Read A Multitude of Sins for Free Online Page A

the sand.
    Isadora Canfield had already made her exit from this scene, but not unattended. Her silver Stingray left the beach access just thirty seconds ahead of the red Ford. Conan was only surprised at the negligence.
    He went to the desk, reached for a scratch pad, and tore off a single sheet. This was nearly reflexive; he’d found too many “lost” messages indented in second sheets. Then for the next half hour, he scarcely moved except to light a succession of cigarettes while he mentally reconstructed his conversation with Isadora in sequence and detail. By the time he finished his mnemonic exercise, the light in the windows had a reddish cast, and he’d covered the paper with cryptic notes and big-looped question marks.
    Finally, he swiveled around to face the bookshelves and pressed a concealed lever. A section of shelves opened, revealing a compartment containing a radio transmitter, four two-way radios, an assortment of minuscule monitors, a Mauser 9 mm. automatic, and a telephone; the special line.
    He put the phone on the desk, then opened his address book to the D s, surrendering to a reminiscent smile as he focused on one entry: Charles Duncan, the Duncan Investigations Service, San Francisco.
    That name always called up a crowd of memories whose sharp edges were blunted by time, polarized on the twin axes of G-2 and Berlin. He’d called on Duncan for professional assistance many times since Berlin, but when he thought of him, he always thought first of that grimly divided city.
    He glanced at his watch; it was after office hours, but that had an advantage; he was spared contending with a receptionist. Duncan himself answered, his terse formality dissolving when Conan identified himself.
    “Hey, Conan—I’ll be damned!”
    “Probably. How’s life in the city?”
    “Beautiful. Just great. Shirt-sleeve weather and sunshine. Uh….you do remember what sunshine is?”
    “The sun shines in Oregon regularly twice a year.”
    “Glad to hear that. Wouldn’t want you to lose your tan. Say, I tried to get hold of you a couple of months ago. Had a nice little case on; the Campina murder.”
    “Yes, well, I gathered from the headlines you did all right on that one even without my help.”
    “We try. What the hell were you doing in Teheran?”
    “Some research on the Medes for a collector in Miami. He picked up a cuneiform-Aramaic tablet in an estate—”
    “One of your ‘consultation’ deals? Don’t bother. Cuneiform’s Greek to me. You got something on your mind, or you just running up a phone bill for kicks?”
    “I have something on my mind, Charlie. A client.”
    “Uh-huh. So, how many men do you need this time?”
    “Three. Two for surveillance, and another for some background research.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “A lady asked me to find out why she’s being tailed.”
    “Sounds a little tame for you, Chief. Ask her husband.”
    “She isn’t married. I haven’t much information yet, but I do know this much: her father died recently, and she’s an heiress to the tune of three or four million. It may have no bearing on the tailing, but large, round sums like that seem to bring out the worst in people.”
    “Yeah. What about her father—how’d he die?”
    Conan laughed. “Charlie, you were always a suspicious soul. Heart attack. Apparently.”
    “Sure. Who was he?”
    “One of our U.S. Senators.”
    “You mean Canfield ?”
    “I see his fame reached beyond our borders.”
    “Well, he did shoot off his mouth on a lot of hot issues, you know. So, your client’s his daughter?”
    “Yes. Isadora Canfield.”
    “Isadora? Sounds like a spindle-shanked spinster.”
    “Well, technically, she is a spinster.” He smiled to himself. “About five-eight, long brown hair, blue eyes, approximately 36-24-36, twenty-one years old.”
    “Yeah. Now I understand your interest in the case.”
    “She plays piano beautifully, Charlie.”
    “I’m sure she’s rolling in talent.”
    “As