Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat

by M. K. Wren

  “No, I’ll be there.”

  He snorted. “Yeah, well, you might have a little argument with the Doc on that.”

  “No doubt.” He pulled in a slow breath. Stupidity, to get himself confined to a hospital bed now; to find it so difficult to think, or even to speak. He had to be careful now to avoid slurring his words.

  “Charlie, I’ll have to call Steve Travers.”

  “Will he talk to me?”

  Conan frowned slightly, the real question in his mind whether he was willing to surrender that task to Duncan. Finally, he nodded.

  “Yes, he’ll talk to you. He knows your name from past reminiscences.”

  Duncan raised an eyebrow. “I hope you had something good to say about me.”

  “Nothing but the truth—always.”

  “Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

  “Well, at least your name will be familiar. Tell him you’re working on the Jeffries case, and give him everything we have. And I want some information from him.”

  Charlie nodded and took out his notebook. “What kind of information?”

  “First, who Mills was working for. If Steve still isn’t talking, make it clear to him that we may have vital information.” He felt himself tightening, and worked at systematically relaxing every muscle. “And give him the Major’s license number, but don’t tell him—”

  “I know. You don’t know who’s driving the car.”

  “Yes. Ask him to put out an APB in this area on the car. I doubt it’ll do any good, but it’s worth a try.”

  Duncan glanced surreptitiously at his watch.

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. See what he can dig up on Mrs. Leen. You have all the pertinent information.” He paused, considering his next request. “There’s someone else I’d like to know about.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “No. Anton Dominic.”

  “Who the hell is he?”

  “I don’t know if he has anything to do with this, but when Mills came into the shop, it was on Dominic’s heels both times.”

  Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “He was tailing him?”

  “I can’t be sure of that. It may be coincidence.”

  “Okay. But what can you give me besides a name?”

  “He’s a retired carpenter; about seventy. A Greek immigrant. He’s been in Holliday Beach about two years.”

  “Well, that should be easy enough to check through Immigration.”

  “It should.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s all, Charlie. Tell Steve I’ll…call him tomorrow.”

  Duncan put his notebook away, studying him in silence for a moment.

  “Conan, are you holding out on me?”

  The question was asked in a quiet tone that took him off guard. Conan closed his eyes, feeling his mind slipping out of focus again, and if he didn’t tell Charlie all he knew—or assumed—it was only because the explanation would be too difficult. And because Charlie had enough to worry about tonight. If he understood, he wouldn’t leave the hospital. The risk was probably slight at this point, but it existed.

  Conan knew he’d been left on the floor in his office for dead. His survival wouldn’t be considered desirable to some parties.

  “Charlie, I…I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow.”

  Duncan was obviously less than satisfied with this, but he had no opportunity to protest. Nicky Heideger came in at that point, her jaw set firmly.

  “Gentlemen, it’s time for lights out.”

  “All right, Doc.” Charlie smiled faintly at Conan. “Tomorrow, Chief. Relax. Everything’s under control.”

  Conan knew Duncan didn’t believe that anymore than he did, but he nodded acceptance.

  “Thanks, Charlie.”

  “Sure.” He started for the door. “Good night, Doc. Oh—it’s been nice meeting you.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Charlie Duncan was standing at the bottom of the spiral staircase, dressed in a bathrobe, his red hair rumpled, his eyes ringed with dark shadows, and his expression an almost ludicrous combination of puzzlement and annoyance.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Conan laughed, then crossed to the west wall and pulled the drapes with his left hand.

  “Why shouldn’t I be here? It’s all I have to call home.” Duncan walked over to the windows, squinting miserably at the glare of sunlight.

  “I mean how did you get past the Doc?”

  “Past her? Charlie, Nicky brought me home.” Then at Duncan’s dubious expression, he added, “I’ll admit it took a little fast talking.”

  “Yeah. At least. I never figured she’d fall for any of your Irish blarney.”

