gushy do-gooder in Michigan. An offer from one of the TV panel programs back in the States which supposedly specialized in controversial subjects. He grunted at that. He had caught the program a few times when he was in the States last. Their idea of something controversial was women’s new hair styles, or whether or not the latest dirty book should be banned.
He turned the final letter over in his hands, scowling. The return address was the Liberal Party. He’d never heard of the Liberal Party. Aside from the Republicans and Democrats, the only national political parties in the States were the two small old timers, the Socialist Labor Party and Prohibition Party. Others came and went, down through the years; Communist Party, Progressive Party, Dixiecrats, Socialist Party, Farmer Labor Party. Most of them seldom lasted very long, and few got on the ballot in more than a handful of States.
But he had never heard of the Liberal Party. He tore open the envelope, and read. It was from his home state. Evidently, a new political party was in the making. One that would have a nationwide ticket for the first time in this next election. Their big bone of contention seemed to be that there was no longer any difference between the Republicans and Democrats. That the problems that confronted the world called for new solutions. It was the final couple of paragraphs that amused him. They wanted him, Quentin Jones, to run for Senator from his State.
He dropped the letter into the wastebasket along with the fan letter and the TV panel offer.
Quint Jones held to his security measures right to his entry into Marylyn Worth’s king-size Old Madrid apartment He had Mike Woolman come by his place to pick him up. He doubted that the killer would attempt to take on two at once. He didn’t seem to use conventional weapons, but, rather, literally tore his victims apart with his hands. Quint figured that he and Mike together could take on any single opponent, monster or no.
They drove up to the 18th century building, that had once been the mansion of a second rate Habsburg and now composed four large flats, of which Marylyn’s was the top. They ran their eyes up and down the streets, now darkening.
Mike said, “All clear. Let’s go.”
Quint asked him, “Any new killings? Any more bloodless victims?”
“Not that I know of,” Mike said, even as they headed for the door. “But possibly the cops are playing the cards close to their chests. Newspapermen aren’t particularly popular down at headquarters these days.”
Marylyn’s apartment was a walk-up, in spite of the swank outer appearance of the building. It was another standard gag in the foreign colony. The reason Marylyn was able to keep her excellent figure was running up and down the stairs of Marylyn’s Folly.
On the way up, Mike said gloomily, “I’ve been thinking about this big deal of ours, and the more I think about it, the sillier it sounds. Suppose this Doc Stahlecker does show up, what do we expect to happen? All of a sudden does the good doctor pull off a mask like ‘Anyface’ in a Fearless Fosdick comic strip and start yelling, ‘I’m Stahlecker, I’m Stahlecker!’?”
Quint growled, “What else could we do? We’re getting desperate, Mike. Everybody we know of that’s connected with the matter is going to be here—we hope. Confronting each other might bring something to head.”
Mike grunted. In the darkness of the steps, Quint could hear his newspaper bang up against his leg. “Okay, okay, so what’s the drill? How do we handle it?”
Quint’s shrug couldn’t be seen in the dimness. He said, “I suppose we just wander around, looking intelligent and waiting for something to happen. For somebody to make with a clue.” Mike grunted again.
They reached Marylyn’s floor and knocked. Mike looked around at the steps and the elaborate hall, the heavy door. “There’s Spain for you. A two bedroom apartment on Avenida Generalissimo Franco, American style, will set you back a hundred or two a month. But an eight or ten bedroom deal like this goes for about forty—simply because it’s old fashioned, no red leather and chrome.”
Marylyn came to the door and smiled brightly at Quint, having no eyes for his companion at all. She looked up at him, “Why… Quentin. How nice for you to come.”
“How sweetly you say it,” Quint said, pseudo-mockery in his voice. He bent down and kissed her swiftly on the cheek. She flushed, drew back, her eyes, wide now, went quickly to Mike.
Mike grunted amusement. “Look,” he said, “when your Sunday school teacher, or whoever it was taught you that formal way of greeting guests, did she tell you that you were supposed to greet all of them that way? Not just the way you have maidenly dreams about.” He bent quickly in an attempt to repeat Quint’s kiss, but she evaded him.
“Now, Michael,” she said. “You’re joshing me.”
They went along the hallway toward a monstrous living room from whence stereotype party sounds were coming.
Marylyn whispered, “They’ve already drunk ever so much hooch.”
“Hooch, yet,” Mike muttered.
Quint said, “It sounds as though the Dempseys have already arrived then. Is Albrecht Stroehlein here? And Nuriyev?”
“From the very beginning. And… and Joe Garcia, too. Is it true he’s connected with the Spanish police?” She held her elbows to her sides, as though shivering deliciously.
“Yes,” Quint said sourly. “He’s connected with the police all right, all right. And possibly others as well.”
She frowned at him, her hand on the doorknob. “Just what are you two here for, Quentin? I know there’s something very romantically mysterious going on.”
“If you find out,” Mike grumbled, “let us know. I think we’re kidding ourselves. Pardon me, I suspect there’s a drink in there.” He went through the door into the buffeting noise beyond.
“Anybody missing?” Quint asked her. She was standing close to him and looking up, half anxiously, half as though expecting something. Inwardly, he sighed. Was he being a heel with this girl? And, if so, in what manner? In not giving her what she obviously wanted? Or in not rebuffing her, and letting her get on to someone who would appreciate all the accumulated affection she seemed to have on tap.
He put an arm around her, quickly, tilted her chin up with a finger, and kissed her lips. As before, they were drawn stiffly together, and what he had thought the other night, came back to him. A maiden’s kiss, or the loss of an older person, for long years out of practice. Perhaps he’d get around to teaching her. What did either of them have to lose? The girl was attractive, but probably pushing thirty. There comes a time in a woman’s life when she stops bragging about her virginity—or should.
She said stiffly, “Quentin… you’re not just leading me on?” Her voice was very low.
’That’s what I was thinking of doing,” he said wryly. “How’d you guess?”
She misinterpretated. “I… I don’t know very much about such things.”
“I was beginning to suspect that,” he said.
Her voice was so low now as hardly to be made out. “I was spoofing when I told you I’d had lots of beaux.”
“I kind of guessed that too.”
It was then she set him back. She said, “I realize I’ve been too prim for a man like you, Quentin. If… well, if you wish to stay, after… after the party.”
He stared down at her. Marylyn Worth? Was he getting this correctly? Or was it just his naturally evil mind?
“Why Marylyn!”
He could feel her body retracting, growing smaller right there in his arms, and was immediately contrite. It hadn’t been easy for the girl to say that.
“Listen, pet,” he told her. “You think about it a bit more. You want to be awfully sure about these things.”
“I’m… I’m pretty sure.” Her body shivered in his hold. He let go of her and turned to lead the way into the other room.
Quint said, “You didn’t tell me if everyone was already here.”
She had evidently regained composure. “I think they are. It was rather difficult, even with Mike’s and Ferd and Marty’s help, to decide just who had been at their party. They’re so, well, madcap.” She looked up at him and smiled brightly, as though to reassure him. “Could I get you a drink?”
