by M. K. Wren
“You know, Conan, I could go along with you on just about everything you’ve laid out if it weren’t for one thing, and it’s the real clincher in Kleber’s case.”
Conan closed his eyes, listening to the endless, ageless murmur of the sea in the darkness beyond the windows, and he felt something akin to fear—fear of the unknown. He was met with an enigma that resisted rational processes.
“The initials,” he said flatly. “Eliot Nye’s dying testimony. The moving finger writes; and having writ…”
Steve asked almost regretfully, “What else could those letters mean?”
“Except Brian Tally? I don’t know.” Then his eyes assumed an obsidian glint. “But there is another explanation; there must be. For one, it’s possible that the killer made them for the express purpose of clinching the case against Brian.”
“In his victim’s blood?” Then he shrugged and answered his own question. “Well, that’s possible, I’ll give you that. Maybe the fingerprint experts can tell us whether it was Nye’s finger that made the letters.”
“What would preclude the killer’s using Nye’s finger as a writing instrument?”
Steve winced at that. “Nothing, I suppose.”
“Besides, there’s another alternative. We don’t know much about Nye, about the way he thought or felt about anything, and in particular the way he felt about Brian. For all we know, Nye hated Brian passionately, and we don’t know how far he was capable of carrying a grudge. Maybe Nye didn’t actually see who hit him—the blow was to the back of his head—and once hit, he certainly wouldn’t know who put him in the freezer to die. Maybe he hated Brian enough to assume arbitrarily that he was his killer.”
Steve said patiently, “Nye was dying and he must’ve known it. It’d take a hell of a grudge to make a man accuse somebody of his murder if he wasn’t really sure he was guilty.”
Conan laughed bitterly and came to his feet.
“I know. But if a question is irrational, maybe the answer has to be irrational, too.” He stood silent a moment, then, “When will Kleber arrest Brian?”
Steve’s downcast eyes fixed uncomfortably on his glass. “Kleber won’t arrest him, Conan. I will. This case belongs to the state, and I guess I’m the state here.”
And he wasn’t enjoying the role. Conan studied him, wondering how Steve Travers had managed over the years to stay both sane and uncalloused in his chosen profession.
“The case is yours, Steve, but you can’t ignore Kleber.”
“Earl is unignorable. And I can’t ignore the evidence. Motive and opportunity and, on top of that, a dying testament from the victim. Unless something unexpected turns up in the lab reports or autopsy, Kleber plans to take an affidavit to Culpepper in the morning, and Culpepper’s primed and ready to hand it to the grand jury.”
“And he’ll probably have an indictment and a warrant by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Probably, and I’ll have to sign the affidavit and serve the arrest warrant.”
“Are you apologizing for that?”
Steve didn’t respond to Conan’s ironic tone; he replied soberly, “No. I just don’t like the feel of this thing any more than you do, but I don’t have any good reason to set my heels. Not the way things stand now.”
Conan turned to pick up his crashed paper airplane, frowned sourly at it, then tossed it on his chair.
“Well, an arrest isn’t a conviction. Come on, Steve, let’s go find something to eat.”
Chapter 9
Conan was not and never had been a willing early riser, and since he had spent a good part of the night on his feet making repeated trips downstairs to the library, to the bar, to the kitchen, and another part of it chain-smoking at his bedroom window while he watched the moon descend to a golden rendezvous with its reflection, he didn’t welcome the telephone call that routed him from hard-won sleep.
He swore and groped and fumbled for the phone on the bedside table. The illuminated numbers on the clock informed him that it was exactly 8:00 A.M.
“Oh, my God…hello?”
After a momentary hesitation, a masculine voice asked, “Is this Mr. Conan Flagg?”
“I think so. Yes.” Then abruptly he pulled himself up into a sitting position. “How did you get this number?”
Another hesitation, then, “Oh—I see. The number is unlisted, isn’t it? Well, the local police—”
“All right, who are you?”
“My name is Luther Dix. I’m assistant district director in the Portland office of the IRS.”
Conan wondered if he expected a round of applause. “Yes, Mr. Dix.”
“I’m in Holliday Beach, and it’s imperative that I speak to you, Mr. Flagg. I’ll be there in ten minutes. That is, if you can spare me a little of your time.”
