Once Departed

Chapter Seven

It was Marylyn Worth, and behind her two others.

The detective with the gun slid it unobtrusively under his left arm pit.

Quint said, “Just a minute,” and disappeared into his bedroom for a robe. He located his slippers in the closet. When he returned, he found Marylyn talking with Jose Garcia, who had slipped back into his custom of murdering American slang.

Quint said, “Joe and the boys were just leaving, Marylyn.”

Garcia began to say something, then gave his head a slight twitch, as though to cut himself short. He gestured to his three fellows, said to Marylyn, “So long, see you around.” And left.

Marylyn looked after him, frowning. “What’s wrong with Joe?”

Quint grunted, and took in Marylyn’s two feminine companions, schoolteachers if he ever saw two schoolteachers. “Joe, just stopped being Joe,” he said sourly. “He just became a member of the Spanish secret police, assigned to snooping around the foreign colony.”

“Good heavens,” Marylyn said.

Marylyn turned to her companions. “Quint, this is Audrey Zaugbaum and Barbara Roos. They’re new out at the base this year. I mentioned last night to them that you were a friend, and they insisted I bring them around.”

The one named Audrey came up with a book, and said breathlessly, “Oh, Mr. Jones, I wonder if you’d autograph this for me.”

He looked at it. It was a collection of his columns that his agent Steve Black had put together and sold to one of the publishing houses. Quint wasn’t particularly happy about it. Steve had stressed his heavier diatribes. A reader would conclude that the author was more nearly like Walter Lippman than Art Buchwald.

However. He picked up a ballbearing pen from the table and flicked open the book to the title page.

Barbara Roos, who looked too young to be a teacher, even a grammar school teacher, also had a copy. They’d obviously picked them up at the bookshop at the PX especially for the occasion. She blinked at him coyly. “I didn’t even know you lived in Madrid. I thought, from your columns, you sort of drifted around the whole world, just, like, seeing everything, and all.”

“I used to get around quite a bit,” Quint said, signing his name on the title page. “I got tired.”

The one named Audrey laughed at him knowingly. ” You get tired? Heavens to Betsy, anybody who reads you, Mr. Jones, knows that you’re burning with mental energy. Why, your interests are universal. There’s just not anything that you aren’t an authority on.”

Quint said, “After that, just call me Quint.”

Barbara gushed, “But Madrid. Imagine you being right here in Madrid. And we’ll be seeing you around and all. What do you do for recreation in Madrid?”

Marylyn said brightly, “That will be enough of that, dear.”

Audrey Zaugbaum said, “Mr. Jones, haven’t you ever thought of going into politics…’

Quentin said, “No.”

“… into public life? You know, we Americans are changing. The old type William Jennings Bryan politician, the spellbinder, the rabblerouser, the city bosses, are disappearing. We demand something better than flowery speeches on the Fourth of July. We want brains, and insight. We need men like Quentin Jones to…”

“Hey, hey, hold it,” Quint said. “You’re finding more in my articles than I write into them. I’m just…”

Marylyn Worth said, “That’s what I’ve been telling him. He’s throwing himself away. Quentin is a man of destiny, who just hasn’t awakened to the fact.”

Quint started shooing them toward the door. “Okay, girls, break it up. Off to school with you. Let’s get in there and pitch and teach Johnny how to read so he can grow up and peruse my columns and make me rich.”

The two newcomers laughed inordinarily. It wasn’t that funny a sally.

Marylyn said, “We do have to scurry along, or we’ll be tardy.”

“Twenty-three skidoo,” Quint said, winking at her. She was the last out the door, and he gave her a light pat on the fanny.

As he walked back toward the bathroom he was chuckling. The last he had seen of Marylyn’s face, as he closed the door, it was pale, and her eyes were bugged to the point where you’d have thought she had been raped. And all for an affectionate pat on the bottom. Quint shook his head. What a woman.

He thought about the situation over breakfast. Not hurrying. One thing was clear. If and when this was cleared up, he was going to have to leave Spain, or at very least, Madrid. He wasn’t going to be welcome. The powers that be could make it uncomfortable enough, without being overt, that he’d want to leave. He shrugged mentally. It was time he moved on anyway. He’d been getting stale recently. He needed a fresh viewpoint. Life was seeming meaningless, existence without flavor.

He finished his coffee and went into the living room to the phone. He dialed Mike Woolman’s office, and, somewhat to his surprise, got him.

He said, “Mike? Quint Jones talking. You’ve heard about Bart Digby? Yeah. Assuming that your brain is working at all, I suppose you see your own position, as well as mine.”

Mike said cautiously, “Meaning what?”

“Meaning that Brett-Home and Bart Digby were both working on the Martin Bormann deal. And both of them are dead. Anybody on the inside of this case knows that you and I have also been up to our ears in the developments. Do you need a blueprint? As they used to say in Chicago, Buster, we’re on the spot. We’re not going to have to bait that trap you were talking about. You and I both are already in it.”

“You mean you think the monster has us next on his list?”

“I don’t know if I buy that monster story of yours or not, but somebody with a nasty habit of killing people, has, undoubtedly, got us on a list. And I want off.”

Mike said, “That’s easy enough for you. You can write those damn columns of yours anywhere. Why don’t you head out for Manila, or Rio de Janeiro, or someplace?”

Quint said dryly, “I’ve got news for you. Old pal, Joe just lifted my passport.”

“Who? And why?”

“Don’t stutter. Jose Garcia Mendez, it turns out, is Spanish police of some sort or other. Your suspicions were right. I had a squabble with Bart the other day, and we trounced each other around a bit. Evidently Bart was being shadowed, at least on a part time basis, and some bright-eyed cop reported to headquarters that he looked all beat up when he left my apartment. So great. So this morning Joe and three of the boys came popping into my apartment to search it, to get my alibi, and to lift my passport. I’m not allowed to leave Spain.”

Mike whistled.

“So,” Quint said. “My interest in the case is rejuvenated. I don’t see much sign of anybody else clearing it up, so we better before somebody finds us missing, complete to gizzard being removed surgically. I have a deep aversion for having my gizzard transplanted into some monster.”

“I’m with you, friend. How do we start?”

“We start by latching onto Uncle Nick. He’s the focal point of this whole shooting match.”

“Uncle Nick?”

