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.”
Once Departed Page 6
