High Citadel / Landslide

by Desmond Bagley

When I left, Waystrand said, ‘If you see my boy, tell him he can come back any time.’ He smiled grimly. ‘That is, if you can get near enough to talk without him taking a swing at you.’

  I didn’t tell him that I’d already encountered Jimmy. ‘I’ll pass on the message when I see him—and I will be seeing him.’

  ‘You did right when you straight-armed him that time,’ said Waystrand. ‘I didn’t think so then, but from what Miss Trinavant said afterwards I saw he had it coming.’ He put out his hand. ‘No hard feelings, Mr Boyd.’

  ‘No hard feelings,’ I said, and we shook on it. I put the Land-Rover into gear and bumped down the track, leaving Waystrand looking after me, a diminishing and rather sad figure.

  I made good time on the way back to Fort Farrell but it was dark by the time I was on the narrow track to McDougall’s cottage. Halfway along, on a narrow corner, I was obstructed by a car stuck in the mud and only just managed to squeeze through. It was a Lincoln Continental, a big dream-boat the size of a battleship and certainly not the auto for a road like this; the overhangs fore and aft were much too long and it would scrape its fanny on every dip of the road. The trunk top looked big enough to land a helicopter on.

  I pushed on to the cabin and saw a light inside. Mac’s beat-up Chevvy wasn’t around so I wondered who the visitor was. Being of a cautious nature and not knowing what trouble might have stirred up in my absence, I coasted the Land-Rover to a halt very quietly and sneaked across to look through the window before I went in.

  A woman was sitting quietly before the fire reading a book. A woman I had never seen before.

  SIX

  I pushed open the door and she looked up. ‘Mr Boyd?’

  I regarded her. She looked as out of place in Fort Farrell as a Vogue model. She was tall and thin with the emaciated thinness which seems to be fashionable, God knows why. She looked as though she lived on a diet of lettuce with thin brown bread—no butter; to sit down to steak and potatoes would no doubt have killed her by over-taxing an unused digestive system. From head to foot she reflected a world of which the good people of Fort Farrell know little—the jazzed-up, with-it world of the sixties—from the lank straight hair to the mini-skirt and the kinky patent-leather boots. It wasn’t a world I particularly liked, but I may be old-fashioned. Anyway, the little-girl style certainly didn’t suit this woman, who was probably in her thirties.

  ‘Yes, I’m Boyd.’

  She stood up. ‘I’m Mrs Atherton,’ she said. ‘I apologize for just barging in, but everyone does round here, you know.’

  I placed her as a Canadian aping a British accent. I said, ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Atherton?’

  ‘Oh, it isn’t what you can do for me—it’s what I can do for you. I heard you were staying here and dropped in to see if I could help. Just being neighbourly, you know.’

  She looked as neighbourly as Brigitte Bardot. ‘Kind of you to take the trouble,’ I said. ‘But I doubt if it’s necessary. I’m a grown boy, Mrs Atherton.’

  She looked up at me. ‘I’ll say you are,’ she said admiringly. ‘My, but you are big.’

  I noticed she’d helped herself to Mac’s Scotch. ‘Have another drink,’ I said ironically.

  ‘Thanks—I believe I will,’ she said nonchalantly. ‘Will you join me?’

  I began to think that to get rid of her was going to be quite a job; there’s nothing you can do with an uninsultable woman short of tossing her out on her can, and that’s not my style. I said, ‘No, I don’t think I will.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said easily, and poured herself a healthy slug of Mac’s jealously conserved Islay Mist. ‘Are you going to stay in Fort Farrell long, Mr Boyd?’

  I sat down. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t know how I look forward to seeing a fresh face in this dump. I don’t know why I stay here—I really don’t.’

  I said cautiously, ‘Does Mr Atherton work in Fort Farrell?’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, there’s no Mr Atherton—not any more.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No need to be sorry, my dear man; he’s not dead—just divorced.’ She crossed her legs and gave me a good look at her thigh; those mini-skirts don’t hide much, but to me a female knee is an anatomical joint and not a public entertainment, so she was wasting her time. ‘Who are you working for?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a freelance,’ I said. ‘A geologist.’

