“What about gasohol?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “That’s ten percent alcohol and ninety percent gasoline. It helps, but not enough. What we need is a new fuel based a hundred percent on alcohol.”

  “Like methane?”

  “That’s for racing cars, sonny. It’d blow up the engines of ordinary cars. No, the fuel we need can’t be nearly that powerful. And we have the formula.”

  “What?”

  Ascot looked down at his glass and swirled the ice cube around. “Yep, we have the formula for a fuel that burns cleaner and gives better mileage than gasoline distilled from crude oil. It can be made from trees, grain, weeds, garbage, almost anything.”

  “How about cost?”

  “When we really get going, about forty-five cents a gallon.”

  I whistled through my teeth. “That’s a lot cheaper than fuel made from OPEC oil.”

  “Right, sonny.”

  “When will we start making it?”

  “There are problems. It’ll take time to set up the distilleries and refineries—and that’ll have to be done in secret.”

  “Why?”

  “A few reasons. In the beginning the cost for each gallon will be about a dollar. Only mass production will bring it down. Then there’s OPEC. If they find out we’re making a cheap fuel they’ll cut off all supplies to us and drop their price to other countries. We need OPEC oil for about three more years.”

  “How about Mexican oil?”

  “If they gave us all their production it’d amount to less than ten percent of our needs. Without OPEC supplies the greatest industrial nation on earth would grind to a stop. We’d be sitting ducks for any country that decided to invade us. And there’d be a depression that’d make the Great Depression of the Thirties seem like prosperity in comparison.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t get it, Mr. Ascot. What does all that have to do with the phony death of Otto Bleir and the murder of Lola Valdez?”

  “I’m getting around to that, sonny. That corpse you identified at the morgue is—was—the remains of Werner Bleir, Otto’s twin brother.”

  “I didn’t know he had a twin. Come to think of it, even though I worked on two Company assignments with Otto in Europe, I don’t know much at all about him.”

  “Otto and Werner were born in Albania. Werner got the brains and Otto got the itchy feet. While Otto was selling his services to the Intelligence organizations of various countries, Werner was going to school. He became a geologist and then he was fascinated by the way pure chance gave immense power to poverty-stricken Arab countries when American oil companies like mine drilled beneath their desert sand and found huge reservoirs of high-grade crude oil. The CIA became interested in Werner when the thesis he wrote for his doctorate explored the possibility of making a cheap synthetic fuel. His theory was that a catalyst—a metal or a mixture of metals—could turn ordinary alcohol into a fuel that has all the properties of gasoline. The Company became even more interested in Werner Bleir when he suddenly disappeared from sight. That was four years ago. The Company accelerated their investigation of Werner Bleir, and agents in Albania and Switzerland came up with some rumors. It was said that Werner, working on a small scale in his own home, had come up with a synthetic fuel. According to the rumors, Werner filled the tank of his ten-year-old Saab with the new fuel. He’d been getting only twenty miles to the gallon from pump gasoline, but his synthetic fuel increased the m.p.g. to over thirty.”

  “After a while, there were more rumors. Werner, backed by a wealthy Albanian financier, had set up a laboratory in Switzerland and was working on ways to cut down the then prohibitive cost of his fuel. The Company concentrated its efforts inside Switzerland, and finally they learned that his laboratory was located high in the mountains near Bad Sverd. A number of agents were sent there.”

  Ascot sipped some sour mash. “They were too late. A small group of assassins had beaten them to the place. Using submachine guns, they had killed Werner Bleir and four of his five assistants. One lived just long enough to tell Company agents that Werner had burned all but one copy of the formula when the attack began. That one copy had been sent to his brother, Otto.

  “Otto was contacted. Yes, he had a copy of the formula. Yes, he was quite willing to give to us—at a price. The price was five million dollars. But there was something else. Two attempts had been made on Otto’s life. He was frightened. We had to protect him.”

