by M. K. Wren
“Nice day today.”
Mills smiled briefly; the kind of impersonal smile that passes between strangers.
“Yes,” he replied distantly, picking out a book and thumbing through it. “Looks like the storm’s about over.”
“I hope so. May I help you with anything in particular?”
“Oh…I was just looking for something light.”
Conan noted the title of the book he seemed to find so engrossing, then pulled another book from the rack and handed it to him.
“I see you’re an Agatha Christie fan. Have you read this one? It’s one of her best.”
Mills hesitated, then reached for the book, and the firm control faltered for a split second as he saw the slip of paper barely protruding from the pages, his features displaying a flicker of surprise.
“Yes, I enjoy some of Christie’s books,” he said slowly, “especially the Poirots.”
“Then you’ll like this one. She gets Poirot involved in a bit of international intrigue; espionage, and all that. Quite well done.”
At the word “espionage,” Mills’s grayish eyes narrowed slightly, then he smiled and nodded.
“Sounds good. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”
Conan turned, hearing footsteps behind him; Mr. Dominic returning from upstairs. He went to the counter to check his books out, and waved as the old man went out the door, his good spirits apparently restored.
Within less than three minutes—Conan timed it out of curiosity—Mills came to the counter and paid for the Agatha Christie without comment. But as he was leaving the shop, he paused briefly, looking directly at Conan. “Thanks for the recommendation.”
He didn’t wait for a response; he turned abruptly and closed the door between them.
CHAPTER 11
For a while, Mills’s parting remark gave him a little hope to ease the tension of his vigil, but as the slow minutes ticked by, he became increasingly restive. At 2:45, Miss Dobie went next door to the Chowder House for lunch and brought a sandwich back for him, but most of it went untouched, and she retired to her office on finding him entirely unresponsive to her attempt at conversation.
By four o’clock, he was feeling like a caged lion too confined even to pace. He took advantage of a lull in business to go upstairs and check the Crime and Punishment.
It was still on the shelf—still waiting.
And the phone was ominously quiet during the long afternoon.
He went into the office to refill his coffee cup, wondering why he hadn’t heard from Charlie Duncan. The jingle of the bells brought him back to the counter, where he resumed his seat with a sigh of disappointment.
It was only Edwina Leen, her round, pink face crinkling with a vacuous smile.
He took a deep breath, mustered a smile, and shouted, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Leen. How are you today?”
“How’s that, Mr. Flagg?”
“I said—how are you today?”
“Oh, I’m just fine. How ’bout you? You was late openin’ this mornin’.”
“Miss Dobie and I went to Captain Jeffries’ funeral.”
“What’d you say?”
He leaned closer. “We had to go to Captain Jeffries’ funeral!”
“Oh, yes, I heard ’bout the Cap’n. Too bad. When’d you say the funeral’s goin’ to be?” She tilted her head, bringing her right ear—presumably her better one—around toward him.
“It’s already been,” he shouted. “That’s why we were late.”
“Oh. Then I guess I missed it.” She shrugged, pursing her thin lips. “But then, I never knowed the Cap’n too well, anyhow. He a friend of yours?”
“Well, not a close friend. He came into the shop quite a bit.”
“How’s that?”
“He wasn’t a close friend; just a customer.” Then before she could reply, he shouted, “May I help you with something?”
“Oh, no, nothin’ partic’lar. I’ll just go on upstairs and see if I can find somethin’ to read.”
“Fine, Mrs. Leen.” He sighed. “Good luck.”
He wasn’t sure she actually understood his last words, but to his relief, she only smiled in her usual vague manner and headed for the stairs. He slumped down on the stool, staring after her. He’d forgotten to ask Miss Dobie why she’d seemed so upset yesterday morning.
Then he tensed at the ringing of the phone and reached for the counter extension. This had to be Charlie Duncan. “Holliday Beach Bookshop.”
“Conan?”
“Yes, Charlie. Hang on a minute.” He covered the receiver with one hand. “Miss Dobie!”
A few seconds later when she came around the corner from her office, he handed her the receiver.
“Watch the counter for me. I have an important call.”
She blinked and nodded. “All right.”
Inside the office, he closed the door, took up a position behind the desk where he could see the counter and entrance, and picked up the phone.
“Thank you, Miss Dobie.” Then when she hung up the counter extension, “Charlie, where are you?”
“Just outside town; Skinner Junction. I’m in a phone booth.”
“Is Berg with you?”
“Yeah, and we’re at your disposal.”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure exactly how to dispose you until we’ve had a chance to talk, but for the time being we’ll keep Berg out of sight. I don’t want him seen around the shop or me. Find him a place to stay, then you—” He stopped cold, feeling the solid shock of adrenaline hitting his nervous system.
Through the one-way glass, he’d seen a flash of red. Outside the counter, Miss Dobie was opening a red-jacketed book to the back cover and removing the date card.
“Conan, are you still—?”
“Hold on a minute, Charlie.”
He dropped the phone and moved to the door, watching intently as Miss Dobie methodically stamped the date on the card, returned the card to its envelope, and closed the book. It was a Modern Library edition. He couldn’t see the title, but it could be the Dostoevsky. Then Miss Dobie handed the book across the counter.
