Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (7 page)

Apparently, Major Mills regarded Conan Flagg as an object of suspicion for some unknown reason, and found it necessary to investigate him. He wondered grimly if he were also under surveillance.

But why?

In Berlin, Mills had gone so far as to give him a few reserved, and rare, words of praise, as well as a recommendation for a promotion when he was forced to leave his command.

And Conan was wondering who the Major was working for now.

At least Avery would be relieved to know it wasn’t the IRS who was so interested in the Ten-Mile Ranch Corporation’s majority stockholder.

But why was anyone interested, and, for that matter, why was Mills here at all? Conan didn’t flatter himself that he was the reason for the Major’s appearance in Holliday Beach; he was probably only an annoying complication.

Holliday Beach was only a small coastal community, dependent on lumber, fishing, and tourists. It was tourism that was the mainstay of life in the village. And Social Security. The coast attracted many retired people.

But what attracted Mills?

There were no military installations, no research facilities, not even any factories, other than a few lumber and pulp mills, anywhere near the village.

Of course, there were rumors that some of the new resort complexes near the town were backed with syndicate money, and the local government had its share of graft and corruption. But the area was relatively undeveloped, and he doubted there was enough money to be made here to attract criminal activity on a large scale.

And the Major’s specialty had been counterespionage.

More questions without answers.

Finally, he turned away and walked back into the office.

*

Miss Dobie was on her feet, scrutinizing a book held in one hand, but he was hardly aware of her.

“Where ever did you find
this
?”

He slumped into his chair, resting his chin on his folded hands.

“What?”

“This book.
Crime and Punishment
.”

His eyes came into focus on the book abruptly, and on Miss Dobie’s perplexed expression. And again, he heard that dim alarm ringing in the back of his mind.

“Upstairs. Why?”

“
Where
upstairs?”

“In the Fiction, under the Ds; exactly where it belonged.”

She blinked at him, the corners of her mouth pulling down with chagrin.

“Oh, dear, this is
terrible
.”

“Terrible? That I found it where it belonged?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” She opened the book to the back cover, then sighed. “Well, it must be one of ours. This looks like my handwriting on the price mark.”

He came to his feet slowly, the alarm ringing louder. “Did you think it might not be one of ours?”

She put the book down and shrugged uneasily.

“Oh…it’s just that I was so sure we didn’t have a copy of
Crime and Punishment
in stock. I checked just last week. We picked up a copy in that estate sale last August, but I sold that to Mrs. Church a month ago. At least, I
thought
it was the only one we had. Of course, I have it on order, but we haven’t had anything from Modern Library since May tenth. That new shipment’s late, too.” She frowned irritably. “I suppose I’d better write and—”

“Miss Dobie, what about
this
book?” He leaned forward and picked up the Dostoevsky.

“Oh—that. Well, apparently we
did
have a copy. I just can’t understand how in the world I could’ve missed it, not to speak of forgetting all about it. I guess it’s just old age creeping up on me.”

He felt the tension sagging from him and a vague sense of disappointment.

“Well, we’re all capable of error, and I certainly wouldn’t characterize this error as ‘terrible.’”

“Oh, I wasn’t,” she replied flatly. “I mean, not just missing the book. I was only thinking it was terrible because now it’s too late.” She gazed absently at the Dostoevsky. “He was always so methodical about his reading. He’d pick an author or nationality, and go right down the line—alphabetically, yet.”

The tension returned with a whispering chill. He stared at her, feeling the uneasy stirrings of memories; small, insignificant memories. And Miss Dobie rambled on in her flat, laconic tone.

“He was working on Russian authors, and he asked me about
Crime and Punishment
last week, and I looked all over this place for it. I was just sure we didn’t have a copy, but I checked anyway. I suppose it was right under my nose all the time. And now it’s too late.”

“Too late for
what
? Miss Dobie, who wanted this book?”

She looked at him blankly. “Oh, I meant Captain Jeffries. Didn’t I say so?”

Conan felt his way back into his chair, aware of the dull thuds of his pulse, and the memories were falling into place now; small fragments of trivia forming an image whose dimensions he couldn’t assimilate yet. The jingling of the door bells shivered through him, a sensation close to pain.