Conan was at a loss for words, which was probably fortunate. It was clear from his tone that Luther Dix didn’t consider it remotely possible that Conan wouldn’t spare his time, but what galled Conan was the blithe assumption that all the world punched in at eight o’clock.
“I don’t conduct business in my home,” he said in as businesslike a tone as he could manage. “My office is at the Holliday Beach Bookshop. It opens at ten. I’ll be happy to arrange my schedule so I can see you then.”
“But, Mr. Flagg, I really must—”
“Oh, it’s quite all right, Mr. Dix. No trouble at all.” He smiled through that and immediately hung up, restraining the impulse to slam the receiver down.
Then he rose and stalked out of the room, neglecting to put on a robe, but oblivious to the morning chill despite his stark state. He padded along the balcony over the living room to the guest room and found the door open, the room empty, and the bed made after Steve’s fashion.
Dix wasn’t the only one who punched in at eight o’clock. Half an hour later, showered, shaved, dressed, and sitting at the kitchen window with a cup of coffee and a telephone, Conan looked out at the crystal day and conceded that the early light on the breakers did perhaps have something to recommend it.
He found Steve Travers at the first number he called: the Holliday Beach police station.
“Good morning, Steve.”
“Conan? Is that you? Holy mud, it’s only—”
“I know what time it is. I have an appointment at ten with assistant et cetera et cetera Luther Dix. I thought I’d better check with you and find out if there’s anything I should know before I come to grips with him.”
“Well, I’d recommend a couple of cups of coffee first.”
“I’m tending to that. At this point, I’m fully awake.”
“I’ll be damned. Okay, well, I guess you should know that Dix arrived in your fair whistle-stop yesterday evening and went straight to the top: Chief Earl Kleber. You can figure Dix knows everything about the case Earl does.”
“And what does Earl know from Dix?”
“I only saw him for a few minutes, but it didn’t sound like he’d gotten any revelations from on high. Dix’s main concern is those missing Surf House records, although he’s a little irate about somebody killing an IRS agent.”
“Of course. Sets a bad precedent. Do you have any of the lab reports yet?”
“Conan, it’s early—remember? I haven’t had a chance to call Salem yet. But Dan Reuben arrived about ten minutes ago. He should have a prelim on the autopsy before noon.”
“He must be the fastest scalpel in the West.”
“The fastest in Oregon, anyway. He’s got another autopsy in The Dalles this afternoon. Call me after your date with Dix. I’ll have the lab reports by then.” He added wryly, “Besides, I want to hear what you find out from him.”
“I’ll call you anyway.”
*
Again Conan missed his morning walk to the bookshop. He always kept the car handy when he was on a case, and with the immortal motto “Be Prepared” in mind, he made a detour to Driskoll’s Garage, which was also, almost incidentally, a filling station.
Rafe Driskoll alre
ady had a customer, so Conan stopped at the Super pump and got out to wait. Beryl Randall’s Mercedes was parked outside the gaping maw of the garage.
“What happened to you, Mr. Flagg? Run into a door?”
The previous customer was departing, and Driskoll turned his square, stubbly face, clefted with a grin, on Conan. He seemed tanned by exposure to grease and oil rather than sun, and his coveralls and billed cap had assumed the same yellow-brown patina as the sturdy hands he wiped with a rag the same color.
Conan laughed and touched his jaw.
“Must’ve been a door, Rafe; it sure swung hard. Just gas. Everything else should be all right.”
Rafe nodded and leaned down to remove the gas cap and insert the nozzle, holding it in place while the pump ticked.
“Oughta be all right. I went over her stem to stern last week. Any more trouble with the clutch?”
“No; smooth as silk. Say, is that Beryl Randall’s Mercedes over there?”
“Yep. Now, that’s one gorgeous hunk of machine. Really get a kick outa workin’ on it. Only trouble is, it don’t ever need much workin’ on.”
“What’s wrong with it now?”
“Now not a damn thing. She’s fixed. It was the cable on the starter. People shouldn’t keep cars when they live right on the beach. Damn salt. Eats up the wirin’ and paint.” He frowned at the XK-E’s rear bumper. “Like yours. Damn thing’s startin’ to rust again.”
