Once Departed

Chapter Six

It has been decided by the best authorities that ESP is impossible. That Extra Sensory Perception just doesn’t fit into scientific knowledge. That telepathy, clairvoyance, clairaudience, not to speak of telekinesis, psychokinesis and precognition, are beyond the realm of intelligence. However, some of them, at least, work.

Thus it was that when Quint reached for the doorknob of his apartment, he suddenly knew there was somebody inside. Somebody who shouldn’t be inside. Not a maid, nor some other building employee. Someone who was there doing something inimical to the interests of Quentin Jones.

He froze for a moment, hand on the knob. The other might be armed and Quint Jones didn’t think of himself as a hero, dashing in where angels feared to tread.

But in the past two days he’d had enough in the way of frustration that a pressure had built up within. It was as though he welcomed this opportunity to let it out.

He flung the door open and blurred into movement, dashing into his living room, keeping in motion. There was a figure there, bent over the mess of papers, notes and files that he had strewn over the table whilst working.

The figure whirled, caught in the act, and a hand streaked for what was obviously a weapon.

Quint Jones automatically flung into the Neko achidachin, cat leg position, both fists clenched, knuckles facing down and held slightly by the side at his waist. Without pause, he screamed, “Zut!” exhaling the entire contents of his lungs, and sprung at the other.

Bart Digby—it was Bart Digby—was startled by the yell, but his hand was still emerging with the gun, even as he attempted to step back to avoid Quint’s charge.

Quint banged the edge of his left hand against the former C.I.A. man’s right wrist, sending the gun a-spinning. He grabbed the outside of the wrist with his left hand, forcing the arm up high. He pulled the other’s arm upward as he brought his left foot directly in front of Digby’s right, then pivoted on his left foot to the left, slightly turning his body backward to his left. With the edge of his right hand he slugged the other’s left kidney, bringing forth a grunt of agony.

He was now behind Bart Digby. With his right foot he stamped the other’s left knee pit, then released his left hand grip and allowed the man to drop to the floor.

Quint leaped back, and went into the Shi kodachi, squat position, waiting for the other’s action.

Bart Digby looked up at him. “You son of a bitch,” he said, “What’re you trying to do, kill me?”

Quint relaxed, the heat of the fight leaving him. He twisted his face ruefully. “You shouldn’t have grabbed for that gun.”

Digby began pushing himself to his feet. “You came in so fast, I didn’t know who it was.” He felt his kidney, and groaned again. “I took a little karate and kenpo when I was doing my training, but you must’ve spent years at it, damn it.”

Quint said sourly, “Hobby.”

“Some hobby,” Digby grumbled at him. “Remind me never to go through this routine with you again.”

Quint said, “Want a drink?”

“No,” Digby growled. He sat himself on the couch, put his two hands into his crew cut hair, and breathed deeply.

Quint went to the bar and poured himself a stiff Fundador brandy. He knocked it back and returned to the other.

“Listen,” he said. “What in the hell did you think you were looking for?”

Bart Digby looked up at him defiantly. “I don’t know. Evidence.”

“Evidence of what, foul it! What could you expect to find?”

Bart said flatly, “We’re not getting anywhere fast, with this case. I got an order this morning to check on whether there was any possibility of you having connections with the enemy.”

“The enemy?” Quint honestly had no idea what the other man was talking about.

Bart Digby’s mouth twitched, not in humor. He said, an element of embarrassment there, “I made a full report on everything I picked up at the party at Dempsey’s, including what you said about the commies not being radical enough for you.”

Quint rolled his eyes upward. “Oh, Lord, how long.”

The C.I.A. man flushed. “A full report is a full report. I made it. This morning they wanted me to check to see if you were working with Nuriyev, or whoever.”

“On trying to locate Bormann, eh?”

“Yes.”

Quint went back and got himself another drink. “Listen,” he said, “And make the fullest report on it you can, to whoever you report to. I’ve decided I haven’t any interest in this. For a while I was silly enough to get romantic pictures of myself as a star reporter, or something, getting a scoop, I mean a beat. But now I’m over it. Maybe I’ve dug up an item or two you don’t know about. So I’ll tell you everything I know, and then, believe me, I’m through with it. I’ll find out the finish of the story by reading the newspapers. Assuming it ever gets into the newspapers.”

He poured some water into his drink, to stretch it out further, and returned to his chair.