“Nicolas Ferencsik. He’s holed up with the Dempseys, as you know. And maybe the Spanish police don’t realize it, but just as sure as little green apples, he’s up to his ears in this. I’ll meet you there. Let’s get a move on, Mike.”

“Right. See you at Dempsey’s,” Mike said.

Quint slapped the phone back into its cradle on the bar and turned to go. He pulled up short, and stared. There, sitting to the side of half a dozen bottles, was Bart Digby’s .38 caliber revolver. For some reason, after the fight, he had not reclaimed it Forgotten it, undoubtedly. Quint had picked the gun up later and left it on the bar, figuring on returning the weapon the next time he saw the C.I.A. man. It had been pure luck that the detectives searching the place hadn’t found it. Pure luck and the fact that Marylyn Worth and her two friends had entered before the search had been completed. Quint felt a chill go through him. If the Spanish had found Bart’s gun here, he would have been in a Spanish jail at this moment.

Quint took the weapon up. He knew guns fairly well, but didn’t like them. This was a Smith and Wesson Bodyguard, a .38 Special snubnose build on a .32 frame. A good hideout gun. He shrugged and stuck it into a trouser pocket. The chips were down now.

Although the distance was just a few blocks, Quint took the Renault. Time was important. It was still morning. So far as he knew, there was no record of the monster striking during the daylight hours. He worked at night—an indication that his physical appearance might be such that he dare not show himself openly in public.

He left the car before the Dempsey apartment house and took the elevator. One of the maids met him at the penthouse entrada.

She recognized him, of course. Quint was one of Marty’s “special boy friends” which gave him free run of the house. However, she said, “La senora y el senor en este momento estan durmiondo.”

“Sure, sure,” Quint said in English. “I know Ferd and Marty are still in bed, but I want to see Professor Ferencsik.” He walked on by her, and she did no more than look after him worriedly. Undoubtedly, she knew El Professor was not to be disturbed, but on the other hand…

Quint made his way back to Ferencsik’s rooms and banged on the door. When it opened, he pushed his way through and closed the door behind him.

Nicolas Ferencsik, in bathrobe and slippers, had evidently been at his breakfast. There was a tray on a small table before the couch with the standard Continental breakfast, coffee, rolls, butter and marmalade. He glared, unbelieving, at the American intruder.

“Just what is…”

Quint Jones rasped, “Hold it. Obviously, I wouldn’t break in on you like this unless I had some damn good reason.”

The Hungarian scientist closed his mouth tightly for a moment, looking like nothing so much as a small mouth bass, it came to Quint irrelevantly. But then Ferencsik snapped, “I assume you are under no illusions about your welcome.”

“None at all,” Quint said. Then, “But I’m desperate.”

The other stared at him. “Desperate? You do not seem the desperate type of man, Mr. Jones. Please come to the point. My breakfast grows cold.”

“It’ll grow colder, before we’re through,” Quint muttered. Without invitation, he took a chair. He stared at the other, wondering where to begin.

He might as well throw it from the shoulder. As it was now, it wouldn’t take much to have Ferencsik yelling for the servants to toss him out.

He snapped, “The two world authorities on transplanting of human organs are probably Professor Nicolas Ferencsik and Doktor Stahlecker, both of whom are now in Madrid. It’s hardly a coincidence. However, Stahlecker is wanted by the police of a dozen countries.”

Ferencsik snorted contempt of that statement. “Science is above the police.”

Quint snapped, “Are you familiar with the Frankenstein story, Professor Ferencsik?”

“I am not ignorant of English literature.”

“Then I ask you. Is it today possible to manufacture a man in a laboratory?”

Ferencsik snorted again. “Don’t be ridiculous. And now, will you spare me your company so that I may return to my breakfast?”

The American columnist was taken aback. Ferencsik’s attitude, his tone of voice, did not suggest he was lying. Quint ran a hand over his mouth. “All right. But is it possible that Doktor Stahlecher thinks such a thing practical?”

“Certainly not! Doktor Stahlecker is a competent scientist.” However, there must have been something that was arousing the controversial Hungarian’s interest in this line of questioning. He said, grudgingly, “It would be possible, of course, to take a healthy human body and improve it in the laboratory.”

Pay dirt. Quint said, “How do you mean?”

Nicolas Ferencsik reseated himself behind his tray and poured coffee, adding an unbelievable amount of sugar before stirring. He said, not quite so offensively, “Almost any human body can be improved. Take an athelete in seemingly top physical condition. It is almost sure that one or two organs are less than perfect. In a laboratory, I could possibly replace such an organ. I can also, through minor brain surgery, all but eliminate the need for sleep. I can strengthen the muscles. I can speed up, or slow down, various body functions.” He twisted his mouth, sarcastically. “I could make a Casanova out of a eunuch, or vice versa.”

“And intelligence?” Quint said softly.

“The mind can be greatly stimulated,” Ferencsik said. There was a guarded quality in his words now.

“And immortality?” Quint pressed.

“Immortality,” the Professor scoffed, “is obviously an impossibility. All that lives eventually dies. Eventually earth will die, eventually our sun will grow cold and die, even eventually the whole galaxy of which we are an insignificant part, will die.”

“But…” Quint prodded.

Ferencsik said guardedly, “Admittedly the life span can be prolonged greatly. There have been accurate statistics on persons known to have lived more than one hundred and fifty years. There are scores of people today living in Soviet Armenia who are well over the hundred mark and in good health. Given such a basically long lived person, in the laboratory, by transplanting weak organs, by stimulating other processes, we might prolong life all but indefinitely.” He drank some of the coffee, took up a piece of roll. “And now, Mr. Jones, I have been patient with you. Will you either state your reason for desperation, or leave me to my own resources?”

Quint ignored that last. He said flatly, “The other night, at the party, while you were in the heat of your enthusiasm for World Government, you mentioned that possibly a superman was needed to lead the world along the path toward the One World State. You seemed to be of the opinion that such a superman might make his appearance.”

The feisty little Hungarian’s eyes gleamed danger.

The American pressed on. “A superman whose ethical code was above reproach. A superman whose intelligence dwarfed that of the rest of us. A superman who would live so long that he would have ample time to accomplish his goal.”

Ferencsik pushed back the little table on which his tray sat and came to his feet. “Well?” he snapped.

“That’s why you’re in Madrid, isn’t it? Pursuing this dream!”

The other was coming to a boil.

