Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (9 page)

He smiled faintly. “You just don’t know Nel Jeffries, Steve. I couldn’t say no.”

“Sure. You’re a real marshmallow. Okay, so what do you know that I don’t? How come you’re taking her so-called case?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied casually. “Maybe Nel just has an honest face.”

“And a pretty one? I didn’t check
Mrs
. Jeffries’ vital statistics last night.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Well, come on, Conan—what’s going on?”

He smiled at the sharp edge of curiosity in Travers’ voice, and purposely ignored the question.

“Say, Steve, I understand you’ve been talking about me behind my back lately.”

After a brief silence, Travers asked suspiciously, “What are you talking about?”

“I hope you had a chance to meet Major Hills in person. He’s quite a guy.”

“Now, listen, I don’t know any Major Mills, and I—”

“I said
Hills
,
Steve. You must be confused.”

“Hills, shmills. I’ve got nothing to say about—”

“All right, I’m putting you on the spot, and I apologize. I must be getting paranoid in my old age.”

“Sure. But I accept the apology; you owed it. You’ve got a long nose, friend. Now, what about your—your client, Elinor Jeffries? I want to know what’s going on.”

Conan pulled in a deep breath, thinking bitterly that Steve wasn’t alone in that.

“Actually, nothing at the moment. Maybe it’s just the old hackles rising.”

“In other words, you’re not saying.”

“Not now.”

Travers sighed. “Okay. Let me guess your next question.”

“Be my guest.”

“You want information; anything I can dig up on Harold Jeffries. Right?”

Conan laughed appreciatively. “Right. Can you do it?”

“Sure, but it’ll cost you.”

“What? My immortal soul?”

“No, there’s no market for souls anymore. But one of these days—and soon—we’re going to get together, and you’re going to tell me exactly why you’re taking on the Jeffries case.”

“All right, Steve, but meanwhile—”

“I know. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can dig up for you on Jeffries.”

“Thanks. Oh—and you don’t need to discuss this with any of the local boys in blue.”

Travers gave a short laugh. “No faith in your local stalwarts?”

“You know Harvey Rose. He’s inept, at the very least.”

“Yes. Well, you’ve got a point there. Anyway, your little excursions into never-never land are your own damn business.”

“I appreciate that—and the information.”

“Sure. It’s the least I could do, after sending the…
lady
to you. Now, stay out of trouble—okay?”

“Okay, Steve. Take care.”

*

Conan filled his coffee cup, then went to the window; he found the small room oppressively confining. But there was nothing more to do until the books arrived from Salem. Except more muddling.

He grimaced at the scalding temperature of the coffee and put the cup down on the sill, watching a patch of fog form on the cold glass.

Asking Steve about Mills had been a shot in the dark, but one with a good chance of hitting the target. Mills would naturally go through police channels in his investigation, and it was all but inevitable that he’d encounter Steve Travers. Finding a division chief of detectives among Conan’s friends must have been a boon to the Major.

Steve must know who Mills was working for, but obviously he wasn’t free to discuss it. Not with Conan.

He frowned irritably and looked at his watch, then took his jacket from the closet and went out into the shop, locking the door behind him. Miss Dobie’s eyebrows came up at that; he seldom locked the office door.

“Miss Dobie, I’m going out. I’m expecting a delivery from Gill’s in Salem, but I’ll be back before it arrives.” He zipped up the jacket and crossed to the front entrance.

“Oh…uh, all right. Mr. Flagg, did you get a letter drafted for Benevento? I’ll type it up for you.”

He opened the door, glancing back at her distractedly. “Benevento? Oh. No, Fabrizi will have to wait.” Then at her perplexed expression, “Something’s come up.”

CHAPTER 8

He had no specific purpose in mind when he left the shop, except to escape its confines for a short while. He walked south, head down against the wind-driven rain, past the random assortment of shops and the post office to the first corner, then west toward the ocean. He scarcely looked up as he walked the two blocks down the sloping street. The way was quite familiar to him; it took him to the beach access only a few steps from his house.

