Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (30 page)

“Thanks.” He pulled the blanket closer around him. “What will happen to Demetriev? I suppose you’ll have to find another place for him to hide; another identity.”

“Yes, but we hope it won’t be necessary for him to hide indefinitely. We’ll see that this kidnapping attempt gets plenty of publicity, especially in the foreign press; that will make further attempts less inviting. After this, if he returns to his homeland, it might seem a little suspicious; it wouldn’t be so effective from a propaganda standpoint. And maybe in time, he won’t be such a big issue; people will forget about him. We have a couple of universities lined up where he could probably get back into his work without attracting too much attention.”

Conan nodded, thinking of the man he’d known as Anton Dominic, recognizing the vague sadness he felt as a sense of loss.

“Would it be possible for me to write to him, or—?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’m sorry.”

“I…had some books ordered for him.”

West smiled. “He’ll be convalescing for quite a while before we can move him. I’ll see that he gets them.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course. Mr. Flagg, I’ll have some questions for you, but they can wait. However, I would like to have your permission to look around the bookshop tomorrow.”

He frowned, finding it an effort to keep his eyes in focus at all now.

“The shop? But…why?”

“We still have some loose ends to tie.”

“Yes. I’ll call Miss Dobie.”

Duncan put in, “I’ll take care of that, Conan.”

“All right. Thanks, Charlie.”

“There’s one loose end we’re particularly interested in, Mr. Flagg.” West shifted into a more comfortable position, frowning slightly. “Mr. Duncan told us about the
Crime and Punishment
, and your theory that it contained a message of some sort which was lost before Mrs. Leen acquired the book.”

“It was the only theory that explained the facts.”

West nodded absently. “Yes, and I’m sure it’s essentially correct. You can understand we’re anxious to find that missing item. It was undoubtedly coded, and even though the information may be of no value now, the code itself could help us in breaking related ones. We’re checking Mrs. Leen’s house, but I doubt we’ll find anything.”

“You won’t find that message, at least. She never had it.”

“Probably not.” He regarded Conan intently. “Mr. Flagg, you were the only one—with the possible exception of this Captain Jeffries Mr. Duncan mentioned—who saw that book. Have you any idea what might have been contained in it, or in what form?”

Conan frowned in annoyance, not at West, but at the unanswered and unanswerable question he’d raised.

“No. Inspector, I examined that book as closely as possible without actually tearing it apart, but I found nothing. Of course, the missing item may not have been in the book when I found it. I’m sure Rose wasn’t told what was so important about the book, and he wouldn’t know if something were missing. Perhaps Jeffries removed it—whatever it was.”

“Well, we’ll check Jeffries’ house and his clothing, but it’s probably too late for that. I suppose the house has been cleaned and the clothing disposed of by now.”

“Possibly, but I’m sure Nel will cooperate in any way she can.” He smiled faintly. “She’ll be all too happy to find an attentive official ear. Of course, it’s also possible Major Mills found something I’d overlooked the night he was killed.”

West nodded with no enthusiasm. “Yes, well, we’ll just have to do what we can.”

“If you do find it, I’d appreciate knowing where—and what.”

Charlie laughed. “Don’t mind him, Inspector. He has a little problem with curiosity.”

“In this case, I can understand it. If we should be fortunate enough to find anything, Mr. Flagg, I’ll tell you as much as I’m free to tell.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that—very much.”

“Well, we owe you—” He stopped, then came to his feet at the sound of approaching footsteps. “Ah, here’s Dr. Heideger.”

Nicky wasn’t alone. Two attendants were on her heels carrying an empty stretcher, but Conan was only vaguely aware of them, or the stretcher, or West’s leave-taking. Nicky’s arrival seemed to act as a signal for his body, and all his defenses were slipping.

Charlie rose for Nicky. “Hello, Doc.”

“Hello, Mr. Duncan. I’m beginning to think you’re a jinx. Every time I run into you, it’s at the scene of a disaster.”

“
I’m
not the jinx. I just hang out with bad company.”

“Like your friend with the long nose, here?”

She put her medical bag down and knelt at Conan’s side, frowning as she pushed the blanket aside and saw the red streaks on his hand.