And there, smiling beatifically, was Mrs. Edwina Leen.
*
Not Mrs. Leen. That muddled, bumbling old woman…
She must have picked it up by mistake—if it was the Crime and Punishment.
He fought the blind impulse to rush out and snatch the book from her. The original copy couldn’t have been meant for her. It was a mistake; it had to be.
He pulled in a long breath, forcing himself to relax.
Anything was possible. And yet his mind balked at accepting this possibility. It had to be a mistake.
Or perhaps it wasn’t the Dostoevsky.
Miss Dobie was chatting amiably with Mrs. Leen, an exchange he watched with almost uncontrollable impatience. Finally, he moved back to the desk and picked up the phone, his eyes still focused on Mrs. Leen’s smiling face.
“Charlie—”
“Yeah. What the hell’s going on?”
“I can’t explain now. What’s the phone number in that booth?”
Duncan gave him the number, then started to protest. “Listen, Conan, will you just—?”
“Stay put. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
He didn’t wait to hear Duncan’s reply. Mrs. Leen was leaving the shop. He hung up the phone, then crossed to the office door and threw it open.
“Miss Dobie, what was the title of the book she just checked out?”
Beatrice Dobie turned, so startled she dropped the cigarette she’d been about to light. She laughed as she leaned down to retrieve it.
“You mean Mrs. Leen? Well, I’m afraid she’s in for a big disappointment.”
“The title, Miss Dobie.”
“Oh. Well, it was Crime and Punishment. She thought it was a mystery.”
“She what?”
“She thought it was a mystery story.”
“Good God, didn’t you tell her it wasn’t?”
“Are you sure she understood you?”
She shrugged, looking up at him anxiously.
“I think so, but with her you never know. Why? What’s wrong?”
Conan brought himself under control and mustered a brief smile. His reaction would make no sense to her. “I’m sorry, Miss Dobie. Nothing’s wrong.” He paused, then pulled the office door shut and locked it. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Say, about that book, Mr. Flagg—”
But he was already at the front door. He closed it behind him and turned, scanning the highway and sidewalk. A moment later, he was running toward the north corner.
He stopped when he reached the corner, staying close to the building as he looked down the side street. Mrs. Leen’s stout figure and rolling, stiff-legged gait were unmistakable; she was about a block away, moving at a surprisingly fast pace.
He waited, studying every car and window, every shadow along the street; but if there were any observers along the way, they were well hidden. Then, as Mrs. Leen turned left onto Front Street, he started after her.
He took the first block and a half at a full run, then reduced his pace to a casual stroll, and finally paused just far enough past the wall of the corner house to have a view down Front Street.
Mrs. Leen was perhaps a hundred yards down the street, and he saw a bit of red protruding from her handbag.
She still had the Dostoevsky.
He watched her until she stepped up onto the porch of her tiny, age-worn cottage, then he drew back a pace. As she paused to unlock her front door, she took a long look up and down the street, then stepped inside, and he heard the distant slam of the door.
Conan stared at the shabby little cottage, swearing inwardly at the awkward timing of Duncan’s arrival. He had no choice but to leave Mrs. Leen unwatched until he could get Duncan or Berg down here.
And the sooner the better.
He turned and set off for the shop at a dead run.
CHAPTER 12
Conan knelt by the hearth and touched the match to the kindling, then waited patiently until the flames took hold. For several minutes, he stared into the burgeoning fire, absently listening to the rhythmic strains of The Moldau. Finally, satisfied that the fire was well established, he wandered to the window wall on the west side of the room.
He heard the small sounds from upstairs: Charlie Duncan moving around, unpacking, checking his equipment. When he heard Charlie speaking in subdued tones, he turned and looked up toward the balcony and the door of the guest room. Then he smiled faintly. Duncan was checking out his contact via two-way radio with Carl Berg.
Conan looked out at the blood-red sky, watching the sun curdling into a heavy bank of clouds. It was a profound relief to have Duncan on the scene. A big, sandy-haired, freckle-faced Scot who reminded him of Henry Flagg in his pragmatic, matter-of-fact attitude. Charlie didn’t believe in rattling up spooks, either; he considered it a waste of time.
Conan had left Miss Dobie to close up the shop; left her staring blankly at him and sighing. Then he’d broken every speed limit making his way out to Skinner Junction to meet Duncan and Berg.
Carl Berg was now ensconced in a house across the street and two doors south of Mrs. Leen’s, and in the process was risking a charge of breaking and entering.
It was a risk taken out of desperation. Berg needed a vantage point; he couldn’t watch Mrs. Leen from his car. The house was a weekend cottage belonging to the Alton family, and Conan knew them through the bookshop. At least, he knew that Thomas Alton was a professor at the University of Oregon, and it was highly unlikely he’d be using the house before the next weekend.
That was the only real risk—an unexpected visit from the Altons or some of their friends. Berg had the tools, and a little practice, as he put it, to walk into the house as easily as if he had a key, and Conan had instructed him to do so, using the front door. There was little risk that the neighbors would question a stranger walking into the house; it was quite common for people to rent or loan their weekend cottages.