If he had any destination in mind, it wasn’t home. The access, perhaps. Again, a mnemonic device. But as he approached the house, he slowed his pace and pulled the hood of his jacket up—not against the rain, but to shadow his face against possible recognition. And he found himself smiling; a tight, ironic smile that had no humor in it.

A telephone company truck was parked outside his house. His home phones were also being “checked.” Mr. Evans was no doubt accepted as unquestioningly by his housekeeper as he had been by Miss Dobie.

But at least that invasion of his privacy, even though it brought a flush of anger to his cheeks, wasn’t so inexplicable now, and for the moment he put it out of his mind.

He stopped across the street from the access, bracing himself against the intermittent assaults of wind. The rain was letting up, but it still found its way under the hood and ran in chilling rivulets down his chin and neck.

He was standing at the juncture where Harold Jeffries would have walked out onto the beach last night, according to the official version of his death.

He turned and looked north along Front Street, which paralleled the shore behind a row of beachfront houses. Front began here, making an L with Day Street, and continued several blocks straight north, then wound its way up onto Hollis Heights, finally dead-ending a few doors north of the Jeffries’ house high on the wooded headland.

He turned his gaze westward, out to the roaring breakers, but he wasn’t seeing them. He was thinking of Harold Jeffries’ uncharacteristic nocturnal walk, and wondering what his intended destination might have been.

Jeffries had walked straight down Front Street from his house, but if Nel judged her husband well, the beach access wasn’t his destination. Yet, according to Alma Crane, he’d stayed on Front past the corner of Beach Street, and that was only a block to the north.

But there were still a number of possibilities. He could have stopped at one of the houses on the way, or even if he stayed on Front until he reached this point…

Conan turned abruptly, staring up at the tiered slabs of silver-shingled walls and the banks of rain-washed windows of his own house, and his pulse quickened.

If Jeffries had come this far, he could have turned right to the beach—an impossibility, according to Nel—or left up Day Street to the highway. Or he could have continued straight ahead to Conan’s front door.

He stood perfectly still for the space of a minute, unaware of the chill rain wetting his face. The idea had definite possibilities.

But guessing at the Captain’s
intended
destination was an exercise in futility now. All his guesswork and conjecturing were an exercise in futility. Muddling. Still, he knew it would be equally futile to attempt to turn his mind from that muddling.

He took a last look at the telephone company truck, his eyes assuming the cold sheen of obsidian, then he thrust his hands into his pockets and set off northward along Front Street, the wind gusting fitfully at his back.

His feet led him on, a kind of automatic homing instinct guiding his steps. He was too preoccupied to be aware of his surroundings or destination. He turned east at the next corner, toward the highway, still lost in concentration, wrapped in the rain-born solitude of the empty street.

When he reached the highway, he quickened his pace. The air had a cutting chill now as he turned south by the grocery store, walking straight into the wind. He was only a few steps from the bookshop entrance, when he finally looked up, toward the highway.

Perhaps his eye was drawn by the flash of blue. He didn’t break step, or turn his head, but he watched the blue Chevrolet closely as it passed.

Major James Mills was at the wheel.

Conan’s jaw was aching with tension as he opened the door of the shop. Sooner or later, he’d find it necessary to talk to the Major, and he could only hope he wouldn’t have to force the meeting. That could be potentially dangerous for Mills if he was working under a cover identity.

“Ah! Misster Flack—”

*

Conan closed the door, bringing his thoughts into focus with an effort. Then he found himself relaxing, his smile coming easily.

Miss Dobie was at the counter checking out some books for Mr. Dominic.

Anton Dominic was one of his favorite local characters, and a welcome diversion at the moment. He was a retired carpenter, an immigrant from Greece, and Conan had become quite fond of him in his two-year residency in Holliday Beach.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Dominic.”

The old man’s face was creased with a broad grin, his sky-blue eyes glowing behind his thick glasses; but his wispy gray hair and moustache were even more unkempt than usual, and he wore a cumbersome wool scarf around his neck. His thin, pointed nose was red, and there was a pale cast to his skin.

“Mr. Flack, how are you being today?”

“Very well, but what about you?” He crossed to the counter, pushing back the hood of his jacket. “I haven’t seen you for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh, I been a liddle—as you say—under the weather. But I be fine now.”

