Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (11 page)

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.

The
Crime and Punishment
was still in place, and apparently untouched.

On returning downstairs, he unlocked the office then opened the safe. The original copy was also still in its place.

He started the percolator and fed Meg, who had followed him every step of the way, noisily reminding him that she wasn’t accustomed to late breakfasts. As he finished this task, he heard Miss Dobie in conversation with one of the customers, then footsteps and voices fading as she went upstairs to search out the requested book.

He went to the window, gazing out at the satin grays of the sea, calm now that the worst of the storm was past.

The cause of their late opening was Captain Harold Jeffries’ funeral, and he was thinking of Nel, suffering the graveside ceremony in silence, calm and entirely composed.

Nel was on her way to Portland now. It was something of a relief to have her away from Holliday Beach; at least until he knew more about her husband’s death.

The jingling of the bells brought his head around abruptly. He frowned, then went out to the counter as a black-uniformed state patrolman walked into the shop.

“May I help you?” Conan asked, noting the large manila envelope in his hand.

“Yes, I’m looking for Conan Flagg.”

“I’m the only one around who answers that description. What can I do for you?”

“I guess it’s a matter of what I can do for you, Mr. Flagg,” he replied, smiling politely as he held out the envelope for him. “Steve Travers asked me to drop this off for you.”

“Ah.” This would be the report on Jeffries. “Thank you. I hadn’t expected such fast service, or a personal delivery.”

“I had to go down to Westport today, so it was no trouble.”

“I appreciate it, and thank Steve for me.”

“Yes, sir, I will.” He touched his fingers to the bill of his cap. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

“Of course. Thanks again.”

Miss Dobie approached the counter, eyeing the patrolman curiously as he left the shop.

“Well. Looks like they finally caught up with you, Mr. Flagg.”

“They always get their man. Excuse me.”

He turned and went into the office, closing the door behind him, then sat down at the desk and tore open the manila envelope.

Ten minutes later, he stuffed the papers back into the envelope with a sigh of disappointment. His quick perusal turned up nothing new or unexpected. Jeffries had been a cadet at Annapolis and spent his life in the Navy, working up through the ranks with steady, but unremarkable consistency. His record showed no irregularities, and his reputation was unimpeachable.

The only item of interest was the fact that he had once been attached to the Navy Code Section in Washington.

Conan glanced out at the counter, then put the envelope in his desk drawer and locked it.

Another source of information had already proved even less fruitful. He’d called Nicky Heideger before he left home for the funeral on the off chance that she might have had a look at the autopsy report.

He was in luck, but only to the extent that Nicky had to make an early call at the hospital, and she’d taken the opportunity to look through the files. The report was notably uninformative, except in a negative sense. She assured him that Dr. Callen had done an adequate job on the autopsy, but the cause of death was simple and uncomplicated. Drowning.

That didn’t preclude murder, but it added nothing to his scant fund of knowledge concerning Jeffries’ death.

The item about his connection with the Navy Code Section was interesting, but aside from that, he had nothing to go on but a book that shouldn’t have been on the shelf, a widow’s knowledge of her husband’s eccentricities, and a bruise on the right side of the victim’s jaw.

But perhaps he’d catch something in the little mousetrap he’d set upstairs. And Charlie Duncan would be arriving this afternoon; maybe he’d have some ideas.

Conan rose and poured a cup of coffee, then went out to the counter. Miss Dobie looked up at him questioningly.

“Anything special to do today?”

Sure, he thought—just find a murderer.

“No, Miss Dobie. You probably have some orders to take care of. I’ll watch the counter for a while.”

She nodded and started for her office.

“There’s always plenty to catch up with on my desk. I’d better check that Doubleday order; it’s late.”

“Fine. I’ll call you if I need any help.”

He sat down on the stool behind the counter, and a few minutes later heard the distant clatter of Miss Dobie’s typewriter. There were quite a few tourists in the shop; more than usual for November. He smiled and greeted a young couple as they came in, automatically pegging them as newlyweds on their honeymoon.

But his mind wasn’t on the customers.

He’d sent Miss Dobie away because he wanted to be at the counter in case anyone checked out that copy of
Crime and Punishment
.

*

Waiting—for anything—wasn’t Conan’s idea of a good time.

For well over an hour, he sat behind the counter, occasionally tending the needs of customers and constantly restraining his rising impatience, before the monotony was broken by so much as a familiar face.

He was stubbing out his tenth cigarette since the beginning of his vigil, and as he looked up at the jingling of the door bells, his eyes widened.

Joe Zimmerman, the Dell salesman.

For a moment, Conan didn’t credit his own vision. Joe Zimmerman had never, in all the time he’d been on this route—over a year, now—set foot in the shop except on his regular second Friday of the month.

But here he was, the All-American Failure, big and square, but showing a tendency to a thickening around the middle; his hair cut short in a crew cut fashionable in his varsity football days.

“My God, it must be Friday,” Conan commented.

Zimmerman’s broad face was a study in confusion for a moment; then he grinned, that cocky, self-sure grin Conan always found so irritating.

“Nope, you only get one Friday a week, and you had that already. You know, some people get a vacation now and then.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to spend any part of your vacation in a bookshop, Joe.”

