by M. K. Wren
He was aware of movements around him, crisp orders, terse questions and responses, and somewhere, Harrison’s meaningless babbling. Beyond the railing, he saw the cutter approaching, and another boat standing off a little distance. He smiled weakly as he read the name on her side. The Josephine.
“Sir…can I help you?”
He couldn’t seem to make sense of the simplest words. He looked around at the Guardsman, his eyes going out of focus. The pain and weariness he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in the grim necessity of crisis were coming home to him now, and his lips were numbed as he tried to speak.
“Dem-Demetriev—the old man…is he all right?”
“I think so. There’s a doctor and an ambulance standing by at the dock.” A brief hesitation, then, “Sir, are you—should I call the medic?”
Conan looked over at the anxious group clustered around Demetriev.
“Not now. He has his hands full. Later—”
He tightened his grip on the railing, and finally, feeling some return of strength, pulled himself to his feet. He knew he could hold out a while longer, but he was still grudgingly thankful for the Guardsman’s supporting hand.
Someone had cut the ropes from his wrists. He wondered when; he hadn’t been aware of it. And he noted absently that Nicky’s beautiful job of stitching hadn’t been up to the rigors of the evening. Dark threads of blood were moving down the back of his hand.
The movement of the boat was becoming intolerable.
He turned away; turned from that mute, lifeless form at his feet, and felt his way along the railing toward the bow.
*
Charlie Duncan pushed through the crowd gathering on the dock. A signal from one of the FBI agents opened the way for him when he reached the Sea Queen, but he’d have boarded her, one way or another, without the official sanction, in spite of the cordon of policemen and Guardsmen.
He surveyed the crowded deck, a frown drawing his brows together. Demetriev, in the stern, was enclosed by Guardsmen, policemen, white-garbed ambulance attendants, and FBI agents, whose conservative business suits seemed as much like uniforms as the other, more straightforward uniforms in evidence here.
He spoke briefly with Inspector West, who was part of the cluster gathered around Demetriev. Nicky Heideger was there, too, but she was too busy to look up.
Then he stepped aside as a sheet-covered stretcher was carried off the boat. Harry Morton. The courier. Duncan scanned the deck again, his mouth tightening irritably at the noise and confusion.
Finally, he walked around the pilothouse and into an area of relative quiet. Conan was sitting against the starboard railing near the bow, entirely alone; Alexei Demetriev was the center of attention now. Conan sat with a certain stoic patience, cross-legged, with a blanket wrapped around him, and Duncan almost laughed. Chief Joseph.
But he suspected the stoicism reflected a physical state more than a philosophical attitude. He walked over and knelt beside him.
“Hey, Chief.”
Conan looked up, bringing his eyes into focus; his field of vision was rather narrow, but at the moment it didn’t bother him. Very little bothered him. He smiled faintly.
“Hello, Charlie. Thanks for sending the Marines.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry it took so long for them to land. How’re you feeling—or…maybe you better not try to answer that.”
Conan laughed at Duncan’s uncertain frown. There was no cause for concern; he wasn’t feeling much of anything now.
“I’m all right. I think I’m…a little seasick. Funny. I’ve never had any trouble with it before.”
“Sure. Well, hold on awhile. Nicky’ll be here. She’s busy with Demetriev now.”
“How is he?”
“All I know is he’s still alive. She’ll fill you in.”
Conan nodded. “Charlie, what happened to Berg? Is he—?”
Duncan laughed and settled himself on the deck, cross-legged like Conan.
“Well, he’s okay, but it’s a long story.”
“Just give me the high points, then. Do you have a cigarette? Mine are rather wet.”
“Like the rest of you.” He reached into his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and lit one for Conan, noting that he was using his left hand exclusively. “What the hell did you do—jump in?”
Conan took a long drag on the cigarette, savoring it, letting his eyes close briefly.
“No, but I might as well have. What about Carl?”