Quint stood too. “Remember Bart Digby, the American at the party who asked how you expect to bring this World Government about? He was killed last night. Evidently butchered by some sort of monster. He was a secret American agent. Ronald Brett-Home, a British agent who worked with Digby, was also killed, and some of his organs surgically removed from his body, just before he was to leave to come to the party. Besides them, at least a dozen Spaniards have been killed in Madrid of recent months. Almost always the blood had been drained from their bodies, and often heart, liver, kidneys, or other organs are missing. Surgically removed.”

As he went on, Nicolas Ferencsik’s eyes went wider and wider still in disbelief.

Quint wound it up, “That’s why I’m desperate. Without my exactly wanting to, I’ve become embroiled in the whole thing. Frankly, I’m afraid. On top of everything else, the police suspect me.”

Ferencsik said wonderingly, but the snap out of his voice now, “And you imagine me guilty of all this?”

“No, I didn’t say that. But, frankly, I want a showdown, and I’m not leaving until you talk.”

“Just a moment,” Professor Ferencsik said in obvious sudden decision. He turned and went back into his bedroom, emerging after a couple of minutes with a small black case, similar to a woman’s jewel box.

He came up to Quint, holding the box before him. “Look here,” he said.

Quint scowled down at it, at a loss.

Nicolas Ferencsik moved with a surgeon’s speed of hand. The needle was out of the box and jabbed into Quint’s arm so split second fast that even the younger man’s karate training gave him no time to resist.

For a moment he stared down at the arm, unbelievingly. Ferencsik had stepped back, triumph in his eyes. “You are a meddler, Mr. Jones, I trust this will prove somewhat of a lesson to you.”

Quint’s hand streaked to his trouser pocket, emerging with the .38 revolver he had taken from Digby. He brought it up… but already hesitating.

The Hungarian glared at him. “Would you dare shoot?” he sneered.

Quint’s eyes went in desperation down to his arm again. “What was in that hypodermic?” he demanded.

The Hungarian didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he turned and headed back for his bedroom. Quint steadied the gun, his finger tightened on the trigger.

But already the weakness was ebbing through him. Already the strength was not there. He tried to shout for help, and nothing came beyond the merest of squeaks. Slowly the floor came up to meet him, but he failed to feel it when his head banged against the couch.

Nicolas Ferencsik was incensed. He was finding it impossible to keep the rage from his voice.

“I can only accuse you of not keeping faith, Doktor!”

“That is not true!” They both spoke in German.

“I came to Madrid to collaborate with you. I know your work, I have admired it throughout my adult life. True, there were stories during the war years, stories of experiments with prisoners. But I have heard atrocity stories before. I laid them to war hysterics. A scientist of your prominence would hardly descend to such unspeakableness.”

“But now…?” the other said gently.

“Between us we represent the ultimate in our field. Between us, the superman is possible. The superman who could lead the world to peace and prosperity. Who could strike the spark which would grow to a flame, a torch to light the way for us all.”

“In this we agree,” the other said.

“But this is on the highest of ethical levels, the highest of idealistic levels… or should be.”

“But do not the ends justify the means, Herr Professor Ferencsik? Is it not of more importance to create our superman, than that a few nonentities end their tiny lives? Did they know the eventual goal, they would possibly choose themself to so donate to the future!”

“I hope that I have not misunderstood your meaning, Doktor. I must know the truth of these killings, these murders.”

“You realize, of course, that considerable quantities of plasma are necessary to our experiments, both old and the new ones to come…”

“There are sources of blood other than murder!” he all but screamed.

“For one in my position, Herr Professor? Come now, you realize that I am in hiding, due to the stupidity of the authorities in Germany itself, as well as the former allies. What would result, in a country such as Spain, were I to depend upon the usual channels for my requirements in both plasma and human organs for transplant experimentation?’’

Nicolas Ferencsik’s face tightened, his hands bunched into tight fists so that the nails cut into his palms, unheeded. “I demand to know two things, Doktor. First, why was it necessary to burn the body, there outside the bunker of the Reich Chancellery? And the second question is: Where is Martin Bormann?”

The other looked at him for a long, long calculating time, finally sighed as though in regret, “I shall answer your second question first.”

There must have been some sort of signal which Professor Nicolas Ferencsik failed to note.

A door to the room opened and a figure lumbered in, its face animal dumb, its eyes with the emptiness of death. Its hulking body was clothed in naught save pajama pants of the type issued in military hospitals. Its upper body was bandaged in several places, heavily bandaged.

Even as the creature lunged toward him, there came an animal mewling from his throat. A voicing of deep seated pleasure.

Ferencsik squealed. “No!” His hand shot into his jacket front to pull the .38 revolver from his belt. The gun came up and blasted its message of death—a message unheard.

For the other was upon him.

Something was stinging his face. It came again. He tried to shake his head. Tried to avoid the pain. Awareness was coming back, flooding back. “Cut that out,” he finally muttered. He opened his eyes. Mike Woolman was kneeling to one side of him. Quint Jones shook his head, trying for clarity.

Mike smacked him once more.

“Damn it, stop that,” he swore. “I’m awake. You’re doing it for kicks, now.”

Mike said, “What happened?”

Quint tried to sit up, “That’s a good question,” he growled. He looked up. Marty Dempsey was standing behind Mike, glass in hand and looking worried.

“Dahling!” she said. “What have you been up to? Where’s Uncle Nick?”

“In his grave, I hope,” Quint snarled. He struggled to his feet, still dizzy. He looked around the room, then back to Mike accusingly. “Where were you when they lowered the boom? The hell with that, where’s Ferencsik?”

Mike came to his feet too, steadying Quint with one hand tightly around his arm. “How would I know? I got here about five minutes ago. Marty wasn’t going to let me in. I smelled a rat and insisted. The Professor has evidently flown the coop. He’s packed a bag and taken off. The maid saw him leave, but he didn’t say where he was going.”

Quint sat down on the couch and held his head. He said to Marty, “Listen, pet, how about getting me a drink? A stiff one.”

“Right away, dahling.” She left.

Quint said to Mike Woolman, “What time is it? How long have I been out?”

“How would I know? It’s nearly eleven.”

“Where the hell’ve you been? You were supposed to meet me here.”

“I had to clear up a couple of things, real quick, at the office. Then I had to cross town. You live within a few minutes of here. It takes me a half hour. What happened?”

