something to the effect that it was one of the strongest items of anti-Americanism abroad. The fact that everywhere American government employees went, it was assumed that the local products were so inferior that a PX was established to allow American personnel to buy State-side products at tax-free prices. Our supposed allies didn’t like it. The commies held it up as an example of Yankee arrogance.
Quint grunted and looked down at his can of Edgeworth. Frankly, it had come from the PX. An Air Force friend had bought it for him, which was strictly illegal, both from the Spanish and American viewpoint. The fact was, Quint hated Spanish pipe tobacco.
How could he bitch about the American dependence on the PX, when he was tarred with the same brush?
In irritation he went over to the window and stared down on Calle General Peron. He considered going down to the bodega and having a beer and a few tapas. Some boiled shrimp, for instance, would go good at this…
Something was wrong on the street below. He scowled, and then it came to him. His little Renault wasn’t parked in its customary place. He hadn’t even looked this morning, when he had gone to the Dempsey’s. Their building was near enough his own that he had walked, in hopes that the exercise would kill the remaining of his hangover. Then it came to him. He had left the car downtown, parked near Chicote’s, when he and Mike Woolman had gone into the famed bar for a drink. He’d got swacked in Chicote’s and had evidently walked from there until Marylyn had picked him up.
So the car was still parked on the main drag. That settled it. He picked up his beret, pulled it over his head and made for the door. He’d better pick up the vehicle soon or he’d have at least a traffic ticket.
Besides, any excuse would do, to get away from that typewriter.
He took the streetcar down Generalissimo Franco to Plaza Cibeles, and walked up Alcala from there. He could see the small Renault from a distance. Somebody had the gall to be leaning on it. When he got closer, he saw who it was. Mike Woolman, absently banging away at his leg with a newspaper.
Quint said to him, “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” Mike grinned.
Quint said, “This was exactly the way I found you twenty-four hours ago. You been here all night?”
Mike grinned “As a matter of fact, I was just having a quick one in the British American club. I looked out the window and saw you beating your way up the street, so I came on out.”
Quint was fishing his keys from his pocket. “Well, you might as well go back up to the club, I’m heading home.”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“I know. But I’ve had it. Like I just told Bart Digby; from now on, count me out of this.”
Mike Woolman wasn’t listening to him. He said, “They found another one yesterday. They only found it yesterday, but it must have been done at least a week ago. Found it out north of town, in, of all places, a former pillbox left over from the Civil War.”
“What in the devil are you talking about?”
“I mentioned it to you before,” Mike said impatiently. “The monster killings the police have been trying to keep the lid on. Sort of Jack the Ripper deal.”
Quint twisted his face into a grimace. “Why should I be especially interested?”
“They’ve been finding these corpses, usually some poor down and out Spaniard, with the blood drained completely from the body.”
Quint had unlocked the door of the Renault and was beginning to slide inside.
Mike went on, “And occasionally there’s some part of the body missing. Kidneys, liver, heart.”
“You, or somebody, said something about the police suspecting psychopathic cannibalism. Some real nut at work.”
Mike said gently, “The organs have been surgically removed. Perfect jobs of surgery.”
Quint froze.
Mike said, “Come on up the club and lets have a drink.”
The other sighed, climbed back out of the car and re-locked it. Together, without speaking, they went up the street a few doors and mounted to the second floor which housed the British American club.
At this time of day, the club was largely empty. They got drinks at the bar and carried them, themselves, to a table near the window.
Quint sighed and said, “All right, drop the other shoe.”
Mike Woolman looked at him questioningly, “You saw Ferencsik?”
“Yes. Briefly, he mentioned the fact that following the war he had tried to locate Doktor Stahlecker. When I got around to suggesting that he was currently in Madrid for the same purpose, he clammed up and called the interview quits. He thought I’d come to talk World Government.”
Mike sat for a long moment, thinking. From time to time he’d give his knee a bang with his paper. He said finally, “Do you know the Frankenstein story?”
“Sure. Frankenstein was this man-made monster. Boris Karloff played the part The first one made a good horror film. So, Hollywood style, they had to have a
Mike Woolman was shaking his head disgustedly. “No, no. I mean the original Frankenstein story, the novel. Lord Byron and Shelly and Mary Shelly were all together in Switzerland and challenged each other to see who could write the most outstanding piece of literature. Byron, of course, wrote a poem, and so did Shelly, but Mary Shelly wrote a book. The story involved a doctor named Frankenstein, who built a man in his laboratory. He had thought to build a superman, but it turned out to be a monster which eventually destroyed him. It made quite a novel and is still a classic in the horror field.”
“What’s this supposed to be a build-up to?” Quint growled.
Mike ignored him. “And what do you know about the ancient alchemists?” Before his companion could answer him, he went on. “Basically they sought two things, the elixir of life and the philosopher’s stone. With the elixir of life they would have immortality, and with the philosopher’s stone they would change base metals into gold.”
Quint chuckled wryly.
But Mike looked at him. “They worked on these problems for generations, for several centuries, until eventually alchemy became science, and the search ended.” He gave himself a double bang on the leg with his paper which was beginning to show signs of wear and tear. He leaned forward, over the table, and tapped it a few times with a nervous forefinger. “The thing is, that today science has got to the point where both of these dreams are now possible.”
Quint began to scoff in humor.
But the newspaperman shook his head. “Already it is possible to make gold, in the laboratory, from other metals. The only trouble is, the process costs more than the smidgeon of gold is worth. And the elixer of life—that is, immortality? We’re getting nearer to it. Any day now, the breakthrough will come. What it is that makes tissue age, and how to stop that aging? Haven’t you heard about Doctor Ann Asian and her clinic for the cure of old age, in Rumania? She evidently injects a substance she calls Vitamin H
, and brings senile old men back to middle age health.” 3
“What in the devil are you building up to?” Quint got up and went over to the bar for refills. When he returned, Mike went on.
“In the same way as the alchemists’ dreams are now becoming possible under modern science, so is Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein story.”
“Whoa, now! You didn’t drop out a few sentences there somewhere, did you?”
“No, look,” Mike said impatiently. “Doctor Frankenstein