“Well, you remember I told you he’d sighted a couple of city police cars right before he signed off.” He paused to light a cigarette for himself, the flare of the match momentarily lighting his tense features. “I don’t know where the tip came from. Maybe a neighbor. But somebody reported Carl sneaking around Demetriev’s house. Anyway, Harvey Rose picked him up. Suspicion of intent to burgle, or something. He sent Carl down to your local emporium of justice with the second cop.”
“He what? Good God, but—”
“Yeah, I know. Of course, Carl didn’t want to say much around Rose, so he went along, figuring he’d call me when he got to the jail. But it seems the local fuzz hasn’t heard about some of those inalienable constitutional rights. He never got a chance to make that call.”
“Of course not. Is he all right?”
“I talked to him by phone a little while ago. The FBI gave the local boys the word, so he’s out now.”
Conan inhaled on his cigarette, looking up at the crowded dock, wondering if there was any real purpose behind all that activity. It kept merging into a vague, meaningless blur, haloed in spotlights and blinking emergency lights.
“When did the Marines hit Holliday Beach?”
“You mean the FBI? Too late. Fortunately, some of them were already on their way down from Portland to check out the Major’s ‘disappearance.’ And you. You really had them in a sweat. But, Conan, they didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on here—I mean, with Demetriev. The timing was damned good. Like the two watchdogs in the house across the street. They weren’t due to report in until eight o’clock. The Portland office had no way of knowing what had happened to them. And by eight, Demetriev was already on his way home.”
“And what did happen to them?”
“Well, that’s still a little hazy at this point, except one has a concussion, and they were both tied and gagged.”
Conan frowned. “But why didn’t the FBI know what was happening? What about the Major? He must’ve known—”
“Nothing, Chief. Maybe he was getting some ideas, but he…didn’t have time to follow through on them. He was sent here to help keep an eye on Demetriev. That’s all. And, of course, he was new on the assignment; he’d only been in town a few days. Anyway, he happened to see Harry Morton walk out of your shop Friday, and recognized him. He had a run-in with Morton in San Francisco a few years back.”
Conan said numbly, “Morton was…Zimmerman.”
“Yeah. Anyway, the Major knew he was a courier and strong-arm man for the Party, so he got to wondering what he was up to.”
“And he started investigating on his own?”
“Not entirely on his own. The Bureau dug up some information for him, but I gather they weren’t too happy about him neglecting his duties for something they figured had nothing to do with Demetriev. Besides, they weren’t even sure it was really Morton he’d seen until today. They finally tracked down his latest alias and found out he was working as a book salesman, and his route included your shop.” Duncan paused, loosing a sigh of disgust. “Anyway, they sent a replacement down this morning, and one guess where he spent the day.”
“The bookshop.” Conan smiled faintly, remembering the lone “tourist” he’d found upstairs as he was closing; the one standing at the gable window where he’d have a good view of the street and anyone coming into the shop.
“Yeah. He saw Morton there, and you really confused the issue with the old man and that Russian gimmick. You scared hell out of Demetriev, and the FBI figu
red you were trying to check his identity.”
“I was.” He felt a mordant regret; a regret for the unexpected success of that little test.
“Anyway, they were beginning to wonder what was going on. They had four guys on the way down to check things out. They hit town about eight-fifteen.”
Conan laughed. “Excellent timing.”
“Sure. The timing was just as excellent all down the line.” He made a sour grimace. “First, I lost Morton, then missed you when I went back to the shop. I finally got hold of Travers, and he sent a state patrolman down to Demetriev’s, and all he turned up was Harvey Rose. And when Steve notified the Coast Guard, they said a couple of fishing boats left the Bay maybe five minutes before they got the call. If it hadn’t been for that old Norsky tagging along behind you, they’d have had a hell of a time finding you.” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Funny, you know, the old guy had it figured pretty close. I mean, he figured you were being carted off to the trawlers. He didn’t know why.”
