watch until darkness enveloped the scene, and he could no longer look anywhere but inward. He hadn’t wanted to but before he knew it, he was remembering.
The Office of Security, or whatever it had called itself in 1948, had first approached