Once Departed

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