Conan smiled at that. “Well, Sven never trusted those Rooskies. What about Rose? Has he said anything yet?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been a little busy trying to keep track of you and answer questions for the FBI. But my bet is he’ll sing like a bird.”
“If he thinks it’ll help him,”
“He needs all the help he can get, especially if they find the Major’s body and run a ballistics check on the bullet. Rose’s gun is safely in custody, by the way.”
“They’ll find the body,” Conan said grimly, “when the tides are right.”
Duncan nodded, taking a drag on his cigarette, then he gave Conan an oblique smile.
“You really busted ol’ Harv a good one. He was still out when they found him.”
He smiled, his eyes cold.
“It was quite satisfactory.”
“Yeah, I can believe it. He owed you.”
“He owed a few other people, too.”
“Well, he’ll never pay for all of it, but one man can only pay so much. I mean, like Jeffries. They’ll never tie that one on him.”
“No. It’s amazing that a man so inept could manage to commit a perfect crime.” He let his head rest against the railing, wondering vaguely what time it was, but not caring enough to look at his watch. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll pay all he’s capable of paying, and I’ve met my commitment, as well as satisfying myself.”
“What do you mean—commitment?”
“To Nel Jeffries.”
“Nel…oh, yeah.” He gave a brief laugh. “The lady who got you into this mess. I almost forgot about her.”
“The lady—yes.” He smiled, thinking that Steve Travers owed an apology to that particular lady. Then he looked over at Duncan. “How’s Mrs. Leen, by the way?”
“Speaking of ladies?”
“Well, I don’t think I’d go that far.”
“Mrs. Leen is quiet. Damn, I’d like to be the one to tell her Demetriev’s home free.” He eyed Conan suspiciously. “Did she tell you about him? And where’d that card come from?”
“The File.” Then, at Duncan’s puzzled expression, he explained, “I use it in my consultation business; an index of the top experts in almost any field. Demetriev was certainly one of the top men in physics; it isn’t surprising his name was there. And it was there all the time, if I’d known what to look for.” He paused, then, “You’re in the File, too, incidentally.”
“Among all those top experts?” His eyes narrowed. “Well, I’m glad somebody recognizes my true worth.”
“Of course, you’re the only private investigator I happen to know, but—”
“Yeah, I thought so. Thanks a lot, Chief.”
Conan laughed. “My father used to tell me, always give a man his due.”
“I’ll get my due—when I make out your bill. Now, what about Mrs. Leen? She say anything about Demetriev?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. She’d never have purposely divulged anything, under any pressure. But she let a vital word slip. She’s an extraordinary woman, Charlie.”
“Sure. I’m impressed. But what was this vital word she slipped?”
“She called her arrest a fair enough exchange. It finally came through to me that Demetriev wasn’t a part of her conspiracy, he was the object of it. And I knew his interests; it wasn’t hard to guess his forte was physics. Once I saw the card, I remembered his defection, and it all began to make sense.” He took a quick puff on his cigarette, surprised to find his hand trembling. “Damn, I’m sorry about that ploy with the Russian book. He was already frightened enough.”
Duncan shrugged. “Sure, but when you were looking for physicists in that card catalog of yours, you had a good idea your man was Russian, didn’t you? And it tied with the Russian trawlers.”
“Yes, I suppose so. What about the trawlers?”
“Well, last I heard, they were heading south—at a fast clip.”
“No doubt.”
“We can’t touch them, Conan; you know that.”
“I know.” He recoiled at a flash of light from the dock, every muscle tightening spasmodically. “What the hell was that?”
“Some damn reporter. Just a flashbulb.”
Conan frowned, vainly attempting to focus on the flurry of movement, shivering with a passing chill.
“I…must be getting shell shock.”
Duncan frowned. “Maybe. Look, I’m going to get Nicky.”
“No. She knows I’m here, and Demetriev’s in worse shape than I am.”
