Free Legacy of a Spy by Henry S. Maxfield

thought that Wyman also appeared relieved.
    Slater leaned across the table after Rüdi had left and said to Wyman in a stage whisper, “These Kraut waiters are an obsequious bunch. No wonder we beat them in a war.”
    Several heads turned in their direction. Slater was pleased to note that Wyman actually looked embarrassed.
    “Do you ski, Mr. Carmichael?” Wyman asked stiffly.
    “No. Who wants to ski?” said Carmichael. “I came here to find something young and tender. I like some of those English girls I’ve noticed around here.”
    “What’s the matter with the German girls?” asked Wyman.
    “They’re too fat. They look too much like peasants—thick ankles, big feet, heavy arms. I wouldn’t mind having one for a maid—if you get what I mean?” Slater practically cackled.
    Wyman winced, and Slater decided he’d better not overdo this rich moron, but he was beginning to get a kick out of making Wyman uncomfortable in public.
    Wyman looked across the dining room and, suddenly, stood up. “Excuse me, Carmichael, but I see someone I know. I want to see if she’ll join us.”
    “Sure thing,” said Slater.
    He turned and watched Wyman intercept Ilse Wieland as she entered the dining room. The two of them stood near the entrance. From where Slater was sitting, it looked as though Wyman was pleading his cause and not doing very well. Finally, she appeared to accept reluctantly, and Wyman guided her over to their table. Slater stood up.
    “This is Mr. Carmichael,” said Wyman. “We just met this evening. May I present Miss Wieland. Miss Wieland,” Wyman added pointedly, “is from Munich.”
    “How do you do, Miss Wieland,” Slater said.
    She was wearing a smartly tailored, dark wool dress that clung to her. In ski clothes, Ilse had looked a vibrant and healthily mature young woman, but now she looked very chic and smart, cool and self-assured.
    “Mr. Carmichael was just telling me,” said Wyman, “that he preferred English girls.”
    “Really, Mr. Carmichael?” Ilse turned her green eyes on Slater. “The English girls are very lovely.” She turned back to Wyman. “I don’t blame Mr. Carmichael.”
    Slater did. He was mentally kicking Carmichael all over the dining room. Carmichael could have been anybody. Why had he chosen to make him a fool? It was all right in front of Wyman, but not with Ilse Wieland looking on.
    “Tell me, Miss Wieland,” said Wyman, “what do you do in Munich?”
    “I have a small dress shop,” she said.
    “Business must be good,” said Slater, hating himself for the remark, but deciding that he must say something.
    “Why?” Ilse looked at Slater questioningly.
    “You can afford to take a vacation,” said Slater.
    “Austria is not expensive,” she said.
    “Not for an American,” said Bill doggedly.
    “Or a German.” Ilse’s tone was icily sweet.
    Slater wondered if Wyman’s apparent ignorance of Fräulein Wieland’s history was just for his benefit. Certainly the implication was that they did not really know one another. Anyway, Slater was determined to play out his role.
    “Switzerland,” said Wyman, apparently trying to smooth things over, “is very expensive for everyone, and it isn’t as much fun as Austria.”
    “Have you ever been to Switzerland, Miss Wieland?” asked Slater.
    “No, Mr. Carmichael, I’m afraid I haven’t, but not,” she added, “because business is poor.”
    “You Germans have made quite a comeback since the war,” said Slater.
    “The Germans,” said Wyman hastily, “are a very industrious people.”
    “I wish I were industrious,” said Slater, “but I simply can’t make myself. No incentive, I guess.”
    “Incentive, Mr. Carmichael?” said Ilse very sweetly. “Or something else?”
    “Most people,” said Slater, “work for money. Since I have plenty of money, Miss Wieland, there is no point in my working, so,” he added smugly, “I don’t.”
    There was a lull in the conversation, and Slater could see