The Spook Lights Affair

13

Bob Cantwell seemed to be in no hurry as he made his way along the sidewalk toward the late Matthew Drennan’s printing and photography building. He was dressed as Quincannon had last seen him, the heavy corduroy coat buttoned tightly around his scrawny frame, one hand thrust deeply into a pocket. In the other hand he carried what appeared to be a small lantern. He walked with his head down and his chin tucked into the coat collar, but even if he had been casting furtive glances to and fro, it wasn’t likely he’d have spied Quincannon in the shoemaker’s doorway; the number of pedestrians and passing conveyances provided plenty of screening.

Cantwell opened the gate to his hideout and entered the property without hesitation, as if he belonged there. He went straight back to the rear. As soon as he vanished from sight, Quincannon hurried across the cobblestones, dodging a lumberman’s wagon on the way. At the gate he paused for a few seconds, to make sure his quarry had had enough time to light his lantern and enter the building, then proceeded to the rear along the opposite wall from the one Cantwell had followed.

The yard was empty, the door closed. He eased the door open as silently as he could, stepped inside, and quickly shut it behind him. The faint sounds of Cantwell moving about in the office area reached his ears. Flickery light gleamed in the darkness ahead, more of it than there had been earlier: Cantwell had left the inner door open. The hanging lamp would have burned dry by this time, but the lantern he carried must have plenty of oil and a strong wick. There was enough illumination so that Quincannon could make his way slowly across the storage room without risking a collision with any of the clutter of photographic equipment.

He paused at the inner door and peeked around the edge of the jamb. Cantwell was in the office, his back to the window; he had set the lantern on the desk and was leaning close to it to study a paper of some sort that he must have brought with him. Quincannon stepped through the doorway, unholstering his Navy as he catfooted past the old printing press. He made no sounds to alert Cantwell to his presence; the lad continued his study without altering position. So stealthy was Quincannon’s progress that he was able to walk right up to the open office door.

“Hello, Bob. Remember me?”

Cantwell whirled so suddenly and with such terror misshaping his features that it might have been an exploding bomb rather than four quiet words that came from behind him. His eyes bugged when he recognized Quincannon and saw the pistol in his hand. He made a choked sound and backed up hastily, all of four steps until his shoulders struck the window glass.

“How … how did you find…”

“It wasn’t difficult. You’re not half as clever as you think you are.”

Cantwell’s gaze remained fixed on the Navy. “What do you want? What are you going to do?”

“One question at a time, lad. What do I want? The same as on Friday night at Drake’s Rest. What am I going to do? Unless you tell me what I need to know, and don’t lie to me again, you’ll rue the consequences. If you’re still able to do any ruing, that is. I haven’t forgotten that head knock and beer-soaking you gave me Friday night.”

A sound not unlike a frog’s croak came out of Cantwell’s throat. His hand spasmed, crinkling the paper clutched in it.

“Planning a trip south, were you?” Quincannon asked him.

“… What?”

“That paper you were studying. A Southern Pacific train schedule, unless I miss my guess.”

Cantwell shook his head. Not in denial, but as if trying to clear it of the cobwebs his fear had woven.

“Los Angeles? A visit to the old neighborhood where you and cousin Jack Travers spent your youth?”

“I … I…”

“Only he’s not your cousin, nor any other relation. Why did you tell me he was?”

“I don’t know, I just … it seemed…”

“The truth has a bad taste in your mouth, eh? Spit it out.”

Cantwell said miserably, “I … I didn’t want you to think I had anything to do with the robbery, that I was forced into supplying the hideout for Travers.”

“But you weren’t forced. You were paid to do it.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know what they … what he was planning until after the robbery, I swear I didn’t.”

“You started to say what they were planning. Who else was involved? The Kid?”

Cantwell opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head.

“Who is he, Bob?”

“I … I can’t…”

“You can and you will. The Kid’s name and what part he played in the robbery. Zeke’s name and what part he played.”

Another head wag. Cantwell shifted his gaze to the window, as if looking for a method of escape.

“Confound it,” Quincannon said, “tell me who they are.”

“I can’t! If I do, he’ll … he…”

“Who? Zeke?”

“No…”

“The Kid, then. What will he do, ventilate you as Zeke did Travers? Or was it the Kid who did that job?”

“No. No, it was Zeke.”

“And his part in the robbery?”

“He … he didn’t have any part…”

“No? Then who is he? And how did he know where Travers was hiding? Did you tell him?”

“I had to. He said he’d hurt me if I didn’t. But I had no idea he was going to shoot Travers, I swear I didn’t.”

“Where is Zeke now?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying to me again, Bob.”

