Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

by M. K. Wren

  Finally, he pressed the switch on the flashlight.

  It flickered, almost fading out, then steadied to a pale yellow glow. The light was dim, but it was enough.

  Enough to show him that the office was in chaos; drawers opened, papers strewn around, broken glass littering the carpet, a chair overturned. The safe was wide open, a gaping black hole, its contents of rare books thrown in careless heaps on the floor.

  And sprawled in front of the safe among the scattered books, a silent shadowy hulk.

  He knew what it was, but he was incapable of movement; he could only stare, incapable even of comprehension.

  At length, with every breath catching in his constricted throat, he forced himself to move, one slow step at a time, toward that still form.

  Major James Mills.

  And he was dead.

  CHAPTER 14

  Conan’s first reaction was purely visceral; a deep and solid nausea. He sank helplessly to his knees, staring transfixed, directing the pale light of the flashlight onto those familiar features, now quiet, still as stone.

  Dear God—why didn’t he call me?

  The flashlight slipped out of his grip, and his hands went to his face, covering his eyes.

  And the question kept repeating itself in his mind.

  Why didn’t he have that much faith? Why—over and over again—why?

  He pressed his palms against his burning eyes, crouching by that still, empty hulk—that wreck of a man; that silent remainder of a life—aching in every nerve, choking on the wordless cry rising in his throat.

  Why?

  *

  The first coherent thought that came to him was that Major Mills would have regarded this blind, uncontrolled surrender to emotion with the most scathing contempt;

  There would be time for grief.

  But now it was a luxury; one he couldn’t afford.

  He turned his awareness outward, focusing all his faculties on the work at hand. At first, he was perfectly still, listening, wondering if, in his unthinking reaction, he might have missed some sound or movement from outside the office.

  Then he set to work.

  He picked up the flashlight and leaned over Mills’s body, automatically checking for a pulse, finding none as he expected. The body was still warm to the touch.

  He began searching through Mills’s pockets, maintaining a cold, objective mental containment. He found nothing unusual; some loose change, cigarettes and lighter, a billfold.

  There was nothing in the billfold to indicate the identity of the Major’s employers. If he’d been carrying official identification, it had been removed. The gun from his belt holster was also missing.

  And something else was missing.

  Keys.

  There were no keys at all on the body; not even car keys, and Mills was too careful a man to leave the keys in his car. But the car was still outside.

  Conan frowned as he continued his examination in the waning light of the flashlight. There were numerous cuts and bruises around the face and head, and a massive contusion behind the right ear; the knuckles of the right hand were bruised and smeared with blood. And there was a small hole in the right temple, surrounded by a grayish halo. Powder burns.

  He studied that small wound, and it seemed bitterly ironic, almost inconceivable, that such an outwardly insignificant injury had been the cause of death.

  But the bullet had been well placed; Mills had probably been unconscious when the shot was fired. Conan looked down at the bloodied knuckles. At least, the Major had put up a fight before he was knocked out.

  He turned the head and carefully examined the left side. The bullet hadn’t emerged. He drew back, trembling, aware that the wetness on his hands was blood.

  Ballistics.

  He concentrated on that dispassionate word; it was the only frame of reference he could tolerate for that bullet.

  A ballistics check on the bullet…Travers…he’d have to call Steve…

  He froze, one thought driving everything else from his mind.

  The book.

  He turned away from the body, the fading and flickering of the flashlight lending urgency to his movements. He examined every book, searched every square foot of the room, looking behind and under every piece of furniture.

  But it was futile. He knew that even before he began.

  The Dostoevsky was gone.

  Finally, he sagged against the cold metal wall of the safe, choking back the rage as he thought of Mrs. Leen. Berg should have been watching the shop, not her. She’d sprung his trap, and yet he still couldn’t be sure he’d caught the intended victim.

  The only piece of concrete evidence he had was that book, and he’d let it slip through his fingers.

  No—here was another piece of evidence. He looked down at Major Mills and closed his eyes. What a price to pay.…

  Abruptly, every muscle in his body snapped tight, the physical reaction coming almost before he realized what had triggered it.

  A sound.

  He heard a faint creaking sound from somewhere outside the office.

  It could be Meg, or the wind, or simply the groanings of old timbers. And it could be the Major’s killer. He hadn’t been dead long.

  Conan switched off the flashlight and moved quietly to the door. Again, the creaking. It seemed to come from upstairs.

  He almost smiled. It was an old building, and it would be all but impossible to move around in it silently.

  Then he slipped out of the office and started making his way toward the stairway. And he found the problem of moving quietly on the old floors a double-edged sword.

  He reached the bottom of the stairwell without incident, but the passage took a full five minutes, testing the floor and listening intently before every step. And he heard no further repetition of the creaking sound.

  He stared up into the almost tangible darkness of the stairwell, his breath coming fast. He was all too familiar with the groanings of those stair treads under the lightest foot.

  At length, he pulled in a lungful of air, letting it out slowly, feeling the dampness of his palms as he tightened his hold on the flashlight and gripped the banister with his left hand, leaning hard on it to lighten his weight on the stairs.

