The Spook Lights Affair by Bill Pronzini, Marcia Muller Read Free Book Online

nothing to be gained in doing any more tramping around the area; for all he knew Cantwell had gone uptown to do his rolling of the bones at Riley’s House of Chance. But he was loath to put off his second conversation with the clerk until tomorrow; in all cases he preferred to strike while the iron was hot, the more so in situations such as this one. He thumbed another match alight to consult his stemwinder. Nearly eleven o’clock. Tomorrow being a workday, it was likely that Cantwell, win or lose, would return before it got to be too late. A wait of an hour or even two, Quincannon decided, wouldn’t try his patience too severely. And he had no compunction about doing so on the premises, uninvited.
    He followed the match flame into the common room, where he took the liberty of lighting a small oil lamp. His presence disturbed the scrawny parrot, whose cage was now covered with a black cloth; the bird made rustling and muttering noises before subsiding again. Quincannon sat in a lumpy, dusty armchair and settled down to his vigil.
    A creeping weariness from his night’s exertions, the lateness of the hour, and the house’s stillness combined after a while to put him into a long doze. But the sounds of the front door opening and footsteps in the hallway brought him instantly alert. He was on his feet and moving when Bob Cantwell came into his line of sight.
    The self-pitying look on the youth’s face said that he’d had no more luck than usual with the dice tonight. When he saw Quincannon approaching, sudden fright replaced the self-pity and he backed up a step, his body stiffening, his hands lifting as if to ward off an attack.
    “You,” he said. “What … what’re you doing here?”
    “We need to have another talk, Bob.”
    “Why? I’ve already told you all I know—”
    “Have you? I doubt it.” Quincannon caught his arm, tugged him into the common room. Cantwell tried in vain to pull away.
    “Don’t hurt me! If you try I’ll shout the house down—”
    “Tell me what Jack Travers looks like.”
    “… What?”
    “Your cousin, Jack Travers. Describe him.”
    “I don’t … what’s the idea? Why do you want to know that?”
    Quincannon fixed him with a steely eye and pinched his arm more tightly. “Describe him, Bob.”
    “Lean, hard … black hair … clean-shaven…”
    “Large mole at one side of his mouth?”
    “Yes. A mole, yes.”
    “Now tell me about ‘the Kid.’”
    Cantwell blinked, blinked again. “Kid? What kid?”
    “The one your cousin was meeting regularly at the same place.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he did know. The furtive shift of his eyes, the sudden tenseness of his body, testified to that.
    “You, Bob? Are you the Kid?”
    “No! I told you, I haven’t seen Jack Travers since I gave him the key to the cottage—”
    “What was your role in the robbery?”
    “My … None! I had nothing to do with it! I’m a respectable—”
    “But the Kid did, eh? Who is he?”
    “I … I don’t have any idea.”
    “I think you do.”
    “Jack never said anything to me about a kid. Why’re you asking me all these questions? Why don’t you go up to Drifter’s Alley and ask him?”
    “I’ve already been to Drifter’s Alley,” Quincannon said. “Your cousin was there, but he couldn’t tell me anything.”
    “Why couldn’t he?”
    “He’s dead. Shot. And the cottage torn apart by whoever killed him.”
    Cantwell’s eyes bugged wide. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, not unlike a gaffed sea bass.
    “Jack Travers killed? Oh, my God! But it couldn’t have been—”
    “Couldn’t have been whom?”
    Cantwell wagged his head. Then his body spasmed, stiffened, as if he’d been struck by a sudden thought, and a name burst out of him unbidden. “Zeke!”
    “Zeke, eh? Who would he be?”
    “No. Oh, God, no! Suppose that big bastard comes after me next?”
    “Why would he, if you had nothing to do with the