“Conan, I told you to be careful with those stitches.”

He laughed at that, but found it painful. The numbness was leaving him now that she was here.

“I’m sorry, Nicky, about your stitchery.”

“Sure.” She pressed her fingers against his wrist. “Well, I charge double for the second time around. Besides, it’ll hurt you more than it will me.”

“Charlie, that’s called a proper bedside manner.”

“Yeah, well, I say, always give a man his due. Maybe you’ve got it coming.”

Nicky pressed her hand to his forehead, studying him clinically.

“He’ll get his due. Conan, I’m taking you to the hospital so I can get a good look at what you’ve done to my sutures.”

“Wait, Nicky, what about Demetriev?”

She smiled. “Demetriev. He’s still Dominic to me. Don’t worry about him; that old man has grit. Oh—he asked me to give you a message.”

“A message? What?”

“Well, he wasn’t too coherent, and he has a hard time with English anyway, but the gist of it was—thanks.”

He nodded silently, finding no words appropriate, then tensed as Nicky signaled the attendants, and he became fully aware of the stretcher.

“You
aren’t taking me out
on
that
.”

She looked at him levelly. “You want to bet?”

He sighed. “All right, but do me one favor, Nicky.”

“That all depends.”

“Just one.”

“Well…okay. What is it?”

“When you get me to that damned hospital, put me on a no-visitors status.”

She laughed softly. “Consider it done.”

CHAPTER 29

Beatrice Dobie was at the entrance of the bookshop, leaning against the doorjamb, enjoying the warmth of the winter sun.

“Well, good morning, Mr. Flagg—and welcome back!”

“Good morning, indeed, Miss Dobie.” Conan laughed, impulsively throwing his good arm around her shoulders and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s a glorious morning. Coffee on?”

She was flushing at his unaccustomed display of affection as she followed him into the office.

“Of course. That’s always the first order of business. Here”—she hurried to the percolator—“let me pour you a cup. You’ll have to be careful with that shoulder.”

He smiled at her solicitude, but didn’t argue. He sat down at the desk and surveyed the two large stacks of mail that had accumulated in his three-day absence.

“Good God, what a waste of paper,” he commented sourly. “You could save a tree a year on what crosses this desk, and most of it pure and unadulterated nonsense. Oh—thanks.” He took the cup she handed him and watched her as she settled into the chair across the desk.

“Well, Miss Dobie, and how are you?”

She was smiling contentedly. “Oh, I’m just fine. I’ve been basking in reflected glory these last few days.”

“Oh?”

“Well, you weren’t available,” she explained, gingerly sipping at her coffee, “so all the newspaper and magazine reporters, and those TV people were coming to me to get the inside dope on your epic adventure.”

Conan laughed. “I hope you gave them a good story.”

“I did my best, and it was colorful enough, anyway. Of course, Inspector West cramped my style a bit; he told me exactly how much I should say. But at least I had some of my own questions answered along the way. It was all very exciting. Too bad you missed it.”

“You mean it’s all over? I don’t get to bask in my own glory?”

“Afraid not. By this time, it’s old stuff.” She loosed a great sigh.
“Sic transit gloria.”

He shrugged. “Well, so be it. And it’s just as well. I’m not too anxious to push my career as a detective, anyway. It gets a little strenuous at times.”

She peered at him thoughtfully over the rim of her cup. “Speaking of your career as a detective, I think my feelings are hurt.”

“You think?”

“Well…it sort of hurt, I guess, that I had to find out you’re a genuine private detective from an
Oregonian
reporter.”

“I’m sorry about that, but don’t take it personally. And you weren’t the only one whose feelings were hurt.” He smiled to himself, remembering Charlie Duncan’s very expressive response to that piece of news. “Actually, I didn’t intend for anyone to know about it. I have Inspector West to thank for that. Now, I’ll be besieged with nuts and paranoic spouses. I may have to officially retire.”

“Well, you know, that might not be so easy. No telling what you’ve gotten yourself into, now that the word is out.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I know what your problem is. You had a taste of all that reflected glory, and it’s gone to your head.”

