Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat Read online

  Harold and Elinor Jeffries.

  When they brought their books to the counter, he’d waited on them. Miss Dobie had already departed for her hair appointment, adroitly avoiding Joe Zimmerman. The salesman had been at the office door, making his impatience known; the order hadn’t been completed yet. And Conan had taken a perverse pleasure in spending more time than was necessary with Nel and her husband.

  Four books.

  One for Nel, the other three for the Captain.

  Conan couldn’t name the book Nel had rented, but he knew Jeffries’ methodical reading habits and found them faintly amusing. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have noticed his selections.

  Jeffries had worked his way up to Pasternak and Sholakov. The Dostoevsky was out of sequence, but now he understood why.

  But it had been a peripheral awareness at the time. He was preoccupied with his conversation with the Captain and Nel, with two more customers waiting to be helped, the Dell salesman’s impatience, and his own impatience at Miss Dobie’s very convenient hair appointment.

  The Dostoevsky had been the last book, and it was clear in the inner eye of memory now, as he put it on top of the other books and handed the stack to Harold Jeffries.

  We’re all capable of error…

  But Beatrice Dobie was virtually infallible when it came to books. She hadn’t made an error. None of this would make sense if she had.

  Please listen to me! He was murdered…

  He opened the book to the back cover and took out the date card. He noted the blackened border at the bottom, but his attention was focused on the last date.

  November 12. Yesterday.

  Yesterday, Jeffries took this book from the shop. Last night, he died. This morning, the book was waiting on the shelf—exactly where it belonged.

  He took a deep breath, his eyes narrowed, intent, but focused on nothing.

  Then he reached for the phone.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Nel, are you alone?”

  There was a brief hesitation. “Why, yes. For the moment, at least. I’m in my room, resting. Is something wrong?”

  He leaned back, looking down at the Dostoevsky.

  “No. I just wanted to ask a couple of questions about the…matter we discussed this morning.”

  Again, a hesitation, and a hint of anxiety in her tone. “Well, I’ll answer any questions I can, Conan, but I told you, you needn’t worry about—”

  “I’m stubborn, if nothing else. First, you said you left Harold sitting by the fire, peacefully reading a book, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me what book he was reading?”

  “What book? Well, I…I’m not sure.”

  “Please, try to remember. It’s important.”

  “The book?” She gave a short laugh that was only a mask for uncertainty. “Well, let me think. It was one of the books he picked up at the shop yesterday. He was on a Russian kick, you know. Let’s see…something about the Don? No, that wasn’t the one. Oh—and Conan, I must get those books back to you before I leave. I asked Pearl to gather them up, but she said she could only find three. I was sure we had four, but perhaps not. Anyway, if there’s one missing, we’ll find it sooner or—”

  “Nel, don’t worry about the books, please. The shop won’t go out of business without them.” He didn’t add that she’d never find the fourth book. “Now, what about the book Harold was reading last night?”

  “Oh. Let me think a minute—” Another pause, then, “Yes, now I remember. He said he was so happy to find it; something about asking for it earlier and you didn’t have it. Let’s see…Dostoevsky. Yes, that was it. Crime and Punishment. I’m sure that was it.”

  His breath came out in a long sigh.

  “Thank you. Now, I’d like to ask something else. You and Harold were upstairs for at least a half hour yesterday, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. Perhaps a little longer.”

  “Did you see anyone you knew?”

  She sighed. “Oh, dear. Well, there were quite a few people. Not all at once; coming and going. And there were a number of strangers, of course.” She paused, and Conan waited patiently. “But I do remember some of the local people. Mrs. Hollis was there. I remember wondering how she ever manages those stairs.”

  “I know; I always wonder. My liability premiums go up every time she sets foot in the shop. Anyone else?”

  “Yes, there was Mrs. Leen. I talked to her for a while—or tried to. It’s a little difficult sometimes with her hearing problem.” She laughed briefly. “She was in the Ds looking for Dashiell Hammett. And then later, I saw the Manley girls. Trish said she got that scholarship to Reed College. And the new Methodist minister’s wife was there. I can’t remember her name.”

  “Oh, yes. Mrs. Hopkins, isn’t it?”

  “I think so. And that’s all, really. I can’t remember anyone else, except that young man—I don’t know who he is, but I’ve seen him around the shop before. He was downstairs by the counter when we left.”

  Conan frowned, then nodded to himself.

  “Yes. He’s just a salesman. Are you sure you can’t think of anyone else?”

  “No, I’m sorry. There was no one else I recognized, at least. Conan, what’s this all about?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but I’ve decided to look into the matter we discussed a little further.”

  “You’re going to inves—”

  “I’m going to do what I can, but don’t get your hopes up. I told you I’m an amateur.”

  “Oh—” The sound was close to a sob, and he expected the pause, the time necessary for her to regain her control. “I don’t know what to say. But you mustn’t feel under any obligation. I mean—”

  “I don’t, Nel, and probably nothing will come of it, but I’ll give it a try.”

  “But what happened? I mean, what made you change your mind?”

  He looked down at the Dostoevsky, but made no effort to explain his decision.

  “It doesn’t matter. Now, if you’re to be my client, I’ll have to exact a promise of you.”

  “Of course. Anything you ask.”

  He laughed. “That’s faith. I must ask you to tell no one about this, or that I’m involved in any way. And please, don’t discuss your suspicions about Harold’s death. Not with anyone.”

  There was a shading of doubt in her voice, but she acquiesced without argument.

  “All right, if you wish.”

  “Another thing, have you made a decision about going into Portland after the funeral?”

  “Oh…more or less. I told Jane I’d probably stay with her for a week or so.”

  “Good. I insist that you do. As far as I know, there’s no cause for alarm, but I know almost nothing. I’d feel better if you were…well, away from the scene.”

  If this hint of personal danger disturbed her, she gave no indication of it.

  “All right, Conan. You can reach me at Jane’s. You can’t tell me any more?”

  “No, not now. I’ll talk to you when—or if—I have something concrete to offer.”

  “Please, let me know.”

  “I’ll let you know; don’t worry. Now, get some rest.”

  “I will, but…” Her voice was suddenly tight. “I guess I hadn’t thought it out this far. If—if I’m right about Harold, I may be putting you in danger. Oh, Conan, please be careful.”

  He laughed briefly. “Don’t worry about me, Nel.”

  *

  The die was cast.

  He wasted perhaps ten seconds considering his decision, but his mind was already moving past it, sorting possibilities and potentials and alternatives. Even the physical weariness, a product of a long, sleepless night, was gone. Later, perhaps, he’d have second thoughts, but there wasn’t time now.

  The book. Crime and Punishment.

  There were ironies enough in the choice of title. And it was a tenuous foothold. But that didn’t matter; it was all he had.

  He pu
t the book in front of him on the desk. It was new, showing little sign of use. First, he shook it, letting the pages hang loose, but nothing fell out from between them. Nothing was hidden along the spine that a careful probe with a letter opener would dislodge. He flipped through the pages, searching for notations, any variation in paper stock or type style, noting the sequence of page numbers. He examined the inside of both covers, finding no obvious evidence of regluing, and the paper was consistent with the rest of the stock.

  Finally, he concentrated on the inside back cover, studying the price mark in the upper corner. He knew it to be a forgery—assumed it—but he wouldn’t have recognized it as such otherwise, nor had Miss Dobie, and it was supposedly her handwriting. It was the work of a professional.

  He frowned at that, then pulled out the date card, checking the envelope first. Both were the same kind used in the bookshop, but they could be procured at any library supply outlet.

  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.”