The Blackford Oakes Mysteries Volume One by William F. Buckley

Author:William F. Buckley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2017-07-27T00:00:00+00:00

They walked silently to the Westfalenkrug, advertised by an old sign depicting crossed swords, the shield of Wintergrin, and the legend, Nobly live, nobly dine. Blackford led the way. He knew the waitress, who conducted him routinely to the usual table in the corner, removed from the jukebox which played, endlessly, bouncy German Volkslieder and lush American Volkslieder, of the Glenn Miller age. Weeks before, Blackford had made a mental note to requisition twenty new phonograph records from Bonn, intending to make a gift of them to Herr Musiktorturer. Three men and two couples were at the bar, one pair fiercely debating the political campaign, the man gesticulating to his wife and pointing to an iron cross he wore conspicuously on his corduroy jacket. She was pointing to a picture of Wintergrin and saying, repeatedly, Er hat recht! Er hat recht! Er hat recht! (He is right! He is right! He is right!) Blackford sat down wearily, told the waitress he would have a beer, and asked his two companions what they wanted. Spring wanted bourbon, but they didn’t have it, so he said, “gin mit anything.” Pulling bent over the list of beverages for a full two minutes, cleared his throat, and asked for water. They glanced over the menu.

“The sausage is good, so is the sauerkraut. If you’re feeling flush, the entrecôte—steak—is okay. So is the veal.” They ordered, and Hallam Spring began.

“We swept your room at the inn.”

“And?”

“Bingo.”

“Come on.”

“Yup.”

“Wintergrin’s people?”

“Maybe. If so, they’ve got an expert on the team. Well, why not? He’s surrounded by people who just finished waging a pretty sophisticated world war.”

“Straight bug?”

“Straight bug.”

“Where?”

“In the light socket on the floor lamp by your desk.”

Quickly Blackford thought back. Had he ever said anything indiscreet over the telephone? He was satisfied he hadn’t. He tended not to deviate from his training. All his calls to Bonn from that telephone had been to Colonel Morley, on straight chapel business. He had telephoned his mother in England, Sally in Washington. He had called Anthony Trust on his birthday. What had he said? He struggled to remember exactly. But he was certain he had been cautious.

“Did you track it?”

“Yup.”

“All right, to where?”

“Not very far. To the translator’s room. Chadinoff.

“Erika Chadinoff? I’ll be damned.” He decided to approach the news professionally, analytically. “Well, that’s interesting. So Miss Chadinoff is either—let’s look at the possibilities: One, she is doing extracurricular duty for Wintergrin. Or two, she is an agent of Adenauer. Or three, she is an agent of Ollenhauer. Or four, she is an agent of the Commies. Or five, she’s a freelancer of some sort.”

“Well, that’s for you people to figure out.”

Spring, his mind on the artistic possibilities of explosives, began asking about the configuration of Wintergrin’s caravan.

“Look, please. Not tonight. I know you’re on assignment, and I’ll give you what I got. But not tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” said Spring. “What do you want to talk about? The Yale–Harvard game?”

Blackford was in just the mood to get up and poke him

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