by M. K. Wren
“What did he have to say?”
Duncan took his notebook from his breast pocket. “Nothing happened at his end until seven-thirty. Then Mrs. Leen left her house, on foot, and walked up to the corner by the grocery store—you know, just north of the bookshop.”
Conan focused intently on him, unaware of the pounding ache in his head engendered by the quickening of his heartbeat.
“Did Berg follow her?”
“Sure. But he couldn’t get too close; too much open space. She stopped at the corner and took out a flashlight and looked around the foundation of the store. Then Carl says he’s sure she took something out from between the chinks, but she had her back to him, and he couldn’t see what it was.”
Conan almost laughed aloud; the sudden relief was overwhelming. For a moment, he was lightheaded with it.
Berg hadn’t been wasting his time watching Edwina Leen. That nocturnal stroll stilled any doubts about her involvement with the book.
“Beautiful. At least, I caught the right mouse with my trap.”
“Some mouse,” Duncan commented sourly. “Anyway, she didn’t move for a couple of minutes. Carl figured she was checking whatever she picked up. Then she turned around like she was heading home, but after a few steps she stopped and turned around again, and took off north up the highway.”
“That’s strange. She had what she wanted.”
“The book? Yeah, I guess so.”
“Where was she—?” Then he nodded. “North. The filling station. There’s a phone booth there.”
“Right. She made a call, talked for three or four minutes, then went straight home. She hasn’t set foot out of the place since.”
Conan was silent for a while, thinking over the report. “Who the hell was she calling, Charlie? It wasn’t the hired man. She wouldn’t go out to a phone booth every time she had to contact him; she’d have a more efficient means of communication set up.” He paused, then gave a quick sigh. “When you went up to the shop, did you see a car parked in front of the grocery store?”
“No. Why?”
“The Major’s car was there when I arrived. But, of course, it would be gone by the time you got there. That’s probably how the body was removed. His killer had already taken his car keys when I found the body. Anyway, go on.”
Duncan took a deep breath, frowning down at the floor.
“Well, I’ll have to admit I goofed here, Chief. I decided to take a look around the shop, and it finally came through to me that the place had been searched—after I went to the hospital with you.”
“Afterwards? But she had the book. Why would—” Then he closed his eyes with a tight smile of satisfaction.
Something had gone wrong for Mrs. Edwina Leen. He had no way of knowing what it was, but somehow—even though she had the book—she still wasn’t satisfied.
“What do you mean about goofing, Charlie? That’s the best news I’ve had all night. We’re still in business; she didn’t find what she was looking for. And now we can be sure she’s involved.” He hesitated. “You know, I’ll give you odds that deafness routine is an act. It has to be.”
“Deafness? I’ve never met the lady, you know.”
“From all outward appearances, deaf as a post.” He shook his head in amazement. “She’s a pro, Charlie. But something must have been missing from that book. The shop was searched after she picked it up. That might even explain the phone call. She was calling in someone to make the search. The third man.”
“What do you mean—the third man?”
“I…just a figure of speech. The important thing is she didn’t find what she wanted in that book.”
Duncan nodded glumly. “Yeah, I figured it that way, too, but the trouble is, I didn’t realize the place had been searched until after I called Carl. Then I checked for bugs. The GI bugs the Major had installed have been replaced. I know, because I took a close look at the ones on your home phones. These are brand X. That’s what I mean about goofing. She has every word of my call to Carl.”
“Oh.” Conan considered this piece of news. “Well, all she could find out was that she was being watched, and perhaps your names.”
“First names only. Conan, I’m sorry. The place was in such a hell of a mess already, it took me awhile to catch on.”
“It’s all right. It might even prove useful; the fact that my phones were already bugged should confuse her, for one thing, and the extra pressure might serve to force her hand. Did you find anything else?”
“Yes. I began to smarten up a little, so I went over to your house and checked. Same story.”
“Did you remove the bugs?”
“No, not yet.”
