A Multitude of Sins (10 page)

“You’re right about Hicks having a one-track mind,” he commented as he walked over to Conan. “He didn’t budge from his blind.”

Conan lit a cigarette and offered one to Berg. The flare of the lighter momentarily etched Berg’s aquiline features against the darkness.

“What about the action out at the cottage, Carl?”

“Well, it seems Miss Hanson had a little rendezvous about nine-thirty.”

He nodded. “When she could be sure Dore was safely at work. Where was this rendezvous? The cottage?”

“No, she drove down to the shopping center. Whoever she was meeting was parked by the telephone booth near the supermarket.”

“Did you see who it was?”

He shook his head. “That parking lot’s big as a football field and just as open that time of night. I couldn’t get anywhere near without being seen. I ditched my car and came around the supermarket on foot, but by that time the meet was over. I didn’t even get a license number.”

Conan shrugged, displaying an indifference he couldn’t really feel.

“Can’t win ’em all, Carl. What kind of car was it?”

“A sports car, dark color, either blue or black. It looked like a Lotus Elan.”

“An Elan? Well, that didn’t come from a rental agency. How long did the meeting last?”

“About ten minutes. Not long enough.”

He frowned, remembering Jennifer Hanson’s red, swollen eyes and Isadora’s surprise that she was awake so late.

“It was long enough for something. What happened after the rendezvous?”

“Miss Hanson headed for home. By the time I got back to my car, I’d lost the Elan. All I know is he took 101 north. If I’d caught him at Skinner Junction, I’d at least know whether he was heading north or east.”

“East, probably.”

“Portland?”

“Salem. The road to Salem branches off about halfway to Portland. Jenny was at the cottage when you returned?”

“Yes. Conan, I’m sorry I didn’t get a better look at that car or whoever was driving it.”

“It wasn’t worth the risk of someone seeing you, and the Elan gives us a good lead; it isn’t a common car.”

“Well, we might salvage something out of it. I’d better get back to Shanaway.” Then he added with a short laugh, “The night’s young yet.”

CHAPTER 9

It was a crystalline day, the sky a flawless pool of blue shading from ultramarine at the zenith to cerulean at the horizon. A calm sea made a cadenced murmuring, a light wind moved Isadora’s hair against her cheek.

For some time they walked together in silence. Conan was well aware of the red Ford waiting in the picnic area half a mile behind them, but that didn’t detract from the perfection of the day, nor the profound sense of privacy.

Isadora stopped to pick up a white, sea-worn shell. “Look at that,” she said, “built without a conscious thought. How can it be so beautiful?”

He studied the delicate, perfect spiral, finding his pleasure quickened by hers.

“Where do you think we learn the canons of conscious beauty, Dore?”

She glanced up at him, but made no response except a gentle smile. Finally, he took her arm and guided her toward the jumble of drift near the bank.

“Come on, let’s find a comfortable log.”

As she seated herself on the silvered flank of a long-uprooted giant, he saw a shadow of anxiety in her eyes. He sat down facing her, taking time to light a cigarette.

At length, she turned and looked at him.

“You want to know about my father’s death.”

“If you feel like talking about it.”

“I just don’t understand why you want to know about it—what it could possibly have to do with those men.”

“Dore, I don’t enjoy opening old wounds, but it asks too much of coincidence that the tailing began so soon after his death. Unless something happened in the month before you moved to Shanaway.”

She swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the shell.

“Nothing happened in that month. Nothing.”

He nodded, recognizing in her flat tone a stone wall. “Then I’m left with your father’s death. I have to know about it if only to eliminate it as a factor.”

“But I can’t really tell you about it. I can’t remember anything after I went into
that…
the library.”

He paused, deciding on a more oblique approach. “You’re sure he had no prior history of heart disease?”

“I’m sure, but he’d been working awfully hard.”

“What about the day of his death? Were you at home?”

“No, I live at the dorm during the school year.”

“But you came home that night. Why?”

“Well, I certainly hadn’t planned on it. The usual winter flu virus was making the rounds, and it finally got to me. I went to a concert with Ben that night.”

“Ben?”

“Oh—Ben Meade. He’s a fraternity brother of Jim’s.”

“Anything serious?”

“Well, not as far as
I
was concerned. I think—well, maybe Ben was a little serious.”

“You put it in past tense. Does Ben?”

She looked up at him sharply, then shook her head.

“No. He writes to me and even calls occasionally. But he never pushes. I guess that’s why I always enjoyed him.”

“You have a problem with pushy young men?”

She smiled. “I’m a status symbol. The Senator’s daughter. But Ben lives in an ivory tower; theoretical physics. Still, he’s rather single-minded in some ways.”

“You had a date with him for a concert,” he said, prompting her, seeing her mouth tighten.

“Yes, but we had to leave in the middle. All of a sudden I was sick; nausea, chills, everything. Ben took me to the infirmary. I remember a doctor sticking a thermometer in my mouth and saying I had a fever of one hundred and three, then he told me to go home and call our family doctor. Ben drove me to the dorm to pick up a few of my things and took me home.”

“Have you any idea what time it was when you got home?”

“No. I was so sick, I don’t even remember the drive home, except—” She frowned, her hands rigidly tense on the shell. “I remember seeing the light in the library and thinking that—that Dad must be working late.”

“Were there any other lights on in the house?”

“I’m not sure.” Her voice faltered; she cleared her throat. “I know the porch light was off; I had a hard time finding my key. But then, no one was expecting me.”

He felt a chill at that, but couldn’t explain it.

“Ben took you inside the house?”

“Just into the foyer, then I told him to go on.”

“And he left?”

“Yes.”

Conan paused, watching her closely. “And after that?”

