Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (12 page)

He hadn’t pursued the subject, seeming to find it too disgusting. He’d only lumbered off toward the stairs, mumbling to himself.

At two-ten, Conan looked at his watch again and lit one more cigarette, scorching a finger when he was distracted by the door bells.

Again a familiar face, and a particularly welcome diversion. Anton Dominic.

*

The old gentleman was grinning happily as he walked up to the counter and laid a flat paper sack on it.

“How are you being today, Mr. Flack?”

It would have been difficult, had he wished to, not to respond to that ingenuous smile.

“I’m fine, Mr. Dominic. I hope you’re well.”

“Ah, yes, I be completely better now.”

Conan looked down at the sack. “Good. What’s this?”

“Oh. I haf return your
Scientivic American
.”

“Anything of interest in it? I didn’t get around to looking through this copy.” He didn’t get around to looking through most of the copies of the magazine; the subscription was more for Mr. Dominic than himself.

“Oh, yes.” The old man nodded enthusiastically. “I be stay awake until midnight reading last night. Iss very good article on research being done on Pi meson.”

Conan took the magazine from the sack and flipped through the pages.

“I’ll have to read that, although I’m sure it’ll be way over my head. I’ve been trying for years to get the various nuclear particles straight, but I didn’t get much past Bohr’s neat little diagrams.”

“Ah, well, you should not be surprise to be confuse. A few years ago, iss thirty-four different atomic particles identify, and still they be find more. Iss some that maybe be what they are call ‘anti-matter.’ The alpha boryon negative particle, that iss such a one.”

Conan smiled, enjoying the light of enthusiasm in the old man’s eyes.

“Now, there’s a fascinating subject—anti-matter. It suggests some sort of reversed world; a mirror universe.” He shrugged, giving a short laugh. “At least, to a few science fiction writers.”

Dominic laughed at that. “Ah, yes, and perhaps iss not be all fiction; perhaps such a—a mirror universe could be exist. But I am not so sure.” He shook his head thoughtfully, and his eyes seemed to be focused somewhere far beyond Conan’s ken. “No…I am not so sure. I am think perhaps this ‘anti-matter’ be relating to speed of particles. I mean, even what are call ‘normal’ particles. Maybe…maybe iss somet’ing happens if particle move beyond speed of light. Maybe Einsteinian limits can be—”

Suddenly Dominic stopped, and he seemed momentarily confused, as if he’d just remembered something.

“I…I am sorry, Mr. Flack. I am sometimes be—how do you say? Carry away? I should not be boring people with my foolish old man’s thinkings.”

Conan frowned, feeling a biting regret for that painful lack of assurance, and he wondered at its source. It seemed to come so often with age, and perhaps that was the source for Anton Dominic.

“Mr. Dominic, whatever made you think you were boring me? And what you have to say is far from foolish.”

He gave Conan a small, shy smile, apparently fascinated by the scuffed toes of his shoes.

“T’ank you. You are always be very kind.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his heavy, oversize coat; a hand-me-down garment that always made him look like some lost urchin bundled up for a long, cold winter. He gave a wheezing sigh and looked up at Conan. “Anyway, I go upstairs, now, and see what I find new to be reading.”

Conan studied him a moment, then nodded.

“All right. Oh, by the way, I have a new shipment coming in next week. There may be some books you’ll be interested in.”

Some of the light came back into his eyes.

“Ah, t’ank you. I—I am always be grateful you haf think of me when you are order books.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

And that was a simple truth. He watched the old man trudge off toward the stairway, a frail, bent, and somehow sad figure, and he was feeling mixed emotions of sympathy and curiosity. An extraordinary book, indeed, and a fine mind wasted on carpentry. But no doubt he’d been an extraordinary carpenter too.

The jingle of the door bells interrupted his reverie, and as he turned he felt a tightness along his shoulder muscles.

Major James Mills.

*

It occurred to him that it was odd Mills should come in at this particular time, when Dominic was in the shop. Dominic had been here yesterday when the Major appeared.

Then he shrugged mentally, as an elderly couple approached the counter with three books to purchase.

Twice didn’t make a trend.

