Once Departed

“I can only accuse you of not keeping faith, Doktor!”

“That is not true!” They both spoke in German.

“I came to Madrid to collaborate with you. I know your work, I have admired it throughout my adult life. True, there were stories during the war years, stories of experiments with prisoners. But I have heard atrocity stories before. I laid them to war hysterics. A scientist of your prominence would hardly descend to such unspeakableness.”

“But now…?” the other said gently.

“Between us we represent the ultimate in our field. Between us, the superman is possible. The superman who could lead the world to peace and prosperity. Who could strike the spark which would grow to a flame, a torch to light the way for us all.”

“In this we agree,” the other said.

“But this is on the highest of ethical levels, the highest of idealistic levels… or should be.”

“But do not the ends justify the means, Herr Professor Ferencsik? Is it not of more importance to create our superman, than that a few nonentities end their tiny lives? Did they know the eventual goal, they would possibly choose themself to so donate to the future!”

“I hope that I have not misunderstood your meaning, Doktor. I must know the truth of these killings, these murders.”

“You realize, of course, that considerable quantities of plasma are necessary to our experiments, both old and the new ones to come…”

“There are sources of blood other than murder!” he all but screamed.

“For one in my position, Herr Professor? Come now, you realize that I am in hiding, due to the stupidity of the authorities in Germany itself, as well as the former allies. What would result, in a country such as Spain, were I to depend upon the usual channels for my requirements in both plasma and human organs for transplant experimentation?’’

Nicolas Ferencsik’s face tightened, his hands bunched into tight fists so that the nails cut into his palms, unheeded. “I demand to know two things, Doktor. First, why was it necessary to burn the body, there outside the bunker of the Reich Chancellery? And the second question is: Where is Martin Bormann?”

The other looked at him for a long, long calculating time, finally sighed as though in regret, “I shall answer your second question first.”

There must have been some sort of signal which Professor Nicolas Ferencsik failed to note.

A door to the room opened and a figure lumbered in, its face animal dumb, its eyes with the emptiness of death. Its hulking body was clothed in naught save pajama pants of the type issued in military hospitals. Its upper body was bandaged in several places, heavily bandaged.

Even as the creature lunged toward him, there came an animal mewling from his throat. A voicing of deep seated pleasure.

Ferencsik squealed. “No!” His hand shot into his jacket front to pull the .38 revolver from his belt. The gun came up and blasted its message of death—a message unheard.

For the other was upon him.

Something was stinging his face. It came again. He tried to shake his head. Tried to avoid the pain. Awareness was coming back, flooding back. “Cut that out,” he finally muttered. He opened his eyes. Mike Woolman was kneeling to one side of him. Quint Jones shook his head, trying for clarity.

Mike smacked him once more.

“Damn it, stop that,” he swore. “I’m awake. You’re doing it for kicks, now.”

Mike said, “What happened?”

Quint tried to sit up, “That’s a good question,” he growled. He looked up. Marty Dempsey was standing behind Mike, glass in hand and looking worried.

“Dahling!” she said. “What have you been up to? Where’s Uncle Nick?”

“In his grave, I hope,” Quint snarled. He struggled to his feet, still dizzy. He looked around the room, then back to Mike accusingly. “Where were you when they lowered the boom? The hell with that, where’s Ferencsik?”

Mike came to his feet too, steadying Quint with one hand tightly around his arm. “How would I know? I got here about five minutes ago. Marty wasn’t going to let me in. I smelled a rat and insisted. The Professor has evidently flown the coop. He’s packed a bag and taken off. The maid saw him leave, but he didn’t say where he was going.”

Quint sat down on the couch and held his head. He said to Marty, “Listen, pet, how about getting me a drink? A stiff one.”

“Right away, dahling.” She left.

Quint said to Mike Woolman, “What time is it? How long have I been out?”

“How would I know? It’s nearly eleven.”

“Where the hell’ve you been? You were supposed to meet me here.”

“I had to clear up a couple of things, real quick, at the office. Then I had to cross town. You live within a few minutes of here. It takes me a half hour. What happened?”

Quint groaned. “That old fox slipped me a needle with some kind of knockout drops, or something. I don’t think there’s any doubt. He’s in it with this Doktor Stahlecker. He’s got this superman dream of his.” He looked about the floor. “He took the gun I had, too.”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Woolman crowed.

The columnist grunted his disgust. “You had the story exaggerated. He doesn’t figure on creating a new man from scratch. The idea is to take a basically healthy body and jazz it up. New organs for old, that sort of thing. No sleep necessary, goosed up I.Q., life span of a few centuries or more.”

“Holy smokes,” Woolman said.

“Yeah.”

Marty came back bearing three glasses and a bottle of Scotch. She was still in negligee, her face innocent of make-up and she looked like a harpy. She sloshed whisky into one glass after another, generously dispensing triples.

Quint knocked his back. He said to Marty, “Pet, you’re charming, but right now I’ve got big business with Mike, here.” He turned on the Quint Jones personality. “How about getting lost?”

“Oh, you,” she said archly, as though he’d just handed her a flowering compliment. She turned and left, thoughtfully leaving the bottle.

Mike shook his head. “How the hell do you do it?” He sat down next to the breakfast table Ferencsik had used earlier, idly picked up the newspaper the Hungarian had been reading, and rolled it into a club. “What now?” he said. “Sure as shooting, the old boy’s gone to ground. If he can line up with Stahlecker, we’ll have our work cut out, finding him. If Digby and Brett-Home couldn’t do it, who are we?”

The columnist grunted, “So you’ve got the G-man syndrome, eh?” He walked over to the side table that held a telephone, picked it up and began dialing.

The reporter said, “What in hell’s the G-man syndrome?”

Quint growled cynically, “It must have started back in the 1930s when the federal police and secret police of the world began to hire public relations men. Probably Hoover and his F.B.I, really got it going in our country. Hitler’s Gestapo, British MI6, and the Soviet KGB also began spreading the word that secret agents were super- duper brains that saw all, knew all.” Quint grunted sourly. “Remember when they caught that Russian Colonel Rudolf Abel in New York? They called him a super spy. If he was so super, why did they catch him? And the reverse of the coin. If the F.B.I, was so hot, why did it take them ten years?”

Before Mike could answer, Quint Jones had his number. He said, “American school? I’d like to talk to Marylyn Worth. Well, when she come in tell her to get in touch with Quentin Jones, eh?” He hung up and turned back to the newsman.