Once Departed

hundred grand to defect and spill his guts. So he’s spending it here in Spain. Where else?”

Jose Garcia loved American idiom. Unfortunately, Quint thought, he was always about twenty years behind on the latest slang terms.

Garcia was going on. “And that weepy looking type talking to Dave Shepherd? That’s Albrecht Stroehlein. Albrecht used to pick up the tab at the beerhalls in Munich, back when Hitler didn’t have a pot to…”

“Plant a flower in,” Quint finished for him. He looked over at the German his companion was talking about. A man of about sixty. From what Garcia said, probably one of the former Nazis who had fled to Spain to avoid Nuremberg.

Garcia said, as though with satisfaction, “You can imagine how our guest of honor is going to react to those two.”

Garcia was the town crier. The gossip who knew all, and if there wasn’t anything to know, invented something. Quint wasn’t usually interested in the ins and outs of his fellow expatriates in Madrid. He said, “Why shouldn’t Professor Ferencsik get along with them? What connection have they got with his field?”

The Spaniard grunted amusement, sipped his bubbly wine again, stroked his fingernail over his mustache again. “Pal, you just aren’t up on the news. Our Hungarian scientist’s second biggest interest in life is medicine.”

Quint was becoming irritated with the conversation, actually, but he said, “All right, all right, drop the other shoe.”

Garcia laughed, as though he had accomplished some minor triumph. “His first interest is the achieving of the One World. Of World Government. He’s a fruitcake on the subject. That’s why he left Hungary. Couldn’t stand the fact that they wouldn’t allow him to sound off about it.”

Quint said dryly, “And he came to Spain seeking freedom of speech?”

There was a subtle difference in Garcia’s tone. “But there are no restrictions on freedom of speech pertaining to foreigners in Spain. The anti-Franco bugaboo you read in the foreign press is largely commie inspired.”

Quint said, “Ummm. But for some reason my agent doesn’t seem to be able to place my column in any Spanish papers, although it’s in just about every other country in Western Europe.”

The party swirled up and around them, and when it receded Quint found the Spaniard had disappeared and that Marty Dempsey had taken his place. Marty had, by this time, acquired a drink, which made her look more natural. Neither of the Dempseys looked normal unless they were wearing a glass in the right hand.

She said, “How’s the party going, dahling? Have you seen that drunken husband of mine?”

“It’s going fine,” Quint told her automatically. “He was somewhere around a moment ago.” He looked around the room, and tried to peer out onto the dark terrace. “Don’t see him now.”

Marty was looking about unhappily, as well. “That Ronald. He was supposed to be here by now.”

“Ronald Brett-Home?” Quint said.

She giggled archly. “It was his idea to give this party, you know. You’d think he was nothing but a playboy, wouldn’t you?”

Quint shrugged. “Guess so.”

She tapped him on the arm, and her voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s actually connected with the British Embassy.”

“Oh? Empties the wastebaskets, or something?”

“Dahling, you have no idea. Actually, I mean actually, Ronald is a very sinister type. Cloak and dagger and all that. He was very famous back during the war. Parachutes behind the lines and all that.”

It seemed unlikely to Quint. He’d met the Englishman a few times. The other seemed to be a quiet character. Soft spoken. Sort of gentle. Quint said, “How do you mean, his idea? Is there supposed to be something special about this party tonight, pet?”

“Well, dahling,” Marty said, hooking a fresh drink from a passing tray and depositing her empty glass at the same time, “according to Ronald Brett-Home…”

Ronald Brett-Home was a bit late, he knew. He finished tying his black tie. Gave it a final adjustment. He grimaced into the mirror.

If the truth were known, he rather dreaded the evening. There would he some sort of a rowdydow, of course. He was glad that American chap, Bart Digby, would be there. Efficient, these American operatives. Must really give the chaps credit. What was the name of that one during the war? Brunner, or something. Gestapo finished him there on the outskirts of Prague. Held them off, singlehanded. Sort of rearguard action, whilst Brett-Home escaped with the equipment. Damn good man.

He opened the bureau drawer and scowled down at the black Baretti. He supposed he’d better take it, in spite of the fact that it would bulge his pocket. Accurate guns those Italian fellows made. A bit light as to caliber, but frightfully accurate. He took the automatic up and slipped it into his trousers pocket.

He gave himself a final check in the mirror. He’d really have to get going. He’d already missed his date with Digby and would have to meet him at the party. Quit dreading this and get a move on, you know. If the truth were known, he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Should leave it to younger chaps. Twenty or twenty- five years ago, yes. He had been frightfully keen about doing in the enemy counter-espionage fellows, and that sort of thing. But, really now, a chap in his mid-forties should let them assign him to a desk. MI6 was all very fine, but the field work…

The bell rang. Ronald Brett-Home frowned and went to the door. He couldn’t imagine who…

He opened up and for the moment didn’t recognize the large, one might almost say hulking, figure standing there. But then he did. Impossibly, unbelievably, did.

But it was twenty, almost twenty-five… No, it was impossible. Absolutely impossible. He tried to say something. Took a step backward. The other followed him and large, blunt fingered hands began to come up.

Ronald Brett-Home’s mouth twitched silently. His face worked. He had never felt fear before in his life. Not real fear. Not this fear.

But it was almost twenty-five years, and the other had not been young, even then.

He stepped back again, almost tripped on the rug. All of a sudden his hand, shaking, fumbled for his trouser pocket. The Baretti came out, flaming, the first shot blasting into the rug, but the second and third, so close together as almost to be a single roaring, thudded into the bulk of the oncoming…

… the oncoming horror that was upon him, rending and tearing, muttering gutturally in its throat.

“… according to Ronald Brett-Home,” Martha Dempsey was saying, “all sorts of sparks will fly when Professor Ferencsik meets with some of the other guests. Ah, there the wretch is!”

The wretch was evidently her husband, Ferd, whose voice boomed out from the darkness of the terrace.

“And much as Wine has play’d the Infidel, “And robb’d me of my Robe of Honor—Well, “I wonder often what the Vintners buy “One half so precious as the stuff they sell.”

Quint’s hostess was off and he grunted amusement and looked about the room for further entertainment.

Someone said, “Avoiding me, Quentin?”

“Good grief, no. Didn’t expect you to be here. Doesn’t school start in a few days?”

It was Marylyn Worth, looking impossibly blue of eye, improbably blond of hair, and fantastically the nice American-girl type. She had an honest freshness about her that you didn’t find in the Madrid expatriate circle.

He knew that she knew he liked the light touch. And he also knew that she attempted to achieve it, for his sake, although her own nature was to be on the overly earnest side.

She said brightly, making an amusing gesture with her champagne cocktail, “That’s exactly why I’m here. To