by M. K. Wren
“He say there was more than one?” Rose turned to look out the front entrance as if the answer were of no interest to him.
“Well, he didn’t say. And something else I don’t understand—those bloodstains at the foot of the stairs. There’s even a few on the stairs themselves.”
“Oh? Was Mr. Flagg upstairs last night?”
“I suppose he might’ve been.”
“He see anybody up there?”
Miss Dobie frowned. “Now, how could I answer that?”
“Oh…I just thought maybe he’d said something. Maybe last night when you were here.” He gave her an oblique glance, then looked out toward the highway again.
“Well, he certainly wasn’t saying anything last night.”
Rose shrugged. “Sometimes people’ll talk even when they’re half out, you know.”
“He wasn’t just half out.”
“Well, uh, I just thought—” He seemed to become aware of the suspicion in her eyes and shifted the subject hurriedly. “You find anything missing?”
“No,” she said flatly.
“You’re sure of that?”
“I checked very carefully.”
“Well, maybe there was something Mr. Flagg might know about.”
She glanced back at the office door and smiled faintly. Conan had opened the door, and was leaning against the jamb, the Dostoevsky in his left hand, the spine—and title—clearly visible.
She said casually, “Maybe you’d better ask Mr. Flagg yourself.”
Rose turned, his face going red, then fading to a blotchy white as his gaze slid to the Dostoevsky.
“Good morning, Mr. Rose. I’ve been expecting you.”
Rose focused on his face, swallowing hard.
“Uh…good morning.”
“Any luck on the business here at the shop last night?”
“The…robbery. Well, no. We uh, don’t have much to go on, you know.” He cleared his throat, beginning to recover himself now. “I figure you must’ve scared the guy off. He’s probably in Mexico by now.”
“No doubt.”
“Uh…by the way, how’s that shoulder?”
Conan almost laughed at that show of concern.
“It’ll be as good as new in a few weeks. Excuse me, I want to put this away while I’m thinking about it.” He indicated the book in his hand. “It’s a full-time job just keeping these books in order.” He started toward the stairway, then paused. “Oh—if you have any more questions about the robbery, Miss Dobie will help you. Actually, she knows more about it than I do.”
“Still don’t remember anything?”
Conan shook his head. “It’s still a complete blank. But if I ever get any faint stirrings, I’ll let you know.”
Rose’s pale eyes strayed briefly to the book. “Yeah. You do that.” Then as Conan walked away, he turned to Miss Dobie. “You sure there’s nothing missing?”
Conan didn’t hear her response, but he trusted her; he’d asked her not to mention the Dostoevsky, and she wouldn’t.
He went upstairs, glanced around the empty Fiction section, then put the book on the shelf, exactly where the other two copies had been.
This done, he crossed to the gable window on the east side of the room and looked out across the highway to Rose’s car. A few minutes later, the Chief hurried across the road to the car, taking time to make a radio call before he drove away. Conan smiled at that. It wouldn’t be on any regular police frequency.
The trap was set. He had only to wait and see who would be attracted to the bait.
CHAPTER 19
The trap had a basic deficiency.
Conan paced the confines of his office, pausing at the window, then returned to his chair, studying a middle-aged couple as they came into the shop. Tourists; recently retired; probably the self-contained camper variety.
The deficiency was that the trap wasn’t specific. He wouldn’t be sure exactly who sprang it, unless he stood guard over the book upstairs, in which case, it was unlikely the trap would be sprung at all.
But it was his only hope, unless Steve came through with more information, or the Major’s employers adopted a more cooperative attitude.
He let his head rest against the back of the chair, disciplining his mind to control the mounting tension and impatience. The trap hadn’t been set a full hour yet.
The jingling of the door bells was a grating, jarring sound; one that intensified the ache in his shoulder with the inevitable reaction of tightening muscles.
Anton Dominic was coming into the shop.
Conan rose and moved to the office door to watch while Dominic and Miss Dobie exchanged greetings, the old man smiling ingenuously, diffidently. He made no mention of the robbery, and Miss Dobie didn’t broach the subject.
Conan leaned against the wall, watching Dominic—a man who didn’t exist officially. He listened to him as he chatted with Miss Dobie; listened closely and critically to his accent.
Conan had spent some time in Greece in the course of his personal pilgrimages, but that was several years ago. He couldn’t be sure Dominic’s accent wasn’t typically Greek, yet it reminded him more of…
He tensed as the front door opened, and studied the man who entered.
There was nothing unusual about him; nothing to attract anyone’s attention. Yet he held Conan’s full attention. He was a stranger; a man in his late thirties, tall and athletically built, wearing dark glasses and informal clothing.
He nodded politely in response to Miss Dobie’s greeting, then moved out of Conan’s range of vision. To the paperback racks, no doubt.
Miss Dobie watched the man curiously for a moment, with a hint of a frown, as if she were trying to remember something about him. Then she resumed her conversation with Mr. Dominic, and Conan again focused his attention on the old man.
And an idea was taking shape in his mind. A test, of sorts, for a man who was more than he pretended to be.
When Dominic left the counter, Conan waited a full minute to give him time to make his way upstairs, then he opened the office door.