  “Ah, Charlie, me boy, never underestimate the golden tongue of a true son of the auld sod.” He looked out at the breakers, smiling at the gossamer veils thrown back from the crests.

  “Actually, we made a bargain of sorts, and she found nothing out of the ordinary on the X rays.”

  “You mean the pictures of your head? Well, some things don’t show up on X-rays. So, what’s your bargain?”

  “I’m to check with her every day for the next week, and wear this damn thing”—he glanced down at the sling supporting his right arm—“and keep the arm immobile. Nicky is rather sensitive about her stitchery. Anyway, she gave me a bottle of pills for pain, with the comforting assurance that if it’s sore now, it’ll get worse, and sent me out into the world with her blessing.”

  Duncan finally laughed. “Blarney. That’s all.”

  “Probably.” He glanced at his watch, the anxiety closing in again, shadowing his eyes: 9:25. “Charlie, have you heard from Carl this morning?”

  “Not since six. No action, Chief. He’d have called me if anything showed up.”

  “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Yes. This morning, anyway. I relieved Carl until six, then I turned in. How’re you feeling? I damned sure didn’t think you’d be up this soon.”

  Conan laughed and looked out the window. He had no intention of elucidating on how he felt; every muscle in his body ached, aside from the dull throbbing in his shoulder and head.

  “I’m all right, Charlie. Did you get through to Steve last night?”

  “Sure. I gave him the whole story, and he said he’d do what he could for you. He wants you to call him as soon as you can.”

  “Anything about the Major’s employers?”

  “No. He says he still can’t discuss it.”

  “Damn. All right, I’ll call him in a few minutes. Look, why don’t you put on some coffee and give Carl a call while I go up and change clothes?”

  Duncan nodded and grinned as he eyed his shirt.

  “Yeah, that rag isn’t exactly up to your usual sartorial standards, Chief.”

  Conan laughed and started for the stairway.

  “A donation from Nicky’s personal Goodwill bag. My clothes were in bad shape.”

  “You need any help?”

  “No. I’ll manage.”

  Conan began to wonder about his ability to “manage” before he finished shaving and dressing. He found himself swearing under his breath at nearly every movement; the simplest task became a problem with the injured shoulder.

  But by the time he came back downstairs, he’d learned a few tricks about “managing” with only limited use of his right arm.

  Charlie was in the kitchen; Conan could see him through the pass-through, staring morosely at a sputtering skillet. He walked over to the pass-through, smiling faintly at Duncan’s intent interest in his culinary task.

  “Did you get hold of Carl?”

  Duncan looked over at him and nodded. “Yeah. All quiet on that front. The old lady’s still at home, and she hasn’t made a move.”

  Conan frowned. “Nothing at all?”

  “Well, Carl can’t see through the walls, but she hasn’t so much as opened her door since last night. You had breakfast yet?”

  He sniffed the o
dor of cremated bacon and nodded with some relief.

  “Yes. That comes with the hundred-dollar-a-day accommodations. Did you clear the bugs on the phones?”

  “They’re clean, and I didn’t find any other bugs around.”

  “I’ll call Steve, then.”

  Duncan nodded absently. “Okay. I’ll be through here in a minute.”

  Conan crossed to the bar, settling himself on one of the stools, lit a cigarette, then picked up the receiver, finding left-handed dialing annoyingly awkward. He reached Travers after going through two receptionists.

  “Conan, for God’s sake, where are you? Still at the hospital?”

  “No, I’m home.”

  “Already?”

  “Well, I can be very persuasive, believe it or not, and anyway, Nicky found no cracks in my cranium.”

  “Then she’s looking at the wrong cranium. Yours has been cracked for years.”

  Conan groaned. “I walked into that one. But we’d better get down to business. It’s nearly ten, and I have to get to the bookshop.”

  “Okay. I hope you realize you’ve had me hopping half the night and all morning.”

