by M. K. Wren
“Federal, then? Well, that’s a relief. I thought it might be the Mob, or whatever it’s called these days.”
Avery Flagg wasn’t amused.
“Conan, this is serious.”
“No doubt. And no doubt you’re thinking of the IRS.”
“It crossed my mind. Look, if there’s anything—”
“Avery, we have an excellent and overpaid staff of accountants to deal with problems of that sort. If you’re worried about the IRS, consult them. I’m the last one to ask when it comes to the intricacies of taxes.”
“I just thought…well, if there was something I should know about.”
Conan knocked the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray with an impatient snap.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you. My life’s an open book. At least, my financial life. I haven’t time to waste trying to hide anything from the all-seeing eye of the IRS.”
Avery sighed. “All right. You’re sure there’s nothing you’ve…uh, forgotten, maybe?”
“Quite sure. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some important business to attend to.” He caught Miss Dobie’s eye, exchanging a wry smile with her.
“Sure. Well, thanks anyway.”
“You’re quite welcome. Good-bye, Avery.”
He cradled the receiver, pausing to take a slow drag on his cigarette. That possible inquiry into the business affairs of Conan Flagg vibrated in his mind like a dissonant chord.
Then he leaned back and turned his attention to Miss Dobie, who was waiting patiently. And silently. For all her tendency to verbosity, she could be admirably tight-lipped about matters she knew to be private. She wouldn’t question him about the call.
And he wouldn’t allow himself to be concerned over a piece of gossip.
*
“Now, Miss Dobie, where were we?”
“Luigi Benevento.”
“Oh, yes. I’ll take care of that later.”
“Okay. Say, what about the Dell order?”
“Oh. I forgot about that. Joe Zimmerman was here—as usual.” He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a duplicate order form, and as he handed it to her, he fixed her with a suspicious look. “You certainly timed that hair appointment well.”
She tried to look innocent, but only succeeded in looking sheepish.
“Well…one thing you can say about Joe Zimmerman, he’s as regular as clockwork.”
He nodded glumly. “Sure. You can set your calendar watch by him. Every second Friday of the month, and neither rain, nor snow, etcetera, will stay him on his rounds. Unfortunately, I forgot what day it was.” He paused, then added, “Obviously, you didn’t.”
She glanced over the order form. “Oh, he’s not such a bad guy, really.”
“No. Just the world’s biggest bore. The All-American Failure.”
“Well, he’s harmless enough.”
Conan hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so. But I always wonder about a man whose capacities fall so far short of his ambitions.”
“Well, we only have to put up with him once a month.” She laid the order form aside. “Oh, by the way, there was a telephone repairman here this morning before you arrived.”
“Telephone repairman?” He focused intently on her.
“I guess there was some trouble up the line. He said he was just checking.”
Conan considered this piece of news, and perhaps it was only intuition that set his teeth on edge; or nerves. Or the fact that the local telephone company seldom checked its equipment except on urgent demand.
“Who was it—Frank Beasely?”
“No, it was a new man. He says he’s only been with the local office a couple of weeks. I think he said his name is Evans. Nice young man, and that’s a pleasant change.”
He smiled at that, then reached for the telephone and unscrewed the mouthpiece. Miss Dobie watched him curiously, but he gave her no opportunity to question him.
“Did he check the extensions?”
“Oh, yes. He was very thorough.”
He nodded as he replaced the mouthpiece and cradled the receiver. No doubt the “telephone man” would, indeed, be very thorough.
The phone was bugged.
He felt the heat in his cheeks; a reaction to anger. The whole day was assuming the irrational aspect of a dream, and not a pleasant one. The bug made absolutely no sense. Who would want to…?
Major James Mills.
Conan almost laughed. Who else? And perhaps Avery’s third- or fourth-hand information was more than gossip. And the Major’s appearance outside the shop yesterday—perhaps that was more than a chance encounter.
But why?
The bells on the front door jangled, and he came to his feet, waving Miss Dobie back to her chair.
