Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (13 page)

He stopped when he reached the corner, staying close to the building as he looked down the side street. Mrs. Leen’s stout figure and rolling, stiff-legged gait were unmistakable; she was about a block away, moving at a surprisingly fast pace.

He waited, studying every car and window, every shadow along the street; but if there were any observers along the way, they were well hidden. Then, as Mrs. Leen turned left onto Front Street, he started after her.

He took the first block and a half at a full run, then reduced his pace to a casual stroll, and finally paused just far enough past the wall of the corner house to have a view down Front Street.

Mrs. Leen was perhaps a hundred yards down the street, and he saw a bit of red protruding from her handbag.

She still had the Dostoevsky.

He watched her until she stepped up onto the porch of her tiny, age-worn cottage, then he drew back a pace. As she paused to unlock her front door, she took a long look up and down the street, then stepped inside, and he heard the distant slam of the door.

Conan stared at the shabby little cottage, swearing inwardly at the awkward timing of Duncan’s arrival. He had no choice but to leave Mrs. Leen unwatched until he could get Duncan or Berg down here.

And the sooner the better.

He turned and set off for the shop at a dead run.

CHAPTER 12

Conan knelt by the hearth and touched the match to the kindling, then waited patiently until the flames took hold. For several minutes, he stared into the burgeoning fire, absently listening to the rhythmic strains of
The Moldau
. Finally, satisfied that the fire was well established, he wandered to the window wall on the west side of the room.

He heard the small sounds from upstairs: Charlie Duncan moving around, unpacking, checking his equipment. When he heard Charlie speaking in subdued tones, he turned and looked up toward the balcony and the door of the guest room. Then he smiled faintly. Duncan was checking out his contact via two-way radio with Carl Berg.

Conan looked out at the blood-red sky, watching the sun curdling into a heavy bank of clouds. It was a profound relief to have Duncan on the scene. A big, sandy-haired, freckle-faced Scot who reminded him of Henry Flagg in his pragmatic, matter-of-fact attitude. Charlie didn’t believe in rattling up spooks, either; he considered it a waste of time.

Conan had left Miss Dobie to close up the shop; left her staring blankly at him and sighing. Then he’d broken every speed limit making his way out to Skinner Junction to meet Duncan and Berg.

Carl Berg was now ensconced in a house across the street and two doors south of Mrs. Leen’s, and in the process was risking a charge of breaking and entering.

It was a risk taken out of desperation. Berg needed a vantage point; he couldn’t watch Mrs. Leen from his car. The house was a weekend cottage belonging to the Alton family, and Conan knew them through the bookshop. At least, he knew that Thomas Alton was a professor at the University of Oregon, and it was highly unlikely he’d be using the house before the next weekend.

That was the only real risk—an unexpected visit from the Altons or some of their friends. Berg had the tools, and a little practice, as he put it, to walk into the house as easily as if he had a key, and Conan had instructed him to do so, using the front door. There was little risk that the neighbors would question a stranger walking into the house; it was quite common for people to rent or loan their weekend cottages.

Conan had given Duncan a tour of Holliday Beach—the geographical points of interest in the Jeffries case—and told him everything he knew about it. That had been a pitifully short account. There hadn’t been time yet to go past the facts, and the only decision reached was that Berg would maintain surveillance on Mrs. Leen, keeping their rental car with him, and Charlie would move into Conan’s guest room. The old army buddy. That would satisfy the local grapevine.

He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Duncan coming down the spiral staircase.

“Find everything you need, Charlie?”

“And more. That so-called guest room of yours is more like a suite.” He came over to the window and looked out at the red sky. “Poor old Carl. I think he got the raw end of this deal.”

“Don’t be too sure. This is just the beginning.”

Duncan grimaced. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. Oh, I checked with Carl. He’s all settled in. The utilities are all hooked up, by the way, including the phone.”

“Yes, I thought they would be. People don’t bother to cut off the utilities in these vacation houses when they’re gone; the local hook-up fees are too exorbitant. What about Mrs. Leen?”

“She’s safely at home; no action.”

“Good. How about a drink? Supper, such as it is, is in process.”