“That’s the price we pay for the view, along with exorbitant property taxes.”
“Uh-huh. Don’t see you puttin’ your house up for sale, though. You hear about Mrs. Randall’s car gettin’ stolen?”
“Well, yes, I did hear something about that. It was found down at the Shag Point wayside, wasn’t it?”
“Yep, I guess it was.”
“The thief didn’t get very far. He should’ve picked a car with an intact starter.”
Driskoll eyed him from under the browned bill of his red cap.
“No. He just shoulda kept goin’, that’s all. She run like a top once she got started.” The nozzle clicked off, and he pulled it out and shoved it back into its niche on the pump. “Clean your windshield?”
Only the innocent or forgetful let Rafe loose on a windshield with his idea of a clean cloth, but Conan was so absorbed in his own thoughts he was almost too late with his hasty, “Uh, no, thanks, Rafe. Just put the gas on my tab.”
“Okay.” He began thumb-smearing the pages of a receipt book in search of a fresh one. “By the way, Mr. Flagg, good luck on that Surf House murder.”
The grapevine, Conan thought darkly. It was incredible.
*
At nine-fifty-five when Conan arrived at the bookshop, Beatrice Dobie was unlocking the front door. She seemed to be having a hard time of it, which could be explained by the stack of books she was balancing with one hand while managing the key and the knapsack she called a purse with the other.
Or it could be the presence of the two soberly suited men hovering behind her.
Conan startled her when he came up beside her.
“Good morning, Miss Dobie. Here—let me help you.”
“Oh! Why, Mr. Flagg, you gave me a turn. If you’ll just take the books. These…gentlemen are here to see you.” She didn’t quite make that a question.
“Yes, I know.”
He turned to the elder of the pair, who was examining him through the magnifying lenses of his glasses.
“Good morning, Mr. Dix.”
“Mr. Flagg,” he acknowledged with a nod. “This is Russell Griswold, my assistant.”
Since Conan had one hand full of books and the other in a cast, handshakes were precluded, and Griswold seemed a little relieved. He wore glasses, too, but with the youthfully impetuous touch of lenses with a light tint.
“Mr. Flagg.”
“Mr. Griswold.”
The door surrendered to Miss Dobie’s efforts and she bustled in, beginning a conversation with Meg. At Conan’s nod, Dix preceded him into the shop, saying, “I hope you understand, Mr. Flagg, that only the most urgent—damn!” This came as he tripped over Meg, staying upright by a miracle of fast footwork, while Meg made a voluble and probably unprintable, if it were translatable, comment.
Miss Dobie deposited her purse on the counter and came back to relieve Conan of the books.
“Now, Meg, you must learn to watch where people are going. I, uh, assume you’ll be incommunicado for a while, Mr. Flagg?” This with a searching look at Dix and Griswold.
“Yes.” He went to his office door, opened it, then stood aside. “This way, Mr. Dix. Mr. Griswold. Meg.”
Meg, as befits a lady, entered first; Dix was careful to stay out of her way. Conan closed the door, and the three of them—four with Meg—made a crowd in the small room. When Dix and Griswold had accepted his invitation to the two chairs in front of the desk and settled themselves with their hats in their laps, Conan went to a cabinet under the west window and took out a Spode bowl, a spoon, a can opener, and a can of cat food. Meg lavished loving words on him while she made figure-eights around his legs.
“What was it you wanted to see me about, Mr. Dix?”
“Well, Mr. Flagg, we’ve been informed that you’re more than proprietor of this…interesting bookshop. You’re also a private investigator.”
“On occasion. Damn—would you mind opening this? I can’t get a proper grip with this cast.”
Dix stared at the can and the opener as if they had arrived via flying saucer, but after a moment, his assistant lived up to his title.
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Flagg.”
“Thanks.” Meg complained bitterly at the delay.
“As I was saying,” Dix went on doggedly, “it has come to our attention that you’re investigating Eliot Nye’s death in the interests of the Surf House Restaurant.”
“No. In the interests of Brian Tally. Thank you, Mr. Griswold. All right, Meg, it’s coming.”
“In Mr. Tally’s interests, then. Now, I’m sure you’ll understand that Eliot’s death is not only a personal blow to me, but a blow to all of us in the Portland office, to the IRS itself, in fact.”
