Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat Read online

  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.

  Casually, the “browsing tourist” sauntered to the door, and with only a faint jingling of the bells slipped out into the rain. Conan watched him cross the highway and get into the blue Chevrolet, then drive out of sight toward the south.

  “…walking around in this downpour, Mr. Flagg.”

  He frowned with annoyance. “What, Miss Dobie?”

  “I said, you’re soaked.”

  “Yes, I noticed that.”

  He turned away abruptly and went into the office. She followed him as far as the door.

  “You’d better go home and get into some dry clothes. You’ll catch your death.”

  “Miss Dobie, I’m fully capable,” he said curtly, “of recognizing and dealing with any risk to my health.”

  “Oh…yes. I’m sorry.”

  His shoulders sagged at her subdued tone. He crossed to the percolator to pour some coffee, mustering a smile for her.

  “Don’t mind me. I’m just a little wound up today.” And as if to prove that statement, he nearly spilled his coffee as Meg skidded around the corner into the office, a crumpled wad of paper between her teeth.

  After a moment, he laughed, put his cup down carefully, then leaned down and swept the cat unceremoniously into his arms.

  “Aha, tyger tyger burning bright—what’ve you got your teeth into now?”

  As Meg fought for her prize, he pried it out of her mouth, then put her down on a chair and smoothed out the paper.

  “I thought so,” he said reprovingly. Meg turned back her ears, her tail jerking back and forth petulantly, as he handed the paper to Miss Dobie.

  “Oh, the Dell order,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Joe Zimmerman would choke if he knew how his orders are handled around here.” He smiled at that thought, then reached down to scratch Meg behind her ears. “You wreak havoc with the filing system, old lady. You know, Miss Dobie, somewhere in this building, this cat has a cache of valuable and irreplaceable papers. If the IRS ever decides to audit us, all we can do is refer them to Meg.”

  She laughed at that. “Sounds like a good idea. Come on, Meg, I’ll get you something else to play with.” She picked up the cat and started out to the counter.

  “Miss Dobie, have there been any calls for me?”

  She paused at the door. “No. And no one from Gill’s yet.”

  He nodded, glancing at his watch. It was still too early for the delivery. And he wondered grimly if it weren’t too late for it to make any difference.

  *

  The books were delivered exactly fifty-eight minutes after he placed the order. Conan gave the clerk a check in a sealed envelope and ushered him hastily from the office, then closed the door before Miss Dobie could get out more than a bewildered sigh.

  Ten minutes later, she sighed again as he emerged from the office and headed for the stairway without so much as a glance at her.

  He found only one customer upstairs: an adolescent boy sprawled in a chair in the Non-fiction section, completely absorbed in a book which, Conan noted absently, was from the “Erotica” shelf.

  He checked all the upstairs rooms, then returned to the Fiction section. The two copies of Crime and Punishment from Gill’s were tucked under his arm, hidden in the package in which they’d been delivered.

  He went to the Ds and took one of the copies from the sack, then hesitated, studying it critically.

  Both copies were now outwardly identical to the one in the safe. He’d pasted envelopes in the back covers for the date cards, used old cards taken from other rental books, stamped yesterday’s date on them, and imitated Miss Dobie’s handwriting on the price mark to the best of his ability.

  He hoped they would pass muster; and he hoped it wasn’t already too late. He glanced at his watch and pulled in a quick breath. Nearly noon.

  He put one copy on the shelf, exactly where he’d found the original, then he frowned as he considered where to put the extra copy for safekeeping. Finally, he took it back to the Reference room and put it in the Anthropology section.

  As he walked back to the stairway and passed through the Fiction room, he glanced over at the substitute copy waiting on its shelf.

  The trap was set.

  He could only hope the intended victim would take the bait.

  If he, or she, didn’t there was little chance of getting another lead on Jeffries’ killer. Conan felt a momentary chill that was more than cold and dampness.

  He’d now passed a point of no return.

  CHAPTER 9

  Forester and water, please, Mary.”

  Conan sank wearily into a chair as the waitress took his order.

  “Okay, Mr. Flagg. How are you this evening?”

  “Damp, but otherwise fine.”

  She grinned. “Another few years in this country, and you’ll develop webbed feet. Just be patient.” She turned and headed for the bar.

  He leaned back and lit a cigarette, feeling the dull ache of tension in his neck and shoulders. He’d chosen a table away from the bar near the glass doors that opened onto the swimming pool. The pool was lighted from beneath and cast wavering, blue-green reflections into the shadowed room.

  When Mary brought his drink, he signed the tab, then turned his chair toward the pool again. The Surf House Lounge was thinly populated this evening, and he found himself relaxing with the solitude and the bourbon.

  Still, he wasn’t capable of relaxing enough to stop the ceaseless process of muddling; reexamining and dissecting the events of the day, worrying every slight hint or anomaly like a dog with a bone. It had been a long day, but as far as the Jeffries matter was concerned, not very productive.