Quint groaned. “That old fox slipped me a needle with some kind of knockout drops, or something. I don’t think there’s any doubt. He’s in it with this Doktor Stahlecker. He’s got this superman dream of his.” He looked about the floor. “He took the gun I had, too.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Woolman crowed.

The columnist grunted his disgust. “You had the story exaggerated. He doesn’t figure on creating a new man from scratch. The idea is to take a basically healthy body and jazz it up. New organs for old, that sort of thing. No sleep necessary, goosed up I.Q., life span of a few centuries or more.”

“Holy smokes,” Woolman said.

“Yeah.”

Marty came back bearing three glasses and a bottle of Scotch. She was still in negligee, her face innocent of make-up and she looked like a harpy. She sloshed whisky into one glass after another, generously dispensing triples.

Quint knocked his back. He said to Marty, “Pet, you’re charming, but right now I’ve got big business with Mike, here.” He turned on the Quint Jones personality. “How about getting lost?”

“Oh, you,” she said archly, as though he’d just handed her a flowering compliment. She turned and left, thoughtfully leaving the bottle.

Mike shook his head. “How the hell do you do it?” He sat down next to the breakfast table Ferencsik had used earlier, idly picked up the newspaper the Hungarian had been reading, and rolled it into a club. “What now?” he said. “Sure as shooting, the old boy’s gone to ground. If he can line up with Stahlecker, we’ll have our work cut out, finding him. If Digby and Brett-Home couldn’t do it, who are we?”

The columnist grunted, “So you’ve got the G-man syndrome, eh?” He walked over to the side table that held a telephone, picked it up and began dialing.

The reporter said, “What in hell’s the G-man syndrome?”

Quint growled cynically, “It must have started back in the 1930s when the federal police and secret police of the world began to hire public relations men. Probably Hoover and his F.B.I, really got it going in our country. Hitler’s Gestapo, British MI6, and the Soviet KGB also began spreading the word that secret agents were super-duper brains that saw all, knew all.” Quint grunted sourly. “Remember when they caught that Russian Colonel Rudolf Abel in New York? They called him a super spy. If he was so super, why did they catch him? And the reverse of the coin. If the F.B.I, was so hot, why did it take them ten years?”

Before Mike could answer, Quint Jones had his number. He said, “American school? I’d like to talk to Marylyn Worth. Well, when she come in tell her to get in touch with Quentin Jones, eh?” He hung up and turned back to the newsman.

“We’ve got to be smarter than either Brett-Home or Digby,” he growled, “Or we’ll end up just as dead as they are.”

“So start being smart then,” Woolman told him. He banged his leg with his rolled up newspaper in irritation. “What’s Marylyn got to do with it? The prissiest woman in Madrid. What she needs…”

Quint interrupted him. “We’ve got just one more lead, now that Ferencsik’s taken off. That party.”

“What party?”

“The party held here at Dempsey’s. Something was scheduled to happen here. Brett-Home, Digby, and maybe Albrecht Stroehlein set it up. You know what I think was going to happen? Doktor Stahlecker and possibly Martin Bormann himself. For all I know, maybe they did show up.”

“Oh, come on now. Stroehlein attended, and he knew them both in the old day.”

“Yeah, and this is the age of plastic surgery. If Doktor Stahlecker could sew on an arm back on Hitler, why not put a new face on Bormann? No sir, I’m gambling on the possibility that Doktor Stahlecker was at that party. And, on top of that, you and I probably know Stahlecker personnally—under a hideaway identity.”

Mike Woolman pursed his lips and whistled softly. “But still, what’s the idea of phoning goody-two-shoes Marylyn?”

“She’s above suspicion. I don’t know anybody that doesn’t like Marylyn Worth. So great. We’re going to have her throw a party. We’re going to invite everybody who was at Dempsey’s that night. We’re going to supposedly secretly spread the word that something involving Brett-Home and Digby’s deaths is going to come up.”

Mike grunted, banging his leg disgustedly. “If Doc Stahlecker was at the first party, you’re sure as hell not going to see Doc Stahlecker at this one.”

“To the contrary. Stahlecker would be conspicuous by absence otherwise. Now look, this is what we do. Check with Marty and Ferd on who was here. I’ll give you the list so far as I can remember them. I’ll ask Marylyn, too. One way or other, we’ve got to get the message out to everybody who attended.”

Woolman shrugged. “I suppose it’s worth trying.”

“It better be,” Quint said grimly.

Chapter Eight For the next couple of days, Quentin Jones stuck near his apartment. He stayed away from windows, opened the door only after exhaustive identification of whoever was on the other side. He had suggested to Mike Woolman that the reporter move in with him, until at least after the party, but that worthy wasn’t going to jeopardize his job by remaining in hiding.

Quint was leery about doing much drinking. Things were in the clutch, and he couldn’t afford to have his senses dulled. That, of all things, he couldn’t afford.

Phone calls he got aplenty. Ferd Dempsey wanting to know what the mysterious party was all about. Quint told him it was just one more expatriate drunken brawl, knowing that wild horses wouldn’t keep Ferd away from such.

Marty Dempsey called, wanting to know if Uncle Nick was going to be at the party. She was plaintive about Uncle Nick, worrying that something had happened at her place that had miffed the Hungarian. He was such an old, old friend of the family, you know dahling. Quint told her that he didn’t know if Ferencsik was going to be at the party or not, but he hoped so.

Albrecht Stroehlein called, guardedly. So guardedly that Quint Jones never did figure out what the man wanted. Even over the phone the former Nazi seemed to be anxious to the point just this side of tears. Quint got the feeling that the German had lost his contact and that his days of affluence were now over. Possibly he thought Quint had C.I.A. connections and might get him put back on the payroll.

A dozen others called, including Dave Shepherd who wanted to know if he could bring his dear friend Clark Talmadge, who hadn’t been at the original party but would just love to come to this one. Quint told him that is was Marylyn’s party and to check with her, he was just helping out. He then phoned Marylyn and suggested to her that she put thumbs down on the muscleboy movie star.

Marylyn went along like the good sport she wanted to be—whenever Quint Jones was involved. She only vaguely had a picture of it all. Quint and Mike had decided that the fewer on the inside, the better. You can’t let slip a secret you don’t know. But she was game. Her budget would have been strained throwing a party of these dimensions, so Quint ponied up the liquor and catering service. Marylyn had an amply large apartment; one of the old Spanish type flats in Old Madrid, built back in the days when a Spanish family consisted not only of man, wife, and half a dozen kids, but a couple of grandparents, a maiden aunt or so, and three or four servants. It was a standing joke, Marylyn’s white elephant of an apartment, called in the expatriate set, Marylyn’s folly.