“That’s encouraging. I’m starved.”

“Well, don’t get your hopes up. I’ve no delusions about my culinary skills.”

“Right now, I’m not particular, and I’ll have that drink. That’s the best idea you’ve come up with so far, Chief.”

Conan smiled faintly as he crossed to the bar on the south wall; he’d forgotten that “Chief.”

“What’ll you have, Charlie? Still scotch and soda?”

“Right.” Duncan sank wearily into one of the Barcelona chairs by the window. “Man, I’m bushed.”

“Well, this might pick up you a little,” Conan commented as he mixed the drinks, “or at least make my cooking more palatable.”

He returned with the two glasses, putting them on the marble-topped table between the chairs. Then he seated himself, watching Duncan with a little amusement as he tasted the scotch critically, then smiled and settled back with a contented sigh.

“Mm. Beautiful booze and classy accommodations. This is my kind of job.” His eyes swept the darkening vista of surf and sky. “Look at that view.”

Conan was already looking. A hint of a smile curved his lips.

“It isn’t bad.”

“Sure. You know what a view like this would cost in California?”

“Charlie, in California, you’d never
find
a view like this unless the smog lifted.”

“That’s just a myth, Chief. It’s just plain fog.”

“Of course. Just don’t ask me to breathe it.”

Duncan laughed, but his amusement faded after a moment. He took another swallow of his scotch and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Okay, I’m enjoying the view
and
the fresh air, but I came up here to do a job of work, so maybe we better get back to business.”

Conan nodded, focusing his thoughts on the “business” of Jeffries’ death with some reluctance. Then he frowned irritably and started to rise.

“Damn. I meant to get that book from the safe before I left the shop.” He hesitated, and finally sank back into his chair. “I’ll get it after supper. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“It won’t help much for me to look at it anyway. If there was anything to find, you’d have caught it.”

“Not necessarily. There’s nothing obvious, however.”

Duncan frowned into his drink.

“
Crime and Punishment
—good Lord.”

“Apparently, someone along the line has a sense of humor. A little macabre, perhaps.”

“Sick, is more like it. Okay, so what’s your theory about this business? You must have one by now.”

Conan laughed. “Of course. Theories are easy.”

His hand moved almost reflexively to his pocket for his cigarettes. He offered one to Duncan and lit one for himself before he went on.

“All right, Charlie. A theory. First, I’m hypothesizing an information system based in Holliday Beach with the bookshop as the point of exchange, and the information carried in books. Harold Jeffries checked out a book intended for an agent in the system, and the agent—or courier—saw him take it. That night; Jeffries found something in that book that made him wonder. And remember, he was once attached to the Navy Code Section. Anyway, he left his house with the book intending to ask me about it, but he was being watched. The agents involved obviously didn’t want to lose the book, or whatever it contained.”

“So, he was intercepted along the way, clipped on the jaw—”

“The right side of the jaw.”

“Yeah, so maybe you’re looking for a southpaw. Then he was held under until he drowned. Right?”

“Right.” He studied Charlie over the rim of his glass, watching him as he pursed his lips, his hazel eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then finally nodded.

“Okay. We’ll just ignore the little problem of what he found in that book for now, but tell me this—why was it put back in your shop, if that’s what they were after?”

“The killer was only a hired man. The agents would avoid that sort of personal risk if possible, and they’d also avoid direct contact with the flunky. That’s why it was put back, so it could be picked up later by the person it was actually intended for. The only hitch was that Miss Dobie has a digital memory for books.”

“That wasn’t the only hitch, if your theory holds water. I mean, having a guy like Jeffries pick up the damn book; somebody with the experience to recognize a code, or whatever.”

Conan nodded, studying the red reflections in his bourbon.

“I know. But this system has probably been in operation for some time. Mrs. Leen’s been living here for well over a year, so we can assume a number of exchanges during that time—if she isn’t just another innocent bystander. The more exchanges, the more chances of failure. The real hitch on this one was in choice of title. Jeffries was looking for
Crime and Punishment
.”

“But they couldn’t know that.”