“I’ll take care of it. You finish your coffee.”
CHAPTER 5
He greeted Miss Hargreaves and Miss Corey, two of the local teachers, with his customer’s smile.
“How are you ladies this morning?”
“Well, we’re just fine, Mr. Flagg,” Miss-Corey replied. “But, my goodness, isn’t this a terrible day? And wasn’t that awful news about Captain Jeffries?”
“Yes, a terrible thing,” he responded tersely. “May I help you with something?”
Miss Hargreaves piped, “Oh, no. We’re just on our way home from the post office, and we thought we’d stop in and look around upstairs for a while.”
“Fine. If you need any help, let me know.”
The Bobbsey Twins, he called them privately, and he smiled faintly as he watched them walk away toward the stairs, in perfect step, as usual. Then he went over to the door and opened it, and leaned against the jamb, his preoccupied frown returning.
The sun was shining dimly through a break in the clouds and bringing out the local citizenry for what he termed the “post office parade.” With no house-to-house delivery, the daily pilgrimage to the post office was an important ritual of village life.
He saw Mrs. Edwina Leen coming up the sidewalk from the north, her long, threadbare coat fluttering around her legs, her white hair constrained with a babushka-like scarf.
He smiled to himself; Mrs. Leen’s name was a tempting source for jokes. She was no more than five feet tall, and weighed at least 190 pounds. She was one of the many Social Securitied widows living in Holliday Beach.
Mrs. Leen was a relative newcomer; she’d taken up residence in a beachfront cottage half a block north of Conan’s house a little over a year ago, but from the beginning, she’d fallen in with the pervading rituals and rhythms of the village, and she passed this way every day, rain or shine.
He waved and shouted a good morning to her, but she only squinted vaguely at him through thick, gold-rimmed glasses. He raised his voice; she was quite deaf and probably hadn’t heard him.
“Good morning, Mrs. Leen,” he shouted. “Nice to have the sun out for a little while.”
Her pink face crinkled in a friendly smile.
“Mornin’, Mr. Flagg. I’m sure glad the sun decided to come out.”
She didn’t pause, her rolling, stiff-legged gait carrying her past him and on toward the post office. She’d probably be back to check out a book on her way home; Mrs. Leen seldom missed a day at the shop, and had already nearly exhausted his supply of mystery books.
“Hey! Mr. Flagg—”
Conan turned, then smiled as he recognized Olaf Svensen trudging along the sidewalk.
“Well, Sven, how are you?”
The old fisherman came as close to smiling as he ever did.
“Purty good, purty good,” he rumbled. “I be better when this blow be over. Can’t be takin’ my Yosephine out in this.”
“No, it’d make for rather rough going.”
The brief break in the storm was passing, and a sprinkling of rain began. The fisherman eyed the cloudy sky balefully.
“Ha! Look at that. Startin’ in all over ag’in. On’y fisherman catch anyt’ing in this weather’s them damned Rooskies. Them wit
’ their big boats; yust like the Queen Mary. They be out catchin’ fish like crazy—our fish. And me—I can’t even get my Yosephine out of the Bay!”
Conan studied Svensen intently.
“The Rooskies? That Russian fishing fleet is back?”
“Ya, they be back. Me and Hap been up nort’ by Tillamook Head couple days ago. Sighted ’em up there, movin’ sout’. They always stayin’ yust outside the t’ree-mile limit. But the damned fish—they don’t know nothin’ about t’ree-mile limits!”
“I suppose as long as they stay in international waters, no one can touch them.”
“Oh, they be doin’ a lot of talkin’ in Washington, but that’s all is goin’ to come of it, yust talk.” He shrugged and paused, preoccupied; then his features relaxed slightly. “Hey, Mr. Flagg, you hear about ol’ Cap’n Yeffries?” Conan nodded. He suspected he’d be hearing about it all day.
“Yes, I heard.”