Two of the guests to be, called personally at Quint’s. And one had a hard time getting in.

The first was Jose Garcia Mendez, who now made no pretences with the American columnist. He came alone and Quint sat him down, offered him a drink, which was refused, and then sat opposite.

“It’s your nickel,” he said.

Jose Garcia treasured his illusion of being a student of American idiom. “I thought you said that only when answering the telephone.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Quint said sourly. “We’ve got another one that involves either doing something or getting off the pot. Both mean it’s your turn.”

Garcia flushed. He had preferred his earlier role with the successful American columnist. Even beyond his job, he liked associating with Americans, particularly wealthy or successful Americans.

He brought himself to the point, his voice going stiff.

He tapped his coat, indicating an inner pocket. “I have here an order from the proper department of government, declaring you persona non grata, Mr. Jones.”

“Oh, great. First you lift my passport, so that I can’t leave the country, now you kick me out. You boys will have to make up your minds.”

Garcia was patient. “The paper will not be served until this current matter is cleared up.”

“So I can’t win. If you can pin Digby’s death on me, I’ll of had it. If you can’t, then I get booted out of Spain.”

Garcia made his play. “Mr. Jones, it is not that many of us here in Spain do not admire your—your talents, in spite of your sometimes, well, typical American manner of stating your opinions. In fact, I am here to suggest that, always assuming you not guilty of Mr. Digby’s murder, we cooperate and end this needless animosity that seems to have developed.”

“If I get that correctly, you want me to work with you on this Martin Bormann, Doktor Stahlecker thing.”

“Of course, we are not admitting any such far-fetched story. However, consider, Mr. Jones. The Spanish government today is greatly interested in fuller cooperation with the Common Market and other Western institutions, such as NATO. If, I say if, such a prominent former Nazi as Martin Bormann was found to be in hiding in Spain, then such nations as France and Great Britain might, ah, to use your inimitable slang, take a dim view of the fact.”

“So,” Quint said dryly, “where your former pals were welcome, immediately following the war, you’re now willing to sell them down the river—always supposing you can find them.”

Garcia said stiffly, “I wouldn’t put it that way. All I am doing is offering you the friendship of our authorities, in return for your cooperation in this matter. We are as anxious to find Bormann as is your C.I.A., Mr. Jones. It seems obvious that all involved should cooperate.’

“So how could I cooperate, assuming that I decided to?”

The Spanish operative leaned forward. “First of all, what is the purpose of this party to be held at Miss Worth’s apartment, tomorrow night?”

For all Quentin Jones knew, in spite of the other’s claim to wish to grab Bormann for the purpose of handing him over to the Western powers, Jose Garcia might actually be bosom buddies with the ex-Nazi. He knew nothing at all about the man, beyond the fact that he obviously was connected with the Spanish secret police.

“Why don’t you ask Miss Worth?” he said.

Garcia came to his feet, his eyes icy. He ran a thumbnail over his neat mustache. “I see you do not wish to cooperate, Mr. Jones. I suggest you think it over. If you did work with us, reveal what you know, then obviously there would be no need to deliver this persona non grata order.”

Quint began walking toward the door, to open it. He said over his shoulder, “Believe me, remaining in Spain isn’t that important. I never was happy about countries that ordered writers out the moment they had opinions differing from the government’s. We seldom do it in America. A Spanish columnist could move to Washington and sit there beefing about our president’s policies until hell froze over, and nobody’d give a damn.”

“You’ll be sorry about this…” Garcia began.

“Goodbye, Buster,” Quint said wearily.

It was the second caller who had a hard time getting in. He had even evidently had a hard time getting past Francisco, the portero, since that worthy had escorted him all the way to Quint’s door.

Quint held the door only partly open. He said, Gracias, Francisco” and to the other, “Mr. Nuriyev, I believe?”

The other was ever suave. He clicked heels and bowed. “Valadimir Nuriyev. I would appreciate the opportunity to talk with you, Quentin Jones.”

Quint thought about it. Finally, he said, “Just a moment,” and closed the door. When he returned, he opened it more widely, so the other could enter. He tipped Francisco fifty pesetas and let him go.

Quint said to the former Russian hachetman, as he led him back into the living room, “Just for luck, I phoned Mike Woolman of World Wide Press. I told him you were here, and that I’d phone back every five minutes as long as you remained.”

The Russian’s eyebrows went up and his lips quirked in amusement. “Excellent security precautions, Mr. Jones.” His eyes took Quint in. “However, it would seem to me that since I am alone, I am quite as much in danger as you are.”

Quint stepped up to him quickly and ran his hands over the other’s clothes. Here, there, where a man carries a gun or other weapon. The Russian suffered the invasion of privacy without protest. “Once again, excellent security precautions, Mr. Jones. May I take a seat?”

“Drink?” Quint said, motioning to a chair.

“Not to be ah, corny, but do you have vodka?”

“Corny, yet,” Quint winced. “We have another would-be American slang user with us. I’ve got some Polish Vodka.” He went over to the bar.

Vladimir Nuriyev said mildly, “You must be referring to our mutual friend, Joe Garcia.”

The American was pouring a stiff shot of the colorless liquor. “What do you want to mix with this liquid dynamite?”

“There is an old Russian saying that nothing mixes with vodka, except vodka,” Nuriyev said.

Quint poured a very short Fundador for himself and returned to the other with the drinks.

’To peace!” the Russian said and bolted his back.

“Yeah?” Quint said, following him, “And that seems to be about as close as our countries get to real peace—toasting it at international conferences.”

“A deplorable situation,” Nuriyev nodded. He still reminded Quint Jones of one of Hollywood’s ultra-sleek villains. The man was a stereotype.

The Russian crossed his legs, adjusting his trousers neatly. He said, “I have read a considerable number of your columns, Mr. Jones. Believe me, I have been impressed.”

Quint nodded his thanks.

“It is obvious that you do not subscribe to the warmongering philosophy of some of your colleagues.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed, over the years I have noted that you are invariably in the ranks of the progressives. You have been opposed to making an armed camp of the world. Opposed to racism, both in your own country and such nations as South Africa…”

“And even Russia when there are signs of it there,” Quint said dryly.