Conan tapped the spoon against the bowl to loosen a scoop of boiled-liver scented hash.
“Why such a blow, Mr. Dix?”
“Why? Well, after all, I worked with Eliot for—”
“No, I wasn’t questioning the personal blow. I meant the blow to the IRS. Here you are, Duchess.” He knelt to present the bowl to Meg.
“Eliot Nye was a full CPA, Mr. Flagg, and one of the best auditors it has ever been my privilege to work with. He was both tenacious and conscientious, and he had a sixth sense for fraud. It was quite extraordinary, actually.”
Conan sat on his heels, watching Meg’s shining canines tear into her unresisting repast.
“A full CPA? He might have made a great deal of money for himself in private practice.”
“Of course, but he believed, as I do, that, in the words of Oliver Wendell Holmes, ‘Taxes are what we pay for civilized society.’ Eliot considered it his obligation to see that no one shirks his fair share of the cost.”
No doubt Dix meant that to his soul, but at the moment Conan found it hard to stomach.
“And in the words of Plato,” he replied, “‘Where there is an income tax, the just man will pay more and the unjust less on the same amount of income.’ Or in the words of Justice John Marshall, ‘The power to tax involves the power to destroy.’” Then he rose and went to his chair behind the desk, adding with a smile, “And in the words of Ben Franklin, ‘In this world nothing is certain but death and taxes.’ Why did you send Nye to audit the Surf House books a second time?”
That succeeded in catching him off balance.
“I didn’t send him.”
“The order came from higher up?”
Dix opened his mouth, hesitated, then said cautiously, “Eliot asked to make another audit. As I said, he was a very tenacious and conscientious man.”
Dix was solidly on balance now. “I can’t discuss that.”
“Mm. Well, I suppose he deserved a little break.”
“What are you suggesting, Mr. Flagg?”
He shrugged. “Well, it made a good excuse to spend a few days at the beach at the taxpayers’ expense.”
Dix’s face glowed pink against his white hair.
“That is a scurrilous insult to a man beyond defending himself. I can assure you, Eliot Nye came here for a good reason, and he came here to work, not to vacation at the taxpayers’ expense.”
“What was his good reason?”
“I can’t discuss that.”
Conan glanced at Griswold and found his features set as firmly as his boss’s; no weak links here.
“Mr. Dix, did Nye often work on informers’ tips?”
He frowned irritably. “No. Contrary to popular opinion, the IRS does not depend on information from informers in carrying out its investigative functions.”
“But you can’t ignore that kind of information.”
“Of course not. Every law enforcement agency depends on information of that kind on some occasions.”
“Granted. Even private investigators do, and believe me, I understand why you’re reluctant to divulge the name of the person who informed on Brian Tally.”
That didn’t work; Dix only smiled glacially.
“I’m glad you understand, but I hope you’ll note that I said nothing to suggest that the Surf House Restaurant audit was prompted by an informer’s tip.”
“Will you say it was prompted by anything else?”
“I won’t say at all.”
Well, that was something, perhaps; at least it wasn’t an outright denial.
“Mr. Dix, will you say that Nye’s phone call to you Monday evening didn’t concern Brian Tally?”
“What we discussed in that call is IRS business.”
“Will you say that Nye didn’t admit he’d made an error or overlooked something in his first audit?”
“Mr. Flagg, I repeat: what we discussed in that call is IRS business.”
“With Nye dead—murdered—you still consider it exclusively IRS business?” Then he brought himself up short; his temper was slipping out of control. “Well, I suppose it would be under normal circumstances, but I’m sure you’re aware that Chief Kleber assumes Brian had a motive to kill Nye. Because of Nye, Brian stood to lose a business in which he had invested fifteen hard years and which was valued at half a million. But I was in the bar Monday night and heard what Nye said to Brian. It was inconclusive in itself, but three other witnesses were given the same impression: whatever Nye found that changed the picture changed it in Brian’s favor. If that’s true, Brian was no longer faced with ruin and no longer had a motive. That’s why Nye’s reason for the second audit and what he told you on the phone are so vital. Without that information, an innocent man may be condemned to life imprisonment.”