by M. K. Wren
“But they couldn’t know that.”
“No. And they chose a standard title in a common edition that would normally attract no attention. Neither Miss Dobie nor I would’ve looked twice at it, if it hadn’t been for Jeffries. I’m sure we handled a number of other books in the exchanges without being aware of it.”
Duncan nodded, pulling on his cigarette, squinting at Conan through a haze of smoke.
“There’s another possibility you haven’t mentioned. It could be Jeffries was part of the system, and maybe there was some sort of disagreement among the comrades.”
“Yes, it’s a possibility, but I just can’t buy it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Jeffries. I can’t see him playing the role of enemy agent.”
“Maybe that’s because he was good at it.”
Conan rose and walked to the window, the smoke from his cigarette taking a reddish cast from the sky. After a moment, he laughed and shrugged uneasily.
“Maybe. And I’ll admit I’m having a hard time figuring out why it was necessary to murder him, if he were only an innocent bystander. You know the cardinal rule in this business—don’t make waves. You’d think they could get that book from him somehow without taking the risk of killing him. I keep wondering if he didn’t know too much; if he was killed in order to silence him—not just to get the book.”
“Well, maybe he was an innocent bystander, but there was enough in the book itself to make him dangerous.”
“Possibly, but I doubt that. They wouldn’t pass anything easily recognizable or readable by that means; the information would be coded. Jeffries may have had some experience with codes, but he wasn’t a genius. Nel left him at eight. At eight-thirty, he left his house. Would any self-respecting espionage agency use a code that could be broken in half an hour, even by an expert? And I doubt Jeffries qualified as an expert. It’s been a long time since his Navy Code Section days.”
“But he’d sure as hell know a code when he saw one, even if he couldn’t break it.”
“That’s what I’m assuming.” He gave an impatient sigh. “But how would the killer know how much Jeffries knew? Possession of the book wouldn’t indicate knowledge in itself. I doubt the agents were aware of his experience with codes; it would take time to get that information. They had absolutely no reason to assume he knew a code—or anything—was hidden in the book. Not unless he told someone.”
Charlie was silent for a while, his brow furrowed with parallel creases. Then he shrugged.
“Okay. For the time being, we’ll just say Jeffries was an innocent bystander. So, you figure he was on his way to talk to you about whatever it was he found?”
“Yes. He found the book in my shop; he walked within a block of my house on his own; and there was that phone number Nel found. If he asked Information for my number, the bookshop number is the only one he’d be given, so he couldn’t call me at that time of night. If he wanted to talk to me, he’d have to come to my house.”
“But would he trust you?”
Conan looked over at Duncan, considering the question. Finally, he nodded.
“I think so. Harold and Elinor Jeffries have been regular customers since I bought the shop. I haven’t stayed glued to the shop all these years, but I saw them often enough to know them fairly well, and for them to know me. Of course, I was closer to Nel, but I think the Captain would trust me.”
“Nel.” Duncan gave a soft laugh. “Damn, she must really be something to get you mixed up in this thing. Or was it just a conditioned reflex from your G-2 days?”
“Maybe a little of both. And curiosity.”
“You know, there’s an old saying about curiosity. Something about killing the cat.”
Conan smiled obliquely. “Yes. But there’s another old saw about cats, Charlie—cats have nine lives.”
“Okay. Touché.” He held on to a wry smile, but only for a few seconds; it faded into a disgruntled frown as he tipped up his glass. “God, this thing’s weird. If it wasn’t for the Major, I’d say you were out of your head.”
“Is the Major all that assures you of my sanity?”
“Well…that book showing up after Jeffries died is a little suspicious.”
“A little.”
“The Major.” He smiled to himself, taking time to puff on his cigarette and send out a slow stream of smoke. “That son of a gun. He never did trust anybody.”
“Apparently.” Conan folded his arms, focusing on the red-hued, tumbling breakers, recognizing the tightness within him as resentment, but still finding it hard to control. “Charlie, have you any idea who he’s working for now?”
“No. I should’ve known he wouldn’t be content to sit back and collect his retirement pay, though. And I’d say you’ve got something special going on in this burg if he’s in on it. He isn’t exactly a second-class legman.”
“True. But I’ll be damned if I can figure out what attraction Holliday Beach has for Mills.”
Duncan shrugged. “An information exchange, maybe.”
Conan turned, thrusting his hands in his pockets.
“But why an exchange here? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“We don’t know enough about this yet to say whether it makes sense or not.”
“You have a point there.”
“For that matter, we can’t even be sure of Mrs. Leen. You said maybe she picked up the book by mistake.”
“Another point.” Conan went back to his chair and sagged into it, scowling at a sunset that would have commanded his admiration under other circumstances. “And we can’t be sure the real agent didn’t come in yesterday morning, find the book missing, and take off for parts unknown.”
Duncan laughed. “Will the real spy please stand up?”
“If he’s still around, he probably will, one way or another. They seem rather anxious to get hold of that book.” He glanced at his watch. “Damn. Someone should be watching the bookshop now.”