Nuriyev went on, although his eyes had shifted slightly at that. “You have opposed your country’s support of such despots as King Faisal, and such dictators as Salazar…” he cleared his throat gently here “… and the Chief of State of this land in which we both now find ourselves. You have written against some of the overt actions of your C.I.A. in the smaller countries…”

“And the overt actions of the Russian KGB in the same circumstances,” Quint said. “Let’s get to the point, Nuriyev.” He picked up the phone, dialed, and said into it, “We’re still talking, Mike. So far the conversation involves what a great columnist Quentin Jones is.” He hung up again.

The Russian’s mouth tightened only for a moment. He said, “My point is that you are obviously opposed to many of the positions held by the West.”

Quint nodded. “I sure am. Praise Allah, I’m a citizen of a country where you’re still allowed to disagree with some of the positions the government takes.”

This time Nuriyev hesitated before going on. He found words, at last, and said carefully, “I trust you are opposed to the reintroduction into the government of West Germany of former Nazis?”

“I’m opposed to Nazis, period, anywhere,” Quint said in acid.

“And you must, then, be distressed to see judges, army heads, officers, even men of cabinet rank who are former Nazi party members.” He twisted his mouth. “Let us even say they might still be Nazi party members.”

“Seems unlikely,” Quint said wearily. “But yes, I’m not particularly happy about the boys getting back into power. Drop the other shoe, Nuriyev.”

“Very well. We have evidence that Martin Bormann still lives and that there is a conspiracy to bring not only this foul beast but many of his close collaborators back into power.”

“Who’s we?”

“Democratic elements opposed to the revival of Hitlerism.”

“I doubt it,” Quint said. He leaned forward and pointed a finger. “Look here, Nuriyev. It’s no use wasting each other’s time. You’ve misread what you found in my columns. You communists like to present yourselves as the only advocates of peace. The only ones against race discrimination, the protectors of small nations, and the foes of colonialism. Great, it makes wonderful propaganda for you. However, you make a mistake in thinking that everyone else who is for peace, minority rights and such, are sympathetic to Russia. Count me out. Even though I’m opposed to former Nazis in government. Just as much, by the way, in East Germany, as West Germany.”

“There are no former Nazis in the government of East Germany,” the Russian said flatly.

“It says here,” Quint chuckled. “Listen, the fact that I hate the guts of such as Martin Bormann—if he’s still alive—doesn’t make me a supporter of you commies…”

“I am no longer a communist.” Nuriyev said easily. “I support democratic elements.”

“Yeah, yeah. Frankly, I don’t know how you managed it. I’ve got to give you credit. The Spanish police seem to think you defected to the Americans. The C.I.A. seems to think you defected to the French. For all I know, the French think you defected to the British MI6. Whatever you managed to do, you got yourself here into Spain. However, it’s on the obvious side, just where you really still stand, and what a lousy job the different Western intelligence agencies do in the way of coordinating their activities.”

The Russian’s eyes had gone flat empty. Quint reached out and dialed again. He said into the phone. “This is still Quint, Mike. He doesn’t love me quite as much as he did a few minutes ago, but he’s still here.” He hung up.

Vladimir Nuriyev stood, visibly wrestling with his composure. He wasn’t quite as suave as Quint had thought him. “I see I’ll get no cooperation here,’ he said.

“That you won’t, Buster,” Quint told him. “Could I see you to the door?”

When the other was gone, Quint locked the door and returned to the living room. He eyed the bottle of Fundador and then shrugged angrily. He was getting to be a full time bottle baby. Why?

In the past he’d alway drunk. He’d even hang one on from time to time. He liked to drink, and had ever since his late teens. But before he’d never hit it in the morning, nor even in the afternoon. Nor had it been an everyday thing. He grunted sourly. Next thing you know, he’d be taking periodic cures like Marty Dempsey.

The bell rang again, and he turned back to the door. Through the peephole he could see it was Francisco and opened up. It was the mail. He’d made a deal with the portero to bring it up from his box in the lobby. He tipped the man again, locked the door and returned to the living room. Maybe he was making a jerk of himself with all this hiding out, locked doors and such. But at least he was still alive. Digby and Brett-Home weren’t.

He read a letter from Steve Black first, an attempt to wring some columns out of him. A fan letter from some gushy do-gooder in Michigan. An offer from one of the TV panel programs back in the States which supposedly specialized in controversial subjects. He grunted at that. He had caught the program a few times when he was in the States last. Their idea of something controversial was women’s new hair styles, or whether or not the latest dirty book should be banned.

He turned the final letter over in his hands, scowling. The return address was the Liberal Party. He’d never heard of the Liberal Party. Aside from the Republicans and Democrats, the only national political parties in the States were the two small old timers, the Socialist Labor Party and Prohibition Party. Others came and went, down through the years; Communist Party, Progressive Party, Dixiecrats, Socialist Party, Farmer Labor Party. Most of them seldom lasted very long, and few got on the ballot in more than a handful of States.

But he had never heard of the Liberal Party. He tore open the envelope, and read. It was from his home state. Evidently, a new political party was in the making. One that would have a nationwide ticket for the first time in this next election. Their big bone of contention seemed to be that there was no longer any difference between the Republicans and Democrats. That the problems that confronted the world called for new solutions. It was the final couple of paragraphs that amused him. They wanted him, Quentin Jones, to run for Senator from his State.

He dropped the letter into the wastebasket along with the fan letter and the TV panel offer.

Quint Jones held to his security measures right to his entry into Marylyn Worth’s king-size Old Madrid apartment He had Mike Woolman come by his place to pick him up. He doubted that the killer would attempt to take on two at once. He didn’t seem to use conventional weapons, but, rather, literally tore his victims apart with his hands. Quint figured that he and Mike together could take on any single opponent, monster or no.

They drove up to the 18th century building, that had once been the mansion of a second rate Habsburg and now composed four large flats, of which Marylyn’s was the top. They ran their eyes up and down the streets, now darkening.

Mike said, “All clear. Let’s go.”

Quint asked him, “Any new killings? Any more bloodless victims?”

“Not that I know of,” Mike said, even as they headed for the door. “But possibly the cops are playing the cards close to their chests. Newspapermen aren’t particularly popular down at headquarters these days.”

Marylyn’s apartment was a walk-up, in spite of the swank outer appearance of the building. It was another standard gag in the foreign colony. The reason Marylyn was able to keep her excellent figure was running up and down the stairs of Marylyn’s Folly.

