Mack Reynolds - Once Departed

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.”

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.