  ‘Oh dear—a technical man. Well, don’t talk to me about it—I’m sure it would be way over my head.’

  I began to wonder about the neighbourly bit. Mac’s cabin was well off the beaten track and it would be a very good Samaritan who would drive into the woods outside Fort Farrell to bring comfort and charity, especially if it meant ditching a Lincoln Continental. Mrs Atherton didn’t seem to fit the part.

  She said, ‘What are you looking for—uranium?’

  ‘Could be. Anything that’s payable.’ I wondered what had put uranium into her mind. Something went ‘twang’ in my head and a warning bell rang.

  ‘I have been told that the ground has been pretty well picked over round here. You may be wasting your time.’ She laughed trillingly and flashed me a brilliant smile. ‘But I wouldn’t know anything about such technical matters. I only know what I’m told.’

  I smiled at her engagingly. ‘Well, Mrs Atherton, I prefer to believe my own eyes. I’m not inexperienced, you know.’

  She gave me an unbelievably coy look. ‘I’ll bet you’re not.’ She downed the second third of her drink. ‘Are you interested in history, Mr Boyd?’

  I looked at her blankly, unprepared for the switch. ‘I haven’t thought much about it. What kind of history?’

  She swished the Scotch around in her glass. ‘One has to do something in Fort Farrell or one is sent perfectly crazy,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking of joining the Fort Farrell Historical Society. Mrs Davenant is President—have you met her?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ For the life of me I couldn’t see where this talk was leading, but if Mrs Atherton was interested in history then I was a ring-tailed lemur.

  ‘You wouldn’t think it, but I’m really a shy person,’ she said. She was dead right—I wouldn’t think it. ‘I wouldn’t want to join the society by myself. I mean—a novice among all those really experienced people. But if someone would join with me to give me some support, that would be different.’

  ‘And you want me to join the historical society?’

  ‘They tell me Fort Farrell has a very interesting history. Did you know it was founded by a Lieutenant Farrell way back in…oh…way back? And he was helped by a man called Trinavant, and the Trinavant family really built up this town.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I said drily.

  ‘It’s a pity about the Trinavants,’ she said casually. ‘The whole family was wiped out not very long ago. Isn’t it a pity that a family that built a whole town should disappear like that?’

  Again there was a ‘twang’ in my mind and this time the warning bell nearly deafened me. Mrs Atherton was the first person who had broached the subject of the Trinavants of her own free will; all the others had had to be nudged into it. I thought back over what she had said earlier and realized she had tried to warn me off in a not very subtle way, and she had brought up the subject of uranium. I had conned the construction men up at the dam into thinking I was looking for uranium.

  I said, ‘Surely the whole family wasn’t wiped out. Isn’t there a Miss Clare Trinavant?’

  She seemed put out. ‘I believe there is,’ she said curtly. ‘But I hear she’s not a real Trinavant.’

  ‘Did you know the Trinavants?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said eagerly—too eagerly. ‘I knew John Trinavant very well.’

  I decided to disappoint her, and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Atherton. I don’t think I’m interested in local history. I’m strictly a technical man and it’s not my line.’ I smiled. ‘It might be different if I were going to put my roots down in Fort Farrell
—then I might work up an interest—but I’m a nomad, you know; I keep on the move.’

  She looked at me uncertainly. ‘Then you’re not staying in Fort Farrell long?’

  ‘That depends on what I find,’ I said. ‘From what you tell me I may not find much. I’m grateful to you for that information, negative though it is.’

  She seemed at a loss. ‘Then you won’t join the historical society?’ she said in a small voice. ‘You’re not interested in Lieutenant Farrell and the Trinavants and…er…the others who made this place?’

  ‘What possible interest could I have?’ I asked heartily.

  She stood up. ‘Of course. I understand. I should have known better than to ask. Well, Mr Boyd; anything you want you just ask me and I’ll try to help you.’

  ‘Where will I contact you?’ I asked blandly.

  ‘Oh…er…the desk clerk at the Matterson House will know where to find me.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall be calling on your help,’ I said, and picked up the fur coat which was draped over a chair. I helped her into the coat and caught sight of an envelope on the mantel. It was addressed to me.