On the way up, Mike said gloomily, “I’ve been thinking about this big deal of ours, and the more I think about it, the sillier it sounds. Suppose this Doc Stahlecker does show up, what do we expect to happen? All of a sudden does the good doctor pull off a mask like ‘Anyface’ in a Fearless Fosdick comic strip and start yelling, ‘I’m Stahlecker, I’m Stahlecker!’?”

Quint growled, “What else could we do? We’re getting desperate, Mike. Everybody we know of that’s connected with the matter is going to be here—we hope. Confronting each other might bring something to head.”

Mike grunted. In the darkness of the steps, Quint could hear his newspaper bang up against his leg. “Okay, okay, so what’s the drill? How do we handle it?”

Quint’s shrug couldn’t be seen in the dimness. He said, “I suppose we just wander around, looking intelligent and waiting for something to happen. For somebody to make with a clue.” Mike grunted again.

They reached Marylyn’s floor and knocked. Mike looked around at the steps and the elaborate hall, the heavy door. “There’s Spain for you. A two bedroom apartment on Avenida Generalissimo Franco, American style, will set you back a hundred or two a month. But an eight or ten bedroom deal like this goes for about forty—simply because it’s old fashioned, no red leather and chrome.”

Marylyn came to the door and smiled brightly at Quint, having no eyes for his companion at all. She looked up at him, “Why… Quentin. How nice for you to come.”

“How sweetly you say it,” Quint said, pseudo-mockery in his voice. He bent down and kissed her swiftly on the cheek. She flushed, drew back, her eyes, wide now, went quickly to Mike.

Mike grunted amusement. “Look,” he said, “when your Sunday school teacher, or whoever it was taught you that formal way of greeting guests, did she tell you that you were supposed to greet all of them that way? Not just the way you have maidenly dreams about.” He bent quickly in an attempt to repeat Quint’s kiss, but she evaded him.

“Now, Michael,” she said. “You’re joshing me.”

They went along the hallway toward a monstrous living room from whence stereotype party sounds were coming.

Marylyn whispered, “They’ve already drunk ever so much hooch.”

“Hooch, yet,” Mike muttered.

Quint said, “It sounds as though the Dempseys have already arrived then. Is Albrecht Stroehlein here? And Nuriyev?”

“From the very beginning. And… and Joe Garcia, too. Is it true he’s connected with the Spanish police?” She held her elbows to her sides, as though shivering deliciously.

“Yes,” Quint said sourly. “He’s connected with the police all right, all right. And possibly others as well.”

She frowned at him, her hand on the doorknob. “Just what are you two here for, Quentin? I know there’s something very romantically mysterious going on.”

“If you find out,” Mike grumbled, “let us know. I think we’re kidding ourselves. Pardon me, I suspect there’s a drink in there.” He went through the door into the buffeting noise beyond.

“Anybody missing?” Quint asked her. She was standing close to him and looking up, half anxiously, half as though expecting something. Inwardly, he sighed. Was he being a heel with this girl? And, if so, in what manner? In not giving her what she obviously wanted? Or in not rebuffing her, and letting her get on to someone who would appreciate all the accumulated affection she seemed to have on tap.

He put an arm around her, quickly, tilted her chin up with a finger, and kissed her lips. As before, they were drawn stiffly together, and what he had thought the other night, came back to him. A maiden’s kiss, or the loss of an older person, for long years out of practice. Perhaps he’d get around to teaching her. What did either of them have to lose? The girl was attractive, but probably pushing thirty. There comes a time in a woman’s life when she stops bragging about her virginity—or should.

She said stiffly, “Quentin… you’re not just leading me on?” Her voice was very low.

’That’s what I was thinking of doing,” he said wryly. “How’d you guess?”

She misinterpretated. “I… I don’t know very much about such things.”

“I was beginning to suspect that,” he said.

Her voice was so low now as hardly to be made out. “I was spoofing when I told you I’d had lots of beaux.”

“I kind of guessed that too.”

It was then she set him back. She said, “I realize I’ve been too prim for a man like you, Quentin. If… well, if you wish to stay, after… after the party.”

He stared down at her. Marylyn Worth? Was he getting this correctly? Or was it just his naturally evil mind?

“Why Marylyn!”

He could feel her body retracting, growing smaller right there in his arms, and was immediately contrite. It hadn’t been easy for the girl to say that.

“Listen, pet,” he told her. “You think about it a bit more. You want to be awfully sure about these things.”

“I’m… I’m pretty sure.” Her body shivered in his hold. He let go of her and turned to lead the way into the other room.

Quint said, “You didn’t tell me if everyone was already here.”

She had evidently regained composure. “I think they are. It was rather difficult, even with Mike’s and Ferd and Marty’s help, to decide just who had been at their party. They’re so, well, madcap.” She looked up at him and smiled brightly, as though to reassure him. “Could I get you a drink?”

“I’ll find it,” he said. “You’ve probably got hostess duties.”

He made his way to the improvised bar, on a large Castilian type table, and began to pour himself a stiff brandy. He remembered in time and cut it short, and then added ice and water. Let the others get swacked tonight, he and Mike had to be careful.

Jose Garcia’s voice said next to him, “Well, chum, any developments?”

He turned to the Spaniard. “I just got here, Senor Garcia.”

The other looked at him, his mouth twisted ruefully. He said, finally, “Joe, to you.”

Quint hadn’t expected that. He scowled at the smaller man. Garcia said, “Look here, Quint. The world is changing, and changing fast, and largely for the better. What new changes take place in the next ten years, who can say? If we don’t blow ourselves up, in the meantime, it should be a rather good world in another decade or two. Fewer people starving, more people feeling secure about the future. All that. Some parts of the world are moving faster than others, but things are developing on both sides of the Iron Curtain and…” he twisted his mouth again “… even in such countries as Spain. Maybe in my country things aren’t moving as fast as a lot of us would like—including me. But moving they are, and the speed is accelerating.”

It was Quint Jones’ turn to be rueful. “Okay, Joe, take that I’m sorry we’ve been ruffling each other’s fur. And good luck to you… and your country. In a way, I’m sorry to be leaving it.”

“I’m sorry to see you go,” Garcia said. He hesitated. “Actually, its not in my hands. That persona non grata thing. Perhaps in another couple of years or so…”

“I’ll be back,” Quint said.