“Strange business, that. I wouldn’t be surprise hearin’ some of them damn-fool toorists ’round here gettin’ drowned. But ol’ Cap’n Yeffries—I just don’ know.”
The rain resumed in earnest now, the wind rising in intensity. Svensen turned up his collar, pulling his head down, turtle-like, and cast another vengeful look heavenward before he started off down the sidewalk again.
“Damned Rooskies!” he muttered. “I be seein’ you, Mr. Flagg.”
“Take care, Sven.”
He retreated into the shop as Svensen went on his way, but he didn’t go back into the office. He closed the door and thrust his hands into his pockets, staring at the miniscule, sliding lenses of raindrops on the glass.
The business about the trawlers was interesting, particularly in light of Major Mills’s unexplained, and perhaps inexplicable, arrival on the scene. But, of course, the Russian fishing fleets had worked the coast in this area before.
And it wasn’t the “Rooskies” that made his black eyes opaque and cold, but the activities of a certain pleasant and very thorough “telephone man.” Mr. Evans, whoever he might be, hadn’t bugged his phones on a personal whim; he was acting under orders. Orders from James Mills.
The Major.
A door opening into the past.
The last time he’d seen Major James Mills was at an airport in Berlin.
Conan’s departure from Berlin had been involuntary, as was his transfer to desk duty in Washington. He’d left Berlin on a stretcher.
The scar was still with him, like the memories. Both were permanent parts of his being. The scar traced a thin line from his right clavicle, angling down to the eighth rib on his left side, ending there in an inch-long cicatrix of heavier scar tissue.
Major Mills hadn’t been with him the night he acquired that scar; he’d been alone. But the Major had done some after-hours checking and sent another agent, Charlie Duncan, to the site of that ill-fated rendezvous. Just in case. Conan owed his life to Duncan.
Later, the Major had taken time to see Conan off at the airport, which was typical of him. It was also typical that, from that day, there had been no communication of any kind between them. Mills didn’t indulge in casual exchanges of letters or Christmas cards.
That had been ten years ago.
And four years ago, Major Mills had retired from G-2. Conan knew this from Charlie Duncan, and he was a dependable source of information. Mills’s retirement could be accepted as fact. At least, his retirement from G-2.
But he hadn’t retired from the business.
The rain increased in tempo until the glass was only a blur of distorted images, and it seemed appropriate somehow, that wracked view.
That hadn’t been a no-recognition cue yesterday; Mills had hoped to avoid being recognized. Yet if he intended to spend any time in Holliday Beach, he would be well aware of the risk that Conan might recognize him in the future; and if Mills was working under a cover identity, that could be highly dangerous.
The safest course of action for the Major would be to set up a private meeting on his own terms and warn him of his presence in the village.
But Mills hadn’t taken that course; instead, he was monitoring Conan’s phones, and someone from the federal government was digging into state tax and corporate records and asking questions about his financial status.
Briefly, Conan considered making some inquiries at the telephone company about their new “repairman,” Mr. Evans. But that would be futile. Undoubtedly, Mills had the official leverage to enlist their full cooperation and insure their silence. And the bugging was only a symptom.
Apparently, Major Mills regarded Conan Flagg as an object of suspicion for some unknown reason, and found it necessary to investigate him. He wondered grimly if he were also under surveillance.
But why?
In Berlin, Mills had gone so far as to give him a few reserved, and rare, words of praise, as well as a recommendation for a promotion when he was forced to leave his command.
And Conan was wondering who the Major was working for now.
At least Avery would be relieved to know it wasn’t the IRS who was so interested in the Ten-Mile Ranch Corporation’s majority stockholder.
But why was anyone interested, and, for that matter, why was Mills here at all? Conan didn’t flatter himself that he was the reason for the Major’s appearance in Holliday Beach; he was probably only an annoying complication.
Holliday Beach was only a small coastal community, dependent on lumber, fishing, and tourists. It was tourism that was the mainstay of life in the village. And Social Security. The coast attracted many retired people.