Duncan hesitated, then breathed a sign of resignation. “Yeah, I guess so. Well, anyway, it’s been quite a night.”
“So it has.”
“You know, the old lady almost pulled it off, even with you breathing down her neck. Her and that…third man. And with Rose, she had an in to everything the FBI was doing. They couldn’t run full-time surveillance like that without cooperation from the local cops.” He took a long breath. “The whole thing was too damned close. Too bad you didn’t get any brainstorms about Morton—or Zimmerman.”
Conan closed his eyes. “Yes. Too bad.”
He made no attempt to explain that he did have a brainstorm about Zimmerman; it would be too much of an effort, and Charlie wouldn’t be impressed with the real reasons behind that brainstorm.
He could feel an echo of that black rage, remembering the results of his careful surgery on the book; the surgery that revealed a crude bomb intended for Conan Flagg.
He knew then that Joe had put that book on the shelf, for him.
When he baited his own little trap, Conan was well aware that the third man might be a total stranger; but if he were also the courier, then it was far more likely that he wouldn’t be entirely unfamiliar. The information system had been in operation for over a year, assuming it was set up on Mrs. Leen’s arrival, and the courier must have made numerous appearances in the shop during that time.
Of the people who came into the shop after Conan baited his own trap, only two were serious suspects in his mind—Joe and Demetriev. And Joe was suspect only in the sense that certain anomalies in his behavior were vaguely disturbing.
But the bomb had changed his mind. In spite of Charlie’s warnings about putting on blinders, he couldn’t believe that gentle, timid old man could plant a bomb that might kill innocent people.
But Joe Zimmerman was a man with a strong but tender ego, and he would be capable of that. He would also be capable of bolstering his ego with a secret life playing henchman and courier for the Party.
And Joe had been in the shop Friday, and at the counter when Harold Jeffries checked out Crime and Punishment.
He’d also made an unprecedented unscheduled visit to the shop Sunday—after Mrs. Leen found the book missing Saturday morning. And she had returned for the copy of the book a few hours after Joe’s appearance Sunday afternoon.
A vacation. Yet Joe had said nothing about a vacation on his regular visit Friday. He’d also given the impression he was in t
own seeing a girlfriend, and that it was a relationship of long standing. But the “girlfriend” had exposed that lie this morning.
…you meet a guy one night, and by the next morning he thinks he owns you….
Joe’s unstinting regularity on his rounds began to make sense, too. It would facilitate the exchanges. Mrs. Leen would know she could always find him in the bookshop in the early afternoon of the second Friday of every month. And Zimmerman always spent at least a few minutes upstairs on his visits, and occasionally purchased a book. Special books, no doubt. And his curiosity today about the “robbery,” particularly about whether Conan might have seen the burglar or…
“Conan?”
He opened his eyes, then raised his cigarette to his lips, but it had gone out. He tossed it over the railing and pulled the blanket around him. The numbness was like a blanket; he might not be thinking too clearly, but neither was he feeling too clearly.
“Yes, Charlie?”
Duncan was craning his neck to look around the pilothouse.
“I think they’re taking Demetriev off.”
He asked dully, “Where will they take him?”
“Portland; the University Hospital. There’s a helicopter standing by to transport him. Maybe now somebody’ll get around to—yeah, I figured as much.”
Two men in neat business suits were approaching. Conan studied them disinterestedly, thinking how incongruous those suits seemed in this context. One of the men stopped by the pilothouse while the older of the pair walked over toward them.
Charlie didn’t rise, but there was a hint of respect in his tone.
“Hello, Inspector.”
“Mr. Duncan.” He knelt, bringing himself on a level with them, and studied Conan a moment, then extended his hand. “Mr. Flagg, I’m Inspector David West.”
Conan mustered a courteous smile, responding to that offered hand with his left hand.
“Sorry, Inspector, but—”
“Yes, I know. I thought you’d already been taken to the hospital.”
