Once Departed

by Mack Reynolds

  “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?”

  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?”