“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.”