There was a banging on the door, rather than the bell ringing. Quentin Jones rolled over and stared in that direction in exasperation. He looked at the bed clock.
“Nine o’clock, for crissake! I’m going to move from this address. Everybody’s cousin knows I’m here and zeros in on me.”
He pulled himself, groaning, from the sheets, shuffled around for his slippers, didn’t find them, and started for the door barefooted. “All right, all
He flung the door open, tried to back peddle, but was seized immediately by both arms, and hustled backward to his living room. There were three of them. No four. The two who held him by the arms thrust him heavily onto the couch. The third was the English speaking Spanish policeman of the other morning. He took the chair opposite Quint and stared at him levelly, the 9mm Asta automatic he held in his hand, trained negligently on the American’s belly.
“One would not suggest you move,” he said softly.
The fourth of them, and the last to enter through the door, was Jose Garcia Mendez. He leaned now in the doorway which led from the small entrada into the living room, and stroked his small mustache with a thumbnail, as though wondering how to begin the conversation.
To this point, Quint hadn’t bothered to say anything. The roughhouse had brought him fully awake, but they had the cards, and he waited for the play. The two detectives who had seized him upon their entry were now beginning to go through the apartment.
Quint snarled, “If you tell me what those gorillas are looking for, maybe I can tell you where it is and save time. I assume you have a proper warrant for this.”
Jose Garcia said, “Spanish law is being abided by, Mr. Jones.”
“Oh, it’s Mr. Jones, not Quint, eh? What am I charged with, attempted assassination of old lard ass?”
Garcia winced, and his dark eyes went narrow. “Where were you last night, Mr. Jones when Bartholomew Digby was murdered?”
Quentin Jones felte thea cold go through him. “When… Digby… was… murdered…”
“Let us not play the innocent, Jones. Mr. Digby was seen to leave your apartment here, his face bruised and his clothes showing obvious signs of a struggle. The two of you had fought. Last night, he was killed, very brutally. You are knowledgeable about fighting brutally, are you not, Mr. Jones? Where were you at the time?”
Quint snapped, “Don’t try to stampede me. How do I know where I was at the time, if you haven’t told me the time. When was he killed?”
Garcia looked at the detective who was keeping Quint covered. The other said, “It was estimated to have been at about midnight.” Jose Garcia’s eyes went back to Quint.
Quint said, “I was here, in bed.”
“Perhaps you have proof?” Garcia’s smile was nasty “Perhaps a young lady…”
“I was alone. I came in early. Francisco, the portero, saw me. In fact, we talked for a minute or two. I didn’t leave again. If I had, he would have seen me.” Inwardly, Quentin Jones gave a prayer of thanksgiving for the Spanish institution of the portero. No apartment house was without one.
“Perhaps by another entry,” Garcia said gently.
“The only other way out is the stairs. His desk is in full view of both elevator and stairs.”
The detective with the gun said to one of the two who were searching the room, “Paco!” and when the other turned, gave him a rapid string of Spanish, too fast for Quint to follow. The meaning, however, was clear enough. Paco left the apartment obviously to question the portero.
Without invitation, Garcia took a chair. He said, “These past few days you have been seeing quite a bit of Mr. Digby. You are undoubtedly aware of the fact that he was an American Central Intelligence Agency operative.”
“He said he was a former C.I.A. man,” Quint said.
Garcia didn’t bother to answer that beyond sneering his contempt. “You will now please tell me what Mr. Digby’s assignment was.”
Quint said, “I suppose I could deny knowing it, but I see no point in not telling you. He was trying to get hold of Martin Bormann.”
To Quint Jones’ surprise, the other stared at him in disbelief. “You mean the Nazi?” he blurted.
“Who else? Not only Digby, but Brett-Home, probably that Russian, Vladimir Nuriyev, and lord knows who else. The theory seems to be that the side who gets him first, will have a propaganda advantage. I don’t quite see it myself.”
“But…” the Spaniard was obviously bewildered “… why Madrid? Why look for him in Madrid?”
Quint’s face reflected his disgust. “Who are you trying to kid? When the war ended, those Nazis who managed to get out from under made a beeline for the surviving fascist countries, Spain, Portugal, at that time Argentina. Spain was the nearest.”
“Spain is not a fascist country,” Garcia said stiffly. “It is a Corporate State.”
“It says here,” Quint said dryly. “Listen, Garcia. During the war, Spain never really completely joined up with Germany and Italy, however, you did everything short of it. The U-boats used to refuel in Spanish ports, your industry and agriculture sold everything they could squeeze out to Hitler, you even sent a division of troops, the Blue Division, to the Russian front, where the Russians by the way, chopped them to pieces after the Stalingrad debacle. When the war ended, one hell of a flock of the lads who were wanted for Nuremberg trial escaped down here. A lot of them are still here. Evidently, Bart Digby had evidence that Bormann is one of them. Now Digby’s dead, the way Brett-Home is dead. You’re a cop, put two and two together.”
“I am not a cop,” Garcia said stiffly.
Quint didn’t bother to answer him.
Garcia said, “I have connections with various governmental departments and came this morning due to the fact that I am acquainted with you, and my English is excellent.”
“I’ll explain that fact to all our mutual friends,” Quint told him dryly. “I’m sure that in the future, there will be no difference in your relationship with the foreign colony.”
Garcia glared.
The detective who had gone to check Quint’s alibi with the portero returned and spoke to Jose Garcia in a low voice.
Garcia said to Quint, “You are not being restrained. However, we must demand that you hand over your passport. You are forbidden to leave Spain until further notice.”
Quint said, “My passport is in my jacket pocket, there in the closet. I’m going to protest this, by the way, to the American Embassy.”
Garcia nodded in mock politeness. “I’m sure you will, Mr. Jones.”
Quint couldn’t help adding, “I’m also going to protest it in my column. We’ll see if it has any effect on the number of American tourists coming to Spain.”
That was the second time this morning that Quint had managed to extract a wince from the other. It gave him a childish satisfaction.
A feminine voice from the door said, “Am I interrupting something?”
Chapter Seven
It was Marylyn Worth, and behind her two others.
The detective with the gun slid it unobtrusively under his left arm pit.
Quint said, “Just a minute,” and disappeared into his bedroom for a robe. He located his slippers in the closet. When he returned, he found Marylyn talking with Jose Garcia, who had slipped back into his custom of murdering American slang.
Quint said, “Joe and the boys were just leaving, Marylyn.”
Garcia began to say something, then gave his head a slight twitch, as though to cut himself short. He
