Scanned by Highroller.

  Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.

  Proofer's note: Lack of diacriticals and unusual punctuation have been
preserved as published.




             Once Departed
                        Mack Reynolds


                           Chapter One
   After the elevator had passed the eighth floor without either of its two
passengers making any signs of debarking, Quint said, "Three'll get you
five we're heading for the same party."

  The other said, in surprise, "You're an American."

  "Sorry."

  "No, I meant… So am I, but you don't look like an American."

  "What does an American look like?" Quint said. Actually, the man could
have been his twin in many respects. They were both about five foot ten,
one hundred and seventy, in their early thirties and dressed
conservatively. They differed in that the other wore a crew cut and no
beret, spoke in a voice a trifle louder and more hurried than did Quint. On
top of that, he had the air of aggressiveness that types Americans to
Europeans.

   His fellow passenger laughed and held out a hand. "Bart Digby," he
said. "I hope you're going to the Dempsey party."

  "Quint Jones," Quint shook. "That's right. But why hope?
   The other looked uncomfortable. "Well, I was supposed to come with a
friend. Englishman named Brett-Home…"

  "I know Ronald, more or less. Met him at a few cocktail parties, and we
work out at the same gym."

  "Well, he didn't meet me when we agreed. But earlier he insisted that it
was okay for me to crash the party."

  Quint said definitely, "Nobody has ever crashed a Dempsey party."
Then, when the other looked increasingly uncomfortable, "They're all
open-house affairs. Anybody, anybody at all, can wander in. They're
invariably informal affairs. Brawls."

  "Oh." Bart Digby suddenly grinned a boyish grin that went with the
crew cut. "I wanted to meet this Nicolas Ferencsik. Ronald said he'd be
here."

  "Interested in surgical medicine, or looking for a pet?"

  "A pet?" Digby said blankly.

  They'd reached the penthouse and the elevator boy opened the door for
them.

  Quint Jones chuckled. "Didn't you read about that latest experiment of
Nicolas Ferencsik's? He grafted a second head on a dog and it lived for
over a month. Now, that's something I could use around the apartment A
two headed dog. Talk about a conversation piece."

   They were both laughing as they entered the penthouse foyer. There was
no one there to greet them but party sounds erupted from several
directions. The elevator door closed behind them.

   "At any rate," Bart Digby said, "if Ronald Brett-Home isn't already here,
I wonder if you'd, well, sort of introduce me to our hostess?"

   Quint had to chuckle again. "You just won't believe me, eh? By this time
of the evening Marty Dempsey is probably so stoned she doesn't know
she's the hostess and this is her own home."

  To make a liar of him, a fluttery woman in her early fifties and making
no attempt to hide the years, zeroed in on them.

  "Quentin," she screamed. "Dahling!"

  Quint winced. "My mistake," he muttered. "Marty must be taking the
cure again." He turned on the faucet of his charm, kissed her on the cheek,
then turned back to his new-found companion.

  "Martha, may I present an old, old friend of mine, Bart Digby. Mrs.
Dempsey, our hostess. You might say Bart and I came up together, Marty.
Side by side we rose to the heights."

  Marty Dempsey simpered at the newcomer. "How thrilling. So both of
you dahlings are writers."

  "Writers?" Digby said blankly. He looked at Quint in accusation. "Quint
Jones," he said. "She called you Quentin. Holy smokes, you're Quentin
Jones."

  Marty Dempsey looked from one of them to the other. Didn't get it.
Decided it was beyond her. Looked vague. Said, "I suppose you dahlings
can find your own," and wandered off.

  Quint laughed in easy self-deprecation. "Don't tell me I've got a fan."

  Digby said earnestly, "Listen, those three or four articles you did on
segregation. You know what they did in my home state? They ended
segregation there. It was laughed out of existence. Listen, those articles
were damn good."

   Quint was embarrassed. "Well, thanks," he said. He hated this sort of
thing. One of the reasons he lived abroad was so that he could avoid
gushing readers who seemed to be able to find considerably more message
in his columns and articles than he usually intended to put into them.

   He said, "Shall we join the party? From here on in, you're on your own.
Anybody might be here and you probably know as many of the guests as I
do. The last party the Dempseys threw, the guest of honor was the head of
the anarchist underground in Spain, sort of a left-over from Spanish Civil
War days. While the police were searching for him on the
streets—tracking down rumors he was in town—we were drinking
champagne with him up here." Quint added dryly, "He told us what he
and his buddies figured on doing to us decadent capitalists after the
anarchists took over."

  Bart Digby said, "Ronald told me they liked to base their get-togethers
on controversial figures. Any rate, thanks again, uh, Quint. I guess the
party's center is over in there."

  'That's pronounced bar," Quint told him. "See you later."

   Quint cornered himself a Scotch at the commercial size bar which
dominated the Dempsey living room, and began drifting around through
the shrill, milling guests. He would have preferred Fundador brandy, but
the Dempseys were of the breed who drank nothing of Spanish origin—at
least not so long as they were in Spain. He had a sneaking suspicion that
when they made trips to Scotland they ordered Fundador in bars and
hotels, and that probably they drank French cognac in the States, and
bourbon in France. He brought out a tiny notebook and scribbled a few
lines in it. Might make a gag bit of business for the column.

  He spotted his host, Ferd Dempsey, at the far side of the long room in
heated discussion with two other obvious Americans and turned off in
another direction. Ferd was in his arguing stage. Two drinks more and
he'd start reciting quatrains from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. At that
point, Quint usually made a practice of going home.

 Somebody said, "Hi, Quint. Long time, no see." The words were
American but the accent was Spanish.

  He turned and said, "Hello, Senor Garcia."

   "Joe to you," the other told him. He was a man of middles. Middle age,
middle height—given his lift heels—middle in weight. The man was a
hanger-on of the foreign colony, and especially the Americans. Quint
Jones didn't particularly like him, for no particular reasons. Like the rest
of the group, he used Jose Garcia Mendez when he needed some red tape
cutting, or some information pertaining to life in Madrid. How to locate
an apartment. Where to find a maid. How to keep your car in Spain after
the six months legal deadline had elapsed. And, like the rest of the group,
was hence obligated to tolerate the man.

  A maid went by with a tray of entremeses and Quint snagged one. The
Dempseys were doing themselves well tonight. They'd remembered to
serve food. Often enough, Ferd and Marty, when on a binge, couldn't stand
the sight of refreshments other than alcoholic ones. But for that matter,
the party seemed out of the usual, anyway. Quint Jones couldn't put his
finger on just why.

  He said, to make conversation, "Seems to be a lot of newcomers around
tonight."

   Garcia nodded, sipped his champagne, wiped his mustache dry with a
forefinger. "Should be some fun and games before the evening's through,
eh? You know who that sleazy looking character is over there?" He
indicated direction with his head, but before Quint could answer said,
"Vladimir Nuriyev. Nice guy, Vlad. Used to be a top hatchetman for the
Chrezvychainaya Komissiya. Killed more innocent people than the
plague. I doubt if it was a matter of his conscience ever hurting him. The
story has it that the C.I.A. paid him a hundred grand to defect and spill
his guts. So he's spending it here in Spain. Where else?"

  Jose Garcia loved American idiom. Unfortunately, Quint thought, he
was always about twenty years behind on the latest slang terms.

  Garcia was going on. "And that weepy looking type talking to Dave
Shepherd? That's Albrecht Stroehlein. Albrecht used to pick up the tab at
the beerhalls in Munich, back when Hitler didn't have a pot to…"

   "Plant a flower in," Quint finished for him. He looked over at the
German his companion was talking about. A man of about sixty. From
what Garcia said, probably one of the former Nazis who had fled to Spain
to avoid Nuremberg.

  Garcia said, as though with satisfaction, "You can imagine how our
guest of honor is going to react to those two."

  Garcia was the town crier. The gossip who knew all, and if there wasn't
anything to know, invented something. Quint wasn't usually interested in
the ins and outs of his fellow expatriates in Madrid. He said, "Why
shouldn't Professor Ferencsik get along with them? What connection have
they got with his field?"

   The Spaniard grunted amusement, sipped his bubbly wine again,
stroked his fingernail over his mustache again. "Pal, you just aren't up on
the news. Our Hungarian scientist's second biggest interest in life is
medicine.”

   Quint was becoming irritated with the conversation, actually, but he
said, "All right, all right, drop the other shoe."

  Garcia laughed, as though he had accomplished some minor triumph.
"His first interest is the achieving of the One World. Of World
Government. He's a fruitcake on the subject. That's why he left Hungary.
Couldn't stand the fact that they wouldn't allow him to sound off about it."

  Quint said dryly, "And he came to Spain seeking freedom of speech?"

   There was a subtle difference in Garcia's tone. "But there are no
restrictions on freedom of speech pertaining to foreigners in Spain. The
anti-Franco bugaboo you read in the foreign press is largely commie
inspired."

  Quint said, "Ummm. But for some reason my agent doesn't seem to be
able to place my column in any Spanish papers, although it's in just about
every other country in Western Europe."

   The party swirled up and around them, and when it receded Quint
found the Spaniard had disappeared and that Marty Dempsey had taken
his place. Marty had, by this time, acquired a drink, which made her look
more natural. Neither of the Dempseys looked normal unless they were
wearing a glass in the right hand.

  She said, "How's the party going, dahling? Have you seen that drunken
husband of mine?"

  “It's going fine," Quint told her automatically. "He was somewhere
around a moment ago." He looked around the room, and tried to peer out
onto the dark terrace. "Don't see him now."

  Marty was looking about unhappily, as well. "That Ronald. He was
supposed to be here by now."

  "Ronald Brett-Home?" Quint said.

   She giggled archly. "It was his idea to give this party, you know. You'd
think he was nothing but a playboy, wouldn't you?"
  Quint shrugged. "Guess so."

  She tapped him on the arm, and her voice dropped into a conspiratorial
whisper. "He's actually connected with the British Embassy."

  "Oh? Empties the wastebaskets, or something?"

   "Dahling, you have no idea. Actually, I mean actually, Ronald is a very
sinister type. Cloak and dagger and all that. He was very famous back
during the war. Parachutes behind the lines and all that."

   It seemed unlikely to Quint. He'd met the Englishman a few times. The
other seemed to be a quiet character. Soft spoken. Sort of gentle. Quint
said, "How do you mean, his idea? Is there supposed to be something
special about this party tonight, pet?"

  "Well, dahling," Marty said, hooking a fresh drink from a passing tray
and depositing her empty glass at the same time, "according to Ronald
Brett-Home…”




   Ronald Brett-Home was a bit late, he knew. He finished tying his black
tie. Gave it a final adjustment. He grimaced into the mirror.

   If the truth were known, he rather dreaded the evening. There would
he some sort of a rowdydow, of course. He was glad that American chap,
Bart Digby, would be there. Efficient, these American operatives. Must
really give the chaps credit. What was the name of that one during the
war? Brunner, or something. Gestapo finished him there on the outskirts
of Prague. Held them off, singlehanded. Sort of rearguard action, whilst
Brett-Home escaped with the equipment. Damn good man.

   He opened the bureau drawer and scowled down at the black Baretti.
He supposed he'd better take it, in spite of the fact that it would bulge his
pocket. Accurate guns those Italian fellows made. A bit light as to
caliber, but frightfully accurate. He took the automatic up and slipped it
into his trousers pocket.

  He gave himself a final check in the mirror. He'd really have to get
going. He'd already missed his date with Digby and would have to meet
him at the party. Quit dreading this and get a move on, you know. If the
truth were known, he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Should
leave it to younger chaps. Twenty or twenty-five years ago, yes. He had
been frightfully keen about doing in the enemy counter-espionage
fellows, and that sort of thing. But, really now, a chap in his mid-forties
should let them assign him to a desk. MI6 was all very fine, but the field
work …

  The bell rang. Ronald Brett-Home frowned and went to the door. He
couldn't imagine who…

  He opened up and for the moment didn't recognize the large, one
might almost say hulking, figure standing there. But then he did.
Impossibly, unbelievably, did.

  But it was twenty, almost twenty-five… No, it was impossible.
Absolutely impossible. He tried to say something. Took a step backward.
The other followed him and large, blunt fingered hands began to come
up.

  Ronald Brett-Home's mouth twitched silently. His face worked. He had
never felt fear before in his life. Not real fear. Not this fear.

  But it was almost twenty-five years, and the other had not been
young, even then.

   He stepped back again, almost tripped on the rug. All of a sudden his
hand, shaking, fumbled for his trouser pocket. The Baretti came out,
flaming, the first shot blasting into the rug, but the second and third, so
close together as almost to be a single roaring, thudded into the bulk of
the oncoming…

 … the oncoming horror that was upon him, rending and tearing,
muttering gutturally in its throat.




  "… according to Ronald Brett-Home," Martha Dempsey was saying, "all
sorts of sparks will fly when Professor Ferencsik meets with some of the
other guests. Ah, there the wretch is!"

   The wretch was evidently her husband, Ferd, whose voice boomed out
from the darkness of the terrace.
"And much as Wine has play'd the Infidel,
"And robb'd me of my Robe of Honor—Well,
"I wonder often what the Vintners buy
"One half so precious as the stuff they sell."




  Quint's hostess was off and he grunted amusement and looked about
the room for further entertainment.

  Someone said, "Avoiding me, Quentin?"

  "Good grief, no. Didn't expect you to be here. Doesn't school start in a
few days?"

   It was Marylyn Worth, looking impossibly blue of eye, improbably blond
of hair, and fantastically the nice American-girl type. She had an honest
freshness about her that you didn't find in the Madrid expatriate circle.

  He knew that she knew he liked the light touch. And he also knew that
she attempted to achieve it, for his sake, although her own nature was to
be on the overly earnest side.

  She said brightly, making an amusing gesture with her champagne
cocktail, "That's exactly why I'm here. To get a bit of C 2H5OH into my
blood stream before I have to take over drilling knowledge and ethics into
the little monsters."

  "What's C 2H5OH?" he asked her.

  "Alcohol," she told him. "Hmmm, the great columnist doesn't seem to
be up on his chemistry."

  Over her head he could see a small group beginning to gather about
Nicolas Ferencsik who was talking to the ex-Russian hatchetman, Nuriyev,
and evidently becoming animated about something.

   "Talking about monsters," Quint said, "we ought to get in on that
argument over there. Everybody's been telling me that fur is supposed to
fly when our guest of honor meets some of the others here tonight."
 "Oh?" she frowned. "What has Professor Ferencsik got to do with
monsters? I thought he won Nobel prizes and things like that."

  Quint chuckled. "Yes, but by performing such feats as transplanting the
brain of a chimp into the skull of an orangutan."

  "But you can't do that. They're different species."

  Quint laughed. "Argue that with him. You're the science teacher."

    Marylyn's frown deepened. "You go ahead. I hate arguments. Perhaps
I'll avoid meeting the Professor. Besides, I wanted to see Marty Dempsey
about something."

   "Okay, see you later, pet." Quint took up a fresh drink from the bar and
strolled toward the growing group centered about the Hungarian medical
genius. He decided he would see more of Marylyn before the evening was
over. The girl was beginning to grow on him, in spite of the fact that he
preferred being the aggressor in the boy-meet-girl game.

  Nicolas Ferencsik, up closer, turned out to be a smallish feisty man, in
the vicinity of fifty-five though his energy belied his years. By the time
Quint arrived, he'd already got to the point where his eyes were flashing
the passion of his belief. His English was excellent.

   "… man has gone beyond the days when he could afford to be split up
into different camps, each at swords point with the others. State lines,
national lines, countries, flags, kings and presidents are as antiquated as
armies and navies. The modern world demands unity. We either unite or
we die as a race. There can be no more countries. World Government cries
to be born."

  Quint sipped his whisky. A little on the flowery side, he thought, but
well stated.

  The Hungarian was answered hesitantly by the heavy-set German Jose
Garcia had pointed out earlier. What was the man's name? Albrecht
Stroehlein, or something like that. Quint had never heard of him. He
couldn't have been a very prominent Nazi party member.

  Stroehlein said weakly, "But Herr Ferencsik, you seem to ignore the
wave of nationalism that sweeps the world, eh? The African nations, the
former Asian colonies. Each wants, most of all, independence as countries.
They want no world government. They would distrust world government
dominated by we whites, eh? They want no more domination by whites.
No more colonialism." The German blinked moist eyes as though
apologetic for having a difference of opinion.

  The Hungarian glared at him. "Do not call me Herr Ferencsik," he
snapped. "And do not speak to me of domination of the World
Government by whites. I am no believer in Herrenvolk, sir. If the One
World is ever to be established it must be a world in which race is
meaningless."

   Vladimir Nuriyev, the Russian defector, who reminded Quint of no one
so much as Basil Rathbone at his most sinister, said smoothly, "And what
would the socio-economic system of this One World of yours be, Mr.
Ferencsik? The feudalism of Saudi-Arabia, the ultra-capitalism of the
United States, the pseudo-socialism of Sweden, the…"

   Ferencsik snapped, "Certainly not Russia's so-called communism, my
friend. It would have to be, could only be, an economic system under
which a man was rewarded according to his contributions."

  Somebody else who Quint didn't make out, said, "Free Enterprise."

  The Hungarian, really getting into stride now, spun at that and sneered
open contempt. "Do you labor under the illusion that under that
gobblydygook term—gobblydygook, is that the word?"

  "That's the word," Quint said wryly.

   "Under that term, that there is truly reward according to a man's
contributions? In the United States…" the sneer was all but a snarl now "…
did Thomas Edison die a wealthy man? Did Albert Einstein? And just
what do your Barbara Huttons and Doris Dukes contribute that resulted
in their being awarded so greatly?"

  "Hey," somebody in the rear protested in a slurring voice. "I thought
you were a refugee from Budapest, or wherever. You still sound like a
damn red to me."

  Bart Digby had drifted up while the discussion was in swing. Quint
hadn't seen him since they had left the elevator together. Now Digby said,
"What I'd like to know is how you're going to get around to starting this
World Government bit. How're you going to get such countries as France
and Switzerland, Egypt and Israel, not to talk about the United States and
Russia, to give up their national governments and all submit to this One
World state of yours?"

