High Citadel / Landslide

by Desmond Bagley

  She said, ‘You’ll have to read it in here; and you mustn’t cut the pages—that’s our record copy.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I promised, and put it on a deal table. ‘Can I have a light, please?’

  ‘Sure.’ She switched on the light as she went out.

  I pulled up a chair and opened the heavy cover of the book. It contained two years’ issues of the Fort Farrell Recorder—one hundred and four reports on the health and sickness of a community; a record of births and deaths, joys and sorrows, much crime and yet not a lot, all things considered, and a little goodness—there should have been more but goodness doesn’t make the headlines. A typical country newspaper.

  I turned to the issue of September 7th—the week-end after the accident—half afraid of what I would find, half afraid I wouldn’t find anything. But it was there and it had made the front page headlines, too. It screamed at me in heavy black letters splashed across the yellowing sheet: JOHN TRINAVANT DIES IN AUTO SMASH.

  Although I knew the story by heart, I read the newspaper account with care and it did tell me a couple of things I hadn’t known before. It was a simple story, regrettably not uncommon, but one which did not normally make headlines as it had done here. As I remembered, it rated a quartercolumn at the bottom of the second page of the Vancouver Sun and a paragraph filler in Toronto.

  The difference was that John Trinavant had been a power in Fort Farrell as being senior partner in the firm of Trinavant and Matterson. God the Father had suddenly died and Fort Farrell had mourned. Mourned publicly and profusely in black print on white paper.

  John Trinavant (aged 56) had been travelling from Dawson Creek to Edmonton with his wife, Anne (no age given), and his son, Frank (aged 22). They had been travelling in Mr Trinavant’s new car, a Cadillac, but the shiny new toy had never reached Edmonton. Instead, it had been found at the bottom of a two-hundred-foot cliff not far off the road. Skid marks and slashes in the bark of trees had shown how the accident happened. ‘Perhaps,’ said the coroner, ‘it may be that the car was moving too fast for the driver to be in proper control. That, however, is something no one will know for certain.’

  The Cadillac was a burnt-out hulk, smashed beyond repair. Smashed beyond repair were also the three Trinavants, all found dead. A curious aspect of the accident, however, was the presence of a fourth passenger, a young man now identified as Robert Grant, who had been found alive, but only just so, and who was now in the City Hospital suffering from third-degree burns, a badly fractured skull and several other assorted broken bones. Mr Grant, it was tentatively agreed, must have been a hitchhiker whom Mr Trinavant, in his benevolence, had picked up somewhere on the way between Dawson Creek and the scene of the accident. Mr Grant was not expected to live. Too bad for Mr Grant.

  All Fort Farrell and, indeed, all Canada (said the leader writer) should mourn the era which had ended with the passing of John Trinavant. The Trinavants had been connected with the city since the heroic days of Lieutenant Farrell and it was a grief (to the leader writer personally) that the name of Trinavant was now extinguished in the male line. There was, however, a niece, Miss C. T. Trinavant, at present at school in Lausanne, Switzerland. It was to be hoped that this tragedy, the death of her beloved uncle, would not be permitted to interrupt the education he had so earnestly desired to give her.

  I sat back and looked at the paper before me. So Trinavant had been a partner of Matterson—but not the Matterson I had met that day because he was too young. At the time of the smash he would have been in his early twenties—say about the age of young Frank Trinavant who was killed, or about my age at that time. So there must be another Matterson—Howard Matterson’s father, presumably—which made Howard the Crown Prince of the Matterson empire. Unless, of course, he had already succeeded.

  I sighed as I wondered what devil of coincidence had brought me to Fort Farrell; then I turned to the next issue and found—nothing! There was no follow on to the story in that issue or the next. I searched further and found that for the next year the name of Trinavant was not mentioned once—no follow-up, no obituary, no reminiscences from readers—nothing at all. As far as the Fort Farrell Recorder was concerned, it was as though John Trinavant had never existed—he had been unpersonned.

  I checked again. It was very odd that in Trinavant’s home town—the town where he was virtually king—the local newspaper had not coined a few extra cents out of his death. That was a hell of a way to run a newspaper!