  Then he started up into the darkness, slowly and carefully, easing his weight onto each step, flinching at every creak, prickling with an overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

  There were thirteen steps, he knew, and as he counted them off, he was thinking that thirteen might, indeed, be an unlucky number for him. He could feel the leaden beat of his heart in his clenched hands as he counted off the last steps.

  Finally, at the top step, he paused; then still hearing nothing, he began to relax. In all probability, Mills’s killer was long gone by now, and his groping through the dark was in pursuit of nothing but the sighing of old timbers. He shifted the flashlight to his left hand, and with his right felt along the wall for the light switch.

  But before his fingers touched the switch, the silence exploded. A banshee howl, and a tumbling of books.

  Meg…

  Then a rush of footfalls slamming against the floor. He switched on the flashlight, but its fading light revealed only a looming shadowy figure plunging toward him.

  And now Meg was under his feet; howling deep in her throat, clawing desperately at his legs. He stumbled, twisting around to catch the banister, and his senses were wracked with a coruscating flash and a shattering concussion of sound. The solid impact of the wrenching blow against his shoulder threw him forward, off balance.

  The flashlight flew out of his grasp, and he reached out blindly for support, his hands closing on thin air. The stairwell opened beneath him, and he was tumbling downward, reflexively curling into a fetal position—his mind so buffeted with sensation, he couldn’t separate pain from sound.

  He was only aware that he’d reached the bottom of the stairs as his body, slamming against the shelves, loosed an avalanche of books upon him. He gasp
ed for air in the sudden quiet, powerless to move.

  The last thing he remembered was Meg’s terrified crying fading into the distance.

  CHAPTER 15

  Nicky Heideger stepped out into the quiet hospital corridor, closing the door behind her. She glanced at her watch, then looked up at Charlie Duncan, and he echoed the gesture, almost unconsciously. 11:30. He was vaguely surprised it wasn’t later.

  “How is he, Doc? What’s the diagnosis?”

  She gave a quick, disgusted sigh, then laughed.

  “He’s vocal—and asking for you. I decided I’d better let him talk to you now; otherwise, he’ll give me trouble all night.” She glanced back at the door, frowning slightly. “As for the diagnosis, the main problem was the bullet wound. But it went in at a shallow angle across the shoulder blade; lodged against the spine of the scapula. He’ll have no permanent damage, but he won’t be using his right arm for a while. At least, he’d better not. There were quite a few bruises and abrasions, and a couple of bad lumps on his head. I had some X rays taken; I’ll know about possible head injuries tomorrow when I see them.” She paused and looked up at Duncan. “What in God’s name happened? He looks like somebody gave him a hell of a beating.”

  Duncan frowned darkly. “I wish I knew, but maybe I can find out.”

  “All right. You can go on in, but don’t stay too long. I’ll be back to check on him in a few minutes. And he’s still feeling the anesthetic to some degree. He may not be too clear.”

  He nodded and started for the door. “Okay, Doc. And thanks.”

  *

  “Charlie, thank God you’re here. What happened? Nicky said—”

  “You know, for a second there, I thought you were glad to see me for friendly reasons; but I should’ve known better. All you want is some answers.”

  Conan laughed, wincing a little. “Well, perhaps my motives are mixed.”

  “Yeah. I know all about your motives.”

  Duncan came around to the left side of the bed, studying him, a worried frown furrowing his brow.

  His right arm was bound across his ribs, the shoulder heavily bandaged; the left arm was strapped to a board to keep him from dislodging the needle taped at the crook of his elbow. He was unnaturally pale, his forehead marked with a livid, swollen bruise, but he was apparently fully conscious. And impatient to the point of distraction. Still, he seemed to find it hard to keep his eyes in focus.

  Duncan noted the line of the old scar across his chest and smiled faintly. This made twice he’d been ready to give Conan Flagg up for dead.

  “Conan, how’re you feeling?”

  He pulled in a long, cautious breath.

  “Not bad, considering. I can’t say I’m happy about my surroundings.”

  Duncan pulled a chair up by the bed and straddled it, resting his folded arms across the back.

  “Well, it’s not bad as hospitals go.”

  “Which isn’t saying much.” He sighed and frowned up at the plasma bottle. “Damn, I wish Nicky’d get me off this thing. I feel like I’m in a straitjacket. Charlie, what time is it?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  He closed his eyes as if he were reacting to an unexpected flash of light; his breathing quickened and Duncan could see the pulse beat in his throat. It was too fast. And it was too soon for him to try to talk.

  “Conan, maybe I better come back later. You don’t—”

  “No. I’m all right.”

  Duncan waited, watching him, not particularly surprised to see his breathing even out, his pulse rate slow. But he was wondering at something he read in the black Indian eyes; a pain that wasn’t physical. And questions. He seemed on the verge of exploding with them. Still, his tone was quiet and controlled when he voiced the first one.

  “Charlie, where did you find me?”

  “Find you?” That question was something of a surprise. “In the bookshop. Where did you think—?”

  “No, I mean where in the shop?”

  Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “In the office. The place had been ransacked. You were lying in the middle of the floor—”

  “There was…no one else?”