“Just keep calm, Chief. I’ll go up to the shop later, but let me get this thing straight in my head. Okay?”
Conan sighed. “Okay.”
“Now.” Duncan folded his big hands, studying them absently. “There is one possibility for getting a line on the Major and who he’s working for. I know a guy in D.C.—Stewart Roth. Remember him?”
“No. Should I?”
“Maybe not. No, I guess he joined the Berlin group after you left with your punctured lung. Anyway, he went into the CIA and did all right for himself. If I put it just right, I might find out if the Major’s with the CIA.”
“That might at least eliminate a possibility. And we have two other potential sources of information. The Major’s partner; that bogus telephone man. But I haven’t even had a look at him.”
Duncan gave a short laugh. “I doubt he’ll oblige you, anyway, if Mills won’t talk to you. So, what’s source number two?”
“Steve Travers. Oh—you’d better make a note of his name; it might come in handy. He’s with the State Police.”
Charlie took a notepad and pen from his breast pocket and wrote down the information as Conan gave it to him, one eyebrow arching up at Travers’ official title.
“He’d be a good contact in my business.”
“Yes, well, he’s an old friend from my youth.”
“Another cowboy, huh? So, how does he rate as an in on the Major?”
“I’m sure Mills talked to him in the process of investigating me. But Steve isn’t free to discuss it. At least, he wasn’t yesterday.”
“I doubt he’ll be any looser today. But maybe the Major will take you up on that little invite you slipped him this afternoon.”
“Maybe.” He picked up his glass, then put it aside irritably and came to his feet, again drawn to the windows. “While you’re making notes, you’d better have Miss Dobie’s home phone. And Nicky’s.”
Duncan hesitated, his pen poised. “Nicky?”
“That’s Dr. Nicole Heideger.”
He laughed at that. “No, but if it shows up, you’ll know who to call.” He gave Duncan the numbers, then took his key ring from his pocket, removed one key and handed it to him. “That’s for the VW, in case you need transportation when I’m not around. I don’t have extra keys for the shop or the house, but I doubt you’ll have any trouble with those doors.”
Duncan pocketed the key, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I’m on my own, is that it? And what’ll you be up to in the meantime?” He sighed and put the notebook away. “I have a feeling I’ll regret signing on for a job with you. You’ll probably wade right into this thing, and take my ‘expert advice’ if and when you damned well please.”
“Charlie, you worry too much.”
“Sure. Maybe I just have a good memory.”
“Then you’ll remember I never believed in sticking my neck out unnecessarily.”
“I remember you believed in sticking your nose where it didn’t belong a hell of a lot.”
Conan laughed, turning to look out the window, and his laughter faded, his eyes focused intently on the horizon.
Only a livid red streak marked the meeting of sea and sky now, and along that line was a string of tiny lights. “Charlie—”
“Yeah? What is it?”
He waited until Duncan rose and joined him at the window.
“Those lights on the horizon—see them?”
“Sure.”
“Another interesting item. That’s a fleet of Russian trawlers.”
Duncan’s eyebrows shot up. “Russian?”
“Yes. But they’ve worked this coast before, and of course, they’re always careful to stay outside the three-mile limit.” He turned away and glanced at his watch. 6:20. The shop had been closed for over an hour.
“Charlie, I think I’ll go up to the shop and get that book now. Maybe I’ll…check around a little.”
“Around what? Look, Chief, if you’re so worried about the shop, I’ll go on up there and—”
“No, not yet.” He crossed to the telephone on the bar. “I’d just like to have that book safely in hand. And besides, my father always told me, never put a man to work on an empty stomach.”
“Well, maybe your old man had a point there.” He sniffed the air, looking toward the kitchen. “Something smells good, anyway. What’s on the menu?”
Conan was looking for the Altons’ number in the local phone directory; he gave Duncan a sidelong glance. “Sheepherder’s stew.”
Charlie sighed and walked over to join him at the bar. “Well, I said I wasn’t particular.”
“An eastern Oregon delicacy,” he commented as he began dialing. “I’m going to check with Berg. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No, not unless he’s had some action.”
Carl Berg answered in a guarded tone, “Hello?”
“Conan Flagg, Mr. Berg. Anything to report so far?”
“No. Nothing special, anyway. There are lights in Mrs. Leen’s house, and I saw her moving around inside earlier. The shades are drawn now. But apparently she’s alone, and no one’s been in or out of the house.”
“Any cars around?”
Berg hesitated. “Well, it’s hard to say, since I don’t know what cars would normally be around the neighborhood. The Police Chief drove by about fifteen minutes ago. He was moving pretty slow; probably just making his rounds.”
Conan laughed inwardly at that. Harvey Rose wouldn’t be making official rounds at this time of day; he considered himself off duty at 5:00 P.M.
“Did the Chief stop anywhere?”
“No, just moved right along and turned at the next corner. But there was another car I wondered about; this was a few minutes later. I noticed it because it took two turns around the block, going slow both times.”
Conan’s hand tightened on the receiver.
“What kind of car was it?”
“A blue Chevy, new model.”
“Did you get the license number?”