“You’d better get rid of them. Damn, I hate to lose the Major’s bugs. That was my only means of reaching his employers. What else?”
“Nothing. I relieved Carl for a while. I checked with the hospital a couple of times, and finally the Doc said you were beginning to come around, so I came on down here. I figured you might have a few questions.”
“A few.” He closed his eyes; the constant pain was beginning to tell on him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his eyes—or his thoughts—in focus. “It’s been a busy night all around.”
Duncan came to his feet. “Chief, you look like hell. I’d better take off and let you—”
“No. Wait, Charlie.” Conan took a deep breath. “Let me think a minute. There’s something I want you to—” He stopped at a knock on the door. “Yes?”
Dr. Heideger came in, followed by a starchy nurse. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I’ll have to interrupt this.”
Conan frowned. “Nicky, I still—”
“Tell me about it later.”
She came around to his left side, and Charlie moved to the other side of the bed, while she removed the intravenous needle and unstrapped his arm.
“You can take this with you,” she said to the nurse, indicating the transfusion equipment. “And prepare a diamorphine injection for me. I’ll administer it.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulled out a prescription pad, and made a few cryptic notations, then handed the sheet to the nurse.
The nurse glanced at the form as she took it. “Anything else, Doctor?”
“No, not now. Thank you, Jean.”
Conan flexed his arm, watching silently as the nurse wheeled the plasma rack out of the room and closed the door behind her. Then he looked up at Nicky, who was studying him with a slight frown. She took his hand in hers for a moment, but it wasn’t a gesture of affection, he knew; only one of her many unobtrusive diagnostic measures.
“How do you feel, Conan?”
“Fine.”
“Sure.” She looked cross the bed at Duncan, but before she could say anything more he raised a hand to quiet her.
“Okay, Doc, I know I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”
“Wait, Charlie,” Conan injected.
“It’s not you I’m worried about, Mr. Duncan. Harvey Rose just arrived, and unfortunately the nurse at the desk told him you’d been in to see Conan, so he’s champing at the bit out there.”
Conan’s jaw went tight. “He’s taking his job damned seriously all of a sudden.”
“I’ll be happy to get rid of him for you.”
He looked up at Nicky, and seeing her sly smile, knew she’d enjoy getting rid of Rose, and his first impulse was to let her have her way. An encounter with Rose seemed to be asking too much of his waning physical resources. Then he hesitated.
“No,” he said finally, “I’ll talk to him. But I’d appreciate it if both of you stayed here. Particularly you, Charlie. I still have something to talk to you about before you leave.”
Nicky raised an eyebrow, then acquiesced with a sigh. “All right, I’ll call Rose in. But I’m giving notice now, Conan. I’m clearing everybody out of here in fifteen minutes, and giving you something to shut you up for a while.”
CHAPTER 16
Harvey Rose followed Nicky into the room, darting quick
, suspicious glances at both Duncan and the doctor. He went to the end of the bed and leaned against the railing, while Nicky silently took up a position at Conan’s left.
Rose’s pale, restless eyes shifted incessantly. His face seemed even redder than usual, and his cheek was blotched with a swollen bruise.
Conan watched him through half-closed eyes, wondering how sober he was; more so than usual for this time of night, no doubt. Conan deliberately neglected to introduce him to Charlie.
Rose cleared his throat nervously.
“Well, uh, Mr. Flagg, I’m glad to see you’re…uh, feeling better.”
Conan smiled with more than a hint of irony at that expression of concern. Strange—he’d never noticed before, but Rose wore his .38 on his left side.
“I appreciate your taking time to come by, Mr. Rose. I know this is after your normal working hours.”
The policeman seemed unaware of the faint overtones of sarcasm in that statement. He only smiled and shrugged.
“Well, in this business you have to expect a little overtime. Criminals don’t work eight-to-five shifts, you know.”
No, Conan thought bitterly, but the honorable Chief Rose did. At least, he usually did.
