The Spook Lights Affair Read Online Free PDF

no consequence to you. My business is.”
    “What kind of business?” Cantwell asked warily.
    “Not the police kind. You’ve no worries there, Bob.”
    “Well, then? What do you want?”
    Quincannon said, “Charles Riley tells me you have information regarding the Wells, Fargo Express matter.”
    The sudden change in Cantwell’s demeanor was little short of miraculous. The undernourished frame jerked upright, the sandy mustache bristled, the pale blue eyes glittered with sudden avarice. One hand reached across the table as if to pluck at Quincannon’s coat sleeve, stopping just short of its mark.
    “And if I do?” he said in a lowered voice. “It doesn’t come free.”
    “Little does in this world. What is it you know?”
    “Plenty. Plenty. How much will you pay?”
    “That depends on the information. How much do you think it’s worth?”
    Cantwell leaned forward, the pale eyes taking in the expensive cut of Quincannon’s greatcoat and custom-made derby. While he was scrutinizing, his other hand plucked items from his pocket that made audible clicking sounds. There was no hint of moroseness left in him now; he fairly quivered with greed. It had been financial sorrows he’d been drowning in his grog: a lack of sufficient funds to indulge his gambling vice, no doubt. The clicking of the pair of dice in his hand had what might be described as an eager sound.
    “Two hundred dollars,” he said. “Cash on the barrelhead.”
    Quincannon shoved back his chair, got to his feet, and started to turn away.
    “Wait! Wait! What I know is worth that much. Every cent of it.”
    “Yes? What do you know?”
    “The name of the holdup man.”
    “That’s not worth two hundred.”
    “And where you can find him and the money. That is .”
    Quincannon sat down again. “I’ll pay half your asking price.”
    “No. Two hundred or nothing—”
    “Nothing, then.” He stood back up.
    Cantwell said quickly, “You’re not the only one interested. Somebody else will pay two hundred.”
    “Charles Riley wouldn’t pay it. No one else will, either, or you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
    The dice clicks grew agitated. Anxiety visibly leavened the lad’s greed; he could see his much-coveted cash windfall slipping away. “All right, sir,” he said. “All right. I’ll settle for one hundred.”
    Quincannon reoccupied the chair, hitching it around toward Cantwell—to get closer to the warmth from the stove, but the youngster thought otherwise. He scooted his chair away the same distance, as if he were afraid of an attack. Cantwell was a coward, among his other shortcomings. Quincannon grinned at him, a fierce grin that was half wolf, half dragon. He took his time loading and lighting his stubby briar, then removed a greenback from his billfold and flattened his palm over it on the table, leaving a portion free so that Cantwell could make out the denomination.
    “Say! That’s only twenty dollars.”
    “The rest when you’ve told me what you know.”
    “How do I know you’ll pay me?”
    “You’ll get nothing if you don’t talk. Except maybe a cuffed ear.”
    Cantwell swallowed, took a quick drink of grog, and swallowed that. “You won’t tell anyone the word came from me?”
    “Not if what you tell me is the truth.”
    “It will be. I swear it.” After a furtive glance around, even though no one in the smoky room was within listening distance, Cantwell leaned forward and again spoke in an undertone. “Jack Travers.”
    The name was unfamiliar to Quincannon. “Local?”
    “No. From Los Angeles.”
    “How do you know him? As a confederate?”
    “No! I’m not a crook, I’m a respectable citizen.”
    Claptrap, Quincannon thought. “Then how do you know him?”
    Cantwell hesitated. Then, “Jack Travers is my cousin.”
    “And how do you know he’s the Express bandit?”
    “He … bragged to me about it. A holdup that would put him in clover for the rest of his life.”
    “But not