  “Well, Steve, as Chief Rose told me just last night, criminals don’t work eight-to-five shifts.”

  Travers made a few choice comments.

  “I’ll never understand,” he concluded, “how Harvey Rose made chief in Holliday Beach. He’s been kicked off, or asked to resign, from every force he’s been on.”

  Conan puffed at his cigarette, his eyes narrowing.

  “So I’ve heard. Steve, you just don’t understand the local political situation. Some people feel more secure with a man like Harvey around.”

  “Sure. Anyway, I did some legwork for you—at the taxpayers’ expense, you understand, which doesn’t endear me to the powers that be around here.”

  “If you get any complaints, refer them to my tax returns. I’m definitely a taxpayer, and I’m entitled. Did you find that Chevrolet?”

  Travers gave a short laugh. “You’re going to love this. It’d already been picked up when I put out the APB—by the Holliday Beach Police Department, no less. They found it down on Front Street a couple of blocks from the bookshop. Deserted, they say.”

  “Damn. You can count on that car being clean as a whistle at this point.”

  “Conan, you don’t have the proper respect for the local minions of the law.”

  “Oh, I have respect—of a sort. Did you get any information at all on the car?”

  “It’s registered to an agency of the federal government, and I’m not at liberty yet to say what agency.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Steve, can’t I get it through anyone’s head—” He sighed and forced himself to relax. “All right, so I’m still a suspect—for crimes unknown. Has there been any sign of the Major’s body?”

  “No, but then nobody’s been looking yet, as far as I know. I…uh, asked some questions about this Major.”

  “And?”

  “Well, like I said, I’m not free to talk yet. But off the record, I got the impression he was working on something on his own. It didn’t have anything to do with his assignment, and his boss wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “Was his boss sure it had nothing to do with his assignment? Steve, this isn’t Berlin. How many undercover operations do you think we’d have going in Holliday Beach?”

  Travers sighed. “I don’t know, and I’m just guessing, really. They haven’t been exactly talkative around me, either. Maybe my good name’s been tarnished by association with you.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that. I’d like to know how my good name got so tarnished.”

  “Don’t ask me. But I picked up a hint that this Major saw somebody he recognized in the bookshop a few days ago. I don’t know if that was you or not.”

  Conan sent out a stream of smoke and tapped his cigarette impatiently against the ashtray.

  “That still doesn’t explain why I’m suddenly so untrustworthy. Did you tell them…about Mills?”

  “You mean that he’s dead? Yes, I told them.”

  “Do they believe it?”

  “Well, last night, no. But this morning, after checking with his—I mean, finding out he hadn’t shown up for his usual shift, they’re beginning to worry.”

  “Beginning to worry? It’s about time. And I know he had a partner here, so you don’t need to pussyfoot around that. Steve, they should have someone down here checking, not sitting over there worrying.”

  “Checking what, Conan? They told me the Major had a habit of taking off on tangents of his own; they lost track of him for three days once. They also told me there’s been no hint of trouble on his assignment. And they have nothing but your word for it that he’s dead. Did anybody else see the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who, for God’s sake? Duncan said—”

  “The man who killed him.”

  Travers loosed an exasperated sigh.

  “Sure. That’s a big help.”

  “It’s certainly more than my word for it that someone put a bullet in me last night.”

  “I know. That’s on the records as an attempted burglary. It’s also on the records that the only witness to said burglary—namely you—suffered an attack of acute amnesia.”

  Conan’s cheeks darkened, and the anger-generated tension sent a spasm of pain across his shoulder.

  “If someone other than Harvey Rose was willing to listen to me, I might recover from that amnesia.”

  “Look, Conan, I’m doing my best, and, like I said, they aren’t saying much to me, either.”

  Conan subsided, the tension sagging from his taut muscles.

  “I know, Steve. It isn’t your fault.”