But what attracted Mills?
There were no military installations, no research facilities, not even any factories, other than a few lumber and pulp mills, anywhere near the village.
Of course, there were rumors that some of the new resort complexes near the town were backed with syndicate money, and the local government had its share of graft and corruption. But the area was relatively undeveloped, and he doubted there was enough money to be made here to attract criminal activity on a large scale.
And the Major’s specialty had been counterespionage.
More questions without answers.
Finally, he turned away and walked back into the office.
*
Miss Dobie was on her feet, scrutinizing a book held in one hand, but he was hardly aware of her.
“Where ever did you find this?”
He slumped into his chair, resting his chin on his folded hands.
“What?”
“This book. Crime and Punishment.”
His eyes came into focus on the book abruptly, and on Miss Dobie’s perplexed expression. And again, he heard that dim alarm ringing in the back of his mind.
“Upstairs. Why?”
“Where upstairs?”
“In the Fiction, under the Ds; exactly where it belonged.”
She blinked at him, the corners of her mouth pulling down with chagrin.
“Oh, dear, this is terrible.”
“Terrible? That I found it where it belonged?”
“No, that’s not what I meant.” She opened the book to the back cover, then sighed. “Well, it must be one of ours. This looks like my handwriting on the price mark.”
He came to his feet slowly, the alarm ringing louder. “Did you think it might not be one of ours?”
She put the book down and shrugged uneasily.
“Oh…it’s just that I was so sure we didn’t have a copy of Crime and Punishment in stock. I checked just last week. We picked up a copy in that estate sale last August, but I sold that to Mrs. Church a month ago. At least, I thought it was the only one we had. Of course, I have it on order, but we haven’t had anything from Modern Library since May tenth. That new shipment’s late, too.” She frowned irritably. “I suppose I’d better write and—”
“Miss Dobie, what about this book?” He leaned forward and picked up the Dostoevsky.
“Oh—that. Well, apparently we did have a copy. I jus
t can’t understand how in the world I could’ve missed it, not to speak of forgetting all about it. I guess it’s just old age creeping up on me.”
He felt the tension sagging from him and a vague sense of disappointment.
“Well, we’re all capable of error, and I certainly wouldn’t characterize this error as ‘terrible.’”
“Oh, I wasn’t,” she replied flatly. “I mean, not just missing the book. I was only thinking it was terrible because now it’s too late.” She gazed absently at the Dostoevsky. “He was always so methodical about his reading. He’d pick an author or nationality, and go right down the line—alphabetically, yet.”
The tension returned with a whispering chill. He stared at her, feeling the uneasy stirrings of memories; small, insignificant memories. And Miss Dobie rambled on in her flat, laconic tone.
“He was working on Russian authors, and he asked me about Crime and Punishment last week, and I looked all over this place for it. I was just sure we didn’t have a copy, but I checked anyway. I suppose it was right under my nose all the time. And now it’s too late.”
“Too late for what? Miss Dobie, who wanted this book?”
She looked at him blankly. “Oh, I meant Captain Jeffries. Didn’t I say so?”
Conan felt his way back into his chair, aware of the dull thuds of his pulse, and the memories were falling into place now; small fragments of trivia forming an image whose dimensions he couldn’t assimilate yet. The jingling of the door bells shivered through him, a sensation close to pain.
He turned his distracted gaze on the entrance. Mrs. Edwina Leen, pink-cheeked, smiling vaguely. He was in no state to deal with her communication problem now.
“Miss Dobie, would you mind?”
She glanced out into the shop, then frowned anxiously.
“I’ll take care of her. You don’t look too well, Mr. Flagg.”
*
Conan waited, motionless, until Miss Dobie left the office and shut the door on the high-volume conversation that ensued. Then he closed his eyes, savoring the quiet of the blessedly soundproofed room.
Finally, he picked up the Dostoevsky.
But it was only a mnemonic device. He was still concentrating on memories; on yesterday afternoon.