  “No one else? What do you mean?” He saw him turn even paler, and for a moment wondered if he would remain conscious. “Conan, what the hell’s wrong? Look, you’d better tell me what happened—if you feel up to it.”

  He nodded slowly, seeming to gather his strength. “All right, I’ll give you a quick rundown, then I want to know what’s been going on while I was out of commission.”

  “Well, it’ll probably have to be quick. The Doc said she’d only give me a few minutes with you, and she had fire in her eyes.”

  Conan laughed weakly. “Then we’d better make it fast. I’m not up to taking on Nicky right now.”

  When Conan had finished his brief account, Duncan was silent for a while, his features tight, devoid of expression, his shock hidden somewhere behind his narrowed eyes.

  Conan was equally silent, waiting for him to absorb the fact of Major James Mills’s death. Charlie had worked with the Major longer than he had, and come to know and respect him as much or more.

  And he waited for him to absorb the fact that the Major’s body had been removed; and the fact that the Dostoevsky was gone.

  Conan closed his eyes. It was so difficult to think; the anesthetic and the constant pain. Strange that his head seemed to ache more than his shoulder.

  “Damn it, why didn’t you call me when you found the Major?” Duncan was recovering himself. “What the hell did you hire me for if—”

  “I know, Charlie, I should’ve called you, but I was…preoccupied. I wasn’t thinking too clearly, I suppose.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He fumbled for his cigarettes, then seemed to change his mind and put them back in his pocket. “Damn. The Major. It just doesn’t seem…right, somehow.”

  Conan turned away. “Why didn’t he have a little faith in me? If I could have talked to him—he didn’t have to die, damn it.”

  “Hey, Chief—” Duncan’s voice was level; a quiet reminder. “Take it easy.”

  He nodded silently, intensely aware of the pain and a palling lethargy. Grief was still a luxury; there wasn’t time for it yet. There was too much he didn’t know; he had to keep his head clear. He had to think.

  “All right,” he said finally. “Now, what’s been going on while I was out of circulation?”

  “A hell of a lot. You missed all the fun.”

  “Yes. Take it from the top, Charlie. Everything.”

  Duncan pulled in a deep breath and ran his hand through his already disheveled hair.

  “Well, after you left the house, I got on the phone and tried to track Roth down—with no luck. Then I realized you’d been gone nearly half an hour, so I called the shop. When I got no answer, I hightailed it up there to see what the hell was going on. The front door was unlocked, and I found you on the floor in the office, bleeding all over the place.”

  “Of course. That would very neatly cover any traces of blood left by the Major’s body.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t understand why I was left alive.”

  “Don’t look a gift horse in the teeth.” Duncan shrugged, then added, “Maybe whoever shot you thought you were dead. You damn sure had me fooled at first.”

  Conan raised an eyebrow and nodded.

  “That’s quite possible. We aren’t dealing with a pro here; a pro would never get himself bottled up like that. He was probably badly shaken by the time he got around to disposing of me.”

  “At least you got the luck of the Irish from your old man. Anyway, I thought about calling the cops, but I figured you needed a doctor more, so I phoned Nicky Heideger. Then I figured it might be a good idea to call Miss Dobie. Sometimes it’s handy to have a native around when you’re dealing with local cops.” He paused, smiling to himself. That’s quite a doctor you have there, by the way. She sure gave that Rose the word.”

  Conan stared at him, attempting to ra
ise his head, but quickly giving it up. The aching in his head threw his eyes out of focus.

  “Rose? Harvey Rose?”

  “Yeah. About the time the Doc and Miss Dobie arrived, Chief Rose drives up, and—”

  “Did anyone call him?”

  “No. I was waiting for Miss Dobie before I called in the troops, and this wasn’t ten minutes after I found you. He just walked right on in. Damn, I almost took a potshot at him until I saw the badge. Anyway, he was making with the big Sergeant Friday bit. Wanted to know what happened, and if you’d said anything. We took you out to the Doc’s car, and Rose kept on asking questions. Nicky finally got fed up and told him to get the hell out of there.”

  Conan smiled faintly. “Did he leave?”

  “Yeah. Said for Nicky to let him know when you were up to talking.”

  “I’ll have her tell him I’m in a coma.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “I wonder what got to Rose. That sort of attention to duty is nothing short of a miracle.”

  “I don’t know. He said he was just cruising around and saw the lights in the shop and the Doc’s car.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What about Miss Dobie?”

  “She locked up the shop and came to the hospital with me. As soon as the Doc had a good look at you, she said we might as well leave, since she had a little stitching to do. I took Miss Dobie back to the shop so she could pick up her car, then she went on home. I’d better give her a call; let her know you’re still with us. Poor old gal was really shaken up.” He paused, then laughed to himself.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Well, she kept complaining about how the burglar—or whoever—dumped all those rare books out of the safe, then you bled all over them; said they’d be practically worthless. Thousands of dollars’ worth of autographed first editions down the drain.”

  Conan laughed. “That’s my Miss Dobie.”

  “Well, you know how people get in a situation like that. She was really worried about you.”

  “I know. Anyway, what next?”

  “I went on into the shop and called Carl. This was about eight-thirty. I didn’t have a chance to call before with so many people around.”