  Now I got it. I said, “Otto wanted the people who were after him to think he was dead. Hence the talk about an attempt on the life of LeRoy Milton by Otto, which led to the business of the flechette and the Meerschaum pipe ‘gun’. I was selected as the ‘assassin’ because, if knowledgeable enemy agents were lurking about, it would appear credible.”

  Ascot nodded. “It wasn’t the most perfect of plans but we were hoping it would work. The enemy—and that takes in a lot of different countries—must have been speculating on the possibility that Werner sent Otto a copy of the formula.”

  “Why were two attempts made on Otto’s life?” I asked.

  “We think it was the work of OPEC-hired assassins. But I didn’t mention that Otto’s apartment in Rome had been thoroughly ransacked.” Ascot smiled. “Otto isn’t stupid. He made a copy of the copy of the formula and hid it beneath the wall paper in his apartment. It was found. After Otto came to us we circulated a rumor to the effect that Otto was being paid a million dollars to kill LeRoy Milton here in New York.”

  “Wheels within wheels,” I said.

  “Of course, sonny. You have to guess what the enemy is thinking and then make your moves. Let’s say that OPEC was behind that business in Switzerland and Rome. I think it was them; they have the most to lose if a synthetic fuel is perfected. There must have been a leak from the Company about Werner sending a copy of the formula to Otto. They search his apartment in Rome, find the copy and try to kill Otto. His coming here to the States to accept a dangerous contract to kill for a million dollars is bound to make the enemy think that he needs money badly—and he wouldn’t need money if he had the formula. Do you follow me?”

  “It makes sense,” I agreed. “But it doesn’t explain that body in the morgue.”

  “I told you; it’s the remains of Werner Bleir.”

  “But he was killed in Switzerland.”

  “And then his body was put in deep freeze and flown here.”

  “When was he killed?”

  “Nine days ago.”

  “The autopsy would show that.”

  A chuckle came from Ascot’s turkey-wrinkled throat. “Every man, including a coroner, has his price.”

  “What happens to Otto now?”

  “He gets a new face, a new identity—and five million dollars.”

  “And the formula?”

  “I have it.” Amusement put new wrinkles at the outside corners of the old man’s eyes. “You seem puzzled, sonny. What bothers you?”

  “Werner Bleir’s body.”

  “What about it?”

  “Wouldn’t OPEC ... if the enemy in this particular case is OPEC ... wouldn’t they try to get a look at the body?”

  “Oh, they did. The remains of Werner Bleir were in the Berne morgue for two days. We know that OPEC agents bribed a morgue official to have a look at the body.”

  “But you said that the body of Werner Bleir was flown here.”

  “It was, sonny. Providence came to our aid. A drunken derelict died of exposure in a snow storm. He became Werner Bleir. But first we obliterated his face with a volley of machine gun shots. You see, the assassins shot him in the chest.”

  “Wouldn’t the assassins have passed that information along?”

  Another chuckle. “I forgot to tell you. The four assassins, none of them positively identified, were stopped by a road block as they tried to escape in a car. All were killed.”

  “There are still fingerprints. What if they dig up the body in Switzerland?”

  “They can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “The body was cremated in Berne. Werner Bleir requested cremation in his will. So you see, sonny, as they say in baseball, we touched all the bases.” He studied my face. “You still seem puzzled.”

  “Lola,” I said. “Why was she killed?”

  “Ah, that ...” Again there was a great sadness in Ascot’s flinty eyes. “She was with OPEC when I called her here. You see, I had to know what was going on with OPEC. I never trusted anyone like I trusted that woman. Why was she killed? The Moslems are a vengeful people. When it finally occurred to them that she had been working for me all along, they decided to kill her. You were with her so they decided to get rid of you as well. Any more questions, sonny?”

  “Not right now,” I said, still puzzled.