Zimmerman shrugged, sauntering over to the counter and leaning on it with one elbow, bringing his face uncomfortably close, a habit Conan found particularly annoying.

“Oh, I just figured I’d see what goes on here when my back’s turned.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find what goes on here rather boring,” Conan replied, leaning back against the wall.

“I doubt that, ol’ buddy. Say—I’ve got a complaint to make to the management.”

“I’m the management.”

“Well, the sign on the door says you’re supposed to open at ten every day except Mondays, right?”

“That’s what the sign says.”

“I was here at ten-thirty, and the place was closed up tighter’n a drum.” He paused, then added archly, “You keeping banker’s hours?”

Conan started to reply, but was distracted as Meg trotted around by his stool, using his lap as a launching pad to leap up onto the counter. At that, Joe straightened and backed up a step, and Conan restrained a smile. Meg had an unerring instinct for people who didn’t like cats and inevitably chose to lavish her attention on them.

“Well, Joe,” he said, ignoring his reaction to Meg’s proximity, “some people can afford banker’s hours.”

Joe glanced uncomfortably at Meg. “Yeah…must be nice.”

“It is. Anyway, I don’t like schedules.”

“That’s a hell of a way to run a business.” Then he smiled quickly. “But it’s your business. I’m happy as long as you pay your bills. Keeps the boss off my neck.”

“I promise you, I’ll do my best to keep your account paid up.” He reached out and stroked Meg’s silky back. “How long will you be staying in our fair city?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m only taking a week off now. If this weather doesn’t clear up, I may just go on back to Portland.”

“From all reports, you’ll be in luck.” He lit a cigarette without offering one to Joe. “It should be clear by tomorrow.”

“Yeah? Well, those damned meteologers can’t be wrong
all
the time.” He glanced at Meg, then thrust his big hands into his pockets, and finally, seeming to find nothing more to say, and getting no encouragement from Conan, he shrugged. “Well, I guess I’ll browse around upstairs while I’m here.”

“Good. Buy a book. It’ll make it easier for me when it comes time to pay up your account.”

Zimmerman gave a short, caustic laugh.

“Listen, buddy, if you can afford banker’s hours, you don’t need my business.” He started for the stairs, his hands still in his pockets. “See you later, Cone.”

Conan winced. He did not like his name reduced to “Cone”—at least, not by Zimmerman. Then he smiled to himself as Meg leaped from the counter and set off after Joe.

He rose as a woman came to the counter with some books. Taking care of her purchases, with the usual time out for polite palaver, occupied only a few minutes. He’d just settled himself on the stool again after her departure, when Zimmerman returned from upstairs.

Conan took a drag on his cigarette, studying the salesman through a haze of smoke. He was empty-handed, which was to be expected. When he came on his monthly rounds, Zimmerman usually looked at the books upstairs while he waited for Conan or Miss Dobie to complete their order, and occasionally he even bought a used book. But those occasions were rare; Joe might be a seller of books, but he wasn’t a reader, and never had been.

Conan said quietly, “That was short. Nothing upstairs you haven’t already read?”

Joe was on his way to the door, and he seemed peculiarly nervous and ill-at-ease.

“What? Oh. Well—” A quick shrug. “Maybe I’m just not in the mood for reading.” His hand went to the door.

Conan took a perverse pleasure in delaying him; he was so obviously anxious to leave.

“That’s too bad. A nice rainy day like this—perfect for curling up with a good book.”

“Sure.” He called up a crooked smile. “Listen, ol’ buddy, if I’m going to do any curling up, it sure as hell won’t be with a book. I’m on vacation, remember?” He started to open the door. “Anyway, I’ve…got something to take care of right now. I’ll see you around.”

Conan laughed. “What’s her name?”

Zimmerman eyed him sharply, then gave him a sly grin.

“Whose name?”

“Your new girlfriend.”

“Who says she’s new?”
He opened the door. “But don’t wait for me to tell you what you been missing out on around here. See you later, Cone.”

“Sure, Joe. Have fun.”

He wondered vaguely who Joe’s local girlfriend might be, but it was a matter of indifference to him, except that it explained his unexpected appearance in Holliday Beach.

*

After Zimmerman’s departure, the quiet descended, and the minutes seemed to space themselves at longer and longer intervals.

As the afternoon wore on, he gave himself up to aimless muddling, welcoming every customer’s question or need as a diversion. And every time a book was brought to the counter, he looked for that small, red-jacketed book.

It seemed there was an unusually high ratio of red covers on the books he handled, but none of them was the Dostoevsky.

During the hour following Zimmerman’s departure, all the customers were strangers, with one exception. The old fisherman, Olaf Svensen, came in, pausing for a few terse words before he went upstairs, rumbling about some engine trouble in the
Josephine
confining him to shore in spite of the clearing weather.

In response to Conan’s question about the Russian trawlers, Sven’s bristling face screwed up in a glowering frown.

“Sure, they still there! You yust look out you window. I bet you see ’em from you own house, now. They be out there, all right—yust outside the t’ree-mile limit. And they be there till the damn fish runs out!”