“No…”

“Who planned the robbery? The Kid?”

Cantwell gave voice to another croak, this one tapering off into a moan. His face was the color of a grub’s hind end. “Please…”

“How did he know about the Express shipment and when it would be ripe for plucking?”

“I don’t know!”

“Did you tell the Kid about Zeke?”

“I was afraid to, until…”

“Until he found Travers dead and thought you might have done it?”

“… He didn’t tell me Travers was dead, I didn’t know it until I heard it from you. He just wanted to know who I’d told about the house.”

“Does he know where Zeke is?”

Cantwell’s head flopped from side to side.

“Or that you sold him out to me for money to fund your gambling habit?”

“I didn’t sell him out! I never said anything to you or Mr. Riley about him. I didn’t care what happened to Travers.…”

“You were afraid of Zeke, and afraid of me — that’s why you ran the other night and came here to hole up. But not afraid of the Kid, or you wouldn’t have decided to blackmail him—”

“No! It isn’t blackmail … a loan, that’s all, a loan…”

“Has he paid you yet?”

No answer.

Quincannon cocked the Navy’s hammer with an audible click. “Enough of this pussyfooting. His name — now!”

Cantwell’s gaze flicked to the window again. Quincannon saw his eyes widen, his mouth shape an unspoken word; one hand came up to push against the window. And the glass shattered and Cantwell went reeling backward with a strangled cry, blood spurting over the front of his coat. Three more pistol shots created loud rolling echoes; more glass shattered, bullets thudded into wood, and there was the hard thump of Cantwell’s body hitting the floorboards.

Quincannon was already on the floor, having thrown himself down sideways at the crack of the first shot. Glass fragments showered his back and buttocks as he crab-crawled to the open doorway. The shooter was beyond the light spill from the still-burning lantern, a shadow shape crouched in darkness alongside the printing press. Quincannon got his right arm up, elbow locked, and fired at the shape, but the cramped position threw his aim off. He heard the bullet spang harmlessly off metal.

The lantern light made him a clear target; he jerked his head back just before the assailant squeezed off twice more. Wood splinters flew from the door frame inches in front of his nose. When he chanced another look, he saw the dark shape running away from the press toward the inner doorway. He loosed another round from his Navy, missed again in the powder-smoked darkness. The miss unleashed an involuntary roar of anger and frustration. He scrambled to his feet and gave chase.

The pound of his footsteps overrode those of the fleeing man’s, so that when he reached the doorway, he was forced to pull up rather than go charging through; if the shooter had stopped running and stood waiting in ambush, a headlong rush would be met with a bullet. But the assassin hadn’t stopped. There was a crashing sound as he banged into something in the storage room. Whatever it was, it failed to slow him; the hollow pound of his steps resumed. Quincannon swung through the doorway just in time to see the flying tail of a coat disappear through the rear door.

The darkness impeded his own run for the door. His foot struck against an unseen obstacle, causing him to stumble; he kicked free of whatever it was and remained upright, only to bump into something else. The second obstacle cost him his balance and sent him thumping down onto one knee. The roar that burst out of his throat this time would have done justice to a distressed lion. He lurched upright, staggered to the door.

No ambush awaited him in the yard, either. By the time he determined this and stepped out, the assailant was gone over one of the fences or back out front to mingle with the street crowd. There would have been no hope of catching him even if he knew what the man looked like.

He resisted the urge to go back inside and check on Bob Cantwell. The assassin’s first bullet had taken the lad squarely in the chest and he hadn’t moved afterward. Dead for sure. And the fusillade of shots had been loud enough to have been heard by passersby. Remain on the premises and he risked arrest on a murder charge.

A wise decision, as it turned out. As he was holstering his revolver and draping the tail of his coat over it before hurrying out along the side of the building, he heard excited voices raised out front. The shots had been heard and a concerned citizen had gone to fetch a copper; truncheon in hand, a blue-coated patrolman came hurrying along the sidewalk not five seconds after Quincannon stepped off the property and melded into the flow of pedestrians. No one paid any attention to him as he drifted away unobtrusively in the opposite direction.

The murderer, he thought as he went, was either Zeke or the Kid, most probably the latter. And Cantwell had been expecting him; that was why he had kept glancing through the window. The shooting itself? The Kid might have come to put an end to the blackmail threat by putting an end to Cantwell, and had succumbed to panic when he spied a second man in the office, whether or not he knew who Quincannon was; that would explain why he’d kept on firing until his weapon was empty or near empty. In any event, the why of it was not important. The who of it was.

Only now, with Cantwell dead, he had no definite and immediate method of finding out.

Hell, damn, and blast!