He turned his distracted gaze on the entrance. Mrs. Edwina Leen, pink-cheeked, smiling vaguely. He was in no state to deal with her communication problem now.

“Miss Dobie, would you mind?”

She glanced out into the shop, then frowned anxiously.

“I’ll take care of her. You don’t look too well, Mr. Flagg.”

*

Conan waited, motionless, until Miss Dobie left the office and shut the door on the high-volume conversation that ensued. Then he closed his eyes, savoring the quiet of the blessedly soundproofed room.

Finally, he picked up the Dostoevsky.

But it was only a mnemonic device. He was still concentrating on memories; on yesterday afternoon.

Harold and Elinor Jeffries.

When they brought their books to the counter, he’d waited on them. Miss Dobie had already departed for her hair appointment, adroitly avoiding Joe Zimmerman. The salesman had been at the office door, making his impatience known; the order hadn’t been completed yet. And Conan had taken a perverse pleasure in spending more time than was necessary with Nel and her husband.

Four books.

One for Nel, the other three for the Captain.

Conan couldn’t name the book Nel had rented, but he knew Jeffries’ methodical reading habits and found them faintly amusing. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have noticed his selections.

Jeffries had worked his way up to Pasternak and Sholakov. The Dostoevsky was out of sequence, but now he understood why.

But it had been a peripheral awareness at the time. He was preoccupied with his conversation with the Captain and Nel, with two more customers waiting to be helped, the Dell salesman’s impatience, and his own impatience at Miss Dobie’s very convenient hair appointment.

The Dostoevsky had been the last book, and it was clear in the inner eye of memory now, as he put it on top of the other books and handed the stack to Harold Jeffries.

We’re all capable of error…

But Beatrice Dobie was virtually infallible when it came to books. She hadn’t made an error. None of this would make sense if she had.

Please listen to me! He was murdered…

He opened the book to the back cover and took out the date card. He noted the blackened border at the bottom, but his attention was focused on the last date.

November 12. Yesterday.

Yesterday, Jeffries took this book from the shop. Last night, he died. This morning, the book was waiting on the shelf—exactly where it belonged.

He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowed, intent, but focused on nothing.

Then he reached for the phone.

CHAPTER 6

“Nel, are you alone?”

There was a brief hesitation. “Why, yes. For the moment, at least. I’m in my room, resting. Is something wrong?”

He leaned back, looking down at the Dostoevsky.

“No. I just wanted to ask a couple of questions about the…matter we discussed this morning.”

Again, a hesitation, and a hint of anxiety in her tone. “Well, I’ll answer any questions I can, Conan, but I told you, you needn’t worry about—”

“I’m stubborn, if nothing else. First, you said you left Harold sitting by the fire, peacefully reading a book, if I remember correctly.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what book he was reading?”

“What book? Well, I…I’m not sure.”

“Please, try to remember. It’s important.”

“The book?” She gave a short laugh that was only a mask for uncertainty. “Well, let me think. It was one of the books he picked up at the shop yesterday. He was on a Russian kick, you know. Let’s see…something about the Don? No, that wasn’t the one. Oh—and Conan, I must get those books back to you before I leave. I asked Pearl to gather them up, but she said she could only find three. I was sure we had four, but perhaps not. Anyway, if there’s one missing, we’ll find it sooner or—”

“Nel, don’t worry about the books, please. The shop won’t go out of business without them.” He didn’t add that she’d never find the fourth book. “Now, what about the book Harold was reading last night?”

“Oh. Let me think a minute—” Another pause, then, “Yes, now I remember. He said he was so happy to find it; something about asking for it earlier and you didn’t have it. Let’s see…Dostoevsky. Yes, that was it.
Crime and Punishment
. I’m sure that was it.”

His breath came out in a long sigh.

“Thank you. Now, I’d like to ask something else. You and Harold were upstairs for at least a half hour yesterday, weren’t you?”

“Yes. Perhaps a little longer.”

“Did you see anyone you knew?”