“From all I can see, and I got most of this dope from you, there seems to be a lot of rumors tracing Martin Bormann and Hitler’s favorite doctor here to Madrid. If Bormann’s here, he’s obviously in hiding, his presence known only to fellow Nazi refugees and their friends. Doktor Stahlecker would be such a one. Great. Nicolas Ferencsik comes to Madrid looking for Doktor Stahlecker…”

Digby leaned forward, “You’re sure of that, or just guessing?”

“Just guessing, just as Brett-Home and you and Albrecht Stroehlein were just guessing. However, all the evidence supports it. Ferencsik has two great interests in life, World Government and organ transplanting and related surgery. Doktor Stahlecker was tops in that field in Germany. Professor Ferencsik let drop this morning that he had once searched for Stahlecker immediately after the collapse of Berlin to the Red Army.”

Quint took another swallow of the drink. The nervousness which usually followed his being in physical combat was rapidly disappearing. “All right. There it is. That’s all I know. And I don’t want to know any more. I haven’t any contacts with anybody. Nuriyev or anyone else. Above all, I don’t work for the communists. I don’t think I even know any communists here in Madrid. So will you get out of my hair now?”

Bartholomew Digby came to his feet. He ran a hand back through his crew cut. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” he grumbled. “Maybe I owe you an apology.”

“Just beat it,” Quint sighed. “And take your cloaks and daggers and all along. If anybody else mentions Martin Bormann to me, I’m going to slug him. And for the next month or two my column is going to consist of pieces on such problems as the Tootsie Roll isn’t as large as it used to be, which is a threat to the American way of Life.”

“Okay, so long,” Digby said, heading for the door.

“So long,” Quint said.

When the other was gone, Quint picked up one of his pipes from the floor. Evidently in the tussle one of them had jarred the table and sent the briar a rolling. He absently stuffed it full of Edgeworth even while he stared down at his typewriter. He simply had to get to work.

His eyes fell on the notes about the American dependence on the PX in Europe. Toynbee had written something to the effect that it was one of the strongest items of anti-Americanism abroad. The fact that everywhere American government employees went, it was assumed that the local products were so inferior that a PX was established to allow American personnel to buy State-side products at tax-free prices. Our supposed allies didn’t like it. The commies held it up as an example of Yankee arrogance.

Quint grunted and looked down at his can of Edgeworth. Frankly, it had come from the PX. An Air Force friend had bought it for him, which was strictly illegal, both from the Spanish and American viewpoint. The fact was, Quint hated Spanish pipe tobacco.

How could he bitch about the American dependence on the PX, when he was tarred with the same brush?

In irritation he went over to the window and stared down on Calle General Peron. He considered going down to the bodega and having a beer and a few tapas. Some boiled shrimp, for instance, would go good at this…

Something was wrong on the street below. He scowled, and then it came to him. His little Renault wasn’t parked in its customary place. He hadn’t even looked this morning, when he had gone to the Dempsey’s. Their building was near enough his own that he had walked, in hopes that the exercise would kill the remaining of his hangover. Then it came to him. He had left the car downtown, parked near Chicote’s, when he and Mike Woolman had gone into the famed bar for a drink. He’d got swacked in Chicote’s and had evidently walked from there until Marylyn had picked him up.

So the car was still parked on the main drag. That settled it. He picked up his beret, pulled it over his head and made for the door. He’d better pick up the vehicle soon or he’d have at least a traffic ticket.

Besides, any excuse would do, to get away from that typewriter.

He took the streetcar down Generalissimo Franco to Plaza Cibeles, and walked up Alcala from there. He could see the small Renault from a distance. Somebody had the gall to be leaning on it. When he got closer, he saw who it was. Mike Woolman, absently banging away at his leg with a newspaper.

Quint said to him, “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes.” Mike grinned.

Quint said, “This was exactly the way I found you twenty-four hours ago. You been here all night?”

Mike grinned “As a matter of fact, I was just having a quick one in the British American club. I looked out the window and saw you beating your way up the street, so I came on out.”

Quint was fishing his keys from his pocket. “Well, you might as well go back up to the club, I’m heading home.”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“I know. But I’ve had it. Like I just told Bart Digby; from now on, count me out of this.”

Mike Woolman wasn’t listening to him. He said, “They found another one yesterday. They only found it yesterday, but it must have been done at least a week ago. Found it out north of town, in, of all places, a former pillbox left over from the Civil War.”

“What in the devil are you talking about?”

“I mentioned it to you before,” Mike said impatiently. “The monster killings the police have been trying to keep the lid on. Sort of Jack the Ripper deal.”