He was distracted while he took care of his customers, but when they were gone he noted that Mills was again perusing the paperbacks. The Major glanced at him briefly, but his disciplined face gave no hint of recognition.

Impatiently, Conan crushed out a half-smoked cigarette. So Mills still wasn’t ready to talk to him. But he must have checked those monitored calls by now.

He brought his annoyance under control, but only with an effort. He couldn’t wait indefinitely for the mountain to come around.

For a while, he only watched Mills out of the corner of his eyes; then he reached for a piece of paper and wrote his home phone number on it, adding a brief message: “I must talk to you—urgent. Possible drop. CJF.”

He waited a full minute before he made another move, watching the customers. The Major had undoubtedly chosen his position carefully; he had a clear view of the entrance, as well as most of the downstairs section, including the stairway. But this meant he was also exposed to observation. Conan folded the paper and slipped it under the sleeve of his sweater; it would be necessary to exercise a little discretion.

Finally, he walked over to the paperback rack and began busily straightening the books, nodding casually to Mills as he worked.

“Nice day today.”

Mills smiled briefly; the kind of impersonal smile that passes between strangers.

“Yes,” he replied distantly, picking out a book and thumbing through it. “Looks like the storm’s about over.”

“I hope so. May I help you with anything in particular?”

“Oh…I was just looking for something light.”

Conan noted the title of the book he seemed to find so engrossing, then pulled another book from the rack and handed it to him.

“I see you’re an Agatha Christie fan. Have you read this one? It’s one of her best.”

Mills hesitated, then reached for the book, and the firm control faltered for a split second as he saw the slip of paper barely protruding from the pages, his features displaying a flicker of surprise.

“Yes, I enjoy some of Christie’s books,” he said slowly, “especially the Poirots.”

“Then you’ll like this one. She gets Poirot involved in a bit of international intrigue; espionage, and all that. Quite well done.”

At the word “espionage,” Mills’s grayish eyes narrowed slightly, then he smiled and nodded.

“Sounds good. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

Conan turned, hearing footsteps behind him; Mr. Dominic returning from upstairs. He went to the counter to check his books out, and waved as the old man went out the door, his good spirits apparently restored.

Within less than three minutes—Conan timed it out of curiosity—Mills came to the counter and paid for the Agatha Christie without comment. But as he was leaving the shop, he paused briefly, looking directly at Conan. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

He didn’t wait for a response; he turned abruptly and closed the door between them.

CHAPTER 11

For a while, Mills’s parting remark gave him a little hope to ease the tension of his vigil, but as the slow minutes ticked by, he became increasingly restive. At 2:45, Miss Dobie went next door to the Chowder House for lunch and brought a sandwich back for him, but most of it went untouched, and she retired to her office on finding him entirely unresponsive to her attempt at conversation.

By four o’clock, he was feeling like a caged lion too confined even to pace. He took advantage of a lull in business to go upstairs and check the
Crime and Punishment
.

It was still on the shelf—still waiting.

And the phone was ominously quiet during the long afternoon.

He went into the office to refill his coffee cup, wondering why he hadn’t heard from Charlie Duncan. The jingle of the bells brought him back to the counter, where he resumed his seat with a sigh of disappointment.

It was only Edwina Leen, her round, pink face crinkling with a vacuous smile.

He took a deep breath, mustered a smile, and shouted, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Leen. How are you today?”

“How’s that, Mr. Flagg?”

“I said—
how are you today
?”

“Oh, I’m just fine. How ’bout you? You was late openin’ this mornin’.”

“Miss Dobie and I went to Captain Jeffries’ funeral.”

“What’d you say?”

He leaned closer.
“We had to go to Captain Jeffries’ funeral!”

“Oh, yes, I heard ’bout the Cap’n. Too bad. When’d you say the funeral’s goin’ to be?” She tilted her head, bringing her right ear—presumably her better one—around toward him.

“It’s already
been
,”
he shouted. “That’s why we were late.”

“Oh. Then I guess I missed it.” She shrugged, pursing her thin lips. “But then, I never knowed the Cap’n too well, anyhow. He a friend of yours?”

“Well, not a close friend. He came into the shop quite a bit.”

“How’s that?”