  I paused. That was the second time in one day that I had made the same observation—the first time in relation to Howard Matterson and the way he ran the Matterson Corporation. I wondered about that and that led me to something else—who owned the Fort Farrell Recorder?

  The little office girl popped her head round the door. ‘You’ll have to go now; we’re closing up.’

  I grinned at her. ‘I thought newspaper offices never closed.’

  ‘This isn’t the Vancouver Sun,’ she said. ‘Or the Montreal Star.’

  It sure as hell isn’t, I thought.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ she asked.

  I followed her into the front office. ‘I found some answers, yes; and a lot of questions.’ She looked at me uncomprehendingly. I said, ‘Is there anywhere a man can get a cup of coffee round here?’

  ‘There’s the Greek place right across the square.’

  ‘What about joining me?’ I thought that maybe I could get some answers out of her.

  She smiled. ‘My mother told me not to go out with strange men. Besides, I’m meeting my boy.’

  I looked at all the alive eighteen years of her and wished I were young again—as before the accident. ‘Some other time, perhaps,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  I left her inexpertly dabbing powder on her nose and headed across the square with the thought that I’d get picked up for kidnapping if I wasn’t careful. I don’t know why it is, but in any place that can support a cheap eatery—and a lot that can’t—you’ll find a Greek running the local coffee-and-doughnut joint. He expands with the community and brings in his cousins from the old country and pretty soon, in an average-size town, the Greeks are running the catering racket, splitting it with the Italians who tend to operate on a more sophisticated level. This wasn’t the first Greek place I’d eaten in and it certainly wouldn’t be the last—not while I was a poverty-stricken geologist chancing his luck.

  I ordered coffee and pie and took it over to a vacant table intending to settle down to do some hard thinking, but I didn’t get much chance of that because someone came up to the table and said, ‘Mind if I join you?’

  He was old, maybe as much as seventy, with a walnut-brown face and a scrawny neck where age had dried the juices out of him. His hair, though white, was plentiful and inquisitive blue eyes peered from beneath shaggy brows. I regarded him speculatively for a long time, and at last he said, ‘I’m McDougall—chief reporter for the local scandal sheet.’

  I waved him to a chair. ‘Be my guest.’

  He put down the cup of coffee he was holding and grunted softly as he sat down. ‘I’m also the chief compositor,’ he said. ‘And the only copy-boy. I’m the rewrite man, too. The whole works.’

  ‘Editor, too?’

  He snorted derisively. ‘Do I look like a newspaper editor?’

  ‘Not much.’

  He sipped his coffee and looked at me from beneath the tangle of his brows. ‘Did you find what you were looking for, Mr Boyd?’

  ‘You’re well-informed,’ I commented. ‘I’ve not been in town two hours and already I can see I’m going to be reported in the Recorder. How do you do it?’

  He smiled. ‘This is a small town and I know every man, woman and child in it. I’ve just come from the Matterson Building and I know all about you, Mr Boyd.’

  This McDougall looked like a sharp old devil. I said, ‘I’ll bet you know the terms of my contract, too.’

  ‘I might.’ He grinned at me and his face took on the
look of a mischievous small boy. ‘Donner wasn’t too pleased.’ He put down his cup. ‘Did you find out what you wanted to know about John Trinavant?’

  I stubbed out my cigarette. ‘You have a funny way of running a newspaper, Mr McDougall. I’ve never seen such a silence in print in my life.’

  The smile left his face and he looked exactly what he was—a tired old man. He was silent for a moment, then he said unexpectedly, ‘Do you like good whisky, Mr Boyd?’

  ‘I’ve never been known to refuse.’

  He jerked his head in the direction of the newspaper office. ‘I have an apartment over the shop and a bottle in the apartment. Will you join me? I suddenly feel like getting drunk.’

  For an answer I rose from the table and paid the tab for both of us. While walking across the park McDougall said, ‘I get the apartment free. In return I’m on call twenty-four hours a day. I don’t know who gets the better of the bargain.’

  ‘Maybe you ought to negotiate a new deal with your editor.’