Conan made no response, giving Rose what he hoped was a sufficiently appreciative smile, watching him as he reached into his breast pocket for a notebook and pen.
“Well, Mr. Flagg, if you…uh, feel up to it, maybe you could tell me what happened tonight.”
He started to reply, then hesitated, staring at Rose as he made a quick notation at the top of the page, his arm twisted with the overhanded writing position typical of the left-handed. And the knuckles of his left hand were skinned and bruised.
Rose looked up at him sharply. “Mr. Flagg?”
Only Charlie Duncan was aware of the slight change in Conan’s attitude; he recognized a faint light hidden behind the opaque black eyes.
Finally, Conan said, “Well, I’m afraid you’ve put yourself out for no purpose.”
“How’s that?”
“Mr. Rose, I can’t tell you what happened.”
Duncan threw him a quick, speculative glance, but neither he nor Nicky showed any overt reaction to this statement.
“What d’you mean, you can’t tell me?”
“I can’t tell you because I haven’t the slightest idea what happened myself. It’s a complete blank.”
Rose eyed him suspiciously. “But you must remember something.”
Conan shook his head. “I wish I could. I don’t like the idea of getting shot at. I’ve been trying to remember, but except for this shoulder—and a hell of a headache—it might as well have happened to someone else.”
“But before you got shot—can’t you remember anything about that?” Rose’s tone was sharp and insistent.
“No. I remember I was going to the shop to pick up a couple of books I’d saved for Charlie.” He glanced briefly at Duncan.”
“Then you do remember going to the shop?”
“No…not really.” He frowned as if concentrating on calling up the memory. “I remember leaving the house, but that’s all. I don’t even remember arriving at the shop.”
“Are you sure, Flagg? Come on—just try to think back. You must remember more than that.”
“No, I’m sorry,”
“But that was before you got shot. You must remember what happened before that!”
“I told you,” Conan said wearily, “it’s a complete blank.”
Rose’s face was flushed, his eyes narrowed to slits.
“What d’you mean, a blank? Listen, Flagg, if you—”
“Mr. Rose—” It was Nicky, her tone sharp and cool. “Conan suffered a severe blow to the head. Surely, you’re aware that partial amnesia, particularly affecting the time span near the injury, is quite common in such cases.”
Rose turned on her, and there was an almost tangible clash as their eyes met—and held. Finally, it was Rose who backed down. He looked away, then concentrated on the problem of returning his notebook and pen to his pocket.
“Well, sure I realize head injuries can cause…uh, problems like that.”
Conan was silent, watching this encounter with a certain relish, as Nicky went on coldly.
“My concern is for my patient, Mr. Rose, and I consented to let you see him tonight only because you insisted. But I will not tolerate your badgering him. I think it must be obvious, even to you, that he can’t answer your questions, so I’ll ask you to leave now.”
Rose shot her a venomous look, then glanced uneasily at Conan, then back to Nicky.
“You…uh, figure the memory will come back?”
She hesitated, then caught Conan’s almost imperceptible negative head shake.
“That’s hard to say,” she replied thoughtfully. “I suppose the amnesia could disappear, but it’s been my experience with a cranial injury of this type that the trauma apparently blocks the memory functions in the frontal lobes, so there’s actually no imprint made on the memory-storing cells. Even events preceding the trauma are permanently obliterated. I’ve seen some cases where the result was total amnesia.”
Rose regarded her with a peculiarly blank expression through this dissertation, then finally turned to Conan.
“Well. I—I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Flagg, but you understand, it doesn’t make my job any easier.”
Conan mustered a polite smile. “Of course. I suppose you’ll want everything left as it is in the shop until you’ve had a chance to check it—fingerprints, and all that.”
“What? Oh. Yes, of course. I’ll…send somebody down first thing in the morning.”
“What time? I’ll have Miss Dobie open the shop for you.”
“Well, I—about nine, I guess.”