“Yes. Oregon, FAM811. I couldn’t see much of the driver, but it was a man. Alone.”
Alone. Of course. Conan pulled in a long breath. “Very good, Mr. Berg. Anything else?”
“No, not so far.”
“All right, thank you. Charlie or I will bring you some food and coffee later. We can come up the alley without being seen.”
Berg laughed. “That’s good news—I mean, the food. But give me a call before you come.”
“I will. Good-bye.”
When he hung up, Duncan gave him a questioning look. “Well?”
Conan leaned against the bar, his features set in a preoccupied frown.
“Damn, if Berg’s just on a wild-goose chase—”
“Well, it won’t be the first one he’s been on. Now, what was that about a car license?”
“A blue Chevrolet took a couple of slow turns around the block a few minutes ago.”
“Carl get a license number?”
“Oregon, FAM811. That’s Mills’s car. Maybe my message got some sort of reaction from him. Or maybe he’s just cruising.”
Duncan took out his notebook and wrote down the license number, a disgruntled sigh escaping him.
“Why the hell would he be cruising around here?”
“Waiting for me to do something incriminating, no doubt.” He went to the table for his cigarettes and put them in his pocket. “Charlie, what are the chances of getting a bug on Mrs. Leen’s phone?”
“Well, I don’t know. It might be done if you could get her out of the house long enough, but it’d be risky.”
“It may not be worth the risk. I doubt she carries on any important business over her own phone. Give it some thought, though. And you might try calling that friend of yours in Washington while I’m gone; your CIA contact.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a try, but it’ll take awhile to get through to him this late—and assuming he’s not on assignment in Inner Mongolia.”
“See what you can do, and you might remove the Major’s bugs for that call. But be careful, and put them back when you’re through.”
“Right. I’d like to take a look at them, anyway. Might pick up some pointers.”
Conan glanced at his watch and started for the entry hall.
“I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes. And, Charlie, if the Major should happen to call or drop in before I get back, tell him for God’s sake, whether he thinks I’m an enemy agent or not, I must talk to him.”
Duncan laughed. “I’ll give him the message.”
CHAPTER 13
The wind had switched to the east, and the temperature was dropping. Conan rounded the corner at the post office, his head down against the biting wind that made a mournful keening in the harp strings of the power lines. The beat of his footsteps echoing against the deserted shops was a lonely sound.
He reached into his pocket for his keys as he neared the bookshop, then slowed his pace. A car was parked at the north end of the block; a blue Chevrolet.
There were no other cars in sight, but he couldn’t be sure one wasn’t parked around the corner beyond the grocery store. He quickened his pace, intending to take a look at the Chevrolet, thinking it would be a good idea to check around the corner while he was at it.
But as he passed the entrance of the bookshop, he came to an abrupt halt, a sensation like a primordial raising of hackles crawling along the back of his neck.
The door was slightly ajar.
*
For a moment, he stared at the door, forgetting to breathe.
Of course, it was possible that Miss Dobie hadn’t locked it firmly when she closed the shop; the lock was sometimes cranky.
Possible, but knowing Miss Dobie, not probable.
He looked up at the windows.
No lights.
And they always left one light upstairs and one downstairs at night.
The book.
If someone fo
und that book…
His hand shot out for the door under the impetus of the solar plexus shock of anger and anxiety. But before he even touched the knob, he stopped short.
Slow down. A headlong rush into the building wasn’t the smartest—or safest—course of action.
He let his hand rest on the knob and slowly pushed the door back until he had a scant two-foot clearance, then he paused again, waiting, every sense alert.
Then he slipped inside the shop and stood pressed against the wall, listening and letting his eyes adjust to the faint light that filtered in from the street lamps. But his straining eyes caught no hint of movement, and the only sound was the whine of the wind.
Light. He needed some light. But he wouldn’t risk turning on the shop lights yet. There was a flashlight in the drawer under the cash register, but it hadn’t been used for months, and it was doubtful that the batteries were still operable. But at the moment, he could think of no other alternative.
He moved cautiously across the room, felt his way around behind the counter, opened the drawer, and searched blindly inside it with his fingers. And in spite of his intense concentration, he wondered where Meg might be.
Finally, his fingers closed on the flashlight, then he felt along the wall to the office door. It was also slightly ajar, and there was no doubt in his mind that he’d locked this door before leaving the shop.
His mouth was compressed into a grim line as he pushed the door open, waiting, poised. And again, no sound; only black silence.
He shifted the flashlight to his left hand and gripped the doorknob firmly. He half expected someone to be waiting behind the door, and he was tensed, ready to act.
But no movement—not even a sound—greeted him as he slipped into the office. He started to close the door behind him, realizing he’d be silhouetted against the dim light in the shop, but left it open a few inches, remembering the soundproofing.
Then in the darkness he paused, listening—feeling—for any living presence. There was still no sound or movement, and yet his pulse quickened, and he knew, or sensed somehow, that the room wasn’t empty. At least, he knew it had been occupied within the last few minutes. Some faint odor, perhaps. He couldn’t be sure.