  I opened it and found a one-line message from McDougall: COME TO THE APARTMENT AS SOON AS YOU GET IN. MAC.

  I said, ‘You’ll need some help in getting your car on the road, Mrs Atherton. I’ll get my truck and give you a push.’

  She smiled. ‘It seems that you are helping me more than I am helping you, Mr Boyd.’ She swayed on the teetering high heels of her boots and momentarily pressed against me.

  I grinned at her. ‘Just being neighbourly, Mrs Atherton; just being neighbourly.’

  II

  I pulled up in front of the darkened Recorder office and saw lights in the upstairs apartment, and got a hell of a surprise when I walked in.

  Clare Trinavant was sitting in the big chair facing the door, and the apartment was in a shambles with the contents of cupboards and drawers littering the floor. McDougall turned as I opened the door and stood holding a pile of shirts.

  Clare looked at me with no expression. ‘Hello, Boyd.’

  I smiled at her. ‘Welcome home, Trinavant.’ I was surprised how glad I was to see her.

  ‘Mac tells me I have an apology to make to you,’ she said.

  I frowned. ‘I don’t know what you have to apologize about.’

  ‘I said some pretty hard things about you when you left Fort Farrell. I have just learned they were unjustified; that Howard Matterson and Jimmy Waystrand combined to cook up a bastardly story. I’m sorry about that.’

  I shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter to me. I’m sorry it happened for your sake.’

  She smiled crookedly. ‘You mean my reputation? I have no reputation in Fort Farrell. I’m the odd woman who goes abroad and digs up pots and would rather mix with the dirty Arabs than good Christian folk.’

  I looked at the mess on the floor. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I’ve been canned,’ said McDougall matter-of-factly. ‘Jimson paid me off this afternoon and told me to get out of the apartment before morning. I’d like the use of the Land-Rover.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about this, Mac.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘You must have stung old Bull where it hurts.’

  I looked at Clare. ‘What brings you back? I was about to write you.’

  A gamine grin came to her face. ‘Do you remember the story you once told me? About the man who sent a cable to a dozen of his friends: “Fly, all is discovered”?’ She nodded towards Mac and dug into the pocket of her tweed skirt. ‘A pseudo-Scotsman called Hamish McDougall can also write an intriguing cable.’ She unfolded a paper, and read, “IF YOU VALUE YOUR PEACE OF MIND COME BACK QUICKLY”. What do you think of that for an attention-getter?’

  ‘It brought you back pretty fast,’ I said. ‘But it wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘I know. Mac told me. I was in London, doing some reading in the British Museum. Mac knew where to get me. I took the first flight out.’ She waved her hand. ‘Sit down, Bob. We’ve got some serious talking to do.’

  As I pulled up a chair, Mac said, ‘I told her about you, son.’

  ‘Everything?’

  He nodded. ‘She had to know. I reckon she had a right to know. John Trinavant was her nearest kin—and you were in the Cadillac when he died.’

  I didn’t like that very much. I had told Mac the story in confidence and I didn’t like the idea of having it spread around. It wasn’t the kind of life-story that a lot of people would understand.

  Clare watched the expression on my face. ‘Don’t worry; it will go no further. I’ve made that very clear to Mac. Now, first of all—what were you going to write me about?’

  ‘About the lumber on your land in the north Kinoxi Valley. Do you know how much it’s worth?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it much,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not interested in lumber. All I know is that Matterson isn’t going to make a cent on it.’

  I said, ‘I checked with your Mr Waystrand. I’d made an estimate and he confirmed it, or rather, he told me I was way out. If you don’t cut those trees you’ll lose five million bucks.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Five million dollars!’ she breathed. ‘Why, that’s impossible.’

  ‘What’s impossible about it?’ asked Mac. ‘It’s a total cut, Clare; every tree. Look, Bob told me a couple of things so I checked on the statistics. A normal Forestry Service controlled cutting operation is mighty selective. Only half of one per cent of the usable lumber is taken and that runs to about five thousand dollars a square mile. The Kinoxi is being stripped to the ground, like they used to do back at the turn of the century. Bob’s right.’