Miss Dobie looked around at him inquisitively, but he ignored the question in her eyes, keeping his voice low as he spoke, watching the man in the dark glasses. He was at one of the paperback racks.
“Miss Dobie, I want you to go upstairs to the Language section and bring me down a book in Russian—without attracting any attention.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Any particular book?”
“No, just so it’s Russian.”
She gazed at him in bewilderment, then sighed.
“All right. But I wish somebody would explain to me what’s going on around here.”
“I hope someday I can. Meanwhile, have faith.”
“Oh, I do. It’s all that’s left to me.”
*
When Beatrice Dobie returned a few minutes later, he took the book with a quick word of thanks and went to his desk, leaving the office door wide open.
He thumbed through the book, a basic grammar, and finally found what he was searching for: a long reading selection. When the book was open, the two pages showed nothing but small, regularly spaced print. He underlined a passage lightly with pencil, then settled back to wait.
It was fifteen minutes before Anton Dominic came back downstairs, shuffled up to the counter, and handed two books to Miss Dobie. Conan waved at him from behind his desk.
“Mr. Dominic, you’re just the man I wanted to see.” The old man looked up in surprise, then smiled.
“Ah! Hello, Mr. Flack. You are want to see me?”
“Yes, I think you can help me with something, if you don’t mind. Come on in.”
Miss Dobie glanced around, but at Conan’s warning look, turned away and continued checking out the books.
“I can be helping you?” Dominic moved hesitantly into the office, twisting his woolen cap in his birdlike hands. Then his eyes widened. “Ah—what iss be happen to your arm?”
“Just a little…acciden
t. Nothing to worry about.”
“I hope iss not be painful to you?”
“No, it’s really nothing.”
His smile returned at that assurance.
“Good. But what can I be helping you for?”
Conan leaned over the Russian book, a slight frown drawing his brows together.
“Well, you see, I’m working on a consultation project, and it involves some translation. My Greek isn’t too good, and I’m having trouble with this one passage. I thought perhaps you could help me.” He pushed the book closer to Dominic, pointing to the underlined paragraph. “Here—this is the passage that’s giving me the trouble.”
Dominic bent over the book, his head tilted back to focus the bifocal lenses of his glasses on the page, the traces of a pleased smile still clinging to his lips.
Conan turned his head—the old man’s face was only inches from his own—concentrating on Dominic’s eyes.
He was banking on the similarity between Greek and Russian characters; banking on the fact that it would be all but impossible for anyone not to read words set before them unexpectedly if the language were known. All he hoped for was a revealing eye movement; some faint hint of recognition. Nothing more.
Dominic’s eyes went to the indicated passage, and for perhaps two seconds moved quite naturally, and unconsciously, across the lines of print.
Then realization struck him.
He straightened with an audible intake of breath and stared at Conan, his jaw slack, every trace of color draining from his face, leaving a sick pallor.
“N-no—no!” He pressed his hand against his chest, his voice a choked whisper. “No! I—I cannot help you. I…I do not know that—what language…I cannot help!”
Conan rose, baffled by the intensity of his reaction, alarmed at that hand-to-chest gesture, remembering the old man’s heart condition.
“Mr. Dominic—”
“No!” He was backing out of the office, shaking his head frantically, feeling his way like a blind man. “I cannot help! I—I do not know what—”
“Wait! Mr. Dominic—please!”
But he turned in headlong flight, flung open the front door, and stumbled off down the sidewalk, leaving a taut silence broken only by the tuneless jangle of the bells.
“Mr. Flagg, what in the world happened?”
Miss Dobie was still holding Dominic’s forgotten books. Conan glanced at her, then pulled in a deep breath, wondering what the real answer to that question was. He’d hoped for a reaction, but this went far beyond his expectations.
“I…I’m afraid he misunderstood me, Miss Dobie.”
“Misunderstood you? About what?”
“It isn’t important.” He was watching the man in the dark glasses; watching him move to the door, looking neither to right nor left. “It was only a…language barrier.”
“Well, I’ve never seen him in such a state. Why, he even went off without his books, and I know he wanted this one on the Berkeley cyclotron particularly.”
“Miss Dobie?”
“What?”
The bells were still ringing in the wake of an unobtrusive exit; the man in the dark glasses.
“Do you know that man—the one who just left?”
She looked out the windows as the man crossed to a black Chevrolet. Then she frowned.
“Oh. That one. I didn’t even hear him leave.”
Conan’s jaw tightened as he watched the car move off southward, but Miss Dobie could save him a fruitless errand if he were wrong about the man.
“Do you know him?”
“Well…you know, I was trying to figure out who he was when he came in. I’m sure I’ve seen him before.”
“Where, Miss Dobie? Here at the shop?”
She thought the matter over for a while.
“Well, I think so, but with the dark glasses—”
“Was it recently? In the last few days?”
“Yes, I think maybe it was. Oh—wait a minute.”
He sighed; he hadn’t many minutes to spare.
“Oh, of course,” she said finally, looking up at him. “Now, I remember.”
“Who is he?”