  He’d had an opportunity to waylay Alma Crane, the Jeffries’ busybody neighbor, on her way to the post office, creating an excuse for accompanying her by mailing a stack of unaddressed, unstamped, and empty envelopes taken hurriedly from his desk.

  Mrs. Crane was enjoying the limelight as the last person to see Captain Jeffries alive, and she told her story with only the slightest prompting. But it added little to his fund of knowledge, except that she was sure Jeffries was carrying something when he left his house. She couldn’t identify it, however, except that it was small and red.

  The Dostoevsky. But this only confirmed what he’d already assumed: that Jeffries had taken the book with him when he embarked on his solitary and fatal sojourn.

  There was nothing else to show for the day’s efforts. Major Mills had put in no more appearances, and no one had checked out the Crime and Punishment. When he closed the shop, it w
as still on the shelf—waiting.

  “Conan, you look like the bottom just dropped out of the stock market.”

  He looked up to see Nicky Heideger standing across the table from him. He laughed and rose to pull out her chair.

  “I never believed in stock, Nicky, except the four-legged kind.” Then as he resumed his seat, he met the quiet look of amusement in her eyes with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you. I appreciate your taking time to talk to me.

  “My pleasure. It’s a relief to talk to someone who isn’t sick, or doesn’t at least think he is. I’m sorry I’m late. The Hicks kid broke his wrist.”

  She took a package of Camels from her purse and leaned forward as he lit one for her. Then she settled back in her chair, her head tilted to one side, and studied him curiously.

  Dr. Nicole Heideger was an attractive woman who might have been beautiful, but there was little time in her life to waste on cosmetic embellishment or fashion. Her dress was simple and practical, her straight, dark hair cut in a boyish style. Her brown eyes were quick and alert, crinkling at the corners now as she smiled.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, “you’ve been much too healthy lately. I haven’t seen you for weeks.”

  The waitress came to the table and Conan ordered another bourbon for himself and scotch for Nicky.

  “Well, I’m sorry about my good health,” he said when Mary left. “But if it’ll make you happy, I’ll try to work up a case of typhoid or diphtheria.”

  “Thanks a lot, friend. All I need is an epidemic. Try something simple, like a good case of lumbago or gout.”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “No, if I’m going to suffer, I want something that’ll get me a little sympathy. All I’d get with lumbago or gout is snickers.”

  “Sympathy, you want.” She laughed, tilting her head back. “Try a broken leg, then. At least it isn’t contagious.” She paused to inhale on her cigarette, squinting at him through the smoke. “Anyway, now that I’m here, what were you so anxious to talk to me about?”

  He took time to glance around to make sure no one was within earshot, the glint of laughter in his eyes fading to black opacity.

  “Nicky, this is going to seem strange, I know, but I need some information.”

  “I gathered that from what you said on the phone. What about?”

  “Harold Jeffries.”

  Mary returned with their drinks, and Nicky waited until she had departed. Then she raised her glass and nodded to Conan, her eyes slightly narrowed.

  “Thanks for the drink. Now, what do you want to know about Jeffries?”

  “Anything you might know.”

  “You mean the man himself, or his death?”

  “His death.”

  She took a swallow of her scotch, eyeing him skeptically. “Conan, I realize you have a problem controlling your curiosity—note, I’m being polite and not using the word ‘nosiness’—but why are you so interested in Jeffries’ death?”

  “Well, that’s where the strange part comes.” He paused, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray, then, looked up at her. “Nel Jeffries thinks her husband was murdered.”

  If Dr. Heideger was surprised, she didn’t show it.

  “And you’re playing detective?”

  He shrugged. “You might put it that way. I suppose I was the last resort; no one else would listen to her.”

  Nicky gave a short laugh. “You always were a sucker for a damsel in distress.”

  “Perhaps, but Nel doesn’t quite fit the damsel image. Maybe your diagnosis was correct; plain nosiness.”

  “Maybe. Do you think he was murdered?”

  “I think it’s very probable.”

  She was silent for a while, considering this; then she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table.

  “Okay. I’ve been around enough to know it’s possible. Of course, if it’s probable, then it isn’t very smart of you to get involved.”

  “I know, Nicky, but some very peculiar things have been going on. Something’s happening, and—”

  “And you can’t stand it until you find out what?”

  He laughed, his shoulders rising in a quick shrug.

  “I guess that’s about it.”

  “All right. I’m not asking any more questions. Ignorance is sometimes less than bliss, but it’s a hell of a lot safer.” She took another swallow of her drink and leaned back. “Unfortunately, there isn’t much I can tell you. The only reason I was called in on this, was because Dr. Callen was out of town, and old Spenser was drunk.” She smiled sardonically. “It must’ve galled Harvey Rose to have to call me. Anyway, I only examined the body and signed the death certificate. They brought him to the hospital a little before 2:00 A.M. I can’t say exactly how long he’d been dead, but at least three to six hours. As far as I could determine, he died by drowning.”