  Pink spots glowed in her cheeks. ‘That penny-pinching sonofabitch,’ she said vehemently.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Donner. He offered me two hundred thousand dollars for the felling rights and I told him to go jump into Matterson Lake as soon as it was deep enough for him to drown in.’

  I looked at Mac, who shrugged. ‘That’s Donner for you,’ he agreed.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Didn’t he raise his price at all?’

  She shook her head. ‘He didn’t have time. I threw him out.’

  ‘Matterson isn’t going to let those trees drown if he can help it,’ I said. ‘Not if he can make money out of them. I bet he’ll make another offer before long. But don’t take a penny under four million, Clare; he’ll make enough profit on that.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘I hate putting money in Matterson’s pocket.’

  ‘Don’t be sentimental about it,’ I said. ‘Stick him for as much as you can, and then think of ways of harpooning him once you’ve got his money. A person who didn’t like Matterson could do him a lot of damage with a few million bucks to play around with. You don’t have to keep the dough if you consider it tainted.’

  She laughed. ‘You’ve got an original mind, Bob.’

  I was struck by a thought. ‘Do either of you know of a Mrs Atherton?’

  Mac’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead like two white furry caterpillars until they met his hairline. ‘Lucy Atherton? Where in hell did you meet her?’

  ‘In your cabin.’

  He was struck speechless for a moment and gobbled like a turkey-cock. I looked at Clare, who said, ‘Lucy Atherton is Howard’s sister. She’s a Matterson.’

  Comprehension didn’t so much dawn as strike like lightning. ‘So that’s what her game was. She was trying to find out how interested I was in the Trinavants. She didn’t get very far.’

  I told them what had happened at our meeting, and when I’d finished Mac said, ‘Those Mattersons are smart. They knew I wouldn’t be at the cabin because I had to get clear here—and they knew you wouldn’t know who she was. Old Bull sent her out on a reconnaissance.’

  ‘Tell me more about her.’

  ‘She’s in between husbands,’ said Mac. ‘Atherton was her second—I think—and she divorced him about six m
onths ago. I’m surprised she’s around here; she’s usually busy on the social round—New York, Miami, Las Vegas. And from what I hear she could be a nympho.’

  ‘She’s a man-hungry vixen,’ said Clare in a calm, level voice.

  I thought about that. When getting the Continental out of the mud I’d had a devil of a job to prevent her raping me. Not that I’m sexless, but she was so goddam thin that a man could cut himself to death on her bones, and anyway I like to make a choice for myself once in a while.

  ‘Now we know Bull is getting worried,’ said Mac in satisfaction. ‘The funny thing is that he doesn’t seem to care if we know it. He must have guessed that you’d ask me about the Atherton woman.’

  ‘We’ll figure that one out later,’ I said. ‘It’s getting late and we have to get this stuff back to the cabin.’

  ‘You’d better come with us, Clare,’ said Mac. ‘You can have Bob’s bed and the young bucko can sleep out in the woods tonight.’

  Clare poked me in the chest with her finger and I knew she was getting pretty smart at interpreting the expression on my face. ‘I’ll look after my own reputation, Boyd. Did you think I was going to stay at the Matterson House?’ she asked cuttingly.

  III

  I changed gear noisily as I drove up to the cabin and there was a rustle of leaves at the roadside and the sound of something heavy moving away. ‘That’s funny,’ said Mac in perplexity. ‘There’s been no deer round here before.’

  The headlights swung across the front of the cabin and I saw a figure dart away into cover. ‘That’s no goddam deer,’ I said, and jumped clear before the Land-Rover stopped moving. I chased after the man but stopped as I heard a smash of glass from within the cabin and whirled to dive through the doorway. I collided with someone who struck out, but it takes a lot to stop a man my size and I drove him back by sheer weight and momentum.

  He gave ground and vanished into the darkness of the cabin and I felt in my pocket for a match. But then I caught the acrid reek of kerosene choking in my throat so thickly that I realized the whole cabin must have been wet with it and that to strike a match would be like lighting up a cigar in a powder-magazine.