Quint twisted his face into a grimace. “Why should I be especially interested?”

“They’ve been finding these corpses, usually some poor down and out Spaniard, with the blood drained completely from the body.”

Quint had unlocked the door of the Renault and was beginning to slide inside.

Mike went on, “And occasionally there’s some part of the body missing. Kidneys, liver, heart.”

“You, or somebody, said something about the police suspecting psychopathic cannibalism. Some real nut at work.”

Mike said gently, “The organs have been surgically removed. Perfect jobs of surgery.”

Quint froze.

Mike said, “Come on up the club and lets have a drink.”

The other sighed, climbed back out of the car and re-locked it. Together, without speaking, they went up the street a few doors and mounted to the second floor which housed the British American club.

At this time of day, the club was largely empty. They got drinks at the bar and carried them, themselves, to a table near the window.

Quint sighed and said, “All right, drop the other shoe.”

Mike Woolman looked at him questioningly, “You saw Ferencsik?”

“Yes. Briefly, he mentioned the fact that following the war he had tried to locate Doktor Stahlecker. When I got around to suggesting that he was currently in Madrid for the same purpose, he clammed up and called the interview quits. He thought I’d come to talk World Government.”

Mike sat for a long moment, thinking. From time to time he’d give his knee a bang with his paper. He said finally, “Do you know the Frankenstein story?”

“Sure. Frankenstein was this man-made monster. Boris Karloff played the part The first one made a good horror film. So, Hollywood style, they had to have a Frankenstein Returns, or some such. Then Frankenstein Meets Dracula, then Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man and so on down the ladder until finally it degenerated into Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein.”

Mike Woolman was shaking his head disgustedly. “No, no. I mean the original Frankenstein story, the novel. Lord Byron and Shelly and Mary Shelly were all together in Switzerland and challenged each other to see who could write the most outstanding piece of literature. Byron, of course, wrote a poem, and so did Shelly, but Mary Shelly wrote a book. The story involved a doctor named Frankenstein, who built a man in his laboratory. He had thought to build a superman, but it turned out to be a monster which eventually destroyed him. It made quite a novel and is still a classic in the horror field.”

“What’s this supposed to be a build-up to?” Quint growled.

Mike ignored him. “And what do you know about the ancient alchemists?” Before his companion could answer him, he went on. “Basically they sought two things, the elixir of life and the philosopher’s stone. With the elixir of life they would have immortality, and with the philosopher’s stone they would change base metals into gold.”

Quint chuckled wryly.

But Mike looked at him. “They worked on these problems for generations, for several centuries, until eventually alchemy became science, and the search ended.” He gave himself a double bang on the leg with his paper which was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. He leaned forward, over the table, and tapped it a few times with a nervous forefinger. “The thing is, that today science has got to the point where both of these dreams are now possible.”

Quint began to scoff in humor.

But the newspaperman shook his head. “Already it is possible to make gold, in the laboratory, from other metals. The only trouble is, the process costs more than the smidgeon of gold is worth. And the elixer of life—that is, immortality? We’re getting nearer to it. Any day now, the breakthrough will come. What it is that makes tissue age, and how to stop that aging? Haven’t you heard about Doctor Ann Asian and her clinic for the cure of old age, in Rumania? She evidently injects a substance she calls Vitamin H

, and brings senile old men back to middle age health.” 3

“What in the devil are you building up to?” Quint got up and went over to the bar for refills. When he returned, Mike went on.

“In the same way as the alchemists’ dreams are now becoming possible under modern science, so is Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein story.”

“Whoa, now! You didn’t drop out a few sentences there somewhere, did you?”

“No, look,” Mike said impatiently. “Doctor Frankenstein built a monster out of the parts of many men—largely corpses that he had stolen from graveyards. Well, that part we know now would be impossible. But this is the day of bloodbanks, and organ banks. To transplant organs, they have to be perfectly fresh.” He saw disbelief in Quint Jones’ face and hurried on before his friend could interrupt. “Can you name one part of the human body that it is now impossible to transplant? One organ that hasn’t been transplanted?”

“There’s more to a human body than organs, damn it.”

“Sure there is, but the organs are the toughest, not the easiest to transfer from one body to another. You’ve read about the lad, a year or so ago, who had both of his arms severed in an accident. The doctors simply sewed them back on. I tell you, Quint, today science is at the point where it could, literally, create the manufactured man that was impossible in Mary Shelley’s times. The Frankenstein story could now become an actuality.”

