Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

by M. K. Wren

“Where Jeffries was concerned, yes. And I’m saying the courier is closely involved in Mrs. Leen’s scheme.”

  “Couriers usually don’t even know what they’re carrying, Conan.”

  “Usually. I said this wasn’t the usual information exchange.”

  “But if the courier gave the orders for Jeffries, how would the old lady know to come back to the shop for the book the next day?”

  “He’d have to tell her, but it would only take a few words. Mrs. Leen was probably well aware of what had happened; Nel saw her upstairs Friday, looking for Dashiell Hammett in the Ds, by the way.”

  Duncan regarded him with narrowed eyes.

  “You holding out on me again? Any brainstorms about this third man?”

  Conan hesitated. “There were too many people in the shop Friday, and the courier will be an outsider; probably not a total stranger to me, but relatively unfamiliar. Perhaps my mousetrap will flush him out—to mix a metaphor.”

  “What makes you think he’s still around?”

  “I can’t be sure he is, but he was around last night. At least, someone besides Rose and Mrs. Leen was around. She wasn’t calling Rose from the phone booth, and she’d be a fool to trust him with searching the shop. Whatever was lost, she values it highly. Harvey was probably told only that the book was important; I’m sure he didn’t know why.”

  Duncan was silent for a moment, then he took a quick breath and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Maybe. But you’re taking off into theories again, and none of this tells me why you left here in such a hurry.”

  Conan laughed and leaned forward to tap the ash from his cigarette.

  “No. Well, as I said, quite a lot went on this morning. Anton Dominic came in less than an hour after Rose.”

  “Dominic? That’s interesting?”

  “Yes, it was very interesting. First, I managed to find out he has at least a reading knowledge of Russian. But he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.” He paused, lost in remembrance, and the sick weight under his ribs had no physical origin.

  “…bother you?”

  He focused on Duncan with an effort. “What?”

  “I asked why that seems to bother you.”

  “I’m not sure. Except that his reaction wasn’t right somehow. Charlie, he was terrified.”

  “Maybe he figured you blew his cover.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But you don’t buy it.” Duncan sighed. “Listen, Chief, remember what I told you about putting on blinders. For all you know, he’s the kingpin of this little operation. Just because Mrs. Leen picked up the book doesn’t mean she’s calling the shots.”

  “I know. Anyway, Dominic had an escort, and that was the reason for my abrupt departure.”

  “What kind of escort?”

  “The telephone man. Major Mills’s partner.”

  Duncan leaned forward intently. “You tailed him?”

  “Yes. He’s definitely keeping Dominic under surveillance—full-time surveillance. He’s taken up residence in the house directly across the street from Dominic’s, and I assume the Major was based there, too.”

  “They’ve set up a full-time house blind? Damn. Then I’d say this Dominic isn’t exactly small fish.”

  Conan shrugged uneasily, immediately regretting the unconscious movement.

  “I don’t know what he is—except frightened. He went directly home from the shop, with the telephone man keeping him company at a discreet distance. Charlie, I want Berg to keep an eye on Dominic. I found a reasonably good vantage point; an empty house two doors west of Dominic’s. It’s on the same side of the street, which isn’t so good, but at least it offers some cover.”

  “What about Mrs. Leen?”

  “You’ll have to take over there.”

  Duncan reached for the phone. “Okay, I’ll call Carl.”

  “Charlie…maybe you’d better contact him by radio.”

  He hesitated, then glanced at the stereo.

  “You worried about bugs?”

  “Rose sent a cop down this morning. I checked the office again, but I’d like to stay on the safe side.”

  “You in a hurry to get Carl down there?”

  “Not too much of a hurry. Dominic’s under the eye of the FBI now, which won’t help us any.” He crushed his cigarette out impatiently, feeling the tension within him coalescing into anger. “Damn, I’ve half a mind to walk in on that bogus telephone man and—”

  “Sure. I can see it now.” Duncan laughed derisively. “You just might end up in jail if you try pushing a—”

  “I know. But damn it, we’re running out of time.”