  "Hear, hear!" Quint said under his breath.

   The controversial Hungarian scientist turned to the American. "I don't
deny that's a most important question. But I would wager that already a
majority of the world's population wishes there was such a government
and an end to all this international conflict. I am not a leader of men,
myself. I realize my shortcomings in that regard. However, the new world
cries to be born and somewhere, somehow, the spark will be struck which
will start men to seek their salvation in World Government. Perhaps a
new, great leader will come to the surface to point out the way."

  Quint said with a twist of mouth, "I'm afraid I don't exactly trust these
great leaders who come along. They're too apt to turn out to be
misleaders. We've had our bellyful, this last half-century of Hitlers, Stalins,
Mussolinis, Maos, Titos and the rest of the great leader types."

   Ferencsik's eyes gleamed but he nodded his head in abrupt jerks. “Your
point is well taken, my friend. However, there are not only the Hitlers and
Stalins. There have also been such leaders as Jesus, the Buddha, your own
Jefferson, Gandhi, Solon of Greece, and Confucius of China. Our times call
for a man as far above ordinary levels as these were above the norm of
their days."

   "Superman!" the drunken voice that had earlier accused the Hungarian
of being a communist, slurred from the audience that had gathered.

  Nuriyev, his hands easily in his trouser pockets, said suavely, "And
supermen are hard to come by in any age, are they not?"

   "Wasn't it Marx who said, the times produce the men?" the Hungarian
snapped back at him. For some reason, Quint decided, the scientist was
more irritated by the former communist agent than anyone else whose
opinions differed from his own. "Very well, I will accept the term. The
world needs a superman to lead it to the goal of World Government. I am
of the opinion that such a superman will be found."
  "I still think the whole thing sounds like a red plot," somebody growled.

  "Oh, shut up," a feminine voice rasped.

   Quint decided the second tone indicated a wife had entered the fray. He
also decided that he might as well take off. The argument from this point
on was undoubtedly going to disintegrate into alcohol-inspired opinions.

  He began to drift toward the bar, although his glass was still half filled.
Bart Digby fell in step beside him.

   Digby said, scowling, "What'd you think, uh, Quint? Is this Hungarian
still a commie?"

   Quint looked at him. "I didn't know he ever was one. Just being a
Hungarian doesn't make you a communis. From the way he was talking,
I'd say he was as anti-communist as I am. And that's rather anti—though
admittedly, not for the usual reasons."

  The other didn't seem to get that. "How do you mean?"

   Quint was inwardly amused. He said, "As a student, I decided to read
Marx and Engels just because I was always hearing about them, but
nobody seemed to have actually read what they had written. I had a hard
time getting their books. Oh, you can get criticism of Marx, and criticism
of criticism. But getting the original can be difficult. But I did. And I
became anti-Soviet as a result. Poor old Marx must be spinning around in
his grave like a whirling dervish at what's going on in Russia, supposedly
in his name."

   Bart Digby looked at him blankly, that
I-don't-know-if-you're-kidding-or-not look on his face. Bart Digby wasn't
the type who took to joking on a political level, Quint decided.

  Digby said, "But what are the unusual reasons you're anti-communist?"

   "They're not radical enough for me," Quint told him. And then, so he
wouldn't have to top his own gag, said, "Pardon me, I see a girl I wanted to
talk to."

 Laughing inwardly as the other stared after him, Quint followed
Marylyn Worth out onto the terrace.
  When she saw him she smiled brightly and said, "What's so funny?"

  He told her, chuckling.

  Marylyn finished her glass of champagne cocktail and put it down on
the stone barrier that surrounded the terrace. She said, frowning, "You'll
get a reputation as a bolshevik yourself, if you talk like that, Quentin. And
that certainly wouldn't do your career any good."

   Quint grinned down at her. "I haven't heard that term, bolshevik, for a
long time. You're old fashioned, Marylyn, but I'll tell you something about
the articles that I do. Already the type person who believes that anybody
who doesn't belong to the Birch Society is a communist, has branded me
one. Contrarywise, the type person for whom I really write knows that not
only am I not a communist stooge but could never become one. It's an
intellectual impossibility for me."

  "Well," she said, smiling up at him, "That's a relief."

  He grunted at that, and said sourly, "However, I am not prejudiced.
Some of my worst friends are communists."

  "Oh, you fool."

  How it happened, he didn't later have the vaguest idea, but suddenly
she was in his arms. Her breasts pressed against him, her eyes blinking
her own amazement.

  "Why… Quentin…" she said inanely. The way a spinster science teacher,
somewhere in her late twenties, or early thirties, would react to suddenly
being caught up in a man's arms. Far back in his consciousness he was
amused by the scene.

   However, he bent and kissed her squarely and thoroughly. Her mouth,
he decided, hadn't known a great many kisses. She reacted to the stimulus
of his own mouth upon hers as an unpracticed girl would react, or an
older woman, past the years of romance.

  "Why… Quentin…"

  "Why, Marylyn," he mocked her. "How long have you wanted me to kiss
you?"
  "Why, what a thing to say." She looked up at him, blinking.

   "See here," Quint said, keeping his voice serious. "What was the name
of that town in Nebraska you said you came from?"

  "Why, Border."

  "Stop saying why," he told her. "Don't they have men there? Didn't they
have boys when you went to high school?"

   "I… I didn't have much time for boys when I was going to school," she
said lowly. "And, besides, my parents were very strict." She made no effort
to extricate herself from his embrace.

  He said, "Are you telling me, pet, that at your age and with your looks
and figure, I'm the first man…"

  "Quentin Jones, I said no such thing. And don't be so condescending
with me. Why I've had loads of beaux…"

   "Beaux!" he laughed. "Where did you get this terminology?" He smiled
down at her. Gave her another peck of a kiss. "And where do you get that
faint trace of accent? I thought you were two hundred and two percent
Mid-Western American."

   "You're joshing me. Do I have an accent? My grandmother was German.
She raised me. You could cut her German accent with a butterknife." She
took a breath and added, wistfully, he decided, "I'm sorry if I'm
old-fashioned."

   He said, and was sorry the minute it was past his teeth, "Next you'll be
telling me you're a virgin."

  She held the silence for a moment, then said, "I… I guess I'd better be
getting along, Quentin. You were right, earlier. School does start in a few
days and I've got things to do."




                          Chapter Two
  Quint Jones groaned in excruciating anguish. He picked up his coffee
cup. It was empty. For a moment his face brightened. He could get up, go
out into his efficiency kitchen and get himself another cup. If the pot was
empty, better still, he could take all the time involved in making another.
Anything to get away from…

  But then he realized he was already drowning internally in coffee. There
was no escape in that direction.

  He reached for one of his pipes. A shell briar he'd bought a few months
ago in Gibraltar. But then he realized that he had a pipe lit, that he'd just
put into the ash tray a moment ago. His tongue was already raw from
smoking. He put the shell briar down, and groaned again.

   He stared at the sheet of glowing white paper. What was the old gag
about the writer who went snow blind from staring at a sheet of white
paper in his typewriter? He was trying to get into the swing of his
morning stint. He had to turn out three columns a week, running between
five hundred and a thousand words per column. It didn't sound like much.
It was.

   For one thing, he'd got beyond the point where he could just dash off
any old crud with a twist of humor in it. A gag article. When he'd started
this column deal, up in Paris, on one of the American papers with a
special European edition, he could get by with a few cute bits of business
about the tourists, about some newly opened nightclub, or some visiting
celebrity. But the thing had mushroomed, and now he was being carried
in hundreds of papers throughout the world. With several hundred fishy
eyed editors—he could see them clearly, just by staring up into the corner
of the room—to please, each column had to be a veritable masterpiece of
wit and wisdom, the so-called Quentin Jones touch, the Mort
Sahl-cum-Jules Fiffer of the newspaper columnists.

   He groaned again, got up from his chair and stared dismally out of the
window. His apartment was on the eighth floor of a building one block off
Avenida del Gen-eralisimo Franco, about a mile south of Paza de Castilla
and in a section considered on the absolute outskirts of town by most of
the expatriate set. He'd chosen the place deliberately. Traffic moved fast
enough on Generalisimo that he could have his little Renault down to
Avenida Jose Antonio smack in the middle of the city, in ten minutes. On
the other hand, drunken friends weren't inclined to think of his apartment
as an oasis for a final drink after being thrown out of the last bar, two or
three o'clock in the morning. Too far to go. They dropped in on somebody
nearer.

   Down below was Paco's bodega. At this time of the morning, espresso
coffee, now all the thing in Madrid as it was in Italy, was the rush item,
but if there was anything Quint didn't need, it was more coffee. Come to
think of it, though, maybe the thing to do would be to go on down to
Paco's and have an anis, or possibly a cana, the Spanish word meaning
short beer. He had already turned to reach for his beret, before getting
hold of himself. That way lay disaster. One beer, and the morning's work
was over before it even got under way. They'd turn up some excuse to have
another. There was always an excuse in Madrid to have another.

   He went back to the table where'd he'd set up his portable and groaned
as he sat down before it.

  How about knocking out a few pieces on One World Government? He'd
never dealt with the subject to any extent. He could use some of the things
Nicolas Ferencsik had said the night before.

   He jabbed absently at a couple of the typewriter keys. In fact, he could
make a column out of the argument between Ferencsik, that Russian
defector and the ex-Nazi, Stroehlein. Report it more or less verbatim, and
try to get in a few bits of business and possibly some snide remarks.

   Why snide? What was wrong with the idea of a world-wide
government? The United Nations taken to the extreme. Surely, if man
lasted long enough, and failed to blow himself up, sooner or later the
human race would get around to a World Government. Probably not in
Quint Jones' lifetime… but someday.

  He jabbed at a couple of more keys, unthinking. He might make it a
short series of columns on the subject.

   Whatever had happened to that guy up in Paris who had renounced his
American citizenship and proclaimed himself the first Citizen of the
World? What was his name? Gary something or other. For a while he got a
lot of publicity. Made up a passport of his own, which nobody would
recognize, of course. His instincts had possibly been right. He had decided
that only a One World Government could solve the problem of peace, and
had done his little best to start the ball rolling.

  Quint chuckled, sourly. The trouble was that the first Citizen of the
World was also the last. Nobody else, so far as Quint had heard, bothered
to follow along the path he'd blazed. Nobody else had got around to
renouncing their citizenship in an individual country and becoming the
second Citizen of the World.

   With his jabbing at the typewriter keys, Quint had fouled up the sheet
of paper in the machine. He absently cranked it out, and reached for a
clean sheet.

   Let's see, he could make the first column about the argument at the
party, and the second column about Gary, what's-his-name. And for the
third column he might do a summing up of the whole question, making it
as dryly witty as he could squeeze out.

   That's what realty sold his stuff. Mature, satirical, even cynical humor
directed at the world's current problems.

  He licked his lip absently. He needed a good, sharp title.

  The bell rang and he looked up, for a moment as though he hadn't
heard it. It rang again.

  "Oh, for crissake," he snarled.

  Theoretically, all his friends knew he worked in the mornings. That he
wasn't to be bothered unless the emergency was extreme. He kicked the
chair back and shuffled toward the door, muttering.

  It was Mike Woolman, Madrid correspondent for World Wide Press.
Lean, dark, nervous, he habitually toted a rolled up newspaper which he
banged against his leg. And he was Quint's favorite drinking companion.

  "Working?" he said.

   "What do you think?" Quint snarled. "How can I be working when I'm
standing here beating my gums with some twitch who doesn't know
enough to…"

  Mike brushed past him and into the living room. He looked at the
typewriter, sitting on the table, and grunted. "Why the hell don't you set
up one of your spare bedrooms as an office?" he demanded.
  "None of your damn business. Why don't you go away? Listen,
remember that guy up in Paris a few years ago who renounced his U.S.
Citizenship and said he was the first citizen of the world?"

  "Uh huh. What about him?"

  "What was his name?"

  "Gary something or other." Mike slumped down on the couch and
banged his knee fretfully with his newspaper.

   Quint said, "You're a great help. Why don't you beat it? I'm trying to get
into my column. Listen, what do you know about the movement toward
World Government?" He sat back down in the chair before his typewriter.

  "Nothing," Mike Woolman said.

  "You're a great help. I thought newspapermen were supposed to know
everything."

  "We do know everything. There isn't anything to know about World
Government. It's just a couple of words. There's no movement, no
organization. It's not even in its infancy, unless you're thinking the United
Nations is a step in that direction—which it isn't."

   Quint grunted. "I've got news for you. Now there's a beginning. A first
step. Its name is Nicolas Ferencsik."

  "So you were at that party last night. I thought maybe you were. That's
why I came up."

  Quint scowled at him. "What about it?"

  "Ronald Brett-Home was supposed to be there."

  "So Marty said. He didn't make it. Probably drunk."

  "Dead," Mike said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Mike repeated it. "Dead. Not drunk. Murdered."
  Quint stared at him.

  Mike said, "Uh huh."

  Quint said, "Who'd want to kill that easy going playboy? Somebody's
husband?"

    Mike Woolman banged his newspaper against his knee in irritation. He
said, "I was hoping I'd get some information out of you, instead of giving
it. Didn't you know Brett-Home was Great Britain's top MI6 field man?"

  Wheels were beginning to turn, but Quint said, "MI6?"

  "The British equivalent of our C.I.A. International espionage,
counter-espionage."

  Some of the things Marty Dempsey had said last night came back to
Quint Jones. He hadn't believed her at the time. He said, frowning,
"What's that got to do with it?"

  Mike squirmed, uncomfortably, "Damned if I know. You didn't meet a
guy named Bartholomew Digby there, did you?"

  "You mean Bart Digby? Come to think of it, he told me that Brett-Home
was to have brought him up. What about Bart?"

  "How'd he impress you?"

  Quint was becoming irritated by the other's grasshoppering
conversation. "He impressed me as some bright crewcut college man, in
Europe representing I.B.M. or RCA or one of the other big business outfits
currently trying to suck up to the Common Market."

  "That's what he's supposed to look like. Digby was kicked out of the
C.I.A. a month or so ago—or so he says."

  Quint looked at him.

   Mike Woolman dropped his banged up newspaper long enough to start
counting off his fingers, one by one. "Brett-Home was connected with MI6.
Albrecht Stroehlein was formerly of the Gestapo. One of the other guests
at that party was Vladimir Nuriyev, who defected from the KGB, the
Komissarait Gosudarstvennoi Bezopastnotsi, or so he says."
   Quint murmured, "Joe Garcia told me Nuriyev had been a hatchetman
for the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya."

  Woolman cocked his head to one side, and rubbed the bottom of his
chin nervously. "He did, eh? How would he know? I sometimes have a
sneaky suspicion that our Senor Garcia does chores for the Spanish secret
police."

  "At any rate, what are you getting at? You've got spies running up and
down the walls."

   Mike picked up his newspaper again and gave himself an absent
minded bang on the leg. "I don't know. I thought you might have
something you noticed at the party. Something funny is going on here in
Madrid. Not just this Brett-Home killing. That, at least, will come out into
the open. The local cops can hardly suppress the news of the death of a
foreigner. But I've been getting a distinct feeling…"

  "Feminine intuition, like?" Quint twisted his mouth.

  "Shut up. Something screwy is going on. The police and other
authorities are holding the lid down on something."

   Quint stood up and an expression of mock concern spread over his face.
He said, "Mike, you need a long rest. Now why don't you get the hell out of
here and let me work? Go chase some spies, or something. I didn't see
anything mysterious, or even sinister going on at the Dempsey's last night.
If you ask me, some thief knocked Ronald Brett-Home over the head
and…"

   "He wasn't robbed," Mike said disgustedly, coming to his own feet.
"You're lucky you're a damned columnist instead of a reporter. You
wouldn't see a story if you stubbed your toe on it. Not only wasn't he
robbed, but he was all torn up as though he'd been finished off by a Bengal
tiger." He gave his leg a double bang with his paper club.

  Quint scowled. "Well… some kind of a nut got to him. A psycho…"

   Mike grunted his disgust at the other's lack of perception. "I should've
known better than to talk to you while you're working. You obviously turn
off your thinking machine when you work. Didn't it get through to you?
Ronald Brett-Home was a top MI6 man. Where was it you first met him?"
  "At Hideka's karate classes over on Calle San Bernardo," Quint said
thoughtfully. "We used to work out together, from time to time."

  "And was he any good?"

  "He held a third Dan Black Belt, now that you mention it." Quint was
scowling again.

  Mike Woolman headed for the door. "Then how the hell could some
psycho take him?" he growled. "Drunk or sober, a third Dan Black Belt
could take on any two or three crooks or fugitives from a nut factory, that
ever lived. Shall I see you for lunch at the Hoger Gallego?"

    Quint's scowl had deepened. He said absently, "I don't know. I'm getting
tired of sea food. Besides, I'm getting a slow start on the column. Maybe
I'll just open a can of soup here at the apartment."

  Mike opened the door to leave. "Damn Americans," he said. "Do all
their cooking out of cans. Barbarians."

   "You've been over here too long," Quint snarled after him, but the other
was gone. He looked at the door for a long moment, digesting some of the
things the newspaperman had said.

  Foul it, Mike was right. Ronald Brett-Home, no matter what his air of
easy goingness might be, was a top judo and karate man. Quint had
thought the other followed the sport simply for exercise and fun—as Quint
did himself. He hadn't known the man was connected with British
espionage. But whatever his connections, he was superbly capable of
protecting himself.

  The columnist shrugged in irritation and resumed his chair before the
typewriter. Confound Mike. Now he'd lost his thread of inspiration. He'd
had some idea for a series of three columns. What in the devil was it?

  He stared at the paper for a moment, unseeingly.

  Then, as though not of his own volition got up again and crossed the
room to his combination bar and telephone stand. It was a heavy piece of
converted pseudo-Castilian furniture, its wood half a foot thick, its
wrought ironwork deliberately rusted as though with centuries of age.
  He dialed absently, waited while the phone rang over and over again.
He looked at his watch. It was nearly noon.