“He wasn’t a close friend; just a customer.”
Then before she could reply, he shouted, “May I help you with something?”

“Oh, no, nothin’ partic’lar. I’ll just go on upstairs and see if I can find somethin’ to read.”

“Fine, Mrs. Leen.” He sighed. “Good luck.”

He wasn’t sure she actually understood his last words, but to his relief, she only smiled in her usual vague manner and headed for the stairs. He slumped down on the stool, staring after her. He’d forgotten to ask Miss Dobie why she’d seemed so upset yesterday morning.

Then he tensed at the ringing of the phone and reached for the counter extension. This had to be Charlie Duncan. “Holliday Beach Bookshop.”

“Conan?”

“Yes, Charlie. Hang on a minute.” He covered the receiver with one hand. “Miss Dobie!”

A few seconds later when she came around the corner from her office, he handed her the receiver.

“Watch the counter for me. I have an important call.”

She blinked and nodded. “All right.”

Inside the office, he closed the door, took up a position behind the desk where he could see the counter and entrance, and picked up the phone.

“Thank you, Miss Dobie.” Then when she hung up the counter extension, “Charlie, where are you?”

“Just outside town; Skinner Junction. I’m in a phone booth.”

“Is Berg with you?”

“Yeah, and we’re at your disposal.”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure exactly how to dispose you until we’ve had a chance to talk, but for the time being we’ll keep Berg out of sight. I don’t want him seen around the shop or me. Find him a place to stay, then you—” He stopped cold, feeling the solid shock of adrenaline hitting his nervous system.

Through the one-way glass, he’d seen a flash of red. Outside the counter, Miss Dobie was opening a red-jacketed book to the back cover and removing the date card.

“Conan, are you still—?”

“Hold on a minute, Charlie.”

He dropped the phone and moved to the door, watching intently as Miss Dobie methodically stamped the date on the card, returned the card to its envelope, and closed the book. It was a Modern Library edition. He couldn’t see the title, but it could be the Dostoevsky. Then Miss Dobie handed the book across the counter.

And there, smiling beatifically, was Mrs. Edwina Leen.

*

Not Mrs. Leen. That muddled, bumbling old woman…

She must have picked it up by mistake—if it
was
the
Crime and Punishment
.

He fought the blind impulse to rush out and snatch the book from her. The original copy
couldn’t
have been meant for her. It was a mistake; it had to be.

He pulled in a long breath, forcing himself to relax.

Anything was possible. And yet his mind balked at accepting this possibility. It
had
to be a mistake.

Or perhaps it wasn’t the Dostoevsky.

Miss Dobie was chatting amiably with Mrs. Leen, an exchange he watched with almost uncontrollable impatience. Finally, he moved back to the desk and picked up the phone, his eyes still focused on Mrs. Leen’s smiling face.

“Charlie—”

“Yeah. What the hell’s going on?”

“I can’t explain now. What’s the phone number in that booth?”

Duncan gave him the number, then started to protest. “Listen, Conan, will you just—?”

“Stay put. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

He didn’t wait to hear Duncan’s reply. Mrs. Leen was leaving the shop. He hung up the phone, then crossed to the office door and threw it open.

“Miss Dobie, what was the title of the book she just checked out?”

Beatrice Dobie turned, so startled she dropped the cigarette she’d been about to light. She laughed as she leaned down to retrieve it.

“You mean Mrs. Leen? Well, I’m afraid she’s in for a big disappointment.”

“The title, Miss Dobie.”

“Oh. Well, it was
Crime and Punishment
. She thought it was a mystery.”

“She
what
?”

“She thought it was a mystery story.”

“Good God, didn’t you tell her it wasn’t?”

“Well, yes, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.”

“Are you sure she understood you?”

She shrugged, looking up at him anxiously.

“I think so, but with her you never know. Why? What’s wrong?”

Conan brought himself under control and mustered a brief smile. His reaction would make no sense to her. “I’m sorry, Miss Dobie. Nothing’s wrong.” He paused, then pulled the office door shut and locked it. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Say, about that book, Mr. Flagg—”

But he was already at the front door. He closed it behind him and turned, scanning the highway and sidewalk. A moment later, he was running toward the north corner.