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 ha
llway 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?”
Once Departed Page 12