  Finally the voice came. "Good heavens, dahling, whoever you are, what
possibly could you want this time of night?"

  Quint said, "Pet, it's Quint Jones. Listen, remember last evening?"

  Her voice went wary. "Just a minute, while I take a sip of this to clear
the cobwebs. Last evening, dahling? Of course—at least the early part."
She hesitated. "I think I do."

   He made a face, but turned on oral charm. "Listen, Pet. You told me
that Ronald Brett-Home had suggested the party to you. That he, more or
less, set it up. Said there'd be a lot of fun. Just what kind of fun?"

  Marty Dempsey had evidently bolted back a quick one. Her voice came
through more clearly. "Did I say that, dahling? Well, the wretch never even
turned up." She giggled in remembrance. "You must have left early with
that nice Marylyn girl. You missed the climax of the party."

  "Oh? What happened?" Quint grew tense.

  "Well, my dear, you know that swivel hipped Joanne Cotton girl—the
one who came up from Torremolinos with the Conte…"

   Quint didn't know who she was talking about, but he said, "Yeah, yeah,
of course."

  "Well, dahling. She was evidently looking for the little girl's room, and
walked in on Dave Shepherd and this new boy friend of…"

  Quint said wearily, "Listen, Marty, about Ronald Brett-Home and his
idea for a controversial party. It was his idea that you invite Nicolas
Ferencsik, wasn't it? Why did he think that would start fireworks?"

  Even over the phone, he could detect the fact that she was pouting. But
Marty wasn't the stuffy type, especially with one of what she called her
special boy friends and Quentin Jones was one of her special boy friends,
usually to his dismay.

  But her voice went vague. "I… I don't exactly know. I suppose I could
ask Ferd. Ronald was awfully mysterious about it. Merely told me to throw
a party with Nicolas Ferencsik as guest of honor, and then spread it
around that the party was to be open house. I even had that pretty Jean
Allen girl put it in the Guidepost."

   The Guidepost was the little English language weekly magazine read by
all Americans and British in Madrid. Jean Allen was its society editor.
Quint pursed his lips. Obviously, the Englishman had been trying to lure
someone to the party. Someone who ordinarily wouldn't have come to an
expatriate drunken party—hadn't it been for the fact that the controversial
Hungarian was going to be there.

  He said thoughtfully, "That German, Stroehlein. Was he invited?"

  "Who?"

  In the background, even over the phone, Quint could hear a bottle
gurgle. He shook his head, wondering how the woman ever got all the way
through the day. He repeated his question.

  "Never heard of him, dahling."

  "How about Vladimir Nuriyev?"

  "Was he at the party too? Oh dear, I'm afraid I didn't know half the
people who wandered in. You know our soirees, dahling…"

  Soiree was a good word. But alcoholic blowout was more like it.

  He said softly, "Then not only Bart Digby, but Stroehlein and Nuriyev
were party crashers as well, eh?"

  "I beg your pardon, dahling?"

  "Nothing," he said. He had half a mind to ask her if any Frenchmen had
been present—someone who might have been connected with the Surete.
What was the French term? A mouchard. The whole thing sounded like a
convention of secret agents. Mike Woolman was right, something funny
had been expected to happen there at the Dempsey party. Not so funny at
that The British representative of international espionage had wound up
very dead.
   Marty Dempsey was giggling something into the phone that he didn't
catch, and suddenly he was weary of her meaningless voice. He said,
rather abruptly, "Look Marty, the reason I called. You might read the
morning papers. I suppose it's in the papers…"

  "What's in the papers? You mean about the party? But, dahling, they
never report our…"

  "Ronald Brett-Home didn't make it to your party, pet, because
somebody killed him."

   She gasped, and he hung up the phone. It wasn't a matter of being
either nasty, or impolite. He simply didn't want to spend the next half
hour chattering with Martha Dempsey. He stood and looked down at the
instrument for a moment, then turned and looked at the bottle of
Fundador which stood a foot or so to the right. He shook his head. The hell
with it. He had to get to work. One drink and he'd be off. Any excuse to get
out of actually sitting down to that typewriter and trying to be cynically
witty for the sake of yea many millions of readers.

  When the phone started ringing, he let it ring and returned to chair and
typewriter. He stared at the single line he had typed. It was obviously
meant to be a title, since it was in caps. It read: It's a Small World and I
Want Off.

   He looked at it blankly. Obviously, when he had written it, he'd had
something in mind. What? He couldn't remember what he'd been
doodling with when Mike Woolman's ring at the door had come. He stared
at it for a while, but nothing would evolve. He couldn't keep his mind from
Ronald Brett-Home and from the strange party at the Dempsey's.

   Nicolas Ferencsik. The Hungarian scientist and his dream of World
Government. It came back to Quentin Jones then. He had thought of
doing a short series of columns on World Government. He shook his head.
He wouldn't be able to do them now. Not until this matter was cleared up.
If it was cleared up.

  He'd have to get onto something else. He picked up his notebook and
thumbed through it. Here was a couple of lines dealing with American
dependence on the PX stores abroad. Quint Jones twisted his lips
thoughtfully. And the bell rang.
  He closed his eyes in pain. "What in the hell is this, Old Home Week?"
He threw his notebook to the table and made his way to the door.

  Two of them stood there. He had seen them before. Or at least their
identical twins. Somehow they manage to look the same, anywhere in the
world. One of them brought forth a wallet and nicked it open.

   Quint sighed. "You didn't have to show me the buzzer," he said.
Involuntarily, he looked down at their feet. The slightly older of the two
flushed angrily.

   Quint sighed. "Pardon me for a moment." Leaving the door open he
went back to the table, took up his notebook and a ball bearing pen and
scribbled quickly, Humor bit: Evidently the gag about a cop having big
feet is international, and cops everywhere conscious of the fact, and
irritated by it.

   They had entered behind him, without invitation, and the younger
closed the door behind them. They wouldn't have done that in England or
any of the Scandinavian countries, nor in Canada or the States. No, come
to think of it, Quint decided, there was many a city in the States where
they might. Police were known to get delusions of grandeur in the
supposedly super-free America, on occasion.

  He said, motioning with his hand, "A seat, gentlemen?" He made
another gesture in the direction of the bar. "Could I offer you a drink? A
cognac? Beer? Scotch?"

   They shook their heads. With regret, Quint decided, when he mentioned
the whisky. Scotch whisky was currently the status drink in Spain. To
impress the girl friend, in a bar, you ordered Scotch, in spite of the fact
that it cost a dollar a throw while good Spanish brandy cost possibly five
cents, and while the Scotch was almost certainly cut to ribbons and
blended with cheap alcohol to stretch it out.

  The one Quint had decided was the older said, "Senor Jones, Hablar
espanol?"

   Still in English, Quint said, "Well enough for every day purposes. To ask
for a second round of beers in a bodega. To order in a restaurant, or buy
things in the market. To pick up a girl and argue her into my way of
thinking. But not to talk to police officers about any subject more
important than a parking ticket. And you gentlemen don't look as though
you're connected with the traffic department. I'll stick to English. If it's
important, we can go on over to the American consulate for an
interpreter."

   The older one grunted, and said in quite passable English, "You are a
friend of Mr. Ronald Brett-Home." It wasn't exactly a question.

   "An acquaintance," Quint told him, resuming his own chair, and
shooting his typewriter a look of disgust. He might as well give up, today.
It wasn't in the cards.

  The detective's eyebrows were raised. "We have information that you
were a friend. Do you deny it?"

   "It's according to what you mean by friend. I've known him for maybe
as long as a year. I average seeing him once or twice a month, at a party,
or some such. I've never been to his home, he's never been to mine."

  "When did you see him last?"

  "I don't know."

  The detective looked at him. Both of them looked at him.

  Quint shrugged angrily. "We see each other from time to time at
parties. I don't know which one I saw him at last. We were never
important to each other. We might both be at a party, or at the swimming
pool at the British-American Club, or at some bar and never even speak."

  "Perhaps you did not like Mr. Brett-Home. Perhaps you were enemies."

   "No," Quint sighed. A cop is a cop is a cop. "No, we weren't enemies. I
just told you. We hardly knew each other."

  "But you fought against each other."

   Quint looked at him blankly, then caught it. "Oh, you mean at the
karate club? We both belonged to it, but usually I'd work out in the
afternoon, and he'd come in later in the evening. When we occasionally
were there at the same time, Hideka, the instructor, would usually pair us
off. We had about the same build."
  The detective leaned forward a bit. "He was your superior at this
Japanese fighting, perhaps?"

  "We were about evenly matched."

  "But one understands that he had won awards."

   "He had a third Dan Black Belt which I understood he had taken the
examinations for in Singapore. I've never had occasion to take
examinations." Quint shrugged. "I don't know if I would if I had the
opportunity. I mess around with karate for the exercise. I don't take it
seriously."

  The detective who spoke English looked at him sceptically. So, okay, let
him think that it was a matter of sour grapes.

   The younger detective came to his feet and strolled over to the window
and stared down, as though bored at the conversation, at the traffic on
Calle General Peron. There wasn't much to see. Quint had picked the
street partly because of its comparative quiet.

 The other was saying, "From your attitude I assume you have learned of
Mr. Brett-Home's, ah, tragedy."

  "Yes." What use was there in denying it?

  "How did you know? It has not as yet been released to the press."

  "A friend told me."

  "What friend?" The Spanish cop's air was cold.

  He had just said that the news had not been released to the press.
Where had Mike picked it up, then? Quint's mind raced. Would it be a
betrayal if he gave them the American reporter's name?

   The younger cop, who had been staring gloomily out the window, had
left it and strolled over to stand for a moment before a reproduction of
Velazquez' Las Meninas. He grunted and sauntered about the room as
though looking for more paintings, and thus killing time. The American
columnist brought his attention back to the question.

  He said, slowly, “I'm afraid I can't reveal my source of information. I am
a journalist, you know." Calling himself a journalist was stretching a point,
of course. He was a columnist, true enough, but not a newspaper man in
the sense of being a reporter.

  His questioner said dangerously, "Senor Jones, we do not deal with
pleasant newspaper stories about parties, and marriage and divorce, and
movie stars and other celebrities. We do not even deal with politics. We
are dealing with murder. Now, one would like to know who told you of Mr.
Brett-Home's death."

  The younger cop had got to the side board and was shuffling through
Quint's morning mail.

  "Hey!" Quint was on his feet. "Quieta!"

   He came angrily up on the other, who did no more than raise a
contemptuous, supercilious eyebrow at the American, continuing his
inspection.

  "Drop those letters!" Quint demanded angrily.

  "My colleague doesn't have English," the other detective said, an
undertone of both contempt and amusement in his voice.

   Quint reached out to grab the letters. The detective held him off with
his right arm, still scanning the mail, looking for God only knew what. As
Quint could remember, there certainly wasn't anything in it pertaining to
Brett-Home, or even Madrid. But that wasn't the point.

   The detective's fling of arm had caught Quint off balance. He recovered
now and, without conscious thought, went into the karate Kokutsu-dachi
layout position. One foot was placed forward with the toes pointed
straight ahead and the knee's slightly bent, the rear leg knee bent
considerably with the toes pointed outward and forward.

   The cop was startled and began to throw a right punch. Quint, under
his breath breathed, "Zut!" the traditional Kiai yell, and grabbed the
other's wrist even as it came toward him. Grabbed it with his left hand.
He walked in and seized the cop's right shoulder with his right hand,
striking the other's chin with an elbow punch. Simultaneously, he moved
in quickly with his right foot coming around to his opponent's right side
rear legs. He shot his own right foot forward and then quickly backwards
against the detective's rear leg, forcing him to the floor.

  A voice from the door said sharply, "Senores! Que pasa?"




                          Chapter Three
  Quint Jones, automatically, had gone into the Kokutsu-dachi layout
position, in half squat, his hands forward from his body, palms forward.
He straightened now, his expression wry.

   It was Jose Garcia Mendez, or Joe Garcia, as he would have it. All five
feet eight inches of him, and on this occasion his tight little Spanish
mustache was twitching, as he took in the fallen detective, the stance of
the American, the second detective clawing for his gun.

   He spoke in Spanish so rapidly that Quint Jones could follow hardly a
quarter of it. The English speaking representative of Madrid law let his
weapon slide back into its shoulder holster and snapped back an answer
so staccato fast that the columnist gave up even the attempt to
understand.

  He watched his opponent of a moment ago who had come to his feet
and was straightening his clothes, meanwhile massacring Quint with his
eyes, though obviously Garcia's entry had changed his mind about
continuing the fray—if he had any desire to continue it. The karate form of
hand to hand combat takes the truculence quickly out of any but the most
ardent foe.

   Quint looked back at Joe Garcia and interrupted that worthy's diatribe
with a sour, "Look, has it got to the point today where the mobs that go
drifting through this apartment while I'm trying to work don't even bother
to knock?"

   Garcia left the cop he'd been orally belaboring and turned a surprised
face to the American. "But, Quint, old chum, I've just been reading this
square the riot act. The old rescue in the nick of time routine. I made the
scene right…"

  "Rescued who?" Quint growled sacastically. "Another minute and I
would have finished these two burlesque cops off."
    Garcia's face lost some of its good humor. "And then what would have
happened, pal? These guys are just doing their duty. Their superiors
might take a dim view of you practicing your jujitsu, or whatever you call
it, on them." His mouth smiled. "Aren't you getting tired of being ordered
out of countries? What was the last one, Portugal?"

   "Touche" Quint growled. "I get the message." He turned back to the
older of the two police. "I'm sorry. In my country, even the police aren't
allowed to search a man's personal effects without a warrant. I got carried
away."

   The detective's eyes went from the American to Jose Garcia, and then
back again. His face worked in irritation. He said, finally, in English,
"Senor Jones refuses to divulge the source of his information on the death
of the Englishman Brett-Home."

  Joe Garcia turned back to Quint. "What information? Did you know
Ronald, Quint?"

  "Barely. A friend told me about his being found dead. That's all I know
about it."

  Garcia turned back to the plainclothesman. "Mr. Jones is a friend of
Michael Woolman, of World Wide Press, who discovered the body.
Undoubtedly that was the source of his information. Am I correct, pal?"

  Quint shrugged. There was obviously no point in shielding Mike, if that
was the situation. He wondered why Mike hadn't mentioned the fact. And
wondered further about the circumstance which led to his discovering the
Englishman's corpse.

  Garcia said to the detective, "I am sure Mr. Jones has given you
whatever information he possesses. If there are other questions, you can
call upon him again later."

  Of a sudden, all was good temper again.

  Quint held out a hand to the younger cop, twisted his face ruefully,
turned on his charm. "Sorry," he said, as though he meant it.

  The other shrugged and shook. The two said their goodbyes and left
dutifully.
  Quint went over to the sideboard and poured himself a double
Fundador. "Drink?" he said, without turning. Now that the excitement
was over, he felt shaken, as always when physical action had terminated.
When in emergency, he acted cool enough, he found, but when the danger
point was over reaction hit him hard.

  Garcia didn't answer the question. Instead, he said, "You know, pal,
you'd make a top politician, especially in one of your democratic
countries. You can turn it on and off like a tap."

   The American tossed the drink back, stiff wristed, and turned to the
other. Garcia had made himself at home on the couch, one neatly
trousered leg crossed over the other.

  Quint said, "What the devil are you talking about?"

  "The old magnetic personality. If that young sap had stuck around
another few minutes, you would have had him kissing you."

  "Oh, great," Quint growled. Something Mike Woolman had said about
Garcia came back to him. He said, "I didn't have to turn on the magnetic
personality. All you had to do was tell them to run along, and they ran."

   Joe Garcia flicked his thumbnail along his neat mustache. "Anything
for a pal. As a matter of fact, my old man is a personal friend of some of
the big Falange mucky-mucks. I wouldn't want to throw too much weight
around, but I can fix a traffic ticket, that sort of thing."

  "Yeah," Quint said. He resumed his chair behind the typewriter, and
looked at it gloomily. "My agent's been riding my tail to keep him supplied
further in advance with columns. Three'll get you five, I don't finish even
my regular quota this week."

   Garcia said easily, "I read that piece you did on El Caudillo. Really,
chum, do you think it's good policy to give Franco a working over while
living here in Spain?"

   Quint looked at him flatly. "The authorities can always kick me out if
they don't like my version of what I see. Like you said, Portugal was the
last place. However, if old lard-assed Franco, as Papa Hemingway used to
call him, wants to continue this present
we're-all-good-democrats-together skit, and suck up to such outfits as
NATO and the Common Market, he'd better take it easy on expelling
newspaper columnists syndicated in a few hundred papers throughout the
free world."

  Garcia flushed, for once the bonhomie gone from his expression. "Just a
suggestion, chum," he said unhappily. "I wouldn't want to interfere with
your business."

   "You couldn't," Quint said. "Listen, Garcia, what did you come up here
for? These are supposed to be my working hours."

  "I was just passing," the Spaniard said. He shifted in his chair. "To tell
you the truth, I was thinking about the shindig at Ferd and Marty's last
night. And about poor Ronald." He shifted again. Recrossed his legs. "It
wasn't exactly the sort of blowout you usually turn up for."

  Quint held up a hand. "Please, let's not try to be subtle. Come right out
and say what you want to know is do I have any inside dope on
Brett-Home. Everybody else in town has been in here this morning asking
me. I'll give you the same answer. I don't know a damn thing about him. I
didn't even know he was a British agent…"

  Garcia's eyebrows went up.

  "… until Mike Woolman told me this morning."

  The Spaniard came to his feet. "None of my business anyway," he said.
"But from what I've heard it was sure a screwy killing."

   Quint said, "Mike mentioned that the guy was all torn up as though a
tiger had worked him over."

  "Man, you said it. But that ain't the worst, chum. The autopsy revealed
that the kidneys are missing."

  The American stared at him. "Missing?"

   "That's right, pal. Our homicide people figure they've got a real
fruitcake on their hands. Maybe a psychopathic cannibal." Garcia turned
to go.