“No. And they chose a standard title in a common edition that would normally attract no attention. Neither Miss Dobie nor I would’ve looked twice at it, if it hadn’t been for Jeffries. I’m sure we handled a number of other books in the exchanges without being aware of it.”

Duncan nodded, pulling on his cigarette, squinting at Conan through a haze of smoke.

“There’s another possibility you haven’t mentioned. It could be Jeffries was
part
of the system, and maybe there was some sort of disagreement among the comrades.”

“Yes, it’s a possibility, but I just can’t buy it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Jeffries. I can’t see him playing the role of enemy agent.”

“Maybe that’s because he was good at it.”

Conan rose and walked to the window, the smoke from his cigarette taking a reddish cast from the sky. After a moment, he laughed and shrugged uneasily.

“Maybe. And I’ll admit I’m having a hard time figuring out why it was necessary to murder him, if he were only an innocent bystander. You know the cardinal rule in this business—don’t make waves. You’d think they could get that book from him somehow without taking the risk of killing him. I keep wondering if he didn’t know too much; if he was killed in order to silence him—not just to get the book.”

“Well, maybe he was an innocent bystander, but there was enough in the book itself to make him dangerous.”

“Possibly, but I doubt that. They wouldn’t pass anything easily recognizable or readable by that means; the information would be coded. Jeffries may have had some experience with codes, but he wasn’t a genius. Nel left him at eight. At eight-thirty, he left his house. Would any self-respecting espionage agency use a code that could be broken in half an hour, even by an expert? And I doubt Jeffries qualified as an expert. It’s been a long time since his Navy Code Section days.”

“But he’d sure as hell know a code when he saw one, even if he couldn’t break it.”

“That’s what I’m assuming.” He gave an impatient sigh. “But how would the killer know how much Jeffries knew? Possession of the book wouldn’t indicate knowledge in itself. I doubt the agents were aware of his experience with codes; it would take time to get that information. They had absolutely no reason to assume he knew a code—or anything—was hidden in the book. Not unless he
told
someone.”

Charlie was silent for a while, his brow furrowed with parallel creases. Then he shrugged.

“Okay. For the time being, we’ll just say Jeffries was an innocent bystander. So, you figure he was on his way to talk to you about whatever it was he found?”

“Yes. He found the book in my shop; he walked within a block of my house on his own; and there was that phone number Nel found. If he asked Information for my number, the bookshop number is the only one he’d be given, so he couldn’t call me at that time of night. If he wanted to talk to me, he’d have to come to my house.”

“But would he trust you?”

Conan looked over at Duncan, considering the question. Finally, he nodded.

“I think so. Harold and Elinor Jeffries have been regular customers since I bought the shop. I haven’t stayed glued to the shop all these years, but I saw them often enough to know them fairly well, and for them to know me. Of course, I was closer to Nel, but I think the Captain would trust me.”

“Nel.” Duncan gave a soft laugh. “Damn, she must really be something to get you mixed up in this thing. Or was it just a conditioned reflex from your G-2 days?”

“Maybe a little of both. And curiosity.”

“You know, there’s an old saying about curiosity. Something about killing the cat.”

Conan smiled obliquely. “Yes. But there’s another old saw about cats, Charlie—cats have nine lives.”

“Okay. Touché.” He held on to a wry smile, but only for a few seconds; it faded into a disgruntled frown as he tipped up his glass. “God, this thing’s weird. If it wasn’t for the Major, I’d say you were out of your head.”

“Is the Major all that assures you of my sanity?”

“Well…that book showing up after Jeffries died is a little suspicious.”

“A little.”

“The Major.” He smiled to himself, taking time to puff on his cigarette and send out a slow stream of smoke. “That son of a gun. He never did trust anybody.”

“Apparently.” Conan folded his arms, focusing on the red-hued, tumbling breakers, recognizing the tightness within him as resentment, but still finding it hard to control. “Charlie, have you any idea who he’s working for now?”

“No. I should’ve known he wouldn’t be content to sit back and collect his retirement pay, though. And I’d say you’ve got something special going on in this burg if he’s in on it. He isn’t exactly a second-class legman.”