At Swords' Point Read Online Free PDF Page B

advice. Over and over again that expert had dinned into Quinn's ears that the worst problems he would have to contend with were impatience and boredom — that one must never make events move unless one was very, very sure of all the facts and could foretell part of the immediate future. That one must wait for — as Marusaki had expressed it — what the gods sent, which was almost always trouble. So Quinn read himself a lecture and restored the notebook to the briefcase which he put under his elbow. Then he sat quietly, but he saw little or nothing of the countryside passing by his window.
    Quinn had been warned that the taxi service in Holland was not the universal convenience that it was athome. But he was able to find a cab at the station which took him to the hotel Stark had suggested, the de Witt.
    It was in the small lobby, just before he turned to follow the porter to his room, that he received the second shock of that day. One which jerked him completely out of his desire for bed and sleep. For the clerk handed him a letter.
    “Mijnheer Anders, this arrived some time ago with instructions that it be held for you —”
    Quinn accepted the envelope. It was smudged with dirt, the print of a shoe heel plain on its back. But the writing sent a thrill of what was almost pain running through him. There no mistaking those spike capital letters, that twisted “Q”.
    So it was with a letter from Stark in his hand that Quinn went to his room without clearly seeing any of his surroundings at all. He tipped the porter and was alone at last. And he turned the key in the door before he tore open the letter.
    Inside was an irregular bit of tough paper. Apparently it had been torn from a menu. At first he could see nothing on the back at all, but, in the full light of the reading lamp he switched on, he was able to read just four words. Man who sells memories.
    A man who sells memories! But what and who — Yet this was a message so important that Stark had scribbled it on the only paper near him at the moment.
    Quinn dropped into the chair under the lamp and studied that scrap with more care than he had ever given to any historical book or manuscript, determined to print on his mind every fiber of that paper, every curlicue of the list of dishes printed on it. If he ever saw the parent menu again he was going to recognize it.
    Then he reached for an ash tray and matches. The bit of paper became a powdery black fluff. But still he was able to close his eyes and see it exactly as it had been.

    The envelope was of cheap paper, so smudged and soiled that it looked as if it might have been dropped in the street and trodden upon before it was mailed. Which — Quinn's fingernails made prints on it — might well have happened to it. Suppose Stark had been followed, suppose he had written the note, put it in an envelope, and thrown it away. What would be the normal reaction of anyone finding it — especially if Stark had been able to put a stamp on the envelope? Why, the finder would simply pick it up and drop it into the nearest post box. But if Stark had been reduced to such straits he must have been very hard pressed. Perhaps — Quinn's lips became a very thin line — perhaps this had been prepared on the very night of his death. And, if that was so, Stark must have known that he was in danger.
    Which made “a man who sells memories” about the most important message Quinn had ever received. He stared blankly at the wall trying to arrange thoughts and suspicions in a logical order. And suddenly he wished that he could lay the whole thing before van Norreys — even tell it to Marusaki. But they were both a sea away, and he wasn't going to be able to get rid of responsibility so easily. There remained the introduction van Norreys had given him to the queer half world, the existence of which he had hardly been able to believe back in that sane and comfortable New England house where it had first been described. But suddenly,