Miss Dobie frowned solicitously. “You really should have let us know.”

He looked down at the floor shyly, burying half his face in the scarf.

“No, no, Miss Dobie, you should not be worry about me. I only haf liddle cold iss all.”

Conan smiled privately as he glanced at the books Dominic was checking out: a book on recent developments in nuclear particle accelerators, and a thin, scholarly treatise published by MIT on Mu mesons.

“I’m sorry you’ve been ill, Mr. Dominic, and you should have let us know. Oh—by the way, I saved my last copy of the
Scientific American
for you.”

Dominic’s lively eyes glinted with anticipation.

“Ah, that iss be very nice, Mr. Flack.”

“It’s in my office,” he said, taking out his keys. “I’ll go find it for—” He stopped, looking past Dominic as the front door opened.

Major James Mills.

Mills nodded impersonally as Miss Dobie smiled and wished him a good morning.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked.

“No, just browsing, thanks.”

His eyes shifted curiously around the shop, then he moved to one of the paperback racks lined up to the north of the entrance and began looking over the books. He didn’t so much as glance in Conan’s direction.

Conan refocused his attention on Dominic, who was still smiling diffidently, sparing Mills only a brief, disinterested glance.

“Wait just a minute, Mr. Dominic,” Conan said as he unlocked the office door. “I’ll find that magazine for you.”

He stripped off his dripping jacket, then went to the desk and began searching through the drawers hurriedly, his brows drawn together in an intent, angry line.

Why was Mills here? Why was he taking the risk of open recognition?

Testing, perhaps. Testing Conan’s reactions.

That was the only reasonable explanation, and it wasn’t too reasonable. But it was too early for the monitored phone calls to have brought him around; his attitude suggested no willingness to talk. Of course, those calls might have aroused his curiosity enough to induce him to scout out the situation in person, if not to discuss it.

Conan found the magazine, closing the drawer with an unintentionally hard push that sent a pile of papers fluttering off the top of the desk. He returned to the counter, noting that the Major was still at the paperback rack, apparently fascinated with the books.

He called up a smile and handed the magazine to Anton Dominic.

“Here you are. Sorry it took so long to find it.”

The old man took the magazine with an expression of delighted, almost hungry anticipation.

“Ah, t’ank you, Mr. Flack. T’ank you very much. I bring it back soon.”

“No hurry. I have plenty to keep me occupied.”

Dominic took a knit cap from his pocket and pulled it down over his wispy hair almost to the top of his glasses. He smiled at Miss Dobie as he put the magazine in the sack with his other books.

“And t’ank you, Miss Dobie, for finding the pam—what you call? Pamlet?”

“Pamphlet,” she said, smiling warmly. “You’re certainly welcome. Now, you take care of yourself.”

He picked up his sack and started for the door.

“Do not be worry, please. Good-bye. I be back, day or so.”

As the door closed behind Dominic, Conan looked over at Mills, waiting—hoping—for a cue. But the Major only glanced at him briefly, and there was nothing in his expression to suggest he’d ever seen him before in his life.

And that was the cue: no-recognition. Conan’s mouth tightened, but he looked away, his features reflecting the same casual indifference.

“You know,” Miss Dobie said, “for a retired carpenter, that man has the most extraordinary tastes in reading matter.”

She was watching Anton Dominic through the windows fronting the shop as he trudged down the highway. He lived nearly a mile to the south, and he didn’t own a car, but he walked to the shop several times a week. The exercise was good for him, he always insisted; good for his old man’s heart.

Conan nodded absently. “Well, Miss Dobie, as you always say, you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Mm. Well, this book may be in a plain wrapper, but the contents are amazing. He’s such a nice old man, and here he’s been down with a cold for two weeks, and I didn’t even call. He probably could’ve used some fresh reading material.”

There was another book of extraordinary contents in a plain wrapper here, but Miss Dobie seemed entirely unaware of him. Conan knew he wouldn’t have been, either, if he didn’t know him; nor would he have taken note of his departure now, if he weren’t so acutely conscious of his presence. That virtual invisibility was a talent of the Major’s.