  Quint didn't follow him to the door. When the other got there, and with
knob in hand, he turned back as though he'd forgotten something.

   "Oh, by the way, old Ronald left a note scribbled on his desk. The
flatfeet don't know if it's got anything to do with his death or not. What
does this mean to you? Why was it necessary to burn H's body?"

  Quint looked at him blankly. "It doesn't mean anything to me. Why
should it?"

  "Search me," Garcia shrugged. "Just thought I'd ask."




  The ragged young man drifted slowly, slowly back into consciousness,
almost as though dreading the return to reality. The warm wave of
reasoning ebbed and flowed, touched and then retreated.

   Even before his eyes opened, he was dimly, dimly aware of a flickering
of light. A glaringly bright flickering of light where largely there was
gloom.

   His lids slitted infinitesimally, so that an observer would have had to
bend close to realize that they were parted at all. But though now he
could see, it was as though through a dark veil. And then the flickering of
light again. Realization came from far and far. The beams of light were
coming through a slatted window. Slatted Spanish style to exclude the
dazzle and suffocation of the mid-day sun of Iberia, but free to admit
whatever faintest breeze.

   From seemingly far, far away in both space and time, memory sidled
back. Spending his last peseta in a bar for a copa of wine, and the nibble
of tapa that came with it, in his case, a bit of cheese on a bit of bread.
The despair of knowing it to be the last. The despair of clothes that could
no longer be kept neat, and hence an advertisement of his worthiness to
be employed. The despair of knowing that this night there was to be no
bed, no alternative to roaming the streets, other than a hiding place,
away from the Guardia Civil, in some dark doorway.

   And then the stranger. The well dressed stranger. The foreigner who
still spoke such excellent Castilian. The generous patron. And the food!
And the drink!
  And then, somewhere, where? the falling away into bottomless sleep.

   And now this. The languor. The weakness of body and will, even as he
returned to reality. To the consciousness that he lay stretched on some
hard, though not uncomfortable, surface. In a darkened room. In a room
so lit through the flickering of sun through slatted windows that it could
scarce be made out.

   He seemed to be coming from a sleep that had lasted eons but left him
limp and resistless. Weak and not caring. Doubtful of the necessity for
tomorrow. Doubtful of all necessity.

   And then from the far distances across the room there was a new
gleaming, a new reflection, pin points of gleam flickering but
occasionally, but nearing, nearing …

   … nearing, nearing. Two pin points of gleam, reflecting the sun
through the shutters, depending on their gleam for the sun through the
slats of the shutters. Nearing, nearing, now descending toward. Toward
where?

   Deep, deep, impossibly, uselessly deep within his feeble consciousness
came up the cry of terror. The cry to resist, to survive, to live, to live, to
live. Nothing could matter but life. To live, to live. But so faint, so far.

  Barely he could feel the prick of the dual points of gleam upon his
throat. No pain. Only the knowledge of penetration of his life.

  And then the feel of drain. Of slow gentle drain of the juice of existence.
The red warm juice of existence.

  Away, away. And far away the realization that there was no more
poverty to be. No more a last desperate peseta. No more the employment
that would never come. No more the nights without the warmness of
bed. No more. For the warm juice of life was draining away …

  … away, away…




   Quentin Jones parked his Renault 4L on Calle de Alcala, one block up
from the Plaza de la Cibeles, and hoofed it from there in the direction of
the Puerta del Sol. It was pushing two o'clock and the streets were
pedestrian packed as streets can be packed only in a modern city where
the institution of the automobile is unknown to nine persons out of ten. In
a matter of minutes the stores were going to close, and the present bustle
would melt astonishingly, and remain melted until the siesta period ended
and business resumed, somewhere between four and five o'clock—all
according to how the individual businessman was reacting to the
government's attempt to cut short the three or four hour lunch period.

  He cut across Alcala and up the side street Calle Marques de Cubas for
one block, turned right for another block to emerge on Calle Jovellanos.
The Edelweiss was up at the end of the street. Inwardly, Quint shrugged.
The man had been in Madrid for only a couple of weeks, no more. And
here he was eating in a German restaurant two meals out of three.

   Quint had a sneaking suspicion that if the other were to move to
Germany for a time, he'd seek out a Spanish type establishment for his
meals. Maybe it was travel snobbery, he decided wryly, but Quentin Jones
ate Italian food in Italy, French in France, Spanish in Spain. And in the
States, steaks, hamburgers, hot dogs and other American specialties,
which if ordered abroad meant disaster. He had never had an edible
hamburger outside the borders of the United States and had long since
given up the project.

   The Edelweiss even managed a Teutonic air. A breath of Germany
exported to Castile. There was a heavy richness in the decor; a feeling that
the businessmen bellied up to the bar, drinking their dark dunkles beer,
averaged a good twenty or thirty pounds more than would the clients of a
more typical Madrid establishment; an absence of the ever present odor of
olive oil without which a Spanish restaurant is just not Spanish.

   Quentin Jones let his eyes drift around the room, as though looking for
a table. Tables were scarce this time of day.

  Somebody waved to him, "Hey, Quint."

 He waved back. Twisted his mouth as though in consideration, then
made his way through the tables to the other, who had one all to himself.

    Quint said, "Hi, Bart. Mind if I join you? Privacy, you might prefer, but
if I know the Edelweiss, in about yea many minutes the waiter is going to
unload a couple of tourists on you. Tables are shared here."
  Bart Digby had half come to his feet. "Sure, sure," he said. "Have a seat.
Glad to have somebody to talk to." He grinned his boyish grin. "Wow, was
that a party last night. You wouldn't happen to know a guy named Dave
Shepherd, would you? Well, there was this girl Joanne
something-or-other, and she went looking for the bathroom and opened
the wrong door and…"

 Quint grimaced. "I heard about it," he said. "By this time, evidently all
Madrid has heard about it."

  "Oh," Digby said.

  The waiter came around. Digby was already into his liver dumpling
soup, but Quint ordered Hose im Topf, a rabbit pate that was good in the
German restaurant, and Weisswurst, a white sausage made of veal, calves'
brains and spleen which he considered the best single dish ever dreamed
up by the herrenvolk. To wash it down he asked for a half bottle of
Niersteiner.

  There was a watchful something in Digby's manner. Knowing the man's
background, Quint Jones wondered how he could have ever been taken in
by the other's camouflage as a more average than average young American
businessman on the make. Crew cut and overly aggressive voice to the
contrary, Bart Digby had obviously, now that Quint really looked at him,
got more of his education from Hard Knocks University than he had from
such as Harvard Business School.

   Quint said idly, "I suppose you heard the other news too. About your
friend."

  Digby looked at him for a long moment. "I'd heard about it," he said
evenly, "but I'm surprised that you have."

    "Newspaper folk have special sources," Quint said. The wine had
arrived, and he watched as the cork was pulled and a small amount
poured for his approval. He sipped it and nodded, and the waiter half
filled the wineglass.

  Quint looked up at his companion. "But, so have folk connected with the
U.S. Embassy. So I suppose that's how you found out about Brett-Home's
being killed. The police are evidently trying to hush the whole thing up.
Bad for the tourist trade."
  Digby said, "I have no connections with the American Embassy. Not
any longer."

  Quint said nothing, very politely.

  Bart Digby scowled at him, but dropped the point. He said, "What's
your interest?"

  But the waiter was approaching with Quint's food, and for the moment,
both of them held silence.

  When he had gone, Quint shrugged. "You know the business I'm in. I
get paid for being curious about things and then commenting on them if
they're interesting enough." He took a bite of his sausage. "This has all the
earmarks of being very interesting indeed."

   Bart Digby thought about it for awhile. "I wouldn't rush into print on
this thing, Quint."

  "So who's rushing? All morning my work's been interrupted by
characters digging into my relationship with Brett-Home."

   "Oh?" The other's eyes narrowed again. "Just what was your
relationship? You told me last night you knew him."

   "I knew him vaguely. Which brings to mind, what was your own
relationship?"

  Digby pursed his lips. His answer came too pat. "We ran into each other
once, in a while on various assignments when I was still with the C.I.A. So
when I got here to Madrid and ran into him, we got together to have a few
drinks. That sort of thing."

  "Yeah,” Quint said.

  "What does that supposed to mean?"

   "It means that something big was supposed to happen at the Dempsey
party. And you probably knew what it was. Ronald Brett-Home getting
himself killed evidently threw a wrench into the works." Quint finished off
his sausage. "You know, the next time the Spanish police start pestering
me about it, I might drop them a few hints about you just to get them off
my own back."

  "You wouldn't do that."

  "Why not?"

   "You're an American. Damn it, Jones, you've got some responsibilities
to your country."

  The columnist hid his satisfaction. He was getting near to pay dirt.
"How do I know that going along with you is to my country's advantage?
For all I know, you've sold out to the Russians. Remember? You're
supposed to be an ex-C.I.A. man. Who are you to tell me what my
responsibilities are?" He let his voice go slightly heated.

   Digby's face worked angrily for a moment, then he suddenly changed
attitude. "Look here, Quentin Jones, I mentioned last night, I admired
your articles. I'm going to tell you some things off the record."

  Quint leaned back in his chair. They were in a corner where
eavesdropping would have been impractical. "All right."

   The former operative squirmed in his chair. Finally he said, "What do
you know about Martin Bormann? Or, for that matter, Heinrich Mueller,
or Doktor Stahlecker?"

   "Bormann? Hitler's right hand man, in the final days. Hitler's secretary
for years, and the executor of his final will and testament. Toward the last
they made him the Party Minister, the head of the Nazi Party. There was
supposed to be some kind of mystery about his death, after Hitler
committed suicide and the Red Army stormed Berlin. They never found
his body but Arthus Axman, the Hitler Youth leader, claimed he saw it
lying under the bridge where the Invalidenstrasse crosses the railroad
tracks." Quint thought. "Heinrich Mueller? He was the head of the
Gestapo. There was some stuff about him in the papers not so long ago.
When they investigated his grave, it was found to contain the bones of
parts of three skeletons—none of which could have been his. I don't think
I've ever heard of Doktor whoever-you-said."

  "You've got a good memory," Bart Digby grudged. "The fact of the
matter is, it's never been proven that Bormann, Mueller and Doktor
Stahlecker ever died. They were three of the Fuhrer's most rabid
adherents. Had they been tried at Nurenberg, all three would have gotten
the noose. It couldn't have happened to nicer people. All three were with
Hitler and Goebbels right to the very end. And after Adolf Hitler killed
himself they tried to escape. Okay. Stick a pin there."

  The self professed former C.I.A. man took a deep gulp of his dark beer.
"Have you heard of General Reinhard Gehlen?"

  The columnist was scowling, wondering where all this historic grubbing
was getting them. But he said, "One of Hitler's former intelligence chiefs.
Now head of west German intelligence."

   "That's right. Look, the usual story is that the Americans and Russians
were all buddy-buddy after they defeated the Nazis. And that it came as a
great shock to Truman and other American leaders when the commies
started pulling tricks. The fact is that both sides began pulling tricks
before the war really ended. Tricks against each other. Preparing for the
Cold War to come. Our people dashed in like a shot to corral Von Braun
and other rocket experts, before the Soviets could get them. We also
dashed in and cornered General Gehlen and his organization and put
them to work for us—at the same work they had been doing for Hitler,
spying on the Russians. After West Germany became a sovereign state in
1955, Gehlen stopped working for Uncle Sam and became head of the
German Federal Intelligence Service."

  "What in the devil is all this building up to?" Quint said in irritation.

   Bart Digby leaned forward, as though coming to his point. "Quint,
world politics are in a delicate balance. One day a new country drops into
the Soviet orbit, lines up with the Russkies. Cuba is an example. Another
day, one of the other formerly neutral countries lines up with the west.
Say, Iran, or Morocco, or wherever. But one hell of a lot of them remain
still on the fence. Listening to our propaganda but perhaps not buying it;
listening to their propaganda, and not quite buying that either. It's nip
and tuck, Quint."

  Quint Jones said dryly, "This isn't exactly news to me. I make my living
commenting on such things as world affairs."

  The other nodded and his voice was bitter. "I know," he said. "That's
why you worry me. One of your typical snide columns, dropped into the
mess that's brewing now, could cause all sorts of stink."
  Quint poured the balance of his wine into his glass and sipped it,
waiting for the other to finish.

   "All right," Digby said. "One of the current commie propaganda blasts
is that the West is encouraging the reemergence of Hitlerism. That West
Germany's government is full of former Nazis such as General Gehlen.
That more and more of the old Hitler team are out from cover and
slipping into prominent positions. If they could sell the world on this,
they'd have made a strong point with liberals and progressives
everywhere, and one hell of a lot of liberals are coming to power in these
new Asian and African countries, not to speak of Latin America."

  "Okay," Quint said. "Drop the other shoe."

   Digby looked into his eyes. "Quint, if the commies found Martin
Bormann, Hitler's former right hand man, and put over the story that
Bormann was trying to set up a new neo-Nazi group, and that the West
Germans—and behind them the United States—were supporting him, the
fat would be in the fire."

  Quint chuckled. "That's quite an if."

  Bart Digby dropped his bomb. "The evidence is that Martin Bormann,
and probably Doktor Stahlecker, are somewhere here in Spain."

  Quint stared at him.

   The other said emptily, "If so, we've got to get to him first. We've got to
get him and either retry him, or, better still, execute the sentence he was
given in absentia. It's the only way to prove we hate the Nazi dream just
as much as anyone else."




   After Bart Digby had left, Quint sat for awhile over Fundador and a cup
of black coffee. The other had painted an interesting picture, and the
American columnist wondered just how much of it was to be completely
believed. He couldn't quite swallow Digby's contention that he had
resigned from the C.I.A. On the face of it, the man was vitally interested in
this possibility of Martin Bormann being in hiding in Spain. And a man
without a job doesn't usually involve himself in such poorly remunerative
matters.

  Of course, there was also the possibility that Bart Digby had
resigned—or been fired, as Mike Woolman had it—from the C.I.A. and was
not peddling his services elsewhere. Nobody as yet had mentioned why
the Central Intelligence Agency and Bartholomew Digby had parted ways.
Was it because his superiors had caught him delving into matters of
which they didn't approve?

   If the story he had told about Martin Bormann was correct, there was
still another angle. It wasn't exactly a new idea. In fact, it was sometimes
told about Hitler himself. That Hitler had lived, that he had been
smuggled out of collapsing Berlin, and by submarine been taken to the
Argentine, or some such, where he remained in hiding waiting his chance
to regain power. The trouble with that particular bit of fantasy was that
immediately before his suicide, Hitler, a badly wounded, mentally shaken
man who dragged one foot as he walked, had celebrated his fifty-sixth
birthday. Persons who had been present described him as senile, his head
and hands shaking continually. Had he escaped, even in this condition,
how old would he be in 1968? Seventy-nine years of age. Not exactly the
time of life to start regaining an empire. The same applied to Bormann
who had probably been somewhere in his forties at the time of his
disappearance. He wouldn't be exactly a young man twenty-five years
after.

   Quint grimaced and finished his double shot of cognac. He considered
another. No, foul it! If he was ever going to get any work done, he'd have to
get back to the apartment. He hated to work in the afternoon, particularly
after he'd had a few drinks, but he had to get cracking.

   He paid his bill, and started back to the car. Traffic was lighter, but
already beginning to resume volume. He darted a look at his watch. He'd
been in the German restaurant talking to Bart Digby for longer than he
had thought. He'd have to get a move on, or the whole day would be shot.

   It wasn't in the cards. When he got back to the parked Renault, it was
to find Mike Woolman leaning against it, obviously waiting for him.

  Quint said, "Gangway, Buster. I haven't any time for the likes of you.
This downtrodden proletarian has to get back to the sweatshop and get
exploited by the bloodsucking capitalists."
  "Put a good title on that," Mike said, "and think up a snappy ending,
and you could sell it. What'd you find out?"

  Quint looked at him warily. "What'd I find out about what?"

   Mike sighed. He pulled the morning edition of the Madrid Pueblo from
his jacket pocket and slapped it smartly against his knee. "Look," he said,
"come on up to Chicote's, and I'll buy you a drink."

  "Never touch the stuff," Quint told him. "I've got to get back and do
some work."

  "I'll tell you what I know, if you tell me what you know," Mike said.

  Quint looked at him sourly. "If my poor sainted mother knew I hung
around with bad influences like you… okay, let's go."

   Chicote's, one of the half dozen most famed bars in the world, is located
at No. 12, Jose Antonio, about a hundred yards up the street from where
Quint had parked. They made their way in that direction.

  Something there is about a score or so saloons throughout the world
that gives them a soul, the very soul of the city in which they dispense the
beverage that sooths. Sloppy Joe's in Havana, Pat O'Brien's in New
Orleans, Harry's in Venice, the Raffles Bar in Singapore, the Crystal in
Tombstone, McSorley's in New York. Each of these are the cities in which
they exist. Pat O'Brien's is New Orleans; Harry's New York Bar, in Paris, is
the Paris of the expatriate American. Just as Dean's in Tangier, was
Tangier, and the city and Dean's died together, it was never the same after
the old bartender passed away.

   So it is that Chicote's is Madrid's bar. Internationally famed, wherever
the drinking set bend elbows. And what made it so? The endless publicity
given gratis by such as Papa Hemingway in his stories? The personality of
the original Chicote himself? The fact that the place is the hangout of the
most beautiful whores in Spain? The fabulous liquor museum in the
basement—the largest collection of alcoholic drinks in the world? Perhaps
all of these things.

   Be that as it may, when Quint Jones and Mike Woolman pushed their
way through the door, emerging from the white glare of the afternoon sun
of Spain into the dim cool of the large bar, it wasn't in search of any of the
establishment's claims to fame other than its liquor. Spanish laws are lax,
if not non-existent, when it comes to beverages, but there is no record of a
customer ever complaining of cut whisky, or a phonied up vintage date on
his wine bottle in Chicote's.