  “Nel ordered an autopsy done. Have you any idea when the results would be available?”

  “Available to whom?” She eyed him suspiciously, then shrugged. “The autopsy was probably done today. Dr. Callen is back and he usually handles the pathology.”

  “Nicky, I want to know the results of that autopsy.”

  She studied him a moment, a frown drawing a strong line between her brows. Finally, she sighed.

  “You want to look at the report personally?”

  “Not necessarily. I just want to know—”

  “The results.” She sighed again, her mouth tight. “Okay. I can probably get a look at it. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Nicky.”

  “Sure.” Then she grinned at him. “I’m sorry I didn’t find any bullet holes. Would that have helped?”

  “I don’t know. Was there anything…anything at all unusual about the body? Perhaps some small mark or injury, particularly around the head?”

  She thought a moment, then nodded.

  “Well, yes, there was something. But it was only a bruise and some very minor lacerations on the right side of the jaw. “She pointed to a spot on her own jaw, just to the right of her chin. “About here.”

  Conan looked at her intently.

  “You said the right side? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it was the right side, but it wasn’t necessarily inflicted by a human hand. There are a few rocks out in that surf, you know.”

  “Not until you get down around the base of Jefferson Heights. Jeffries was drowned on an incoming tide. I doubt he ever got far from the beach, even after he died. Were there any other bruises?”

  “No. Nothing recent, anyway.”

  “Is there anything that makes you think that bruise couldn’t have been inflicted by a human hand?”

  She hesitated briefly. “No. It could have been.”

  He leaned back, lost in concentration, his fingers drumming on the table. After a while, Nicky laughed softly.

  “Well, I’m glad I gave you something to think about.”

  “Oh, I have plenty to think about, but I don’t know how far it’ll get me.”

  She sipped at her drink thoughtfully.

  “Conan—”

  He looked up at her distractedly. “What?”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but in my business, I see a lot of the end results of violence. If there is a possibility you’re dealing with murder, my doctorly advice to you is to be careful.”

  He smiled faintly. “Nicky, I have had a little experience…well, along similar lines. Anyway, I don’t intend to—” He stopped, looking past her to the entrance of the lounge. “Well. Here comes the honorable Chief Rose.”

  Her eyes went hard and cold. “Making his nightly rounds, I suppose—of the bars.”

  “No doubt.”

  Nicky turned and watched Rose as he sauntered up to the bar and greeted the bartender familiarly; then she tipped up her glass and finished her scotch.

  “I wonder,” she said caustically, “if he swaggers like that without that fancy
uniform and that .38 on his hip.”

  Conan laughed. “I doubt he can stand up without them.”

  Rose glanced around the room and nodded as he recognized them. Conan managed a small, tight smile of acknowledgment, wondering at his own uneasiness, and what it was about Rose that inspired it.

  Harvey Rose was a big, rawboned, short-necked man with a ruddy complexion and thin, sandy hair. But for all his size, he moved awkwardly, and there was a softness about him; a softness that was soul deep. The source of any apprehension he inspired had to be in his eyes. A pale, watery blue, fringed with blond lashes, his eyes seemed always in motion. Like a cat’s.

  Nicky put out her cigarette and picked up her purse. “Conan, thanks for the drink, but if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take off. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’m with you, Nicky.” He rose and came around the table to help her with her coat. “The atmosphere is getting unpleasant in here. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  *

  The rain had stopped, but the highway was still wet and slick. Conan was driving the black XK-E, which he considered his nonbusiness car; the Microbus was for hauling books and other such mundane pursuits. But the Jaguar was one of the real pleasures of his life, not because he was concerned with such vague abstractions as compression ratios and horsepower, but because it was a thing of beauty and a constant joy to the eye.

  It was only a mile from the Surf House on Holliday Bay to the center of town, but tonight it seemed unusually long. He was mentally and physically drained, anticipating a warm fire, a quiet supper alone, and some Sibelius, perhaps, on the stereo. En Saga or Oceanides…

  He flipped on his turn signal as he neared Day Street and glanced into the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights glared back at him. Mumbling a few choice comments on tailgaters, he swung off the highway, looking back as he completed the turn.

  The other car roared on, but as it passed, under the street lamp, he recognized the insignia on the door.

  It was Police Chief Harvey Rose’s car.

  CHAPTER 10

  When Conan and Miss Dobie arrived at the bookshop, it was nearly noon, and a few tourists were already waiting impatiently at the door. There would be few locals today; it was Sunday, and the post office was closed. As soon as he had the front door unlocked, he went upstairs, ostensibly to turn on the lights.