“I suppose it was the uniform that threw me off.” She laughed to herself. “I mean that coverall thing. He didn’t have it on today. It’s funny how you identify people by their clothes and never really—”
“Miss Dobie, who is he?”
“Oh.” She looked at Conan, vaguely puzzled, then shrugged. “Well, it’s only the new telephone man. You know, the one who came in Saturday to check—”
“Thanks.”
He left her staring and went into the office for his jacket and keys, then paused to lock the door as he emerged.
“Miss Dobie, I’m going out for a few minutes. When I return, I want to know exactly who’s been in the shop, what books are purchased or rented, and if you can find out without attracting any undue attention, by whom. Relay any phone calls not concerned with shop business to Mr. Duncan at my home. Don’t use his name; just give them the number.”
“Well, all right, Mr. Flagg, but—”
He didn’t stay to answer her questions. He was out of the door and into the XK-E before she could get a full sentence out.
CHAPTER 20
When Conan returned to the shop, he was preoccupied with the task of getting the sling back into place, and distracted by the throbbing ache of the shoulder. But Miss Dobie’s peculiarly distressed expression commanded his attention. She looked at him, then glanced uneasily toward the paperbacks.
He closed the door and followed the direction of her anxious gaze, a faint smile coming to his lips.
“Hello, Charlie.”
Duncan eyed him with no trace of humor.
“I’d like a word with you, Chief. That is, if you aren’t too busy.”
Conan sighed; he should have called Duncan before he left the shop. He crossed the room and unlocked the office door.
“Go on in. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Duncan made no response, but moved purposefully into the office and sat down in the chair opposite the desk.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Dobie was saying, sotto voce. “He seemed so upset that you weren’t here, but I didn’t know—”
“It’s all right. Were there any calls?”
“No. I mean, nothing except a couple of inquiries about books.”
“What books?”
“Well…let’s see. One call was from Mrs. Higgins asking if we had Dollbaby yet. The other was the McDill boy; he was looking for Catcher in the Rye.”
“You kept track of the books you handled here?”
She smiled proudly and reached under the counter, then proffered a sheet of paper divided into columns with various notations in her bookkeeper’s hand. He studied it with a little amazement, and finally laughed softly.
“Beautiful, Miss Dobie. Remarkable, in fact.”
As he glanced over the sheet, he saw nothing that seemed unusual; definitely no entry concerning the Dostoevsky. He returned the sheet to her.
“Thank you. I need to talk to Charlie, and I’ll have the door closed, so if you’ll just continue with this…”
She nodded. “Yes, sir, I’ll take care of it.”
“And you have been keeping it out of sight?”
“Oh, yes.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I’ve been very careful.”
“Miss Dobie, you’re a rare gem. Thanks.”
*
Conan closed the office door behind him, raising his hand to still Duncan’s remonstrances.
“I know, I know. I should’ve called you.”
Duncan scowled. “Yeah, well, I guess you aren’t used to newfangled gadgets like phones out here in the sticks.”
Conan went to the stereo, smiling crookedly, then picked a tape cartridge and inserted it.
“Actually, there wasn’t time to call you, and I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going.”
He paused, listening with closed ey
es to the measured and elegant harmonies of the opening bars of the Swan of Tuonela. Then he took a deep breath and went to his chair, sinking into the cushions gratefully.
Duncan’s expression softened a little.
“How’re you feeling, Conan?”
He gave a short laugh. “Lousy, but I’m still mobile.”
“Okay. Now, would you mind filling me in? What sent you out of here in such a hurry? Miss Dobie said—”
“Miss Dobie gets easily excited.” He lit a cigarette, pausing to take a long drag. “First, have you heard from Steve?”
“No. I haven’t heard from anybody.”
“Carl?”
“Oh, I checked with him before I came up here. Nothing. The old lady hasn’t set foot out of her house.”
“Damn. That bothers me. She hasn’t even made the daily trek to the post office. What’s she waiting for?”
“A word from on high, maybe. Now, what’s been going on here?”
Conan leaned back, still frowning at the lack of news. “Well, quite a lot, actually. I baited another mousetrap. The third copy of the Dostoevsky. I put a message on the date card suggesting that I have something to sell.”
“The code?”
“Whatever it is Mrs. Leen lost last night. Rose obliged me by coming in to pump Miss Dobie. I let him have a good look at the book, and made it clear I was putting it upstairs. He made a radio call when he left the shop; reporting to Mrs. Leen, no doubt.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe. And maybe to somebody else.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m only hoping it will attract someone. It might even draw out our third man.”
“Who’s the third man?”
“The courier, probably. Someone, besides Rose, is involved with Mrs. Leen in this little conspiracy. I was wondering why Rose put the Dostoevsky back in the shop after he killed Jeffries, but put it in another hiding place last night—outside the shop. It occurred to me that Mrs. Leen would be familiar enough with the area to suggest another safe cache, but the courier wouldn’t. Couriers are necessarily mobile, and it’s unlikely he’s a resident.”
Charlie folded his arms and frowned questioningly.
“What’re you saying? That Rose got his orders from the courier, and not Mrs. Leen?”