   Mike darted a nervous glance around the Spanish equivalent of a
cocktail lounge, which made up the first large room as you entered from
the street. The long bar was beyond. Aside from half a dozen lackadaisical
tarts, sitting alone at their tables, empty coffee cups before them and
awaiting a trade that seldom developed this time of day, the lounge was
empty.

  Mike banged himself with his paper and said, "Let's get in a corner
here. Some of the bartenders speak English."

  They found a table, Quint ordered Fundador and Mike, Veterano
cognac.

  Quint grunted at the other's choice of brandy. "That stuff's too sweet,"
he said, as the waiter poured the double shot.

  "Thank God you don't have to drink it," Mike said.

   When the waiter was gone, Quint sipped his drink and said, "Okay. You
tell yours first."

  The newsman said, "Nothing startling but it backs some of the
possibilities I brought up this morning. You know Albrecht Stroehlein, the
plump, weepy eyed ex-Gestapo lad who claims he used to be buddy-buddy
with Hitler back in the old beerhall days."

  “So?”

  "So, I've been checking on him. Up until a couple of months ago he was
on his uppers. Worked for a while as a waiter on the Costa del Sol, begged
handouts from more prosperous Nazi refugees, that sort of thing. But then
he went up to Berlin."

  "Berlin!" Quint said. "I thought he was wanted for war crimes."

  "Evidently, somebody's had a change of mind. When he returned, he got
himself nicely outfitted, rented a swank apartment, started eating in
Horcher's. That sort of thing."

  Quint said, "West Berlin, or East Berlin?"

  Mike thought about that, rubbing the bottom of his chin nervously. "I
wouldn't know. Maybe I can find out. Actually, Berlin is the big clearing
house for European espionage these days."

  Quint said, "Listen, is it possible that Stroehlein knew personally such
bigwigs as Martin Bormann, Heinrich Mueller, Doktor Stahlecker? Knew
them well enough so that if he saw one of them today, he'd recognize
him?"

  Mike Woolman's eyes went empty. He picked up his drink and tossed it
back. "Uh huh," he said. "It's most likely. Start talking, friend."

   "I can't. I promised it was off the record. But I can tell you this. Ronald
Brett-Home talked Marty and Ferd Dempsey into throwing that party
with Ferencsik as guest of honor. He also got them to spread the word that
it was open house—everybody welcome. But none of those secret agents
you mentioned this morning were invited. They all crashed. They all took
advantage of the open house deal."

   Quint finished his own drink and made circular motions over his glass
to the waiter, in the way of ordering a couple more of the same. He went
on, "Another thing. You're possibly right about our sneaky friend Joe
Garcia. He came up to the place not long after you left, and hinted around
that it would be best if I watched myself. That if I didn't keep my nose
clean I might be bounced out of Spain."

  "Uh huh," Mike said. "But back to this Martin Bormann and the other
missing Nazis."

  "Can't. Off the record."

  "Look here, Quint, damn it, what did Bartholomew Digby tell you at
lunch?"

  "How'd you know I had lunch with Digby?"

   Mike Woolman grinned nastily at him, while the waiter filled up their
glasses. When that worthy was gone, he said, "I located your leak at the
Embassy."

  "What are you talking about?" Quint growled.

   "You know what I'm talking about: Ester. You bewitched the poor girl
with your cheap gigolo charm and whenever you want some inside
information, like where does C.I.A. man Bartholomew Digby usually eat
his lunch, she finds out for you." Mike Woolman shook his finger. "Very
sneaky, my friend. And very un-American."

   Quint grunted. "Evidently, Ester is springing leaks in all directions these
days, if you've got to her too. Anyway, Digby made me promise to keep our
discussion under the hat."

   "And you agreed," Mike said disgustedly. "You bastard, I think you did
it on purpose. You're in no hurry for your material. You can let it
accumulate for months before you use it. But I've got to be in a continual
hurry, trying to get a beat before one of the other agencies gets it first."

  Quint grinned at him. "I gave you all I have that I'm not honor bound to
keep secret. What else have you got?"

   Mike came to his feet, disgusted. "I ought to tell you to get lost, but
there's one other item. Remember I said the local police seemed to be
holding the lid on something? Something the Brett-Home murder seemed
to be connected with?"

  "Yeah."

   "Well, it seems the tourist bureau is on their necks. Tourism is currently
Spam's biggest source of hard currency. If anything happened to keep the
hordes of visitors out of the country, Franco's new economic plans would
fall flat as the Big Leap Forward in China. They simply can't let anything
get into the news that would scare tourists away."

  "Come on, come on. Drop the other shoe."

  Mike said, "There's been a wave of Jack the Ripper type murders in
Madrid for the past six months and more. Probably quite a bit more.
Some monster is loose."
                          Chapter Four
   After Mike had gone, Quint sat for a time, finishing his drink. He'd
tried to get the newsman to stay on and bat the breeze some more, but
Mike had some sort of deadline to meet.

  Ordinarily Quint wasn't much of one to drink alone, and he liked the
other's companionship and knew that Mike liked his. As a matter of fact,
Mike was envious of what must of looked to him like an easy way of
making a living, and a good living at that, but it wasn't a spiteful envy.
They were as good friends as Quint ever became friends with anyone.

   He thought about that. There were friends and friends. There was
probably no one in the foreign colony of Madrid with more surface friends
than Quentin Jones. People like Martha Dempsey, who called him one of
her special boy friends. People like Joe Garcia, who could be called upon
to do the minor favors. People like Dave Shepherd, the expatriate
American homosexual who lived in Spain because they were more tolerant
of his breed than at home.

  But how many friends did he have who'd be there in the clutch?

  He waved to the waiter for a refill.

  How many? Probably Mike was the nearest thing to it. All his alleged
charm didn't buy him loyalty in the clutch, loyalty when all the chips were
down.

  He took up his new drink. Hell, face it, he wasn't going to get any work
done today. It was already well past five o'clock, and he'd had too many
drinks. He should have known better than to start before lunch.
Ordinarily, he never drank until afternoon. How'd he get started?

   Oh, yeah. That scuffle with the damned Spanish detective. It had
unnerved him, and he'd taken a shot of cognac. Foul it, he'd never get back
to work today.

  He grunted in self-deprecation. Today? If he didn't look out, he'd wind
up on one of his three day binges and louse up the whole week. Steve
Black, his agent, would hit the roof. He had his work cut out, keeping
Quint on the mark.
  Quint grunted, remembering the last time. Afterward Steve had
insisted that he do up about a dozen columns, timeless columns that could
be slipped in upon emergency. Bits that had nothing to do with current
events but dwelt on the American Civil War, changing fashion, eating
habits throughout the world, or some such.

  So now Steve had the dozen columns on hand, just in case. So if Quint
went on a bender, the cash customers wouldn't complain as they had in
the past. Quint's column always came through, be he drunk or sober.

  The waiter filled his glass without needing to be asked.

   Quint sent his eyes around the room. One of the tarts across from him
was trying to catch his eye. She must have been a newcomer. All the old
hands knew Quint wasn't a John. He grunted cynically. They probably all
figured he was queer. In actuality, the very thought of bought love turned
his stomach. He wasn't morally opposed to prostitution. It was just not for
him.

  So far as the morality of it was concerned, he was of the opinion that
the world we live in was such that there was a need for women who sold
that which ideally should only be given. Given such a requirement, and if
professional weren't provided, then amateurs or, even worse, rape victims,
would fill the need.

  Foul It! He ought to get back to the apartment and try to concentrate
on work. This thing developing might put him in a position to do some
really revealing columns. He was in on what might turn into a world
scandal, and in on the very bottom floor. Didn't he have any
newspaperman's instinct?

  He grunted sarcastically. As a matter of fact, he didn't. He didn't give a
damn about newswork. It was just a job, writing this column of his. A job
that he had needed, but didn't particularly want. He had wanted to do
something significant. Write a novel or collection of essays that mattered.

  He dragged his mind back to Mike Woolman and the case. Let's think
about that for awhile, damn it. Let's think about that.

   Only parts of it made sense. It tied in with the Cold War. An after-effect
of the Second World War. Some of the old Nazi team had died in action,
some had committed suicide like Hitler, Goebbels, and Himmler, some
had been hung, like Jodl and Ribbentrop, some had been imprisoned, like
Hess. Some had been turned scott free like Von Papen, Schacht, and, after
a token prison term, Krupp. Others had skipped the country and remained
in safety—for a time—like Eichmann. And some had disappeared, like
Bormann, Mueller and this Doktor Stahlecker, the last of whom he had
never heard of before, but who was evidently one of Hitler's closest.

  There was something cynically amusing about these Nazi greats of
yesteryear, coming up now to haunt their conquerors. Martin Bormann,
who had always been more hated by his fellow associates of Hitler, than he
had been known to the West, was now in a position to wreak more evil
upon the world than he had in his role as Nazi power behind the throne.

  So East and West had their agents in Madrid, looking for the elusive
Martin Bormann. And something had been expected to happen there at
the Dempsey party. What? Quint grunted. While he hadn't noticed, the
knowledgeable waiter had brought the Fundador bottle and left it at the
American's elbow.

   Quint didn't like that. What did the sonofabitch think he was, some
drunk? Hell, he'd just had enough to get his mind working clearly. Let's
get back to the problem. With luck, he might figure it all out. He chuckled
to himself, even as he poured another quick one. Foul it, but that'd be
something. He'd wrap it all up and present the whole thing to good old
Mike. Best pal he had in Madrid. Only pal.

   He'd wrap it all up and give it to Mike and Mike would have a scoop.
Ooops. That wasn't the word. Those in the know never called it a scoop.
They called it a beat. They said scoop only in the movies. If you knew what
it was all about, you called it a beat.

   He poured another slug. Most people couldn't drink this much without
getting stoned. They didn't have the practice. Back in the States you had
to be a millionaire to be able to afford to get the practice. In Spain where
you could buy top liquor for less than a dollar a bottle, any American could
afford to get plenty of practice.

  Not that that was why Quint Jones was in Spain. Hell no. Back in the
old days, maybe, he'd live in places like Spain and Mexico and Tangier,
and Greece, because living was cheap and drinking was cheap, and
making a living was hard if you were in the writing game—or wanted to
be. But that wasn't the way it was now. Hell, Quentin Jones could walk
right into the Club 21, or wherever, and order until dawn and it wouldn't
make a dent in his bank account.

   In fact, he didn't know what the hell he wanted with all the money. He
sure as hell didn't spend it. Especially since over here he didn't even have
to pay income taxes. Hell, he saved more on income taxes than he used to
have as income.

  That was the trouble. Well, one of the troubles. Now he had all the
scratch in the world and what did he do with it? He sat on it. That's what
he did. Kept it in the bank. He didn't need a lot of money. His tastes didn't
run to big cars, or estates in Florida, or a yacht, or whatever it was you
were supposed to spend your money on when you finally had it made. All
he wanted was to kind of take it easy and not have to worry about where
the next meal was coming from, and be able to observe the world and
what was going on, and all.

   But, he'd be damned if he liked this deal he'd got himself into. Being a
wise guy on a three times a week assembly line basis. He hadn't been able
to make the grade doing the sort of stuff he wanted to do, so he wound up
being bitch-clever in a column. Quentin Jones, the poor man's Will
Rogers, the hip generation's Mark Twain—or something like that.

  Damn it, he had to think about this big deal so he could wrap it all up
and hand it over to good old Mike so he'd have a scoop. Ooops, a beat.

   There was only one thing that didn't ring true. So great Brett-Home set
it all up so that something was going to happen at that party. What was
going to happen? What the hell, probably Martin Bormann was going to
turn up, and somebody there would recognize him from the old days.

  But why was that feisty Hungarian Ferencsik necessary to the scheme?
Answer me that, foul it. He poured another hooker of Fundador. The
bottle was getting low, and he considered the fact owlishly. That lousy
waiter must have left him a half full bottle.

  Somewhere here the tide ebbed out.




  The creature followed him. Stalked him, might be the better word.
Through the narrow streets of old Madrid. To wait in a doorway,
inconspicuously, while the quarry stumbled into still another tasca or
bodega. To wait, although not with patience. Its eyes were empty, as
usually only the eyes of the dead can be empty, the pupils, once perhaps
gray or green, were now hardly distinguishable from the white.

   When there were no other pedestrians near enough to hear, it allowed
itself to mewl its discomfort. The creature didn't like to be out on the
streets amongst so many. Deep within, as all its feelings were deep
within, it was afraid of humanity in the mass.

   It couldn't understand why the master had sent him to follow after
this lurching, stumbling one, who kept himself in the most crowded
streets of the city.




   When the tide flooded in again, Quint vaguely bacame aware of a voice
across from him. He shook his head, and automatically reached for a
glass. But it was tomato juice, and he put it down in disgust.

  The voice was saying, "Quentin, you simply must eat more. You must
get something into your stomach."

   He looked up at the impossibly blonde hair, shook his head again and
stared into the improbably blue eyes. He said accusingly, "Marylyn, what
in hell is a nice girl like you doing in Chicote's?"

  "Please don't swear, Quentin. I'm… I'm not used to it. This isn't
Chicote's. Don't you remember? I saw you on the street, from my taxi. You
were… distressed."

  "Distressed!" He leered at her. "I'm drunk."

   He looked about the room in which they were seated. It was a cellar
converted into a restaurant. An age old celler, vaulted and with red walls
of small flat bricks, the bricks of a construction period of long ago. He
tried to bring his mind to focus. It must be one of the establishments
beloved of tourists, which had been built into the old walls of Madrid.
Once these cellars had held supplies, spare arms, forage for the horses.
Now they were tourist drops.
   He finally recognized the place. He'd been here many a time before. If a
visiting fireman hit town and was to be in Madrid only a day or two, you
brought him here.

  "Botin's" he chuckled.

   She said anxiously, "You told me that if I insisted you must eat, then
what you wanted was roast suckling pig and Valdepenas wine. You said if
it was good enough for Papa, it was good enough for you."

  It came back to him now. Papa Hemingway's favorite restaurant in
Madrid. The last scene in Papa's first best seller was laid here in Botin's.
Quint seemed to be on a Hemingway kick, tonight. Get drunk in Chicote's
and then eat at Botin's, both Hemingway favorites.

  Before him was a quarter of a roast suckling pig. He had the full left
ham. Enough meat for three people. He never had been able to figure out
why the management served such large portions. Right now food looked
horrible to him.

   Marylyn Worth was saying, a scolding in her voice, "You said the best
thing to sober up on was roast fat pork."

  His mind was clearing by the minutes, but he could use a drink. He
growled, "Where's the Valdepenas?"

  She said defiantly, "I ordered tomatoe juice instead."

   "Oh, great. Listen, why did you bother to take charge at all? I'm all
right."

  She said, in a gush, "Oh, Quentin. You're such a potentially wonderful
person. And… and all you're doing is throwing yourself away."

  He grunted self deprecation, and poked at the meat before him as
though with sour fascination, and as though he didn't quite understand
what it was for. Certainly he couldn't be expected to eat it.

   "Potentially wonderful, eh? Why potentially? I thought you loved me
just the way I am, pet. How do you mean, throwing myself away? I haven't
any responsibilities, no dependents. What difference is it if I hang one on
every once in awhile?" He felt like a fool, hearing his own words.
   She leaned forward and put a hand on his arm, and squeezed, as though
in attempt to force her opinions upon him. Her hand was startlingly
strong. "Quentin. You don't know yourself. You refuse to see yourself.
Admit yourself. You're one of the great ones. You have dynamic. You are
one of those born to lead. A few minutes of your talk, and just anyone at all
is anxious to follow. But you waste it all. You throw it away. You spend
your time with nothing people like the Dempseys, like that hard drinking
newspaper friend of yours, like misfits such as Dave Shepherd. Like all of
the Madrid expatriate set…"

   "For a teacher, your syntax is lousy," Quint grumbled. He picked at the
tiny ham. The crisp skin was excellent, in spite of his present aversion to
food. He motioned to a nearby waiter and when that worthy approached,
said, "Vino Unto."

  Marylyn Worth set her lips.

  He looked at her. "Don't let it get you. I'm over the hump. A glass of
wine now will help me sober up. What's wrong with my life? I don't hurt
anybody. My columns are popular, people like to read them. I entertain.
What the hell do you want me to do, become active in the S.P.C.A. or
something?"

  Her voice was urgent. "Quentin, I don't think you realize your own
capabilities. Why, you're rapidly becoming the most popular political
columnist in the English language."

  "I'm not a political columnist," he growled, uncomfortably. "I'm not any
kind of specialist. I comment on political matters from time to time, but
the next day it might be Hollywood, or French food, or the population
explosion."

   "That's what I mean," she pled. "You're a genius of wit and satire, of
tongue-in-cheek cynicism. Why, back in the States people can hardly wait
for their paper to come out. They turn to you instead…"

  "Instead of the comics and sports page?" Quint grunted. "Don't be silly."

   "Oh, I don't mean the idiot level reader. I mean anybody who thinks at
all. You're everything that Will Rogers was and more. He was too frothy,
too on the surface. But, Quentin, don't you see? Most of the time you
throw away the real you. Why do you ever stoop to write about Sophia
Lollabrigida, or whatever the name of that Italian actress with the big…"
She stopped and flushed.

  "Mammary glands," Quint laughed. He took a bite of the pork and a
chunk of the heavy Spanish bread. It tasted good. He took a gulp of the
Valdepenas, and appreciated its tart flavor. He thought for a moment
before saying. "She's a nice girl. A darn good egg. Everybody in the
industry likes her. Most people in films are twitches at best, bastards on
an average. She's folks and I said so. Met her at a party once in
Torremolinos."

  "Yes," she said, still crusader-like. "But it isn't you. You wouldn't expect,
well, Thomas Jefferson, or Benjamin Franklin, or, well, Thomas Paine, to
spend their efforts on such piddling matters."

  "All right, pet," Quint sighed. "Let's turn it off for awhile. I'm not
particularly interested in setting the world afire."