  “Maybe. Look, we don’t even know enough about this thing to get in a panic yet.”

  The voice of pragmatism. But Conan found no reassurance in it now.

  “Panic is a product of ignorance, Charlie, not of cognizance.”

  He rose and went to the window, watching a cluster of gulls spiraling seaward over the rooftops. He could see one corner of the roof and the chimney of Mrs. Leen’s beachfront cottage, and on the hazy, sun-limned horizon, a line of tiny dark spots.

  He tensed, his eyes moving from that faraway line to the chimney of Mrs. Leen’s house, and he was wondering what he would do, in her place, if he had lost some vital piece of information pertaining to his mission; instructions of some sort, perhaps, or a rendezvous point or timetable…

  “Conan, are you listening?”

  He turned, looking blankly at Duncan. “What?”

  “I said, since we’re not—” He paused. “What is it? You’ve got that look on your face.”

  Conan laughed and returned to his chair.

  “What look?”

  “That an-idea-just-hit-me look. So give. What’s going on in that uncracked cranium of yours?”

  “I was just considering a couple of facts, Charlie.”

  Duncan sighed impatiently. “What facts?”

  “Well, first, I checked with the Coast Guard this morning on the location of those trawlers.”

  “And?”

  “For several days they’ve been moving steadily south, but yesterday they settled down due west of Holliday Beach, and they haven’t moved since.”

  “What did the Coast Guard say about it?”

  “Oh, that possibly they’d hit a good run of fish, or had mechanical problems. They don’t know.”

  “Okay. So drop the other shoe.”

  “Well, I was thinking of the price of beachfront property”

  Duncan stared at him. “For God’s sake, at a time like this, you’re worried about property values?”

  He met Charlie’s dismayed scowl with a wry grin. “Runs in the family. How do you think my old man made all that money?”

  “I don’t give a damn about your old man. What the hell does the price of beachfront property have to do with this?”

  “Charlie, when I bought my lot, beachfront property was selling for two hundred dollars a front foot.”

  “So?”

  “I assume it’s gone up since.” He laughed bitterly. “I know it’s gone up from my tax assessments. Anyway, all the front lots in Mrs. Leen’s block are seventy-five feet wide. Now, the house she’s living in isn’t worth the powder to blow it up, which is probably why I never gave it much thought. But the lot is worth”—he did a little quick mental arithmetic—“at least fifteen thousand, and probably closer to eighteen thousand dollars.”

  Duncan gave a low whistle.

  “That’s not exactly small change.”

  “That’s the point. And I know she had to pay cash. I was distantly acquainted with the people she bought it from. The man had a serious illness, and they needed the money; they wouldn’t settle for terms. Now, how many widows, supposedly living on Social Security, could afford the taxes on a lot like that, much less lay out the cash in a lump sum?”

  Duncan frowned at him. “But I don’t see—”

  “I’m not sure it means anything, Charlie. I’m just wondering why
she bought that particular house. There are always plenty of houses on the market around here, and once you get away from the beachfront, the prices drop about two-thirds. And spending that kind of money, while putting on a poor act, is the kind of thing that makes people ask questions in a small town. I’m wondering why she’d take that risk, not to mention the large expenditure of funds. I doubt her superiors would approve of her dishing out that much money just for the view.”

  “Well, it’s an interesting point,” Duncan admitted, one eyebrow coming up. “But what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused, then, “I was wondering what she’d do if the message in the book did have information vital to her mission, and she’s lost it. She’d have to contact someone else connected with the mission.”

  “Somebody on the trawlers, maybe?”

  “That occurred to me.”

  “But how, with the Coast Guard keeping tabs on them? Those boats will be monitored on every frequency.”

  “True. It’s highly unlikely any radio transmissions between Mrs. Leen and the trawlers would go undetected.” He was silent for a while, then he straightened, glancing at his watch. “Charlie, you’d better get Berg on his way to Dominic’s.” He gave him the address and directions. “We’ll continue this later. We might even get lucky and hear from Steve.”