  “Anyway, they’ll probably have somebody down there to check things out soon, if they haven’t already. But it seems they’re a little shorthanded at the moment. There’s kind of a delicate matter pending in Portland; something to do with about a million bucks’ worth of heroin and the Cosa Nostra. That’s pure scuttlebutt, by the way.”

  Conan’s eyes narrowed. “Cosa Nostra. That probably means FBI, then.”

  “I told you it was scuttlebutt.”

  “It doesn’t help right now, anyway. Did you get any results on those names Charlie gave you?”

  Travers hesitated. “Well, it’s funny, but I couldn’t come up with anything on either one of them. I checked all the regular channels and scored a big fat zero. Immigration didn’t even have anything on that Dominic. As far as official records go, those people just don’t exist.”

  “That’s…quite interesting.”

  “I’m glad you think so. I’ll keep at it, but I doubt I’ll turn up with anything.”

  “The lack of information is informative in its own way. Anyway, thanks for the help, and try to get through to that federal agency, or I may get desperate and try on my own. I doubt they’d like that. I might inadvertently foul up some of their best laid plans in the process.”

  “Now, look, Conan,” Travers began hotly; then he sighed. “All right, I’ll keep trying, but just hold off for a while. Please.”

  “I will, Steve. As long as I can. Anyway, I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Sure. Thanks for the reassurance. And…good luck.”

  *

  Conan cradled the receiver and, for a moment, let his hand rest there, his fingers tapping against the plastic, his eyes fixed blindly on one of the jade prayer wheels in the case behind the bar.

  “Well, what’s the word?”

  Duncan was putting two steaming cups on the table between the Barcelonas. Conan rose and crossed to the chairs, drawn by the welcome aroma of the coffee.

  “The word is mixed; a little good and a lot bad.” He eased himself carefully into one of the chairs. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Duncan nodded as he seated himself.

  “What’d Steve have to say?”

  Conan gave him the gist of the conversation, then waited silently for him to
digest it. Charlie glowered into his cup for a while, then looked up at him.

  “So they’re not even admitting the Major’s dead?”

  “Consider the source—from their point of view.” He paused to light a cigarette, another small task made difficult by the injury. “Apparently, they haven’t much faith in my word. I assume they’ll take me more seriously in time—when Mills doesn’t show up at all.”

  “In time,” he repeated glumly. “What the hell do you suppose his assignment was, anyway? You think Steve knows?”

  “Probably, but I doubt he’s been told very much.”

  “Well, Steve didn’t help us much. He’s too hogtied.”

  Conan raised his cup, savoring the coffee.

  “He turned up one rather important item.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Dominic. I can understand the lack of information on Mrs. Leen, but Anton Dominic doesn’t exist officially, either, and that’s quite informative.”

  “You figure he’s in this with Mrs. Leen?”

  “I don’t know. But before, I couldn’t be sure Mills was tailing him; it might have been coincidence that they showed up in the shop at the same time twice in a row. It still might be coincidence, but the odds have dropped to nothing on that. Dominic isn’t what he pretends to be.”

  “Maybe he’s the hired man you keep talking about.”

  Conan’s eyes were briefly opaque; stone black.

  “No. He wouldn’t be a match physically for Jeffries, much less the Major. And the Major put up a fight before he died.”

  Duncan shrugged. “Okay. How would he work out as the courier?”

  “Not very well. He hasn’t a car, for one thing.”

  “He might have access to one.”

  “Yes. But I know he wasn’t in the shop Friday. He was ill, and Saturday was the first time he’d been in for two weeks. The book was undoubtedly delivered Friday. That’s when Jeffries found it, and I can’t imagine their leaving it on the shelf for any length of time.”

  “So where does Dominic fit in?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head, feeling a vague sadness; regret. “I wish I didn’t have to fit him in at all.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s…a gentle man, Charlie. A man who lives on ideas; who can get enthusiastic about Mu mesons and negative atomic particles and Einsteinian limits.”