Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat by M. K. Wren

lately.”
    After a brief silence, Travers asked suspiciously, “What are you talking about?”
    “I hope you had a chance to meet Major Hills in person. He’s quite a guy.”
    “Now, listen, I don’t know any Major Mills, and I—”
    “I said Hills ,Steve. You must be confused.”
    “Hills, shmills. I’ve got nothing to say about—”
    “All right, I’m putting you on the spot, and I apologize. I must be getting paranoid in my old age.”
    “Sure. But I accept the apology; you owed it. You’ve got a long nose, friend. Now, what about your—your client, Elinor Jeffries? I want to know what’s going on.”
    Conan pulled in a deep breath, thinking bitterly that Steve wasn’t alone in that.
    “Actually, nothing at the moment. Maybe it’s just the old hackles rising.”
    “In other words, you’re not saying.”
    “Not now.”
    Travers sighed. “Okay. Let me guess your next question.”
    “Be my guest.”
    “You want information; anything I can dig up on Harold Jeffries. Right?”
    Conan laughed appreciatively. “Right. Can you do it?”
    “Sure, but it’ll cost you.”
    “What? My immortal soul?”
    “No, there’s no market for souls anymore. But one of these days—and soon—we’re going to get together, and you’re going to tell me exactly why you’re taking on the Jeffries case.”
    “All right, Steve, but meanwhile—”
    “I know. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can dig up for you on Jeffries.”
    “Thanks. Oh—and you don’t need to discuss this with any of the local boys in blue.”
    Travers gave a short laugh. “No faith in your local stalwarts?”
    “You know Harvey Rose. He’s inept, at the very least.”
    “Yes. Well, you’ve got a point there. Anyway, your little excursions into never-never land are your own damn business.”
    “I appreciate that—and the information.”
    “Sure. It’s the least I could do, after sending the… lady to you. Now, stay out of trouble—okay?”
    “Okay, Steve. Take care.”
    *
    Conan filled his coffee cup, then went to the window; he found the small room oppressively confining. But there was nothing more to do until the books arrived from Salem. Except more muddling.
    He grimaced at the scalding temperature of the coffee and put the cup down on the sill, watching a patch of fog form on the cold glass.
    Asking Steve about Mills had been a shot in the dark, but one with a good chance of hitting the target. Mills would naturally go through police channels in his investigation, and it was all but inevitable that he’d encounter Steve Travers. Finding a division chief of detectives among Conan’s friends must have been a boon to the Major.
    Steve must know who Mills was working for, but obviously he wasn’t free to discuss it. Not with Conan.
    He frowned irritably and looked at his watch, then took his jacket from the closet and went out into the shop, locking the door behind him. Miss Dobie’s eyebrows came up at that; he seldom locked the office door.
    “Miss Dobie, I’m going out. I’m expecting a delivery from Gill’s in Salem, but I’ll be back before it arrives.” He zipped up the jacket and crossed to the front entrance.
    “Oh…uh, all right. Mr. Flagg, did you get a letter drafted for Benevento? I’ll type it up for you.”
    He opened the door, glancing back at her distractedly. “Benevento? Oh. No, Fabrizi will have to wait.” Then at her perplexed expression, “Something’s come up.”

CHAPTER 8
    He had no specific purpose in mind when he left the shop, except to escape its confines for a short while. He walked south, head down against the wind-driven rain, past the random assortment of shops and the post office to the first corner, then west toward the ocean. He scarcely looked up as he walked the two blocks down the sloping street. The way was quite familiar to him; it took him to the beach access only a few steps from his house.
    If he had any destination in mind, it wasn’t home. The access, perhaps. Again, a