Conan had given Duncan a tour of Holliday Beach—the geographical points of interest in the Jeffries case—and told him everything he knew about it. That had been a pitifully short account. There hadn’t been time yet to go past the facts, and the only decision reached was that Berg would maintain surveillance on Mrs. Leen, keeping their rental car with him, and Charlie would move into Conan’s guest room. The old army buddy. That would satisfy the local grapevine.
He turned at the sound of footsteps to see Duncan coming down the spiral staircase.
“Find everything you need, Charlie?”
“And more. That so-called guest room of yours is more like a suite.” He came over to the window and looked out at the red sky. “Poor old Carl. I think he got the raw end of this deal.”
“Don’t be too sure. This is just the beginning.”
Duncan grimaced. “Yeah, I was afraid of that. Oh, I checked with Carl. He’s all settled in. The utilities are all hooked up, by the way, including the phone.”
“Yes, I thought they would be. People don’t bother to cut off the utilities in these vacation houses when they’re gone; the local hook-up fees are too exorbitant. What about Mrs. Leen?”
“She’s safely at home; no action.”
“Good. How about a drink? Supper, such as it is, is in process.”
“That’s encouraging. I’m starved.”
“Well, don’t get your hopes up. I’ve no delusions about my culinary skills.”
“Right now, I’m not particular, and I’ll have that drink. That’s the best idea you’ve come up with so far, Chief.”
Conan smiled faintly as he crossed to the bar on the south wall; he’d forgotten that “Chief.”
“What’ll you have, Charlie? Still scotch and soda?”
“Right.” Duncan sank wearily into one of the Barcelona chairs by the window. “Man, I’m bushed.”
“Well, this might pick up you a little,” Conan commented as he mixed the drinks, “or at least make my cooking more palatable.”
He returned with the two glasses, putting them on the marble-topped table between the chairs. Then he seated himself, watching Duncan with a little amusement as he tasted the scotch critically, then smiled and settled back with a contented sigh.
“Mm. Beautiful booze and classy accommodations. This is my kind of job.” His eyes swept the darkening vista of surf and sky. “Look at that view.”
Conan was already looking. A hint of a smile curved his lips.
“It isn’t bad.”
“Sure. You know what a view like this would cost in California?”
“Charlie, in California, you’d never find a view like this unless the smog lifted.”
“That’s just a myth, Chief. It’s just plain fog.”
“Of course. Just don’t ask me to breathe it.”
Duncan laughed, but his amusement faded after a moment. He took another swallow of his scotch and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“Okay, I’m enjoying the view and the fresh air, but I came up here to do a job of work, so maybe we better get back to business.”
Conan nodded, focusing his thoughts on the “business” of Jeffries’ death with some reluctance. Then he frowned irritably and started to rise.
“Damn. I meant to get that book from the safe before I left the shop.” He hesitated, and finally sank back into his chair. “I’ll get it after supper. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“It won’t help much for me to look at it anyway. If there was anything to find, you’d have caught it.”
“Not necessarily. There’s nothing obvious, however.”
Duncan frowned into his drink.
“Crime and Punishment—good Lord.”
“Apparently, someone along the line has a sense of humor. A little macabre, perhaps.”
“Sick, is more like it. Okay, so wh
at’s your theory about this business? You must have one by now.”
Conan laughed. “Of course. Theories are easy.”
His hand moved almost reflexively to his pocket for his cigarettes. He offered one to Duncan and lit one for himself before he went on.
“All right, Charlie. A theory. First, I’m hypothesizing an information system based in Holliday Beach with the bookshop as the point of exchange, and the information carried in books. Harold Jeffries checked out a book intended for an agent in the system, and the agent—or courier—saw him take it. That night; Jeffries found something in that book that made him wonder. And remember, he was once attached to the Navy Code Section. Anyway, he left his house with the book intending to ask me about it, but he was being watched. The agents involved obviously didn’t want to lose the book, or whatever it contained.”
“So, he was intercepted along the way, clipped on the jaw—”
“The right side of the jaw.”
“Yeah, so maybe you’re looking for a southpaw. Then he was held under until he drowned. Right?”
“Right.” He studied Charlie over the rim of his glass, watching him as he pursed his lips, his hazel eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then finally nodded.
“Okay. We’ll just ignore the little problem of what he found in that book for now, but tell me this—why was it put back in your shop, if that’s what they were after?”
“The killer was only a hired man. The agents would avoid that sort of personal risk if possible, and they’d also avoid direct contact with the flunky. That’s why it was put back, so it could be picked up later by the person it was actually intended for. The only hitch was that Miss Dobie has a digital memory for books.”
“That wasn’t the only hitch, if your theory holds water. I mean, having a guy like Jeffries pick up the damn book; somebody with the experience to recognize a code, or whatever.”
Conan nodded, studying the red reflections in his bourbon.
“I know. But this system has probably been in operation for some time. Mrs. Leen’s been living here for well over a year, so we can assume a number of exchanges during that time—if she isn’t just another innocent bystander. The more exchanges, the more chances of failure. The real hitch on this one was in choice of title. Jeffries was looking for Crime and Punishment.”