“I—I remember the light under the library door.” She was trembling, every word a halting effort. “I thought I should tell Dad why I was home. I remember…going to the door. No, I just remember the
door.
Only the door, and after that—oh, God, I can’t—Conan, there’s
nothing.
Nothing but
nightmare
—”
The shell snapped in her fingers.

She stared at it as if it had somehow betrayed her, and her defenses collapsed into a ruin of anguished weeping. He pulled her into his arms, offering no words of comfort, trusting neither words nor his voice. He wondered how long it had been since she’d allowed herself this necessary release. Grief couldn’t be stoppered; it was too volatile.

But there was more than grief here.
Nightmare.
Why had she used that particular word? Finding her father’s body would be a profound shock, but the victim of a heart attack wouldn’t present the grisly aspect typical of some forms of death. Her experience might be described in strong terms, but nightmare sounded a jarring dissonance. There was fear behind it; fear that was wrong in the context of grief.

At length, she drew away from him and fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief, eyes averted.

“Conan, I’m sorry. I don’t usually fall apart like this. You’d think by now—”

“By when? Do you put a time limit on grief?”

She shook her head distractedly.

“Oh, I must be a mess. I’m sorry.”

He smiled at her. “Stop apologizing. I’ve seen you looking better, but the condition isn’t permanent. Dore, there’s only one thing that worries me. I can understand the grief, but you’re afraid, and I must know why.”

“I’m
not
afraid,” she insisted. “Unless it’s…those men. The surveillance.”

“No. That’s not the nightmare, the fear I’m talking about. It’s connected with your father’s death, isn’t it?”

For a moment he thought she was going to lose control again, but she held on and finally looked at him intently.

“Conan, there’s something I…” She stopped, and he found himself holding his breath; then she turned away.

“Why would there be any
fear
connected with Dad’s death?”

He let his breath out slowly. A good question, but that wasn’t what she had started to say.

“Well, you’ve been under a great deal of strain.”

She only nodded, pushing the sand over the broken shell with her foot.

“Dore, you said something last night about practicing in the afternoons. Is that a regular habit with you?”

She turned, relieved at the change of subject.

“Yes. I put in at least three hours every afternoon.”

“What about Jenny? Does she stick around for these practice sessions?”

“No. Maybe the racket drives her away, or else she thinks I want privacy when I’m playing; she’s such a private person about her own work. She usually goes down to the beach for an hour or so. Why do you ask?”

“Would you mind if Harry and I searched the cottage?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But, why? For one thing, I want to check your phone for bugs, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to install a bug of my own.”

“You’re welcome to do anything you think necessary.”

In Shanaway, at least, he thought, remembering her anxiety about the “third operative’s” investigation.

“It’s two-fifteen,” he said. “About time for your practice session, don’t you think?”

She gave a short laugh. “I’ll take your word for that.”

The house was empty. Isadora called Jenny’s name and knocked on the studio door, but there was no answer. Conan found the note by the telephone.
I’m on the beach—Jen.

Isadora frowned at it. “She must’ve gone out earlier than usual.” Then she took a quick breath. “Well, I suppose I’d better get at the piano.”

The door of the music studio opened off the south wall of the living room. It was flooded with sunlight, sparsely furnished with bookshelves, music cabinets, and a Steinway grand. Conan went to the west windows, noting the shadowy figure in the window of the duplex below, but there was no sign of Jenny on the road. When Isadora began a scale exercise, he walked over to her and leaned close to her ear. “Keep playing. I’ll be back.”

She only nodded, the precise sequences never faltering. He went out to his car and within a few seconds was in radio contact with Munson.

“Harry. Jenny’s gone to the beach, but I have no idea when she’ll be back. We’ll have to watch for her. You have the equipment for the phone?”

“Yes, all I need for that is maybe two minutes.”

“Good. Dore’s practicing, which will give us some cover noise. I’ll leave the front door open for you.”

“I’m on my way.”

Conan took a small, flat tool kit from the glove box and returned to the house. He went first to the telephone. There was no monitor in the mouthpiece; instead, he found a tiny mechanism under the jack cover. The design and brand were unfamiliar, but it was wired in and probably powerful enough for area as well as telephone monitoring.

He frowned as he replaced the cover, hoping the piano would at least confuse the sounds of the screwdriver. Then he saw a shadow at the door; Harry Munson entered silently.

Conan tore a page from the scratch pad on the telephone table and wrote a brief message:
Bug in phone jack—wired in. May be area monitor.

Munson read it and nodded, then followed him into the music studio. Isadora turned, but Conan’s whispered admonition to keep playing was superfluous; she didn’t miss a note.

He leaned over her. “Dore, there’s a bug in the phone, and it may be strong enough to pick up other sounds, so keep up the cover. The man with me is Harry Munson.”

She smiled briefly at him, her fingers still flashing through the scales. Conan made a casual pass by the windows to check the road, then returned to Munson.

“Clear for now. You take this room.”

While Munson deftly assaulted a bookcase, Conan went back to the living room and the telephone table. In the shallow drawer he found, predictably, a local directory with a list of names and numbers written in the inside cover.

Lambda Delta.
Probably Jim Canfield’s fraternity.
Ben.
That would be Ben Meade. He made a mental note to have Sean check out that “rather single-minded” suitor of Isadora’s.
Bob Carleton
would be C. Robert Carleton, the family attorney. Then a final enigmatic notation:
Dr. K.

He tore another sheet from the scratch pad and copied the numbers, then went to the windows. The road was still empty. Munson emerged from the music studio, read his gestured instructions, then disappeared into the south wing.

The scale progressions ceased, and Conan tensed, then relaxed as he heard the rushing arpeggios of the
Revolutionary Etude
.
Isadora was doing her part, he thought wryly.

He opened the door of Jenny’s studio.