Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (8 page)

He looked up, distracted by a movement at the counter. But it was only Mrs. Leen. He started to resume his examination of the book, then paused, studying the old woman curiously through the one-way glass.

She’d returned from upstairs without a book, which surprised him. Miss Dobie was attempting to carry on a shouted conversation with her, but Mrs. Leen seemed quite distracted. She dropped her purse, then got her scarf tangled as she tied it under her chin. Finally, she said what was apparently a quick good-bye to Miss Dobie, and rushed out the front door.

He wondered vaguely what brought on this precipitous exit; it was odd. In spite of her communication problem, Edwina Leen was always even-tempered and friendly.

He shrugged and concentrated on Dostoevsky. No doubt Miss Dobie would enlighten him on the cause of her apparent pique sooner or later.

He studied the date card, noting first that all the dates had been made with a different stamp from the last one. He’d stamped the last one himself. The others were simply protective coloration, done with a similar stamp. Very similar. And again, he found himself wondering at the careful preparation implicit in this attention to detail.

He gave his full attention now to the blackened, irregular bottom edge. It had been burned, and it must have happened after Jeffries rented the book yesterday; otherwise, Conan would have noticed it when he was checking it out for him.

Both sides of the card were marked with a few soot-smudged fingerprints. The scorched area extended no more than an inch into the card, curving around one corner; only a quarter inch at the most had actually been destroyed. He frowned at the card, handling it carefully by the edges. Both he and Miss Dobie had added their fingerprints to the book itself, but he could refrain from adding more, or smudging any in existence on the card.

An attempt had been made to repair the burned border. Cellophane tape had been applied, folded over as if to seal the ragged edge. And this seemed quite incomprehensible. The scorching itself made no sense. He put the card back in the envelope and paused to light a cigarette.

It made sense. At least, he could make a reasonable conjecture.

Harold Jeffries sat by his fireplace reading this book last night. Peacefully, as Nel put it. Conan knew something else about the Captain’s reading habits other than his methodical approach. Jeffries wouldn’t consider dog-earing a book, and he habitually used the date cards as a convenient place marker. Conan had found the cards between the pages often enough when the books were returned.

It wasn’t unreasonable to assume Jeffries had taken the card out of the envelope, or that he’d let it slip out of his hand into the fire. And that attempt at repair was characteristic of him; a stuffily conscientious man.

That might answer the question of the burned edge, but little else.

But he expected little else at this point, as he expected little of his cursory examination of the book. A real examination would mean tearing it apart, page by page, subjecting it to chemical and microscopic study, and that was something for experts. For legally authorized experts.

He rose and took the book to the safe, and when he closed the heavy, cast-iron door, it had a curiously final ring.

Then he walked slowly back to his chair, veiling himself in tenuous clouds with slow puffs on his cigarette.

He couldn’t even speculate yet how the Dostoevsky made its way from Jeffries’ hands at eight last night to its proper place on the shelf upstairs this morning. The only important fact now was that it
had
been returned. It had been waiting this morning.

Perhaps this explained Major James Mills’s arrival in Holliday Beach. The return of that book all but shouted
drop
.

An information exchange, and a classic ploy. Conan couldn’t guess why a drop here, why Holliday Beach, but at least he could understand the Major’s suspicious attitude now.

If the bookshop was being used as a drop, then it was natural enough to investigate the owner of the shop—particularly when he’d had experience in the field of espionage. Agents, or ex-agents, had been known to switch to the other side of the fence often enough.

It was entirely reasonable, the Major’s suspicion, but highly inconvenient. That could only be called an understatement. It might be crippling.

Mills should know about Jeffries; about the Dostoevsky.

But until he was sure of Conan’s innocence, it was unlikely that he’d initiate direct contact, and he’d regard anything Conan might offer with a jaundiced eye. The only hope of real cooperation was to bring the mountain to Mohammed; to induce Mills to come to him on his own terms.

And there was an element of perversity in the decision not to approach Mills directly. He’d worked in the Major’s command for two years under conditions to try the worth and loyalty of any man. If Mills still couldn’t trust him, he’d have to pay the price.