  “Then let’s get around to you working for me. At the moment I don’t know exactly what I want you to do, but I’ll think of something in a day or so. In the meantime, you can be my personal bodyguard. Does that suit you?”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Good. I’ll be leaving here by helicopter at about six tonight. You get here a quarter to. That will be all for now, sonny.”

  I finished my drink. “Goodbye for now, Mr. Ascot.”

  “No later than a quarter to six,” he said.

  “I’ll be here.”

  Ascot grunted.

  6 … scorpio …

  I cabbed it to the Plymouth Motel, where I got my overnight bag and checked out. The waiting cab took me home. We were a few hundred yards from the apartment building when I saw a redhead behind the wheel of a parked car. She had a nice profile. I notice things like that.

  I went up the stairs. The brown circle of paper was not in the door. I saw it on the brown carpet. I sniffed and caught a whiff of Moon’s cologne. He was getting careless. I unlocked and opened the door, the spare .38 in my hand. Moon was seated in my favorite chair and Wilson stood behind him. There was a dark bruise on Wilson’s chin. They glared at me. Two unhappy people. I put away the gun and stepped into the living room. Moon’s small lips went into a pout.

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Kent.”

  “I’m sure you are, Mr. Moon. Sorry about that.”

  I went to the liquor cabinet and poured a straight scotch.

  “You withheld information from me,” Moon said. “Ms Valdez told you about Mr. Ascot before she died.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you went to see him.”

  “Right again.”

  “I remind you, Mr. Kent, that you are an agent of the Company, under my orders.”

  I shook my head. “It distresses me to tell you, Mr. Moon, that all bets are off. I’m under Mr. Ascot’s orders.”

  “You’re working for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “For the time being, I’m his bodyguard.”

  Moon gave an annoyed sniff and fidgeted in the chair. “How can we be expected to do our job properly under these circumstances? He is only a civilian.”

  “A very powerful civilian.”

  “Jerome Ascot is a senile old man,” Moon said boldly, getting to his feet. “A senile old man,” he repeated, his voice louder this time.

  “Take care,” I said. “I may report that to Mr. Ascot.”

  “It would give me great pleasure to have Mr. Ascot know precisely how I feel about him,” Moon said, rising from the chair. “Come, Mr. Wilson.”

  Wilson beat Moon to the door and opened it. Moon strode out. Wilson threw a final glare at me and slammed the door behind him.

  I gave the room a good search and found four expertly placed bugs. There were two more in the bedroom. I grinned. Moon wouldn’t have had more than two bugs placed in the living room and one in the bedroom. So someone else had bugged the place before his arrival and he knew about it. Figuring that one of Ascot’s men had done the bugging, he’d sent a message to Ascot. The little fat man was always surprising me.

  I left all the bugs where they were. Let Ascot and Moon have their fun.

  I was pouring another scotch when the buzzer went. I walked to the door and looked through the one-way peephole. Nothing. I adjusted the peephole and saw the angelic faces of two little girls. I opened the door. They smiled at me. One had two upper front teeth missing. They wore girl scout uniforms.

  The one with the gap in her teeth said, “Are you Mr. Kent?”

  “That’s right, honey.”

  “I saw your name on the letter box downstairs.”

  “That’s real clever of you. What’ve you got in those shopping bags?”

  “Cookies, Mr. Kent. Wouldn’t you like to buy some cookies to help the Girl Scouts of America?”

  “Why not.”

  “They’re a dollar a box.”

  I came up with a five-dollar bill and gave it to her.

  “Do you want five boxes?”

  “Just one. But keep the change.”

  She showed the gap again in a huge smile. “Thank you from the Girl Scouts of America, Mr. Kent.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She winked a big blue eye and pressed the index finger of her free hand over her lips, then she reached into a pocket and produced a folded envelope that she handed to me.

  “Thank you again, Mr. Kent.”

  “My pleasure, honey.”

  They moved along the landing and began to climb the stairs to the next floor. I closed the door and went to the bathroom. I ran the water in the sink and opened the envelope, just in case there was a bug that would pick up the sound of paper tearing. Inside the envelope was a note in Otto Bleir’s spidery handwriting.

