Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat (17 page)

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?”

“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 odor 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.”