Conan pulled the phone closer and took a Salem directory from his desk. He was well aware that his every word would be duly recorded; his call to Nel was already on record. He could have removed the monitor, but he had no intention of doing so. That was his only link with Mills.

He wouldn’t attempt a direct appeal to the Major yet; but perhaps if he gave no hint that he was aware of the bugs, but enough hints about the book and Jeffries to pique the Major’s curiosity…

That wasn’t his primary problem now.

Someone, other than Harold Jeffries, was interested in
Crime and Punishment
, and it had been returned to the shop for a reason. It had been waiting.

The primary problem now was to get the book back on the shelf and hope it wasn’t too late; that the person for whom the book was waiting hadn’t already come for it and found it missing.

CHAPTER 7

The first call went to the J. K. Gill Bookstore in Salem. Conan’s wholesale outlets were in Portland, but Salem had an advantage over Portland that was crucial at the moment: it was an hour’s traveling time closer to Holliday Beach.

He asked for the manager, explained his needs, then leaned back and waited for the expected outburst.

“Good God, Conan, we don’t even
deliver
here in Salem. And a couple of cheap ML editions—you’re nuts!”

Conan only laughed. “Well, that shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, Ed. But I’m not unreasonable, whatever my mental state. Those books are worth fifty dollars apiece to me—
if
you get them to me within an hour.”

“Fifty bucks apiece? For a couple of dollar ninety-five books? You
have
flipped out.”

“Possibly. But I mean it.”

There was a long sigh. “Okay. I can’t turn down that kind of profit, even if it means taking advantage of a deranged man. Two Modern Library editions of Crime and Punishment coming up. But with this rain, it’ll take a
full
hour.”

“Right. Oh—I’d appreciate it if you handled this as discreetly as possible. Don’t discuss it with anyone.”

Another resigned sigh. “Nobody’d believe me, anyway. Where do you want them—the bookshop?”

“Yes. And thanks, Ed.”

“Sure. Uh…take it easy, huh?”

*

Conan cradled the phone and looked at his watch, then reached for the File. He flipped through the cards and finally pulled one out and studied the name typed across the top: “Charles Duncan, the Duncan Investigation Service, Inc., San Francisco.” Another graduate of Major Mills’s very special institute of espionage in Berlin.

A faint smile relaxed the tight lines of his face; he was thinking, with a little malice, of what this call would do for the Major’s blood pressure.

Eventually, he worked his way through a receptionist and a secretary to Duncan, and his ebullient voice boomed from the receiver.

“I’ll be damned—Conan Flagg! So you’re still alive and kicking.”

“Mostly kicking. How are you, Charlie?”

“Can’t complain. Where’re you calling from, anyway?”

“Holliday Beach; the bookshop.”

“Still at the sedentary life, huh? How’s the book business?”

“Lousy, but it keeps me occupied.”

Duncan snorted. “So what more can you ask—a profit? Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“Well, I have a little problem up here, and I need some—ah, professional help.”

“That’s what I’m selling. What’s the problem? Somebody steal one of your books?”

“No, as a matter of fact, someone left me a book, but I doubt it was intentional. Anyway, I need a couple of operatives up here as soon as possible.”

“Somebody left you a book, and you want that investigated? Must’ve been a damned strange book.”

“Yes. Well, there’s more to it than that. A man was drowned here last night, and there are some rather peculiar circumstances connected with the death. The official verdict was accidental drowning, but I’m not convinced it was accidental.”

Duncan gave a low whistle. “Murder?”

“Probably.”

“Well. Maybe the book business isn’t as dull as I figured.”

Conan laughed. “Oh, it has its moments.”

“You said you want two men?”

“Yes, that would give me a start, anyway.”

“Okay, but I’m a little shorthanded right now. Let me check and see who’s available. Hold on.”

As Conan waited, he turned his chair and stared idly out at the counter, listening to the rain pounding monotonously on the window behind him until finally Duncan returned to the phone.

“Any luck, Charlie?”

“Well, not much. I only have one good man available; name’s Carl Berg. He’s been with me for quite a while.” Duncan hesitated. “You can’t tell me anymore about this business?”