Quint finished his second drink, feeling it not at all. He said, “You forget one big thing. Why? Who would want to go to the trouble, particularly if it involved getting entangled with the law? All aside from the fact that it would cost one devil of a lot of money.”

“That’s what held me up at first.” Mike admitted, “But possibly I’ve got the answer to that too. Just possibly. Let’s grant the creating of such a creature; a super-man, because if it wasn’t superior to other men, why go to the bother? Such a super-man might be free of ordinary man’s short-comings, such as growing tired, or such as growing old. That’s always been one of man’s prime difficulties. When he’s finally got the education and knowhow to really bring his fondest dreams to fruition, he’s too old to pull the job off. Look at Philip of Macedonia. He spent a life time developing the Macedonian phalanx and perfecting his army. By the time he was ready to invade Persia, he was an old, crippled man. His son Alexander the Great had to take over and reaped all the glory. The same with Gengis Khan and later, Tamerlane, the Mongols. By the time they were ready to conquer the world, they were too old to do it, and none of their sons were up to the job.”

Quint decided to let him rave on, and get it off his chest. He leaned back to listen.

Mike said urgently, “Possibly the creator of such a superman would expect to instill it with his own beliefs and ideals. And superman or not, don’t think that would be too impossible to do. The things that you learn when in your earliest years are almost impossible to unlearn. Our minds, which are supposedly so capable of reason, are actually largely swayed by the prejudices picked up while we’re still babes or children. Take religion, for an example. You start getting it before you’re out of your mother’s arms. By the time you’re an adult, supposedly educated and a rational person, religion is so engrained in you that a negligible number of people ever change from that which they learned as a child. Otherwise, you’re intelligent, but there is no use trying to argue with you logically about religion. You know you’re right and the other guy can argue with you till hell freezes over without success. It makes no difference if you’ve been raised a Moslem, a Christian of whatever sect, a Jew or a Buddhist, or whatever; the same thing applies.

“And it’s not just religion. I covered one of these international peace conferences once. It was held in Stockholm and there were lads from all over the world represented. One night I sat in on an argument between a sharp American college boy, and a Russian lad about the same age. One, of course, was for communism, and the other for capitalism. But they weren’t really having a discussion. Because neither even heard the other’s points. Each knew he was correct and didn’t bother considering the other’s argument.”

Quint said interestedly, “And you think this creator of the superman would instill his modern day Frankenstein monster with his own ideals, eh?”

“Right.”

Quint leaned back in his chair, stuck his hands into his pockets and said, wryly, “Okay. Let’s hear the pitch. There must be some pitch. Where do I come in?”

Mike said earnestly, leaning forward again. “Now look, Quint, hear me out before you say no. The problem is to smoke this guy out.”

“Guy? You’re thinking of Ferencsik, aren’t you? Why not say so? Only there’s one big fly in the ointment, Mike. Nicolas Ferencsik wasn’t even in Madrid until less than a week ago. He was in Budapest. These murders you’ve been talking about with the drained blood, and the surgically removed organs, have been going on for months from what you’ve said.”

Mike said impatiently, “I didn’t say it was Ferencsik. I don’t know who it is, though I’ve got my suspicions. But we’ve got to smoke him out. And this is how we do it. The guy obviously hasn’t any conscience. His dream is big enough so that nothing else counts. Nothing can be allowed to stand in his way. So, okay. What you do is write a column. It’s written tongue in cheek style, as though you’re kidding. Most of your columns are that way, anyway. But in this you give the whole story. Everybody else that reads it thinks you’re kidding, but this guy knows you aren’t. He realizes you’re hip to him. So what does he do?”

“I know what he does,” Quint said, coming to his feet, in disgust. “He bumps me off.”

“Now, wait,” Mike said urgently, looking up at him. “No he doesn’t, Quint. Because we’re expecting him. It’s a trap. And you’re the bait. We’ll have him.”

“Not that way, we won’t.” Quit growled, picking up his beret and adjusting it onto his head. “You’re not going to tie me up like a baby goat waiting for the tiger to show up.”

“What’s the matter, damn it? Are you yellow?”

“Of course,” Quint said dryly. “But that’s pronounced, are you too intelligent to get suckered into something like this?” He bent down over the table, leaning on it with both hands. “Listen. In the first place I don’t think I buy your story. It’s too complicated, and you’ve got too little to back it up. But even if I did buy it, I’m not going to play bait for some Jack the Ripper type. Find another patsy.”