“That may be, but—oh!” She turned toward the door as Meg skidded around the corner and into the office with a frantic scrabbling of claws, playing a crumpled bit of paper like a hockey puck.

“Meg!” Conan laughed as he watched her right herself after her careening turn. “How are you, Duchess?”

She picked up her paper puck, then looked up at him, her sapphire eyes wide, reflecting red glints.

“Come on,” he said, patting his knee. “Come see me.”

For a moment, she seemed to consider whether she wished to give up her game. Then, deciding on a compromise, she kept the paper firmly clasped between her teeth and leaped into his lap.

“I missed you, Duchess,” he said, running his hand along her back, feeling the vibrations of her purring under his fingers. “I hope you got to bask in some of that reflected glory.”

“Of course, she did,” Miss Dobie put in. “That cat could upstage Helen Hayes. They had her on TV day before yesterday.”

He laughed, looking down at Meg and her expression of oblivious bliss.

“The star. But of course, you knew that all along, didn’t…you—?” He stopped abruptly.

It was the crumpled paper Meg held between her teeth that caught his attention.

“Here—let me have that.”

She objected with a low, deep-throated growl as he pried it out of her mouth, but he quieted her protests with another scrap of paper taken hurriedly from the desk. She leaped after it as he tossed it on the floor, apparently satisfied with the exchange.

Conan unfolded the paper he’d taken from her, flattening it against the desk. It was a date card from one of the rental books.

“Anything important?” Miss Dobie asked. Then she raised an eyebrow and shot Meg a disapproving look. “This is getting ridiculous. Now she’s pulling the date cards out of the books. She likes that stiff paper, you know. I suppose it got dropped on the floor sometime.”

But Conan wasn’t listening. He was studying the card, a prickling chill running along his skin.

He recognized it.

He recognized the charred edge at the bottom and the inept attempt at repair with transparent tape. It was so crumpled, chewed, smudged, and so liberally punctured with tooth-marks, the dates were almost illegible. But he managed to decipher the last one.

November 12. Friday.

This was the date from the original copy of
Crime and Punishment
;
the book that cost Harold Jeffries his life.

And now he knew why.

“Mr. Flagg? Is something wrong?”

He waved her to silence without looking up.

The tape hadn’t been put there for purposes of repair, but for preservation of sorts; something characteristic of a meticulous and fussy man like Harold Jeffries. It had been put there to preserve something he’d discovered accidentally when he let that card slip out of his hand and into the fireplace.

The fire had acted as an unwitting agent in that discovery, but apparently moisture, accompanied by bending and crumpling, worked just as well, and Meg’s chewing and pouncing had not only loosened the tape, but exposed the special qualities of this card on two of the other corners.

It was laminated.

And the adhesive had given way to both fire and Meg’s mangling. It was particularly apparent on the charred bottom edge. Where the tape had been dislodged, the card was split into three layers. He carefully pried the top layer back, but only a scant half inch. The adhesive still held toward the center.

But it was enough to see what Harold Jeffries must have seen. The center layer was a thin film, covered with unintelligible symbols.

Symbols. Words, to the initiate. Words were only composites of symbols whose meaning was agreed upon by the people who spoke, or wrote, or read them.

This language would have few initiates, but Mrs. Edwina Leen had been one of them.

“Oh, no—” His voice was little more than a whisper.

“Mr. Flagg, for Heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?”

Miss Dobie was looking at him anxiously, alarmed at his expression, but he hardly heard her. He was still staring at the card.

“Mr. Flagg?”

At length, he looked up at her, then at Meg, who was busily playing tiger games on the floor. He closed his eyes briefly, and finally began to laugh.

Beatrice Dobie stared at him, nonplussed.

“
Mr. Flagg,
what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s so damned”—he paused, the laughter fading—“ironic, I suppose.”

“
What
is? What’s on that card?”

He studied it, feeling no desire to laugh now, then handed it to her.

“That’s the date card from the copy of
Crime and Punishment
Captain Jeffries checked out Friday. I’m sure of that; I examined the book rather carefully when I found it Saturday, and I recognized the charring at the bottom.”

A slight pallor touched her cheeks.

“This is from…the book that—”

“Yes.”