  Larry—go to Roman Holiday Massage Parlor on 6 Ave and 44 St. Ask for Tina. Important. Otto.

  Under the signature was the drawing of a scorpion. Otto’s birth sign was Scorpio and he was proud of it.

  I turned on the shower, tore the note and envelope into small pieces and flushed them down the toilet. After that I showered, shaved, and changed into new clothes. Then I went down to the garage, got into my Corvette and drove off. The Roman Hobday Massage Parlor was only six blocks away, but I didn’t go straight there because a blue Buick had pulled away from the curb behind me and I wanted to be sure I wasn’t being tailed. But I was. I parked the car at the first space I saw and walked to a subway entrance. There were running steps behind me.

  I waited on the subway platform and got into the first train that stopped, a local. The next stop was 59th Street. I sat looking at my fingernails. At the last moment, just as the doors were closing, I got up and forced my way through. At the end of the car I’d been in a guy was frantically trying to force open the doors.

  I caught a cab that took me to 43rd Street. I walked to 45th and looked at the transistor radios in a display window until I was sure I wasn’t still being followed, then I went back to the entrance of the Roman Hobday Massage Parlor.

  I climbed a narrow flight of stairs that took me to the massage parlor’s reception room. A plump blonde, fortyish, smiled at me from behind the counter.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  I smiled back at her. “Yes, thank you. I’d like a massage.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  She opened a ledger that was really a photo album. I saw the glossy photograph of a well-endowed blonde in a skimpy bikini.

  “These are our charming masseuses,” she said. “Choose any one you like. If the masseuse is available she will look after your ... needs.”

  Her pause was deliberate and left nothing to the imagination. “Actually, I’d like Tina,” I said.

  “Have you been here before, sir?”

  “No. Tina was recommended by a friend.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Tina isn’t here yet. She had a dental appointment.”

  “Then I’ll wait.”

  “But I have no idea when—” A buzzing sound cut into her words. She looked down, then her gaze came up to me and she treated me to one of her huge smiles. “That’s Tina, buzzing from her room. She must have come through the back entrance.” She indicated swinging doors. “Through there, sir. Room number six, the third on your right. You can pay as you leave.”

  Tina was waiting at the open door. She had long red hair and a full figure, only a small portion of which was covered by a green bikini.

  “Come in,” she said.

  I squeezed past her into a small room that had green walls and a white ceiling. There was nothing in the room but an adjustable rubbing table that was heavily padded.

  “I received a note,” I said.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Kent. Scorpio described you.”

  I looked around. There was no way a bug could have been planted in the painted walls or ceiling. I got down on one knee and looked under the rubbing table. Nothing. But there was a black button set in the wall near the door. I examined it carefully.

  “I use that to buzz outside,” Tina said. “It’s how they know how much to charge a customer. One buzz is for an ordinary massage, twenty dollars.”

  “Do you get many of those?”

  She smiled. “No. Two buzzes are for full ... treatment. That’s fifty dollars. Then there are extras. That can be three or four buzzes. Seventy-five to a hundred dollars.”

  “How many times will you buzz for me?”

  Her smile faded. “This is serious business, Mr. Kent. Lives are at stake.”

  “I know, Tina. But we have to spend a certain amount of time together. I don’t want that woman at the desk getting suspicious. She didn’t get my name, by the way. Does she ask for any identification when you leave?”

  “No. Unless you pay by credit card or check. If you don’t have enough money ...”

  “It’s all right.”

  “There was a car following you,” Tina said.

  “Are you the redhead who was parked near my apartment building?”

  “What about the car?”

  “The blue Buick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t worry. I dumped my car six blocks from here and took a subway to Fifty-Ninth Street. A guy followed me into the train but I got out and he didn’t. I took a cab to Forty-Third and didn’t enter this place until I was sure I wasn’t being tailed.”

 

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