And with that he started for the door.

“Hey,” Mike yelled. “Who’s paying for these drinks?”

Quint looked hurt. “I was your guest,” he called, closing the door behind him.

Bartholomew Digby, Central Intelligence Agency field man in Madrid, had dinner with his immediate superior, who had come down from Paris, at the roof garden of the Plaza Hotel, off the Plaza de Espana. It hadn’t been a particularly successful meeting, and the disgruntled operative decided to walk off both his heavy Spanish type dinner and some of his miffed feelings.

He lived in an apartment hotel on Calle de Quintana, less than half a mile from the Plaza, had he taken the route direct. However, he had been making a practice of strolling through the Jardines Publicos of an evening, and he repeated the usual itinerary. Hands in pockets he strolled down Jose Canizares to Ferraz and turned right.

He circled the Cuartel de la Montans, still in ruins from the war days, and entered the park proper, nodding grumpily to the Guardia Civil whom he had passed a dozen times in his hikes about the park of a nighttime. Not far from the point where Calle del Rey Francisco touches the extensive grounds of the Jardines, he came in the dullest of shadows to a bench upon which were seated two figures.

He supposed sourly that they were lovers. In his present mood, the conception of love and the desirability of sitting upon park benches with the object of one’s affections until dawn was beyond him. However, he opened his mouth to begin a mild greeting and an apology for intruding on their privacy.

It was cut short when the larger of the two figures stood erect and came toward him.

The shadow that remained upon the bench said, in a voice that could only be described as womanish. “But we have been waiting for you, Herr Digby.”

And suddently he knew, even as the bulk of the other was upon him. His teeth thinned back in a fighting snarl as he went into a gunman’s crouch and his hand snaked for his quickdraw holster. Too late. Too late, he remembered. That damned columnist, Quentin Jones, had wrested his gun away from him and tossed it into a corner of his apartment. Digby hadn’t as yet had the occasion to acquire a new one here in Spain.

The other was upon him, mewling and snarling in its throat, as with incredible, unbelievable strength, it tore into his life.

Bartholomew Digby went down fighting. His left hand fought its way to trouser pocket and emerged with a switch blade fighting knife. Already, under the banging, rending, tearing, he was feeling the blackness ebbing up. The brutal, unresistable strength of the hulking creature, its nauseous breath, the guttural snarls, not even animal-like. Not of this world.

The blade flashed in the dimness of starlight, and he plunged it with his last ebbing strength, and again and again into the grunting, growling figure that loomed above him, grinding him into the gravel of the walk.

And as the fighting knife plunged deep, it affected his foe not at all, and the blows and rending tears showered with increase of intensity. So the last, very last thought that burned itself neon bright into Bartholomew Digby’s mind was, in horror, Zombi!

There was a banging on the door, rather than the bell ringing. Quentin Jones rolled over and stared in that direction in exasperation. He looked at the bed clock.

“Nine o’clock, for crissake! I’m going to move from this address. Everybody’s cousin knows I’m here and zeros in on me.”

He pulled himself, groaning, from the sheets, shuffled around for his slippers, didn’t find them, and started for the door barefooted. “All right, all right. Don’t break it down,” he snarled.

He flung the door open, tried to back peddle, but was seized immediately by both arms, and hustled backward to his living room. There were three of them. No four. The two who held him by the arms thrust him heavily onto the couch. The third was the English speaking Spanish policeman of the other morning. He took the chair opposite Quint and stared at him levelly, the 9mm Asta automatic he held in his hand, trained negligently on the American’s belly.

“One would not suggest you move,” he said softly.

The fourth of them, and the last to enter through the door, was Jose Garcia Mendez. He leaned now in the doorway which led from the small entrada into the living room, and stroked his small mustache with a thumbnail, as though wondering how to begin the conversation.

To this point, Quint hadn’t bothered to say anything. The roughhouse had brought him fully awake, but they had the cards, and he waited for the play. The two detectives who had seized him upon their entry were now beginning to go through the apartment.

Quint snarled, “If you tell me what those gorillas are looking for, maybe I can tell you where it is and save time. I assume you have a proper warrant for this.”

Jose Garcia said, “Spanish law is being abided by, Mr. Jones.”

“Oh, it’s Mr. Jones, not Quint, eh? What am I charged with, attempted assassination of old lard ass?”

Garcia winced, and his dark eyes went narrow. “Where were you last night, Mr. Jones when Bartholomew Digby was murdered?”