She sighed. “Oh, dear. Well, there were quite a few people. Not all at once; coming and going. And there were a number of strangers, of course.” She paused, and Conan waited patiently. “But I do remember some of the local people. Mrs. Hollis was there. I remember wondering how she ever manages those stairs.”

“I know; I always wonder. My liability premiums go up every time she sets foot in the shop. Anyone else?”

“Yes, there was Mrs. Leen. I talked to her for a while—or tried to. It’s a little difficult sometimes with her hearing problem.” She laughed briefly. “She was in the Ds looking for Dashiell Hammett. And then later, I saw the Manley girls. Trish said she got that scholarship to Reed College. And the new Methodist minister’s wife was there. I can’t remember her name.”

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Hopkins, isn’t it?”

“I think so. And that’s all, really. I can’t remember anyone else, except that young man—I don’t know who he is, but I’ve seen him around the shop before. He was downstairs by the counter when we left.”

Conan frowned, then nodded to himself.

“Yes. He’s just a salesman. Are you sure you can’t think of anyone else?”

“No, I’m sorry. There was no one else I recognized, at least. Conan, what’s this all about?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ve decided to look into the matter we discussed a little further.”

“You’re going to inves—”

“I’m going to do what I can, but don’t get your hopes up. I told you I’m an amateur.”

“Oh—” The sound was close to a sob, and he expected the pause, the time necessary for her to regain her control. “I don’t know what to say. But you mustn’t feel under any obligation. I mean—”

“I don’t, Nel, and probably nothing will come of it, but I’ll give it a try.”

“But what happened? I mean, what made you change your mind?”

He looked down at the Dostoevsky, but made no effort to explain his decision.

“It doesn’t matter. Now, if you’re to be my client, I’ll have to exact a promise of you.”

“Of course. Anything you ask.”

He laughed. “That’s faith. I must ask you to tell no one about this, or that I’m involved in any way. And please, don’t discuss your suspicions about Harold’s death. Not with anyone.”

There was a shading of doubt in her voice, but she acquiesced without argument.

“All right, if you wish.”

“Another thing, have you made a decision about going into Portland after the funeral?”

“Oh…more or less. I told Jane I’d probably stay with her for a week or so.”

“Good. I insist that you do. As far as I know, there’s no cause for alarm, but I know almost nothing. I’d feel better if you were…well, away from the scene.”

If this hint of personal danger disturbed her, she gave no indication of it.

“All right, Conan. You can reach me at Jane’s. You can’t tell me any more?”

“No, not now. I’ll talk to you when—or if—I have something concrete to offer.”

“Please, let me know.”

“I’ll let you know; don’t worry. Now, get some rest.”

“I will, but…” Her voice was suddenly tight. “I guess I hadn’t thought it out this far. If—if I’m right about Harold, I may be putting you in danger. Oh, Conan, please be careful.”

He laughed briefly. “Don’t worry about me, Nel.”

*

The die was cast.

He wasted perhaps ten seconds considering his decision, but his mind was already moving past it, sorting possibilities and potentials and alternatives. Even the physical weariness, a product of a long, sleepless night, was gone. Later, perhaps, he’d have second thoughts, but there wasn’t time now.

The book.
Crime and Punishment.

There were ironies enough in the choice of title. And it was a tenuous foothold. But that didn’t matter; it was all he had.

He put the book in front of him on the desk. It was new, showing little sign of use. First, he shook it, letting the pages hang loose, but nothing fell out from between them. Nothing was hidden along the spine that a careful probe with a letter opener would dislodge. He flipped through the pages, searching for notations, any variation in paper stock or type style, noting the sequence of page numbers. He examined the inside of both covers, finding no obvious evidence of regluing, and the paper was consistent with the rest of the stock.

Finally, he concentrated on the inside back cover, studying the price mark in the upper corner. He knew it to be a forgery—assumed it—but he wouldn’t have recognized it as such otherwise, nor had Miss Dobie, and it was supposedly her handwriting. It was the work of a professional.

He frowned at that, then pulled out the date card, checking the envelope first. Both were the same kind used in the bookshop, but they could be procured at any library supply outlet.