  "What are you interested in?" she said, heatedly. He scowled at her, and
took another bite of the pig. He chewed and thought about it. "I don't
know," he said finally.

   She sat back, as though disgusted with him. Quint shrugged. His
stomach was taking the food better than he had expected. Given luck,
there wouldn't be much of a hangover in the morning and possibly he'd be
able to get back to his work. That thought brought things back to him.

  He said, out of a clear sky, "Pet, what were you doing at the party last
night?"

  "Why… I…"

   It occurred to him only then, that perhaps the girl had been there
because she thought that possibly he was going to attend. It was the one
thing about Marylyn Worth that irritated him. She lacked sophistication
beyond belief. She simply couldn't dissimulate even to the point demanded
by every day social intercourse. The first time he had met her, possibly six
months or so ago, she had asked him for his autograph. For a gag, he had
written a long flowery passage working in her name and his appreciation
of her understanding, and then had signed it with a great flourish. Weeks
later, somebody who had been in her apartment mentioned that she had
framed the thing and had it hanging on the wall. And from then on,
Marylyn Worth, schoolteacher from Border, Nebraska, now teaching
science at the local American school for dependents of U.S. Air Force
personnel assigned to Spain, made herself as available as a teenage
highschool sophomore might have for the school football hero of the senior
class. Quint liked to do his own pursuing.

  He said now, hurriedly, "What I meant was, the Dempseys went out of
their way to let it be known the party was open house. I just wondered if
you drifted in, under those circumstances, or if they had actually invited
you."

  She flushed red.

  He thought inwardly, "For crissake, didn't anybody come to that party
because they were invited, except Ferencsik and me?"

  She said, in embarrassment, "I read about it in the Guidepost, about
everyone in the foreign colony being welcome. And, well, Nicolas Ferencsik
has always been rather a hero to me."

   "Oh?" Evidently, he had been taking on airs, thinking the girl had come
in hopes of seeing Quint there. "As a scientist or as an advocate of One
World government?"

  "Both," she said.

  "Well, so our Hungarian's got a follower. All he needs is two billion more
people, and that World Government of his will become reality. But what I
want to know is, why should every cloak and dagger man in this part of
Europe be interested in Ferencsik?"

  She stared at him.

   He explained to her the presence of the various operatives, and the fact
that Ronald Brett-Home had evidently set up the whole situation. He
didn't mention the theory that Bormann or any of the other missing Nazis
might be hiding out in Spain. It wasn't that he didn't trust her with the
information. It was just that he realized that the fewer persons in on a
secret the better chance it had of not becoming open rumor. It wouldn't be
fair to Mike Woolman to let his potential story get picked up by some rival
newsman, by way of gossip that Quint started.
  "You knew Ronald, didn't you?"

  "Why, yes. He wasn't very much of a gentleman."

  "Ronald? Good grief, pet, you can't be any more of a gentleman than
Ronald Brett-Home. Old school tie, all that claptrap. Eton, Oxford, the
King's service, a good regiment, what else do you want?"

   He thought he was being obviously sarcastic, but she answered in all
honesty, her voice stilted. "I was alone with him at a party once, and he
tried to… to spoon with me."

  He looked at her in wonder. "Spoon with you?"

  "He… he kissed me and tried to . . " She broke it off, flushed still deeper
and said, "He wanted to spoon, and I had to slap his face."

   Quint took another sip of his wine, even as he stared at her over the
glass rim. Remembering the strength of her hand when she had squeezed
his arm a few minutes earlier, he muttered, "I'll bet you nearly broke the
poor guy's neck."

  She remained in embarrassed silence.

  He had a last bite of the roast pork and pushed the plate away, feeling
considerably better. There's nothing like fat pork and bread to kill an edge.
Aside from being a little wobbly, it was as though he had never been tight.

  He said, "But I kissed you last night. Was it only last night? It seems like
a week ago, so much has happened."

  She looked down at her hands, which were clasped and sitting on the
table now. "That was different," she said lowly.

  He knew better than to ask her to develop on that question, and looked
about for something to which to switch the subject. He said, "You're more
up on the science bit than I am. What's Ferencsik's special claim to fame?"

  "Oh, everybody knows of Nicolas Ferencsik. He's absolutely most
prominent in his field."

  "Yeah, but I'm ignorant All I know about him I read in Time or
Newsweek in the Science or Medicine sections. He wins the Nobel prize,
he lectures at Johns Hopkins, he's lauded by the Mayo Clinic people."

  "Well, he transplants organs. His successes have been startling."

   Quint was impatient. "But everybody's been getting into that act lately.
I even read about a Philadelphia dentist whose been transplanting teeth
ever since 1959."

  "Doctor Mezrow?" she nodded.

  "He takes a healthy tooth from someone whose mouth is too small to
hold the usual quota and needs an extraction, and transplants it into the
mouth of someone who's had an extraction."

    Marylyn nodded. "But teeth are simple, compared with organs. Nicolas
Ferencsik has been successful in transplanting, first in animals, and now
in human beings, just about every organ in the body. Oh, others have done
it too. American doctors have been successful in taking a diseased kidney
from one person, and replacing it with a healthy kidney from another
person. It works quite often between identical twins, but only in a few
instances otherwise. You see, Quentin, the body has an… well, instinctive
tendency to reject any foreign tissue that's been grafted into it, unless it's
from an identical twin. But Ferencsik has startled the world by combating
this body instinct. He utilizes azathioprine, a new immunity suppressor,
actinomycin C, an antibiotic which is sometimes used against cancer, a
cortisone-type hormone, heart stimulants, diuretics, and so forth. And he's
been successful in practically rebuilding people hurt in accidents. Of
course, in the Iron Curtain countries, especially Russia where he did a lot
of his work, they've gone further than we have in establishing banks of not
just blood but hearts, kidneys, livers and other organs as well."

  "You're getting beyond my depth," Quint said. "At least beyond my
depth with my head feeling the way it does now. However, I picked up the
idea recently that he's been able to even transplant brains. At least on an
anthropoid ape level."

  She frowned, as though that went beyond either her belief, or at least
her approval, but she said, "Yes, you mentioned that the other night."

   A new party was descending the brick steps which led down to the
cellars from the restaurant proper on the ground level. There were four of
them, all men, and one of the four was Bart Digby. Quint hoped the other
wouldn't recognize him, and then realized there was fat chance of that.
The alleged former C.I.A. man's eyes swept the ten or fifteen tables of the
cellar dining rooms with a professional glance, landing on Quint
immediately.

  When the party had been seated by the captain, Digby evidently
excused himself and came toward Quint and Marylyn Worth.

   Quint came to his feet, without over-much trouble, and made
introductions, which were routinely responded to, including an
appreciative laying-on-of-eyes by Bart of Marylyn.

  Without invitation, Digby took an empty chair and said to Quint,
"Look, I wanted to talk to you some more." His eyes went back to Marylyn.

    Quint said, wearily, "Miss Worth is a teacher out at the Air Force
school. She comes from Nebraska and is very sincere and probably very
patriotic and believes in true values and things like that which I don't
understand. What her security rating is with the F.B.I., I don't know, but I
suspect you can talk in front of her at least as freely as you can in front of
me. And besides, I've got a hangover, confound it. I would have said damn
it, instead of confound it, but Miss Worth forbids me to swear."

  Digby looked at him. "Are you swacked?"

  "Miss Worth calls it under the influence," Quint said. "The answer is,
yes. Mildly. I'm almost over it."

  "You must have kept going since I saw you at lunch," Bart Digby
growled unhappily. "Look, I want to talk to you some more. But it'll keep
until tomorrow."

  "About what?" Quint said.

  Bart shot another look at Marylyn.

  Quint said, "Oh, for crissake…"

  Digby said, "Remember my mentioning Bormann, Mueller and Doktor
Stahlecker this morning?"

  "Yeah."
  "Well, I've done some backchecking on this Doktor Stahlecker who was
evidently one of Hitler's most fervent from way back when the Nazi party
was first getting organized. Remember when the German generals tried to
knock him off, planted a bomb in his bunker when he was having a staff
meeting?"

  "Yeah, Along in 1944. Half the general staff was in on it, even Rommel."

   "That's right. Well, it was our friend Doktor Stahlecker who kept Hitler
alive at that point. He was blown half to pieces, but the good doctor
patched him up."

   Quint was irritated. He wasn't up to much in the way of thinking right
at this point. "So," he said.

   "So, it seems that Doktor Stahlecker was the top authority in Germany
at that time on such items as organ transplants, grafting of limbs, and
such like. There evidently is some evidence that one of Hitler's arms was
blown completely off, but Doktor Stahlecker was able to sew it back on. It's
only been in the past year or so that American doctors have been up to
that sort of work."

  Quint Jones looked at him blankly. "Organ transplants? That's Nicolas
Ferencsik's line."

   Digby grunted exasperation. "You begin to get the message, eh? Well,
chew on this for awhile. Doktor Stahlecker was also one of the famed
German doctors who butchered thousands of Jews, gypsies, Poles and
Russian prisoners in the name of scientific research. The good doctor
seemed interested in such supposed scientific items as how long could a
woman live when her time for delivery was upon her and you tied her legs
together, and how long could a Jew live with his skin completely flayed
from his body? Or, how long could a man live in below zero water?"

   Quint shot a look at Marylyn who seemed to have frozen in horror. He
said, "Take it easy, Bart."

  Bart Digby said, "Well, at any rate, of all the Nazis still at large, Doktor
Stahlecker is one of those most wanted. There's a rope waiting for the
good doctor in just about any country that participated in World War
Two."
  "What's the connection with Professor Ferencsik?" Quint said.

  The former C.I.A. man came to his feet. "That's what I'd like to know,"
he said. "I'll talk to you about it in the morning." He looked at Marylyn.
"Where've I seen you before?" he asked in puzzlement.

   "At a police line-up in Chicago, probably," Quint growled at him. "Good
grief, get lost, Bart. Miss Worth was at the party last night. That's where
you saw her."




                          Chapter Five
   Quint Jones was awakened from no deep dream of peace by the brutal
ringing of the phone next to his bed. He tried manfully to ignore it. It
wasn't to be ignored.

  He grabbed it and snarled, "Yes?"

  Mike Woolman said cheerfully, "Come on, come on. I can tell from your
voice, you're not out of bed. It's eleven o'clock."

  Quint grumbled, "It got very drunk out last night."

  "Where's all that gung ho energy you had yesterday? All that impressive
column writing ambition?"

  "Shut up," Quint said. "What'd you want?"

  "Look Quint, this case is pyramiding. Rumors are beginning to get
around amongst the boys. I got a call from Paris headquarters of World
Wide Press. They're thinking of sending a special man down here to
handle the story."

   That wasn't so good from Mike's viewpoint. He ought to be able to wrap
a story up on his own, not depend on outsiders to come in and do his work
for him when it got inportant.

  Quint said, "So?"

  "So, what's the dope that you have that you wouldn't tell me yesterday?
Maybe you can reword it a little so you won't be betraying any
confidence."

   Quint was silent, scowling to himself. He shook his head in an attempt
to achieve complete clarity.

  Mike said urgently, "Especially, what's the jazz about Martin Bormann
and Doktor Stahlecker?"

  The columnist shifted in his bed, uncomfortably. "Well, I was told a bit
more about this Doc Stahlecker last night. It seems as if this is the doctor
who patched Hitler up when he was blown to smithereens by the German
generals in 1944. Sewed an arm on him and that sort of thing."

  Mike said nothing. Obviously digesting.

  Quint said impatiently. "Evidently Doktor Stahlecker is almost as big an
authority on organ transplants and such as Professor Ferencsik. What do I
have to do, draw you a blueprint?"

  Mike said, "Jesus."

  Quint said sarcastically, "May I suggest you get your fanny over to
wherever it is Nicolas Ferencsik is staying and interview him on the
question of just why he's come to Spain, of all places?"

  Mike grunted, "Uh huh. Swell."

  "Well, what's more obvious?"

  "Nothing, except Ferencsik absolutely refuses to see all reporters."

  "Pull some wires. Get hold of Joe Garcia or somebody and make some
hints. Put some pressure to bear on the guy. Lean on him. He obviously
knows plenty."

  The reporter said, "I'll let you in on a secret, chum. Nobody, but nobody,
twists the arm of a guy with as big a name as Nobel Prize winning
Professor Ferencsik. This is a nasty world we live in, but not even here in
Spain would the public allow the authorities to give Nicolas Ferencsik a
hard time. It'd be like lowering the boom on Einstein, or Albert
Schweitzer. Any more bright ideas?"
  Quint Jones scratched himself unhappily through his pajamas. His
mouth tasted like last week's crop of maggots. He said, "Listen, where is
Ferencsik staying?"

   "What do you mean, where is he staying? He's staying at the Dempsey's,
of course."

   "The Dempsey's. You mean Marty and Ferd's? A man with an
international name like that!"

  "Friend, you must have come in late. How'd you think Marty and Ferd
ever got him to come to a party at their place? He's living with them. He's
old family friends of Marty's people. Her old man, way back before the
war, before Hungary went commie, financed some deal of Nicolas
Ferencsik before he got famous. Staked him to a lot of dough for research
materials and all. He's got a soft spot for Marty, or something. Knew her
when she was a girl."

  Quint pursed his lips, as though to whistle. He said, "Okay, Mike, I'll see
what I can do. Call you back later."

   Mike Woolman sneered. "Oh, you think you can get in to see him, where
I can't, hey? Let me tell you friend, when Ferencsik says he won't see
reporters, believe me, he won't see reporters."

  "That's because you reporters don't bathe, don't gargle your throats in
the morning and are illiterate clods." Quint told him earnestly. "Now a
columnist is something else again."

  "Go marry your mother," Mike told him and hung up.

   Quint grinned at the phone for a minute before returning it to its place.
He grunted and swung his legs over the side of bed and fumbled his feet
around for his slippers. They weren't in their usual place. He grunted
again and made his way to the kitchen barefooted. At least he didn't have
a blockbuster hangover this time. Marylyn Worth must have spotted him
right at the crucial time and got him there to Botin's and some food into
him.

   Nice girl, if she wasn't so square, he told himself as he fished a bitterly
cold bottle of coke from his refrigerator. Coffee for others, but the morning
after he'd been drinking, it was coke for him. As a matter of fact, he had
read somewhere, in a consumer's union report, or something, that there
was three and half times as much caffeine in a bottle of coke as there was
in a cup of coffee. Be that as it may, it settled his stomach and gave him a
lift.

  He finished the coke and started breakfast proper a-going. That was
another bit of wisdom he'd accumulated over the years. To get over a
binge, get hot food into your stomach as soon as possible. Once you've
been able to hold two hot meals down, the hangover is through.

  When he'd forced down two eggs and some Spanish bacon—which he
despised—along with some toast, he felt moderately better. Bacon, he
remembered all over again, was the one thing he wished he could get into
the American PX for. Except for the Danes and British, the Europeans
didn't have the word on bacon.

  Breakfast safely down, he went into the bathroom to shower, shave and
brush his teeth. He wished the hell he knew more about Nicolas
Ferencsik's subject, organ transplants. He wondered if it would be
possible—if he was able to get an interview with him at all—to bring
Marylyn in on it. As a science teacher, she evidently kept up on all fields,
including recent medical developments. He had her phone number out at
the base, but, as he recalled, this was first day at school, and he doubted
there was any way to get her away before evening.

  Thinking of Marylyn brought back her conversation of the evening
before. As he dressed, he thought about her. Who was he to call the girl a
square?

  Now that he thought of it, the very term irritated him. When he was a
boy, the word square meant honest, a person of integrity. Now it had
come to mean somebody who was stupid, not with it, old fashioned. What
had happened to our civilization when a honest man was sneered at?

   And maybe she was right about him. By modern criteria, he was a
celebrity. He had it made. He earned more money than he knew what to
do with. Could travel anywhere he wanted, or live anywhere he wished. He
had made it.

  Yeah?

  He went back to the phone and rang the Dempsey phone number.
  A maid answered. "Digame?"

  "For favor, senorita, deseo hablar con Senor Dempsey," Quint told her.

  "Un momento, por favor."

  Ferd Dempsey, his voice slurring, was on the line. "Hello, hello, hello.
You must be selling something. Nobody I know'd be up this early."

  "Ferd," Quint said. "This is Quint Jones."

   "Oh yeah, hi Quint. What's the deal? Brother, it was rugged last night. A
bunch of us were over the Hilton and guess who turned up? Remember
that queer muscle man movie star, was here doing the lead in that show
about Cortes and the Aztecs and all? Well, he's back in town. Talmadge.
Clark Talmadge. He's going to do another movie with Clara Lucciola that
wop star, with old Manny King directing. They were all there, and Bert
Fix, the flack and Lonny Bait the photographer. Anyway, we started at the
Hilton and then Manny said how about coming up to his place. He had
some real Swiss absinthe. The real old stuff. So we took along a couple of
bottles to last us till we got there. He's got a hell of a big estate in
Mirasierra. Big swimming pool and all. Christ did we laugh. We threw
Clark in the pool and then we all stood around the edge and when he tried
to get out, we'd give him a drink, but we wouldn't let him out until he
could prove he was too swacked to swim. It was a riot. Then about two
o'clock in the morning, Marty decided what we needed was a weiner roast,
but nobody had any weiners, so we all got back in the cars and…"

  Quint listened for awhile, his face expressionless. He could have heard
substantially the same report from Ferd Dempsey five days out of seven.
Or from Marty, for that matter. Or from four out of five of his Madrid
acquaintances.

   He said, finally, when the other stopped for breath, "Listen, Ferd. What
I wanted to ask you about. Professor Ferencsik is staying with you, right?"

  The other's voice went suddenly cautious. "The Professor? Oh, sure.
Kind of keeps to himself, but the place is big enough, Lord knows."

  "Well, listen, I'd like to talk to him."

  There was a silence, then, "Damn it, Quint. He's not giving out any
interviews. He kind of wants to rest, or something. I don't know what he
came to Madrid for. Why'd'nt he go to some resort along the sea, or
something? You can't rest in Madrid. It's always hopping."