Quentin Jones felte thea cold go through him. “When… Digby… was… murdered…”

“Let us not play the innocent, Jones. Mr. Digby was seen to leave your apartment here, his face bruised and his clothes showing obvious signs of a struggle. The two of you had fought. Last night, he was killed, very brutally. You are knowledgeable about fighting brutally, are you not, Mr. Jones? Where were you at the time?”

Quint snapped, “Don’t try to stampede me. How do I know where I was at the time, if you haven’t told me the time. When was he killed?”

Garcia looked at the detective who was keeping Quint covered. The other said, “It was estimated to have been at about midnight.” Jose Garcia’s eyes went back to Quint.

Quint said, “I was here, in bed.”

“Perhaps you have proof?” Garcia’s smile was nasty “Perhaps a young lady…”

“I was alone. I came in early. Francisco, the portero, saw me. In fact, we talked for a minute or two. I didn’t leave again. If I had, he would have seen me.” Inwardly, Quentin Jones gave a prayer of thanksgiving for the Spanish institution of the portero. No apartment house was without one.

“Perhaps by another entry,” Garcia said gently.

“The only other way out is the stairs. His desk is in full view of both elevator and stairs.”

The detective with the gun said to one of the two who were searching the room, “Paco!” and when the other turned, gave him a rapid string of Spanish, too fast for Quint to follow. The meaning, however, was clear enough. Paco left the apartment obviously to question the portero.

Without invitation, Garcia took a chair. He said, “These past few days you have been seeing quite a bit of Mr. Digby. You are undoubtedly aware of the fact that he was an American Central Intelligence Agency operative.”

“He said he was a former C.I.A. man,” Quint said.

Garcia didn’t bother to answer that beyond sneering his contempt. “You will now please tell me what Mr. Digby’s assignment was.”

Quint said, “I suppose I could deny knowing it, but I see no point in not telling you. He was trying to get hold of Martin Bormann.”

To Quint Jones’ surprise, the other stared at him in disbelief. “You mean the Nazi?” he blurted.

“Who else? Not only Digby, but Brett-Home, probably that Russian, Vladimir Nuriyev, and lord knows who else. The theory seems to be that the side who gets him first, will have a propaganda advantage. I don’t quite see it myself.”

“But…” the Spaniard was obviously bewildered “… why Madrid? Why look for him in Madrid?”

Quint’s face reflected his disgust. “Who are you trying to kid? When the war ended, those Nazis who managed to get out from under made a beeline for the surviving fascist countries, Spain, Portugal, at that time Argentina. Spain was the nearest.”

“Spain is not a fascist country,” Garcia said stiffly. “It is a Corporate State.”

“It says here,” Quint said dryly. “Listen, Garcia. During the war, Spain never really completely joined up with Germany and Italy, however, you did everything short of it. The U-boats used to refuel in Spanish ports, your industry and agriculture sold everything they could squeeze out to Hitler, you even sent a division of troops, the Blue Division, to the Russian front, where the Russians by the way, chopped them to pieces after the Stalingrad debacle. When the war ended, one hell of a flock of the lads who were wanted for Nuremberg trial escaped down here. A lot of them are still here. Evidently, Bart Digby had evidence that Bormann is one of them. Now Digby’s dead, the way Brett-Home is dead. You’re a cop, put two and two together.”

“I am not a cop,” Garcia said stiffly.

Quint didn’t bother to answer him.

Garcia said, “I have connections with various governmental departments and came this morning due to the fact that I am acquainted with you, and my English is excellent.”

“I’ll explain that fact to all our mutual friends,” Quint told him dryly. “I’m sure that in the future, there will be no difference in your relationship with the foreign colony.”

Garcia glared.

The detective who had gone to check Quint’s alibi with the portero returned and spoke to Jose Garcia in a low voice.

Garcia said to Quint, “You are not being restrained. However, we must demand that you hand over your passport. You are forbidden to leave Spain until further notice.”

Quint said, “My passport is in my jacket pocket, there in the closet. I’m going to protest this, by the way, to the American Embassy.”

Garcia nodded in mock politeness. “I’m sure you will, Mr. Jones.”

Quint couldn’t help adding, “I’m also going to protest it in my column. We’ll see if it has any effect on the number of American tourists coming to Spain.”

That was the second time this morning that Quint had managed to extract a wince from the other. It gave him a childish satisfaction.

A feminine voice from the door said, “Am I interrupting something?”