  “That would be a stroke of luck for sure. I feel like one of the blind men with the elephant.”

  Conan nodded wearily. “You aren’t the only one feeling your way around.”

  Duncan pulled himself to his feet, then paused, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “You thinking of any more unannounced forays, by the way?”

  Conan smiled briefly. “I am considering an expedition of sorts, but for now my plans are to stay here until closing time in case the message in the third copy of the Dostoevsky arouses any interest. I’ll call you before I do anything rash.”

  Duncan considered this, with no indication of satisfaction, then reached into his jacket and pulled out a compact .32 automatic and handed it to him.

  “I don’t suppose you have such a mundane item as a gun in your possession.”

  Conan stared at the gun a moment, then with a quick sigh, reached out for it.

  “No. I haven’t found it necessary to own such a…mundane item.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t like the way Mrs. Leen and her friends play the game, so just humor me and keep that around. It might come in handy.”

  He nodded and put the gun in his desk drawer.

  “All right. But what about you?”

  “That’s just the big firepower. I keep a smaller spare on hand.” He started for the door, then turned. “And damn it, Chief, you let me know before you head out on any more independent excursions. Otherwise, I’ll start charging you double time just for the extra worry.”

  CHAPTER 21

  When Charlie left the shop, Conan went upstairs to check the Crime and Punishment, and found it still in place, his message still in the envelope.

  He was frowning intently when he passed the counter on his way back to the office, and entirely unaware of Miss Dobie until she raised her voice.

  “Mr. Flagg?”

  He stopped and focused on her. “Oh—yes, Miss Dobie?”

  “I realize you have a lot on your mind, and I hate to bother you, but I’m hungry.”

  He laughed and glanced at his watch; it was after two.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to leave you starving at your post. You go on over to the Chowder House, and I’ll watch the counter.”

  She breathed a gusty sigh of relief.

  “Thanks. Can I bring you something?”

  He thought a moment; he’d been considering making a phone call, but he still had reservations about the shop phones, and this call was one he particularly didn’t want overheard. But Miss Dobie could use the telephone in the restaurant kitchen.…

  “Mr. Flagg? Food?”

  “Yes. Bring me—oh, anything. But there’s something else I want you to do.” He found a pen and a notepad on the counter and wrote a brief message, continuing his verbal instructions. “Use the kitchen extension; tell Lillian we’re having trouble with our phones. There’s plenty of noise in the kitchen; you won’t be overheard. Call Sven. You’ll have to look up the number.” He handed her his scrawled note. “Make the arrangements for as close to this time as possible, and tell Sven price is no object. But, please, don’t discuss this with anyone.”

  She looked at the note, her eyes widening.

  “‘Curiouser and curiouser.’”

  “Someday, Miss Dobie—”

  “Yes, I know. Someday, you’ll explain everything.” She sighed. “Meanwhile, I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m showing symptoms of paranoia or just senile dementia.”

  “Of the two, it has to be paranoia.” He grinned at her. “You’re much too young for senile dementia.”

  She eyed him skeptically and laughed.

  “Well, thanks for that, anyway.”

  *

  Conan again found himself behind the counter, and if anything, it was even more unpleasant than it had been yesterday. For one thing, he was more uncomfortable.

  In the first fifteen minutes, he had six customers, all local, and all of them asked about the robbery. He found the amnesia line useful in cutting off the inquiries, even if it was unsatisfactory to his questioners.

  Then at a lull in the stream of customers, he lit another cigarette and leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. But a few seconds later, they jerked open at the jingling of the bells.

  Joe Zimmerman, the Dell salesman.

  At Joe’s side, her hand clasped familiarly in his, was Marty Hammill, a tall, Clairol blonde known among the local male population as “Big Yaller.” The local women had other epithets for her, he was sure, but he’d never heard them.