He pulled in a deep breath. “There really isn’t much to tell at this point, but there’s one aspect of it that makes me wonder. Anyway, I want to find out more about it.”

“Aren’t you wandering a little far afield from the book business? Sounds like you’re trying to move into my territory.”

Duncan wasn’t among the few people who were aware that Conan was also a card-carrying member of the private eye fraternity, nor did Conan intend to make him one.

“I wouldn’t think of infringing on your territory,” he replied with an easy laugh. “That’s why I’m calling you—for expert advice.”

“Sure. You can lay off the snow job, Chief.” Duncan paused. “Damn. I don’t have anybody else available with the experience to handle something like this.”

“One’s better than nothing.”

“If you’ve got a murder on your hands, one man could get himself in a hell of a lot of trouble. Look—” He hesitated, then, “Look, maybe I could take a week or so off. You know, it might be kind of nice to spend a little time at the beach.”

“Charlie, that would be great, but I haven’t much you can get your teeth into.”

“Well, even if it’s a wild-goose chase, I might get in a little fishing.”

“There’s that to recommend it.”

“Okay. I’ll have to shift some schedules, but I’ll be there.” He paused briefly. “Say…I was just thinking, seeing as how this might turn out to be a fishing trip, how about me bringing the wife and kids along? They’re crazy about the beach.”

Conan didn’t answer for a moment, a vision of sandy little feet trampling the Lilihans passing through his mind.

“Uh…well, Charlie, I only have one guestroom—”

Duncan’s big laugh rolled out.

“I figured that’d bring you up short. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t do that to you; not the kids, anyway. And I wouldn’t trust you with my wife. It’ll just be me and Carl. How soon do you want us up there?”

Conan breathed a quick sigh of relief.

“How about tomorrow?”

“Short notice, but I guess we can make it.”

“Any idea when you might be arriving?”

“Oh, depends on what flight we get to Portland. Early afternoon, probably. How do I find you?”

“Take Highway 18 out of Portland; it joins 101 just north of Holliday Beach at Skinner Junction. Call me from there and I’ll give you further directions. You’d better have both the shop and my home phone numbers. And don’t lose the home number; it’s unlisted.” He gave Duncan the numbers and waited for him to write them down. “What about a car? I can have one of the corporation cars meet you at the airport.”

“No, I prefer rentals. Makes it a little harder for anybody to get back to my clients.”

“All right. I’ll probably be at the shop when you arrive.”

“Okay. I’ll get my fishing gear together and see you tomorrow.”

“You’d better bring more than fishing gear—just in case. Take care, Charlie. And thanks.”

“Sure, Chief. But don’t thank me till you get the bill.”

*

Conan didn’t hang up, but pressed the cradle button and began dialing. Again, Salem was the destination of this call, but not a bookstore; the call went to the headquarters of the Oregon State Police.

“Steve Travers, please,” he said, as the usual cool receptionist’s voice answered; then when the connection was made, “Steve—Conan Flagg.”

There was a faintly sardonic laugh at the other end of the line.

“Oh, hello, Conan. I figured I might be hearing from you today. Did that Jeffries woman get hold of you?”

“That ‘Jeffries woman’ happens to be a
lady
,
one of the last of a vanishing breed.”

Travers sobered. “Oh. Then she
is
a friend of yours.”

“Yes, and she did get hold of me.”

“Well, I hope you got her calmed down. She was kind of hysterical. I’m sorry if I was out of line, but I wasn’t just buck-passing. I figured if there was something screwy going on, you’d be the one for her to see. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do for her. I checked with the patrolmen at the scene, and there was no sign of foul play. God, Conan, she was going on about murder.”

“Well, I did manage to get her calmed down.”

“I’m glad. I really felt sorry for her, but I couldn’t help her. Anyway, what’s on your mind?”

“Elinor Jeffries.”

“I thought you took care of her.”

“I did. I’m taking her case.”

There was a slight pause, then a burst of laughter. “You’re
what
?
Conan, that’s going a long way just to calm her down.”