  It's not Madrid that's always hopping, Quint protested inwardly, it's the
expatriate set, led by the Dempseys.

   Quint said, "I'm not just a newspaperman, Ferd. This is a bit above the
usual level." He hated himself for trying to pull rank. In fact, he felt like a
fool.

  Ferd said, unhappily, "Gosh, Quint. There was a New York Times man
around yesterday. The Professor wouldn't even see him."

   Quint said, "I think you've got the wrong idea. I don't want an
interview. Tell him I was fascinated by what he said about World
Government the other night, and wanted to talk to him about it."

  "Oh," Ferd said dubiously.

  "At least tell him, and call me back if he wouldn't mind seeing me."
Quint hung up.

  The return call, and invitation, came within fifteen minutes.




   It was Marty who met him at the door of the penthouse. Marty looking
distressed as Marty Dempsey always looked in the morning. Marty
wearing a housecoat, bearing an enormous highball glass in her hand, and
looking every year of her fifty odd years.

  "Dahling," she shrilled at him in her whisky tenor. "Whatever are you
doing up and around at this time of day, you poor boy?"

  "It's practically noon." He gave her a peck on the cheek. "I wanted to see
Professor Ferencsik."

   "Oh, Uncle Nick. He's an ogre. He won't talk to anyone, dahling. It was
all we could do to have him make an appearance at the party. And then he
retired to his rooms and sulked before things hardly got going."
   "Ferd fixed it up for me," Quint said easily. "What in the world's
Professor Ferencsik doing in Madrid, anyway? I'd expect him to wind up
at UCLA, teaching. Or in Vienna, or Paris or someplace. Now that he's left
Hungary."

   Marty took a pull at her glass. "Oh, he came to see Ferd and me," she
said archly. "We're old, old friends you know." She frowned slightly, as
though trying to remember something not especially important. "There
was something else he wanted to do here, I don't think I was listening very
well. Have a quick one, Quint?"

  He shook his head, "Recovering from last night," he told her. "A hair of
the dog doesn't do me any good. I either have to take the whole dog, or
nothing. And then I've started all over again."

  "Poor dahling," she said vaguely, patting the side of his cheek. "I'll take
you to Uncle Nick. But don't blame me if he throws you out."

   Ferd and Marty had done the Professor well. He had a small suite of his
own. Room, bath and a sitting-room study. Possibly a bit on the garish
side for a noted medical scientist whose clothes were a touch seedy and
worn as though he couldn't care less.

 He shook hands hesitantly. "I recall you from the other night, young
man," he said. "You didn't seem to have much to say at the time."

   Quint Jones liked the quality of the man's handshake and also the quick
penetrating manner he had of looking full into your face. It would be
difficult to steer too far from the edge of truth with Professor Nicolas
Ferencsik. Quint said, "I was listening rather than expressing my own
ideas."

  "And you found my opinions of interest?"

 "I found them all of interest," Quint told him, guardedly. "But one of
Marty's cocktail parties was hardly the place to form views of my own."

  "Oh, you," Marty giggled. "It was quite a soiree, wasn't it?"

   The Professor said to her, "Martha, my dear, why don't you leave Mr.
Jones and me and let us get to serious discussion? Perhaps we'll join you
later."
  She fluttered archly, as she went, "Now don't you boys say anything my
ears shouldn't hear."

  They both looked after her, Quint thinking, what could it possibly be
that Marty's ears haven't heard by this time in life?

   The professor said absently, "When I first met Martha, I thought of her
as a child, though I can be only a few years her senior. I am afraid even
then that it was difficult for her to take the world seriously."

  Quint wanted an opening. He said, making his own voice go musing, "I
wonder if she and Ferd aren't doing what a good many of the world's
population seems to be. That is, avoiding thinking of the problems that
confront us all."

   The feisty little Hungarian scientist shot him a quick piercing look. "I
have long since come to that conclusion, sir. Won't you have a chair? Take
that one there, I can speak for it's comfort. It is so also in my own country.
In Budapest, even in intellectual circles, it is all but bad manners to
discuss the dangers of nuclear war and the almost certainty of complete
destruction of the race if such conflict ever develops."

   They both took chairs, and Quint listened to the other as though with
fascinated attention.

  Ferencsik went on, in his voice an element of passion. "But when I left
Hungary and traveled to the West, I was more shocked still. If one is
invited to dinner in London and brings up such subjects as the continuing
development of international missiles and ever larger H-bombs, it is
considered such a faux pas as almost to have your hostess order you from
her home. I am gratified, Mr. Jones, to have a man of your capabilities
express interest in my beliefs in this field."

  So the old boy knew of Quint's work as a columnist He was going to
have to make this good, to get past the Hungarian's defenses. If the man
was leery of newspapermen, he'd be guarded against Quint. A bit of
preliminary discussion was in order.

  Quint said, "Frankly, some of the rebuttal at the party also interested
me. The fellow named Bart Digby who pointed out the difficulties in ever
uniting the world's more than one hundred sovereign governments. Take
my own country, the United States. Our earliest tradition was to remain
aloof from foreign affairs. More recently, of course, modern developments
have forced our government into world leadership of the West." He
twisted his mouth wryly. "What we like to call the free-world, although it
includes everything from the absolute monarchy of Saudi-Arabia, to a half
dozen South American military dictatorships." He shrugged in
deprecation. "But the point is, trying to unite the United States with—well,
eventually Russia, would be a hard nut to crack. Offhand, I can't think of a
single Senator or Congressman who would vote for such a merger, no
matter what the terms."

   But Ferencsik was shaking a finger at him negatively and already in
some heat. "Your background in the history of your own country is faulty,
sir. It was Benjamin Franklin, in the early days of the founding of your
republic, who stated that one day he hoped to see every nation of the
world represented with a star in the flag of the United States. It was his
desire to work into the Constitution a method whereby all nations were
free to admission."

  That was new to Quint, but it was the sort of thing that Old Ben would
have advocated, he had to admit.

   Ferencsik went on. "And I quite agree that today few Americans would
vote to join a world state, and the same applies to most nations. However,
this is a thing that shall come about only when and if the development of
affairs forces the world into it. If we all, every living member of the race,
came to see that it was the only alternative to destruction of us all, then
perhaps the steps would be taken."

  Quint didn't want to antagonize the man, at least not at this stage of the
game, so he pulled in his horns somewhat. He said, turning on the charm
gently, knowing better than to arouse the suspicions of the other by being
too agreeable, "You were discussing with the Russian, Nuriyev, the need of
developing a leader to point out the way, a super-man who…"

  But at the mention of the former Soviet hachetman, Professor Ferencsik
had made a grimace of distaste. Quint broke off his sentence in the middle
and took advantage of the opening. He said, "I noticed the other night that
you seemed to take particular exception to his opinions."

  The Hungarian flicked a hand in quick disgust. "A butcher. I have met
him before. At the war's end, I worked for a time with Russian scientists.
We were attempting to rescue from the debacle some of the work of
German researchers and, for that matter, some of the better German
scientists themselves."

   Quint nodded, trying to look perceptive. "I understand the Americans,
of course, did the same thing, in the areas we captured. In view of your
own interests in surgery, you must have been particularly anxious to find
if Doktor Stahlecker was still alive."

   Nicolas Ferencsik began to say, "Yes. One of the reasons…" But then he
stopped. His eyes pierced the expression of the American columnist,
finding that below the surface which had been meant to be hidden. He
came to his feet.

  His voice was cold. "I'm afraid, Mr. Jones, that my time is limited."

  Quint stood too. He made a gamble, knowing he was doing this wrong
even as he spoke. "You don't deny, do you Professor, that you have come to
Madrid in an attempt to find the Nazi refugee, Doktor Stahlecker?"

  The other was coming to a quick boil, but he snapped, "You are, so I
understand, a friend of my host and hostess. I can hardly order you from
the house. But I can request that you save me your presence, sir."

  Quint flushed, but made one last attempt. "There are some deaths
involved in this, Professor, and some mystery that you might help clear up.
For instance, does this mean anything to you? It was a note left near
Ronald Brett-Home's body. It read: Why was it necessary to burn H's
body?"

  The other hadn't even heard him. Nicolas Ferencsik had spun on his
heel and entered his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  At least he hadn't slammed it.

   Quint let himself out of the sitting room of the suite, and looked up
Marty Dempsey, who was sitting in a sun chair on the terrace and looking
vaguely out over the rooftops of Madrid. She was seldom quite completely
alive this time of day.

   Quint looked at his wristwatch, through force of habit. It was slightly
past twelve. "I'll take that drink now," he said. I've just had brought home
to me a defect or so in my character."
   "There's the makin's, dahling," Marty waved in the general direction of
a pushcart bar, on the top of which were several bottles, several glasses
and a vacuum bottle of ice cubes. "You didn't talk very long with Uncle
Nick."

   "Uncle Nick threw me out," Quint said sourly. He poured some bourbon
into the bottom of a glass and added an ice cube. There was gingerale and
soda available, but one of the few opportunities Quint had these days to
drink American whiskey was at the Dempseys, and he considered it a treat
to be taken straight. In actuality, he could have afforded it himself, easily
enough, but he rebelled against the price in Spain.

   Ferd came wandering out, evidently to replenish his glass. He was a
square-set man going to pot. In his youth, when he had played college
football, he must have been a beautiful specimen. Now he seldom played
with anything but bottles and fast cars. The combination had turned out
so incompatible that his series of accidents had recently terminated in the
revoking of his license by the Spanish authorities.

 He said, "Hello, hello, hi, Quint. Come to see the Professor eh? Hey,
Marty, where's Uncle Nick?"

  "I've already seen him," Quint said. He found a chair and took down
half the bourbon. It burned pleasantly. He remembered unhappily that he
was lousing up his formula of two hot meals on the stomach after a
drinking binge, before you started again.

  Marty was looking at Quint. "What do you mean he threw you out,
Quint dahling? He seemed perfectly happy about talking to you."

  Quint shrugged. "I suppose he was right. I got in to see him under false
pretenses. Told him I was interested in his World Government ideas,
where actually I wanted to get a line on what it was that Ronald
Brett-Home had set up for your party."

  Ferd, who had just finished making himself a stiff one at the little bar,
turned and grumbled, "Let's don't get into that, damn it. There's been
cops all over the place. Asking lousy questions, bothering the maids.
Everything. You'd think the guy was killed here."

  Marty said, "I'll never forgive Ronald for causing us so much trouble.
Oh, yes, I know, dahling, speak only well of the dead. But really, he and his
Gestapo friend might have picked some other . . "

  "Who?" Quint snapped.

  Marty blinked at him. "What did I say?"

  "You said something about Ronald and his Gestapo friend. What
Gestapo friend?"

   She giggled. "Oh, dear, I'd forgotten all about that." She put a finger to
her mouth, as though in thought. "I didn't listen very well when Ronald
was telling us how it was that the party would be a great success, very
controversial, if we'd have Uncle Nick as guest of honor and spread the
word it was open house. He said he had cooked something with a friend of
his, a former Gestapo man." She looked at Quint archly. "Didn't I tell you
it was all cloak and dagger and all that."

  Ferd had dropped heavily into one of the deck chairs. "Stroehlein, or
something, his name was. Some squarehead name."

  Quint's eyes went from Ferd to Marty. "Over the phone you said you'd
never heard of Albrecht Stroehlein."

  "Oh, did I, dahling? Well, I suppose I'd forgotten his name. I can't
remember foreign names. Why don't they all have simple names like
Smith and Dempsey and Jones? Do be a dahling and fill my glass. Scotch,
with just a teeny weeny soda."

  Quint got up and got her drink, his mind racing. So the weepy eyed
ex-Nazi, Stroehlein, had been in on Brett-Home's scheme. That would
suggest that Stroehlein was working for West Germany, rather than
East—always assuming that he was working at his old game of
espionage-counter-espionage at all.

  He pulled himself to a halt suddenly. The hell with it. A few minutes ago
he'd decided the whole thing was out of his realm. It wasn't his business.
Let Bart Digby handle it on the international politics level, or Mike
Woolman on the news level, but let Quentin Jones leave it lay.

    He gave Marty her new drink and said, "I think I'll get on home and see
if I can knock out a column."
  "See you later, dahling," Marty told him vaguely. Her mind, such as it
was, already off on some other tangent.

   Ferd waved his glass in Quint's general direction, and honored him with
a quatrain from the Rubaiyat:



"Some for the Glories of This World, and some
Yearn for the Prophet's Paradise to come.
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!"




   "Man, you have said it," Quint told him dryly. "So long Marty, thanks
for the drink."




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



   "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?"




                        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.




                          Chapter Nine
  Quint was staring at the other man. "You've got your genders mixed,"
he told him. "He, not she." Albrecht Stroehlein mustered sufficient
courage to sneer in superiority. "Ah, my American friend, you are not so
knowledgeable as you would pretend, eh? You do not even know that
Doktor Grete Stahlecker is a woman, eh?" He tapped himself, on the upper
part of his belly.

   "I have known Grete Stahlecker since 1921, eh? It was I who introduced
her to the Führer. I, Albrecht Stroehlein. No one else, nicht? Even then she
was noted in her field. Even then, a great scientist. If she had been a
younger woman, Hitler himself might have taken her to bed, eh? Instead
of finally that wishy-washy, as the British say, Eva Braun. I tell you, if
Grete Stahlecker was here tonight, I would know Grete Stahlecker." He
snapped pudgy fingers. "Like that."

   Quint Jones felt dazed. He didn't know why. It had just never occurred
to him that the misty doctor was a woman. There was no particular
reason. He muttered some excuse to the German, and went seeking Mike
Woolman.

 Mike was standing, glass in hand, listening to Ferd Dempsey and some
American air force officer who were arguing bullfighting. Neither of them
knew what they were talking about. Quint, come to think of it, had never
met an American who knew anything about bullfighting with the possible
exception of Johnny Short, who was a novittero.

  The American columnist took Mike aside. "Listen," he said. "This
Doktor Stahlecker is a woman."

  Mike looked at him as though he had slipped his clutch. "So what?"

  Quint stared at him. "I thought she was a man. I mean, that he was."

  Mike patted him on the arm. "Look, friend. Why don't you go easy on
the sauce? Of course, Doctor Grete Stahlecker was, or is, as the case may
be, a woman. She was Adolf's personal surgeon. She saved his life."

  "Okay," Quint said. "Forget it. Nobody bothered to tell me."

  Mike shrugged hugely and went off for another drink, saying over his
shoulder, "This whole idea flopped. The party's beginning to break up.
How long should we stick around?" But he was gone before the columnist
could answer.

  Quint looked down into his own glass, knocked the drink back and
decided to get another. The idea had flopped was right. He had half a
mind to hang one on.

  Marty Dempsey wavered up to him, her glass so full that she was
spilling the drink on Marylyn's carpet. Quint winced. The Dempsey's
didn't give a damn about spilling drinks on carpets. Either their own, or
anyone else's. The difference was they could afford to buy new ones. He
doubted if Marylyn could.

  Quint said disgustedly, "Pet, you aren't Grete Stahlecker, are you?"

  Marty closed one eye carefully. "Dahling, I've never seen you so stoned.
Never. Look real close. I'm… don't tell me. I'm Martha. Martha McCarthy.
That's who."

  "Don't look now," Quint said. "But you're Martha Dempsey. Remember?
You married Ferdinand about twenty or thirty years ago."

  "Oh, yeah," Marty said vaguely. She took him in suspiciously. "You're
not as stoned as you act." She concentrated for a moment then said, "I
gotta go to the little girl's," and wandered off.

  Quint looked after her, wondering why he associated with these people.
What in the hell could the likes of Ferd and Marty Dempsey possibly do for
him?

   Some of the guests were leaving. It never had developed into much of a
party, in spite of Marylyn's shining-bright efforts. She just wasn't cut out
to be hostess for this type of a gang. Besides, they had all evidently come
expecting some sort of excitement. That had been the rumor Mike and
Quint had spread around. On the face of it, the excitement hadn't
developed. The party was melting.

   Ferd Dempsey, swaying—his once heroic proportions, now gone to fat,
threatening to collapse—held high his glass. "We'll all go tasca-hopping!"
he proclaimed. "Go bar hopping, pub crawling, saloon slinking. We'll all go
on down to Chicote's and stan' in front, out on the street, and I'll give 'em
a recitation."

  Ferd, Quint decided cynically, was at the stage where he was going to
render Omar Khayyam. To render means to tear apart. And sure enough.
Here it came.



"And, as the Clock crew, those who stood before
The tavern shouted—'Open then the Door!'
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."




   Quint Jones could just see Ferd and the rest standing in front of
Chicote's shouting quatrains from the Rubaiyat. Come to think of it,
though, there was a certain appropriateness about it all. Omar Khayyam,
the patron saint of the hedonist. All over again, Quint Jones wondered
what he was doing associating with this crowd. How had he ever gotten
into this rut?

  Ferd's idea grew on the rest A tasca crawl was in order. Carry the party
onto the town. The remaining guests sought their things.
  Mike Woolman was one of the last to leave. His eyes went from Quint to
Marylyn, who was seeing someone out, and then back again. He said, "So,
you've finally made it, eh?"

  Quint scowled at him. "Come again?"

  "Never mind," Mike grunted. "I suppose it's got to happen to her some
day. Why not you?"

  "Get lost, Buster," Quint growled at him.

  "See you around," Mike said without inflection. "Good old Joe Garcia
wants to talk to me about something."

  "He probably wants to know what, if anything, we found out at this
party."

  "Well, I'll tell him we found out a nice round zero." Mike muttered. He
turned to leave.

   Something was churning in Quentin Jones' brain. Something brought
to mind by Ferd. The last two lines of his quatrain went over and over
through the columnist's head… how little while we have to stay, and,
once departed, may return no more.

  He wandered back to the bar and poured himself another short brandy.
Actually, he hadn't drunk much tonight. He had kept himself sober, so
that his mind would be keen enough to pick up the slightest hint of a clue.
Much good it had done him.

  Marylyn said, from behind him, "They're all gone, Quentin."