Without further word, the Spaniard turned and left.

Quint didn’t have the time to speculate about the other’s words. Joe Garcia wasn’t as bad as all that, he supposed. But then, few people are, when you get inside them.

He drifted from one group to another. Most of them were talking about the killings. Rumors were sifting through Madrid, in spite of all police efforts to hold the lid on. An apprehension was obviously growing. The story was leaking through that the bodies of the murdered had been brutally mutilated.

He listened to a group Dave Shepherd was talking to. The expatriate homosexual was breathless. “You’ll never believe this,” he said. “But my dears, I’ve heard that…” he held his breath dramatically for a moment “… Martin Bormann is suspected of being here in Madrid.”

One of the others, already tight, and in a voice that Quint thought he recognized from the party at Dempsey’s, slurred, “Who the hell’s Mart Bordeom?”

Shepherd squelched him with a look of disdain. “Bormann!” he said. “Hitler’s right hand man.”

“Oh Hitler, for christssake. Damn shame we killed that guy. We could use him now. Fighting the damn reds.”

“Oh, shut up,” a feminine voice said.

Quint wandered on. He wasn’t going to learn anything from Dave Shepherd’s group. They were hardly at the beginning of things.

Mike Woolman had evidently tried to get a controversy going by bringing up Nicolas Ferencsik and the fact that he had disappeared and the further fact that he had been an authority on organ transplanting. He tried to get them talking about the possibility that the mutilated corpses and the controversial Hungarian might be connected, but it didn’t seem to get through with only hints. He would have had to club them over the head with a flat out statement.

However, Quint stood there for a time and listened. One of the other guests was a Rumanian refugee and the talk evolved into a discussion of Anna Asian and her Vitamin H3. The Rumanian was quite excited about the experiments in the old age clinics.

Doctor Asian brought this senile vagabond in off the streets. The man must have been at least ninety. They had no records of him at all. His mind was gone beyond the point where he knew about relatives or friends, or even what town he had come from. Doctor Asian began her injections and other treatment Within a month, his gray hair had begun to turn black. He was able to feed himself and take care of his bodily needs. In two months he was walking without a cane, through the hospital grounds. Eventually, they threw away his glasses. He didn’t need them. And, most unbelievable of all, they had found a job for him, in industry, and he was leading a normal life.”

Somebody said in great disbelief, “A normal life of a man how old?”

The Rumanian threw up his hands in a gesture more Gallic than Balkan. “Of a man perhaps sixty. He even had a sex life.”

Still someone else growled, “But it doesn’t seem to work on everyone.”

Quint drifted on, his face in scowl. It brought back something to him. Early in this affair he had scoffed at the idea of Hitler—had he still been alive—being a menace any longer. He would have been too old. But if this Doctor Asian in Rumania had succeeded in retarding age, and even turning it back, why couldn’t that have been done to Hitler, or, more likely, Martin Bormann? Why indeed? Professor Ferencsik had hinted that he knew how to keep his projected superman in all but everlasting youth.

He spotted Albrecht Stroehlein standing alone. Somehow, the ex-Gestapo man found it difficult to draw companionship—not to speak of friendship.

Quint came up to him, and the other turned as though happy to have someone to talk to. He held a large glass of punch in his hand.

Quint said, in the way of greeting, “How was Berlin?”

The other’s eyes popped. “What! Vot did you say, eh?”

Quint sipped his drink and said easly, “Berlin. Don’t get so excited. Your accent gets worse. Mike Woolman was telling me the other day. You weren’t so prosperous before you went up there. Obviously, you were given some sort of job.”

The German blinked at him, moistly apprehensive.

Quint yawned as though it wasn’t important. “We figured that either Digby or Brett-Home had hired you to finger Bormann or Doktor Stahlecker for them. You knew them both, back in the old days, didn’t you, Herr Stroehlein?”

“Ja. I knew them. From way back I knew them.” The German’s eyes shifted about the room, evidently not knowing whether to attempt to elude this prying American or not.

The columnist nodded, as though they were in mutual agreement. “We figured that was why the Dempsey party was set up. Brett-Home and Digby thought that with Nicolas Ferencsik attending, Doktor Stahlecker would show up. You’d be present and recognize him.”

The German had begun to frown. Quint quickly reviewed his words. Had something come out wrong? He was making a pretense to the other to be knowledgeable about the whole thing. He didn’t want to scare the weepy ex-Nazi off.

Stroehlein said cautiously, “Suppose you are right, eh? What are you coming to, eh?”

Quint shifted his shoulders. “I just wondered if you could have been fooled. Perhaps Doktor Stahlecker was there the other night. And possibly here tonight.”

The plump German at least had the gumption to be irritated at the suggestion that he was incompetent to play his role. He said, “Neinl If Doktor Stahlecker had been there at the other party, I would have recognized her. If she were here tonight, I would recognize her!”

The creature that had once been a man, squatted, huddled, in its hiding place. It was cramped, but not overly conscious of being uncomfortable. He—or it—had already lost the capacity for discomfort in such situation as this.

It waited. Knowing faintly, distantly, that before long it would be called up. The master would unleash its strength. At the dim thought it mewled pleasure deep in its throat. Tonight it would feel the good feeling again. It had been several days since it had felt the good feeling. It liked the good feeling. To feel its clawed hands sink deep…

It squatted in its hiding place and waited, and through its mind, so far away as to be all but gone, traced memories of yesteryear which it could not quite understand.

The packed hordes of brownshirted men in the Konigsplatz, shouting, shouting. And over and over again, that same word, that same cheer. Vaguely he tried to place it, and could not.

The birds flying over, endless and endless and endless flights. And something there was about them to fear, though that was hard to know now, and the creature shook its head. It no longer knew fear. Perhaps they were not birds that flew overhead.

The ruins of the cities. And through them, the men in dark strange uniforms. Not the field gray of the Wehrmacht—what was the Wehrmacht? it couldn’t quite remember—but a darker color. And the helmets too were strange. The men ran, bent almost double, short weapons, with large circular clips, in their hands, as they ran, ran through the ruins. He hated them, but his dim mind did not know why he hated them.

The living in the deep cement bunker. And the noise. The always booming noise that went on above. And day in and day out. The noise. He could remember then knowing fear. Though he couldn’t remember now how fear was.

He stirred. Soon the master would come and tell him what he must do.

He mewled deep in his throat again.

It was pleasant to do things for the master.