  ‘With Jimson? That’s a laugh—he’s just a rubber stamp used by the owner.’

  ‘And the owner is Matterson,’ I said, risking a shaft at random.

  McDougall looked at me out of the corner of his eye. ‘So you’ve got that far, have you? You interest me, Mr Boyd; you really do.’

  ‘You are beginning to interest me,’ I said.

  We climbed the stairs to his apartment, which was sparsely but comfortably furnished. McDougall opened a cupboard and produced a bottle. ‘There are two sorts of Scotch,’ he said. ‘There’s the kind which is produced by the million gallons: a straight-run neutral grain spirit blended with good malt whisky to give it flavour, burnt caramel added to give it colour, and kept for seven years to protect the sacred name of Scotch whisky.’ He held up the bottle. ‘And then there’s the real stuff—fifteen-year-old unblended malt lovingly made and lovingly drunk. This is from Islay—the best there is.’

  He poured two hefty snorts of the light straw-coloured liquid and passed one to me. I said, ‘Here’s to you, Mr McDougall. What brand of McDougall are you, anyway?’

  I would swear he blushed. ‘I’ve a good Scots name and you’d think that would be enough for any man, but my father had to compound it and call me Hamish. You’d better call me Mac like everyone else and that way we’ll avoid a fight.’ He chuckled. ‘Lord, the fights I got into when I was a kid.’

  I said, ‘I’m Bob Boyd.’

  He nodded. ‘And what interests you in the Trinavants?’

  ‘Am I interested in them?’

  He sighed. ‘Bob, I’m an old-time newspaperman so give me credit for knowing how to do my job. I do a run-down on everyone who checks the back files; you’d be surprised how often it pays off in a story. I’ve been waiting for someone to consult that particular issue for ten years.’

  ‘Why should the Recorder be interested in the Trinavants now?’ I asked. ‘The Trinivants are dead and the Recorder killed them deader. You wouldn’t think it possible to assassinate a memory, would you?’

  ‘The Russians are good at it; they can kill a man and still leave him alive—the walking dead,’ said McDougall. ‘Look at what they did to Khrushchev. It’s just that Matterson hit on the idea, too.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ I said tartly. ‘Quit fencing around, Mac.’

  ‘The Recorder isn’t interested in the Trinavants,’ he said. ‘If I put in a story about any of them—if I even mentioned the name—I’d be out on my can. This is a personal interest, and if Bull Matterson knew I was even talking about the Trinavants I’d be in big trouble.’ He stabbed his finger at me. ‘So keep your mouth shut, you understand.’ He poured out another drink and I could see his hand shaking. ‘Now, what’s your story?’

  I said, ‘Mac, until you tell me more about the Trinavants I’m not going to tell you anything. And don’t ask me why because you won’t get an answer.’

  He looked at me thoughtfully for a long time, then said, ‘But you’ll tell me eventually?’

  ‘I might.’

  That stuck in his gullet but he swallowed it. ‘All right; it looks as though I’ve no option. I’ll tell you about the Trinavants.’ He pushed the bottle across. ‘Fill up, son.’

  The Trinavants were an old Canadian family founded by a Jacques Trinavant who came from Brittany to settle in Quebec back in the seventeen-hundreds. But the Trinavants were not natural settlers nor were they merchants—not in those days. Their feet were itchy and they headed west. John Trinavant’s great-great-grandfather was a voyageur of note; other Trinavants were trappers and there was an unsubstantiated story that a Trinavant crossed the continent and saw the Pacific before Alexander Mackenzie.

  John Trinavant’s grandfather was a scout for Lieutenant Farrell, and when Farrell built the fort he decided to stay and put down roots in British Columbia. It was good country, he liked the look of it and saw the great possibilities. But just because the Trinavants ceased to be on the move did not mean they had lost their steam. Three generations of Trinavants in Fort Farrell built a logging and lumber empire, small but sound.

  ‘It was John Trinavant who really made it go,’ said McDougall. ‘He was a man of the twentieth century—born in 1900—and he took over the business young. He was only twenty-three when his father died. British Columbia in those days was pretty undeveloped still, and it’s men like John Trinavant who have made it what it is today.’