  "Oh? Oh, yeah. I was just thinking."

  She sat on the extremely large divan which dominated one side of the
room. "Gracious! They drank so much. And were so loud. Thank goodness
no one lives below."

  He put his glass down, untouched, and sat beside her. Still thoughtful.
How little time we have to stay, and, once departed, may return no more
.

  "What were you thinking about… Quentin?"
   He looked at her. "A lot of things. For once, what a worthless gang this
is. Except for Mike, and yourself, who among them works? Do any work at
all? Who among them has an iota of ideal? Who has a dream, an
ambition—beyond getting over a hangover so he can start hanging a new
one on? I think I'm a little disgusted with myself for remaining in this
atmosphere as long as I have."

   She said, urgently, "That's what I've been telling you, Quentin. You're a
man of destiny. I knew it from the first time I met you. Even before, when
I read some of your columns. I don't agree with all of them, of course.
Perhaps not even most. But you haven't found yourself yet. When you
do…" She had run out of breath in her earnestness.

  Quint looked at her ruefully from the side of his eyes, then stared
unseeing into a corner of the room. "I got a letter today from a new
political party starting up in the States. They call themselves the Liberal
Party."

  "Liberal Party." Marylyn made a face.

  He looked at her. "What ever happened to the liberals in the States?
Back when I was a kid, during the depression, everybody was a liberal.
There were darn few brave enough to call themselves conservatives, and to
be a reactionary was like being in cahoots with the devil."

  He thought about it. “Today, the term is rapidly disappearing in the
States. To say you're a liberal now means you're a wide-eyed do-gooder. A
wooly-head who signs petitions for peace, and marches in anti-segregation
parades. I remember a speech Roosevelt once made…"

  Marylyn made a face again, but moved slightly nearer to him, listening.

   "… in which he defined reactionary, radical, liberal and conservative.
For an example, he took an old bridge crossing a stream. The radical
comes along and says the bridge is no longer safe, it should be torn down
and a new one built utilizing the most modern methods. The conservative
comes along and says, the bridge is fine, just the way it is, don't touch it.
The liberal comes along and suggests various repairs to patch it up so that
it can continue to be used. And the reactionary comes along and says tear
it down, and we'll cross the stream the old way, jumping from rock to
rock."
  Marylyn laughed hesitantly, after looking into his face and seeing she
was expected to.

  Quint said, "Actually, there's little meaning to be found in the name of
political parties nowadays. There's hardly a country in Europe that doesn't
have parties that work the word Christian into their names. The Christian
Democrats, the Christian Socialists, the Christian Republicans, and so on
and so forth." He chuckled sarcastically. "Have you ever heard of a
political party really based on Christian principles?"

   Marylyn said, "I see what you mean. In Germany in the early 1920s the
people liked the word socialist. They weren't too clear what it meant, but
they liked the idea. So when Hitler's movement began to develop he called
it National Socialism, although, of course, the Fuhrer had no sympathy
with socialism at all."

  He put an arm around her, and drew her nearer. She looked up at him
suddenly. "Quint! That's it. This is your chance. What difference does it
make what the name of the party is? This is your opportunity to get in on
the ground floor."

  He pursed his lips and chuckled wryly. "They wanted me to run for
Senator from my state."

  "Quint! It's your chance! Why, in six months you'd be head of the
party."

  Still chuckling, he drew her closer, and ran a finger down along a slight
scar near her temple. He scowled and said, "How did you get this?"

  "What? Oh. An auto accident when I was a little girl."

  how … little … time … we… have … to stay … and . . . once … departed
… may … return … no … more…

  He murmured, astonished by it all, "But that's the whole thing, isn't it?
The effort to stay on. The effort to return, though it all should have ended."

  She frowned up at him. "I… I don't know what you mean, Quentin."

  "Ann Asian and her H3 vitamin," he murmured. "She's probably a
comparative amateur."
  "Quentin," she said.

  He looked at her strangely, "You've obviously had your face lifted,
probably more than once. How old are you, really, Grete?"

  She drew back from him,

  He said, "How long did you really live in Border, Nebraska? Just long
enough to establish a phoney identity?"

   "Quentin! Don't attempt to judge me… not yet. You don't understand. I
lived many years in the United States. For a time I attended school there."

  He was nodding. "Back before the first World War, I imagine. How old
are you, Grete Stahlecker?"

  Her face went strange. She had removed herself from his enveloping
arm, but now she seized his hand tightly. "I am seventy-two years old,
Quentin!"

  Quentin Jones stared at her, unbelieving, even though at long last he
knew.

  "Quentin, don't you see what that means? You too can be all but
immortal. You are a man of destiny, like the Führer was a man of destiny.
We… Herr Ferencsik and I… can search out such weaknesses as your
present body might have. Seek them out, and eliminate them. Is your
heart potentially that organ of your body which will first fail? We will find
you a strong heart, Quentin. Any weakness we can change."

  He looked into her face, and through it, into her all. Into the deepest
recesses of the psyche.

  "So," he said softly. "Professor Ferencsik is with you. And together you
are to create your superman."

  "Yes, yes," she hurried. "He is with me. Here, here in this house."

  "And he believes in this same dream you have?"

  "Yes, of course," her eyes shifted only slightly. "A superman to lead the
world to a single government To make all earth one strong State. It was
Führer's dream, and Alfred Rosenberg's. It is only that Herr Ferencsik is
impractical. He doesn't realize that there must be a master race, we
Teutons and Anglo-Saxons. The inferior races will serve us."

  Her grip on his arm tightened urgently. Her face had a fey quality, a
wild quality.

   Quint said, almost gently, "So, you would make a superman of me?" His
face twisted grimly. "As you did Martin Bormann, Grete?"

  "Bormann, he is nothing! A clod. True, at first I thought I could make
him the new Fuhrer. But there was still much for me to learn, and now,
with my new knowledge, and with the help of Herr Professor Ferencsik…"

  Quint said, "Grete, this question keeps coming up. Why was it
necessary to burn Hitler's body, there outside the Reich Chancellery, after
he had committed suicide?"

  Her eyes went strange, shifted strangely, but her voice came, as though
reciting. "It was necessary that we burn it so that the Führer's enemies
would never know that the body had been mutilated, that the brain had
been removed."

   The cold went through Quentin Jones as never before in all his life. The
next words were hard to keep level. "And whose brain would be in this
renovated body of mine? My jazzed up new superman body which would
last a few hundred years?"

   She shook her head, and again her hand tightened urgently on his arm,
and her eyes bore into his in complete earnestness. "Quentin, you need not
fear. Do not be silly. It would be your own brain. Your personality. A
simple operation or two, a simple grafting…"

  "To… what… extent… would… you… replace… my… own… brain… with…
that… of… your… once… Fuhrer…"

  "But just a little bit. The very seat of his genius. The phyche, the ego…"

  A new voice from one of the rear doors said wealdy, "She's mad, of
course. Doktor Stahlecker is mad. A genius, perhaps, but mad. She has
showed me the portions of the brain she thinks possible to replace in your
skull. They are nothing, after all these years, but mush. Organic,
meaningless mush. If she is allowed to operate on you, Quentin Jones, you
will become as Martin Bormann has become."

  Marylyn Worth—Doktor Grete Stohlecker—was on her feet, glaring at
the intruder. She spun back to Quint. "But you can see! Look, I am
younger than twenty years ago. Look at my face! My body! Now I am even
beautiful, as I was never beautiful before, my Führer! Yes, yes! Now you
understand. You will be the new Führer, and I will be your bride. All these
years, my Fuhrer, I have kept myself for you.?"

  His horror must have reflected in his face.

  She looked at him. Shook her head in incomprehension. "But…" she
whimpered, "… So long, so very long." She shook her head.

  And then as though by horrible miracle, her face began to break up. The
blondness of hair seemed to go dull, as though from gold to corroding
brass. The fire went from blueness of eye, and they dimmed to aged grey.
Her shoulders slumped forward, in an older woman's slump of age. Her
mouth went slack, her face pinched, and her seventy years and more of life
showed through.

  Nicolas Ferencsik had leaned back against the wall, resting from
whatever ordeal he had been through these past several days.

  And through the door through which he had come only a few minutes
before, lurched the creature of Doktor Grete Stahlecker's manufacture.

   In first glance it was a man of possibly forty, the body well formed, the
face of a certain heavy handsomeness. But second look branded it hulk. A
meaningless, nonthinking hulk that walked. Empty of eye. Empty of brain.

  Its Zombi-eyes went to its master.

  Suddenly she galvanized. She pointed at Quentin Jones, who long since
had come to his feet. She shrieked. "Take him. Take him to the laboratory!
He doesn't realize what I offer. I will prove everything!"

   The thing's dull eyes came back to Quint and there was the dim, faintest
gleam of pleasure. It lurched forward, the big strong hands coming up
from its sides where until now they had dangled, lifeless.

  "Run!" Ferencsik blurted, as though with his last strength.
   Without thought, Quent Jones went into the Zenkutsu-dachi lunge
position. The rear knee straight, the front knee bent so that the knee cap
was directly over the arch of the foot. His body weight was evenly
distributed between both feet.

  The monster's movements were deceptively fast. It came in, soft
gurgling sounds emanating from its throat, its hands forward to grasp.

   Quint exhaled, with a piercing Kiai shout of "Zut" and darted forward,
without conscious thought going into the tenth Kata. He blocked the
lunging creature's right hand with a hard blow of his own right, grasped
the wrist with the thumb pointed upward, and pivoted on his left foot to
the right. His back was to the growling, muttering thing. He kept his hold
of the right wrist, raised the other's hand high as he drew the body closer
to his back. With his left hand he struck brutally into its groin. He seized
the peach, as his Jap instructor had called it, and brought his left arm
down, holding the left wrist now, over his right shoulder and across the
chest. He pulled down on the thing's right arm as he pulled up on the
groin, and threw it over his shoulder.

  Automatically, Quint went into the Hachiji-dachi, spreadout position,
but his face went blank when he saw the thing roll out of the punishing
karate kata. It was the first time in his several years of practicing the art,
that Quentin Jones had ever seriously performed the tenth kata. It should
have resulted in at least complete elimination of the opponent; it could
have resulted in death.

   But the creature was coming to its feet again, still moving in deceptive
speed, considering its appearance of clumsiness. There was spittle at the
side of its mouth, but it still mewled as though in pleasure.

  "Take him! Take him! The laboratory." Somewhere in the background
Doktor Grete Stahlecker was screaming, unheard by either.

  It came again, its hands clawing for a grip. Let it get its hands on this
shrieking, dancing opponent, and it knew that then all would be over.
Then the master would have her wish. Then would come the good feeling,
perhaps. Perhaps the master would allow him to do that which brought
the good feeling.

  Quint, in desperation, decided upon the nineteenth kata, screamed his
Kiai yell, and blurred into the motions of chopping the other's kidneys,
stamping his left knee pit, and finally throwing him again clear across the
room, crushing a straight chair to splinters in the process.

   Quint was breathing deeply now. Nothing living should be able to take
this punishment. Nothing living. He assumed the Kiba-dachi straddle
position in desperation. If the thing ever got its hands on him properly…

  He had no illusion now about Grete Stahlecker being able to control it,
now that it was in the heat of mortal combat. Nothing could control it. Of
that he was sure.

  The monster came lumbering in, perhaps more slowly now, or perhaps
that was Quentin Jones' wishful thinking. He hit it with the eleventh Kata,
Okinawa style, attacking the groin again, chopping its shoulder in a judo
chop, then darting away.

  The thing was shaking its head and staring at him stupidly.

   The Doktor was screaming something else now. Something Quint
couldn't make out. He couldn't stand this pace. The thing was heavy to
work with. It must have gone well over two hundred pounds. And it was
fast. He had to use top energies, razor edge reflexes, to keep way from it
and still punish it.

  He moved in again, feeling his weariness. He must take the fight to the
foe. Must finish it off, or he was sunk. He could feel his strength melting.
He tried the twenty-fourth Kata. Something he had seen professional
instructors enact, but which he had never tried.

   He screamed, "Zut!" throwing a left block against the other's left wrist,
grabbing the outside of its wrist and applying a temporary wrist lock. He
kicked into its groin again with a left forward kick, and with his right
hand came down hard with a judo chop to its neck. Still holding the wrist
he pivoted behind the now squealing thing and stamped its left knee pit
with his right foot, sending it sprawling.

   He resumed his position, seemingly at his ease and awaiting further
combat. The thing might not know, but Quint Jones was at the end of his
resources. All his training told him that he had done sufficient to have
killed two or three men. But the thing seemed still strong.

  Grete Stahlecker, her face livid, her full madness upon her, was
screaming at the creature. "Kill, kill! I order you. Kill him, kill him. It is
your master who says, kill, kill!”

   It was on its knees, breathing deep, shuddering breaths. Its eyes went
from Quint to the screaming madwoman, and then back again. It had
ceased, long since, to mewl its pleasure. It looked into Quint's face, looked
into the easy karate stance he had assumed. Far, far down, he knew he had
met defeat, that he could never conquer this new master.

  "Kill him!" Grete Stahlecker shrilled.

   Her voice irritated the thing. Could she not see? He could not obey. It
was impossible to obey. This new master prevailed. Her high voice
irritated him beyond bearing.

  It lurched to his feet and came toward her.

  "No," Ferencsik said. The Professor had collapsed into a chair. Now he
shook his head. "No. She is one of the world's greatest—"

   Quint's eyes suddenly widened, as he caught the significance. He moved
forward… too late.

  She never knew. Her vision blurred by hate and hysteria, the thing was
upon her and had finished with her, before her hate-fuddled brain could
have comprehended. Its clawed hands ripped out her throat, beat in her
skull, before she knew its purpose, could comprehend its purpose.

  It turned away from her, and sunk to its knees, its hand out stretched
toward Quentin Jones as though in supplication. As though supplicating a
new master.

  Quint, sickened, moved forward, his right hand went up and chopped
down, in a single judo blow to the back of the neck.

  Quint never remembered, later, how he got to the couch. Perhaps
Nicolas Ferencsik had helped him there, half carried him there. All he
knew was that reaction, a form of shock, set in, and the black ebbed over
him.

 He felt, eventually, a stinging of the face. Shook his head. Finally
managed, "Cut it out, damn it!"
  He could hear Mike Woolman's voice. "He's coming out."

  He felt another slap on his cheek, and opened his eyes. "Listen," he
growled. "You do that once more, and I'll slug you."

  He sat up, and shook his head. "What happened?"

  "That's a good question," Mike snorted.

  Jose Garcia Mendez was there too, and a couple of what were obviously
plainclothes men. In fact, Quint vaguely recognized one of them as having
been in his apartment several days ago when he was being suspected of
Digby's death.

  Garcia looked about the shambles of the room. He said, mildly, "We
were hoping you'd tell us, Quint old chum. The professor has clammed
up."

  Quint closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
"Somebody get me a brandy, huh?" When it came, he downed it, stiff
wristed. "Where'd you all come from?"

  Garcia said, "Your American private eye stories to the contrary, the
police do sometimes get results. We've been checking out everybody even
remotely concerned with this matter. Even our square little schoolteacher,
Marylyn Worth. So it turns out that not only does she rent this king-size
apartment, supposedly just for herself alone, but the apartment down
below as well. So what does an old maid school teacher want with this
much space? So we took a look-see, and down below we found one of the
most elaborate laboratories in Madrid. With some rather gruesome
specimens in the deep freeze. So we thought we might ask Miss Worth a
few leading questions."

   Mike bit out, "She was really Doktor Stahlecker, wasn't she? And that
thing…" he motioned with a thumb.

  Jose Garcia said, "What a stink this is going to cause. For everybody.
Everybody concerned." He looked at Quint. "Believe it or Ripley, chum. We
didn't know these two characters were in the country. Obviously, they
were both eligible for the nut factory."

  Quint rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Let me think."
  Mike said happily, "What a story."

  Garcia winced.

   Quint looked at his newspaperman friend. "Considering all the
ramifications, maybe the story isn't quite what you thought. Not quite so
complicated. There was a madman…" he looked at Garcia "… we can't
avoid that part of it Too many people are involved. Including his last
victim, an American school teacher named Marylyn Worth. But the police
caught him at that point and killed him when he tried to escape. That's
the story."

  "Hey, wait a minute!" Mike protested. "You're not going to get away
with that. What happened to Martin Bormann?"

  Quint looked at the dead thing on the floor, and shuddered inwardly.
"Martin Bormann must have died a long time ago," he murmured.

  "Oh, yeah? And Doktor Grete Stahlecker? You're not going to louse up
the story of the century."

   Quint looked at him. "You'd have a hard time proving that poor girl
over there was actually a woman of some seventy years, Mike. Especially in
view of the fact that not even Albrecht Stroehlein recognized her. Whether
it was because her seeming youth threw him off, I don't know. Perhaps it
was plastic surgery. Whatever, you'd have a tough time proving to your
editors this faatastic yarn of Bormann and Stahlecker."

   Mike was plaintive. "What's your point, Quint? Why not back me up on
this?"

   The columnist looked at Garcia. "Brett-Home, Digby and Nuriyev were
all wrong. They weren't dealing with a potential try at getting Nazis back
into command of West Germany. They were dealing with a mad woman,
and a brainless creature, both of whom we ought to have the decency to
pity. Both of them should have—and really did—die in that bunker with
Hitler, Goebbels and the dreams of the Third Reich. Why give the world
one more propaganda item to jitter over? And why louse up Spain's
reputation to the point of sending a few hundred thousand tourists
looking for some other bargain paradise? I think you just better make the
most of a Jack the Ripper type story, Mike. You'll have a world beat on it."
   Garcia looked at him. "Thanks, Quint. I suppose you know we'll be
tearing up this persona non grata thing?"

   Quint Jones shrugged. His mouth twisted cynically. "I'll be leaving
anyway. I'm off to some island, or something, where I can just sit and
think awhile. I have some planning of my life to do. And I don't think it's
going to involve either writing snide columns, or going into politics."


                               The End