Quincannon Read Free Page B

identify him had failed. Samuel Greenspan was still working on that angle, still chasing down what his latest telegram referred to as “dead-end leads” in the Seattle area.
    Boggs sat back after a time and licked his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “Not a whisper of Silver City anywhere in here,” he said, tapping the file. “Did Bonniwell mention the place to you in any context?”
    “No,” Quincannon said. “He had met someone who might be a boodle carrier for the gang and hoped to have more information for me last night — that was all.”
    “This carrier’s name was Smith, he said?”
    “Yes. A phony moniker, of course.”
    “Bonniwell didn’t know where Smith was living?”
    “Evidently not. He had met the man in a saloon.”
    “No lead there, then. Not that we’ll need to worry about that, if Whistling Dixon and Silver City prove meaningful.” Boggs frowned abruptly. “John, could that piece of paper have been planted in Bonniwell’s hand? To put us off on a false scent?”
    “There’s a chance of it, yes,” Quincannon said. “But the handwriting is Bonniwell’s — I’ve seen it before — and the paper was clenched so tight in his fingers that I had difficulty prying it loose. If the redhead put it there the grip would not have been half so tight.”
    Boggs nodded and sat silent for a time, worrying his cigar. Then he said musingly, “Silver City, eh? Not such a bad place for koniakers to set up shop. Isolated, and not much in the way of law enforcement. Plenty of silver for the coney coins, too.”
    “It also fits geographically,” Quincannon said. “Not far from there to Portland, Seattle, or San Francisco. They could make shipment by freight wagon, even by train from Boise under false bills of lading.”
    “A risky business, though. Freighting paper and ink, machinery, other supplies into those mountains, then freighting out the queer. Any number of things could go wrong.”
    “But nothing has. They’re a cocky bunch, and well-organized — that’s plain. And in the normal course of events, who would suspect a coney operation in such a place?” “Just as you say,” Boggs agreed.
    Quincannon said, “I can be on a train leaving Oakland this afternoon, Mr. Boggs. And in Silver City in two days.”
    “You can and you will. Use an assumed name and occupation; you’ll need to take every precaution.”
    “I had already planned on that.”
    Boggs allowed a few seconds to pass and then said, “John ... you know how important this case is. If we don’t put these queers-men out of business, and damned soon, they have the potential to undermine the West’s economic system. The entire country’s economic system, if they should step up production and distribution to the East.”
    Quincannon said nothing. He knew what was coming.
    “I would go to Silver City myself if I could, but I’m needed here. And Greenspan hasn’t enough experience. You’re the only man I can send; next to me, you’re the best operative in this part of the country.” There was no false modesty in Boggs; he knew his talents and was not chary about expressing them to others. “Or you were once,” he went on pointedly. “If this were twelve months ago I would have no qualms. None at all. But now ...”
    “Do you expect me to burrow up in Silver City with a keg of whiskey?” Quincannon asked.
    “Of course not. But a steady consumption of liquor distorts a man’s judgment, slows his reflexes, makes him prone to mistakes.”
    “I won’t make any mistakes.”
    “You might if you continue to drink as you have this past year.”
    “What is it you want, Mr. Boggs? My promise not to use whiskey while I’m in Silver City?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then you have it.”
    Boggs looked surprised. “On your word of honor as a gentleman and an employee of the Service?”
    “On my word of honor.”
    This seemed to relieve Boggs and thus put a quick end to what might otherwise have been a lengthy