  He looked at his glass reflectively. ‘I suppose that, from a purely business point of view, one of the best things that Trinavant ever did was to join up with Bull Matterson.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve mentioned him,’ I said. ‘He can’t be the man I met at the Matterson Building.’

  ‘Hell, no; that’s Howard—he’s just a punk kid,’ said McDougall contemptuously. ‘I’m talking about the old man—Howard’s father. He was a few years older than Trinavant and they hooked on to each other in 1925. John Trinavant had the brains and directed the policy of the combination while Matterson supplied the energy and drive, and things really started to hum around here. One or the other of them had a finger in every goddam pie; they consolidated the logging industry and they were the first to see that raw logs are no damn’ use unless you can do something with them, preferably on the spot. They built pulping plants and plywood plants and they made a lot of money, especially during the war. By the end of the war the folks around here used to get a lot of fun out of sitting around of an evening just trying to figure out how much Trinavant and Matterson were worth.’

  He leaned over and took the bottle. ‘Of course, it wasn’t all logging—they diversified early. They owned gas stations, ran a bus service until they sold out to Greyhound, owned grocery stores and dry goods stores—everyone in this area paid them tribute in one way or another.’ He paused, then said broodingly, ‘I don’t know if that’s a good thing for a community. I don’t like paternalism, even with the best intentions. But that’s the way it worked out.’

  I said, ‘They also owned a newspaper.’

  McDougall’s face took on a wry look. ‘It’s the only one of Matterson’s operations that doesn’t give him a cash return. It doesn’t pay. This town isn’t really big enough to support a newspaper, but John Trinavant started it as a public service, as a sideline to the print shop. He said the townsfolk had a right to know what was going on, and he never interfered with editorial policy. Matterson runs it for a different reason.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘To control public opinion. He daren’t close it down because Fort Farrell is growing and someone else might start an honest newspaper which he doesn’t control. As long as he holds on to the Recorder he’s safe because as sure as hell there’s not room for two newspapers.’

  I nodded. ‘So Trinavant and Matterson each made a fortune. What then?’

  ‘Then nothing,’ said McDougall. ‘Trinavant was killed and Matterson took over the whole shooting-match—lock, stock and barrel. You see, there weren’t any
Trinavants left.’

  I thought about that. ‘Wasn’t there one left? The editorial in the Recorder mentioned a Miss Trinavant, a niece of John.’

  ‘You mean Clare,’ said McDougall. ‘She wasn’t really a niece, just a vague connection from the East. The Trinavants were a strong stock a couple of hundred years ago but the Eastern branch withered on the vine. As far as I know Clare Trinavant is the last Trinavant in Canada. John came across her by accident when he was on a trip to Montreal. She was an orphan. He reckoned she must be related to the family somehow, so he took her in and treated her like his own daughter.’

  ‘Then she wasn’t his heir?’

  McDougall shook his head. ‘Not his natural heir. He didn’t adopt her legally and it seems there’s never been any way to prove the family connection, so she lost out as far as that goes.’

  ‘Then who did get Trinavant’s money? And how did Matterson grab Trinavant’s share of the business?’

  McDougall gave me a twisted grin. ‘The answers to those two questions are interlocked. John’s will established a trust fund for his wife and son, the whole of the capital to revert to young Frank at the age of thirty. All the proper safeguards were built in and it was a good will. Of course, provision had to be made in case John outlived everybody concerned and in that case the proceeds of the trust were to be devoted to the establishment of a department of lumber technology at a Canadian university.’

  ‘Was that done?’

  ‘It was. The trust is doing good work—but not as well as it might, and for the answer to that one you have to go back to 1929. It was then that Trinavant and Matterson realized they were in the empire-building business. Neither of them wanted the death of the other to put a stop to it, so they drew up an agreement that on the death of either of them the survivor would have the option of buying the other’s share at book value. And that’s what Matterson did.’

  ‘So the trust was left with Trinavant’s holdings but the trustees were legally obliged to sell to Matterson if he chose to exercise his option. I don’t see much wrong with that.’