“Good. I’ll tell her.”
Nicky glanced at her watch, then fixed Rose with a cold, unblinking gaze.
“Now, Mr. Rose, if that’s all…”
He glanced suspiciously at her, then cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s…all. I’ll be in touch with you, Mr. Flagg,” he concluded lamely, then turned and hurried from the room.
Conan closed his eyes, shivering involuntarily.
Footsteps. Charlie going to the door to make sure Rose was gone. Charlie’s instincts were always good.
The shivering wouldn’t stop. Gross inefficiency, to keep a hospital room so cold. Considering the price of the accommodations here, it would seem…
He was slipping, but he was only aware of it when the whirling sensation began.
Not yet. He wasn’t ready to surrender yet.
He concentrated, bringing his mind into focus again, finding it a wrenching effort. Reaction; that was part of it. Reaction to a staggering realization.
His mind had already pieced this particular puzzle together, but on an unconscious level. It had correlated the facts, the juxtaposition of events, the anomalies, and produced an answer that seemed blind inspiration. And now he must repeat the process on a conscious level.
The truth was there; all he needed was an explanation. But it was difficult to keep his thoughts in any kind of reasonable sequence, and reaction and illness weren’t entirely responsible. There was an element of fear.
He felt a gentle touch against his forehead and opened his eyes abruptly. Not yet…
“Conan?”
“Yes, Nicky. I’m all right.”
“No, you aren’t, but I won’t argue with you.”
She went to the table at the end of the bed and brought a tray back to the bedside table, It was laden with a small, rubber-capped bottle and a hypodermic syringe. He frowned at it; he hadn’t heard the nurse bring it in.
“Not yet,” he said flatly.
“That isn’t your decision.”
He smiled faintly. “Perhaps. But I can make it hard for you. Please. Give me a few minutes with Charlie.”
Duncan scowled at him. “Listen, Chief, there’s always tomorrow.”
“No. Tomorrow will be too late.”
Charlie sighed and looked helplessly at Nicky. She studied Conan a moment; a scrutiny that was typically a paradoxical mixture of objective assessment and empathy. Finally, she smiled.
“Conan, if you aren’t grateful for your usual good health, I am. You’re a damnably difficult patient. All right. Five minutes.” She glanced at Duncan as she started for the door. “I’ll be right outside.”
“Thanks, Doc.” When the door closed behind her, he turned to Conan. “Okay, if you’re feeling so talkative, maybe you’d like to explain that amnesia routine. You’re damned lucky Nicky’s so fast on the uptake.”
Conan laughed weakly. “And that she detests Rose so thoroughly.”
“So what’s your excuse?”
“I…just don’t want Rose involved.” It was so hard to think; to stay with one line of reasoning and follow it through. “I don’t trust him.”
“Well, that’s understandable. Is that all?”
Conan hesitated. “For now, yes.”
“Okay. I’ll let it ride—for now. Chief, you’re running on nerve. What did you want to talk to me about?”
Conan frowned, resenting Duncan’s words, finally realizing the resentment was for himself; for his own weakness. He concentrated, gathering his waning strength.
“I’m sorry to put so much on your shoulders, but I want you to check something at the shop tonight.”
“Sure. I brought a supply of uppers, just in case.”
“You may need them. But this won’t take long. Look in the Anthropology section upstairs; the last room to the south. I put a third copy of Crime and Punishment there.”
“What should I do with it?”
“I just want to know if it’s there.”
“Okay. What else is on your mind?”
Too much, he thought bitterly; too much to sort out.
“Call Miss Dobie. Tell her to be at the shop at eight tomorrow morning. That’ll give us some leeway in case Rose decides to jump the gun. And tell her to keep the shop open all day tomorrow.”
“What do you mean—all day?”
“We usually close on Monday. The resort economy’s sabbath.”
“Oh.” Duncan smiled crookedly. “I’ll tell her. You want me to stick around the shop tomorrow?”