  Conan almost laughed. So this was Joe’s girlfriend; this was what brought him to Holliday Beach on his vacation.

  But then, Marty Hammill wasn’t the run-of-the-mill call girl. She was an independent; attractive, sometimes capable of disarming honesty, and although few of her customers were aware of it, surprisingly well read.

  It was Marty who spoke first.

  “Hey, Conan, how the hell are you? Heard you had a little trouble up here last night.”

  He smiled wryly. “A little. Hello, Joe. Still on vacation?”

  Zimmerman cast a heavy-lidded glance at Marty, then winked.

  “Sure, Cone. The weather’s been great.”

  Marty didn’t miss the wink. Her dark eyes narrowed, then she laughed softly. But the laughter faded as she took in Conan’s bruised forehead and the sling.

  “Wow. Looks like you came out on the short end.”

  “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

  She laughed. “Sure, honey, I bet he was a mess.”

  Zimmerman leaned across the counter.

  “What about the other guy, Cone? I mean, really—you get a look at him?”

  “No,” he replied coolly. “In fact, I haven’t the slightest idea what happened. I was hit on the head during the melee, and I’ve drawn a total blank.”

  Marty shook her head, frowning.

  “Looks like somebody got his licks in. I’m really sorry. I mean, you’d think in a small town you wouldn’t have to worry about getting conked in your own shop.”

  “Marty, the world is full of nuts—present company excluded, of course. At least for the sake of courtesy.”

  She grinned at that, but the humor was lost on Zimmerman, who was still regarding him earnestly.

  “You said a burglary. He get away with anything?”

  “No. Apparently, the erstwhile burglar didn’t know I keep nothing in the safe but rare books.”

  “Speaking of nuts,” Marty interposed.

  “It’s all relative, Marty. Anyway, unless the burglar has sadistic tendencies, it was a total failure from his point of view.” He stubbed out his cigarette and added
quickly, “So much for my inept burglar. Now, what can I do for you today?”

  Marty gave him a sidelong look and a slow smile.

  “Well…” she began, her voice low and inviting, but edged with ironic laughter, “that all depends on what you have in mind, honey.”

  Zimmerman’s head snapped around, and he glared at her. That hint of irony had escaped him.

  “We were just fooling around town, Cone,” he said slowly, his eyes still fixed on her.

  She obviously heard the warning tone underlying his words, but his display of jealousy only amused her. She laughed, her oblique smile for Conan.

  “Well, I’m all for…fooling around. Anytime.”

  Zimmerman’s face went red, and his effort to mask the charged anger reflected in his eyes was futile. And Conan found himself tense, watching his face, wondering if Marty realized her little game might be dangerous.

  “Look, doll,” Joe said tightly. “I’ve just got a week’s vacation—”

  “That’s your problem, Joey boy.” She gave a quick sigh of disgust and glanced at Conan. “Good Lord, you meet a guy one night, and by the next day, he thinks he owns you.”

  Then she looked around at Zimmerman and finally seemed to recognize the thinly veiled rage in his features.

  She tilted her head back and smiled at him.

  “Hey, Joe, I’m just kidding. Come on, don’t get shook.”

  “Baby, you got a hell of a lot to learn,” he said, and the chill in his tone made her smile falter. “You better keep that in mind.”

  There was a brief, taut silence; then Joe made an abrupt about-face. He grinned and reached for her hand.

  “Come on, doll, let’s take a look around.”

  Conan was aware of his own sudden release of tension and saw the same reaction in Marty’s smile.

  “Okay, Joe, let’s look.”

  “You’d never know it from the outside,” Zimmerman went on, his anger apparently forgotten, “but this is really kind of an interesting old dump.”

  “Watch your language,” Conan put in. “You’re referring to the dump I love.”

  “No offense,” he replied with a sly grin. “But you’ll have to admit—”

  “It’s called ‘charm,’ Joe.”

  “Yeah. I’ll have to remember that. Come on, doll. You’ll have to see the upstairs; you’ll never believe it.”