Slippery Slope

by Robin Shaw

  Chapter 9

  THE telephone rang. Craig had just returned from teaching his freshman English class and had slumped into the large swing chair in front of his book-and-paper-laden desk. It had been a flat class, no enthusiasm, no life. The end of term was only ten days off and even the eagerness to please of the freshmen had worn thin.

  He picked the telephone off its rest. It was Helen, the secretary at the English Department office.

  "Craig?"

  "Yes."

  "There are two gentlemen here to see you. Shall I send them along?"

  "Sure. What do they want?"

  "I don't know. They don't look like publishers' representatives, but they didn't say."

  "OK. Send them along."

  As he replaced the telephone, Craig felt an uneasiness growing inside him. Two men to see him. Police? He pushed the books lying on his desk into a pile at the back and drew forward the sheaf of papers to be corrected. The knock on the door was short and crisp.

  "Come in." Craig pushed his chair back and rose to the opening door. A tall, thin man with slightly graying hair held the handle. Behind him Craig could make out a younger man smartly, though conservatively, dressed.

  Craig held out his hand. "Craig Boyden. Please come in, though you can see there's not much room. What can I do for you gentlemen?"

  The tall man took his hand briefly as he moved into the office. "I'm Allan Smith, and this is Bob Godfrey." He put his hand in his coat pocket and extended it again with a plastic card. "We're from the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

  "Not at all," replied Craig. He glanced briefly at the card, a blur of black and white. "Have a seat." He indicated the two most comfortable chairs as he retreated to a third chair beyond the desk. "I suppose it's about that hijacking?"

  The second agent closed the door and they sat down facing him. Smith fingered his neat mustache. When he spoke, it was with a delicate, attractive Southern accent.

  "We realize, Mr. Boyden, that it's a long time since the extortion incident when you were in the Sawtooths, but we want to ask you some questions about your movements in that area and about anything suspicious you may have seen."

  "I'm happy to help you," Craig answered, "but I don't see how I can add to what I've already told the policemen who questioned us at the time. Still, go ahead."

  Smith opened a slim attache case passed to him by Godfrey and drew out a sheaf of typewritten notes. Craig could feel his heartbeat speed up and with it a lightness of his head. He reached to the desk for his cigarettes and lit one in a purposely unhurried movement.

  "Well, Mr. Boyden, I see that on the day of the crime you were climbing with a Mr. Gould from Denver, Colorado."

  "That's correct."

  'Now, according to your earlier statement, you were climbing a mountain called Scimitar Peak and you were late on the climb, arriving back at your campsite about ten in the evening. During the day did you meet any other walkers or see anything that was unusual?"

  "No. Not a thing. We were the only people on the mountain."

  Did you see any signs of helicopters or other aircraft, especially in the evening?"

  "No, not that I remember. We were off the mountain by evening and in the valley trails." Craig suddenly realized that the plane that had dropped the money would have passed over their route on its way luck to Boise. Should he risk a lie? He hesitated.

  "Well, I do sort of remember hearing a plane at twilight, but I didn't see it. At least I think so."

  "Where were you when you heard it?"

  "Oh, I don't know. It's so long ago and it had no significance. Planes are fairly common. All the ranchers have at least one."

  "It was a plane? It couldn't have been a helicopter?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Have you been in Lone Fir Valley? That's where the money was dropped."

  "Yes," Craig replied, "about twice. I think the last lime was about two weeks before the crime."

  "Did you see anything unusual when you were there? Did you meet anyone or come across anything out of the ordinary?"

  "No, I don't remember anyone. We climbed Atlanta Mountain, camped over there for one day, and came back. I'm sorry I'm not much use to you." Craig laughed.

  "No matter, Mr. Boyden. You'd be surprised what's of use to us. You're a part of the jigsaw. So is Mr. Gould." He stroked his neat mustache. "Have you seen him since you were in Idaho together?"

  "No. I've not had a vacation since then. It's a long way to Denver." What's he leading up to, thought Craig. Has Martin blown it? No, if that were the case, they wouldn't have beat around the bush. It would have been, "Good afternoon, Mr. Boyden. We'd like you to come with us."

  "Have you been in touch with him recently?" Smith leaned forward over the desk. Behind him Godfrey, head bent low, wrote on a large pad.

  "No—well, I did write him a letter about a month ago, but I've had no reply." Could they be opening Martin's mail, Craig thought with a sudden panic. What had he written in those letters? God! Why had he got himself in this crazy mess? He should have stolen a boat, if anything. At least that wasn't a federal offense.

  "Well, should you be in touch with him, we'd be obliged if you could let us have his address."

  "But you have it," said Craig. "1267 Lincoln Way, Denver."

  "Ah, yes," said Smith, looking at his notes. "But he doesn't appear to be there at the moment. You don't know where he might be?"

  "No, I'm afraid not. But then we're not really close friends. We only climb together occasionally."

  "You were with him during the whole time you spent in the Sawtooths?"

  "Yes, that's correct. So he couldn't add much to what I've told you."

  "We would still like to speak to him. Call us if you should hear from him." Smith slid a card across the table. "You can reach me at this number." He rose and passed his notes to Godfrey, who put them in the attache case and snapped it shut. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Boyden."

  "Not at all," Craig replied. "Are you any closer to catching those responsible for the crime?"

  Smith paused and a light smile played around his lips. “We always get closer, Mr. Boyden. All criminals make mistakes. We're trained to notice these mistakes."

  Godfrey nodded in Craig's direction and opened the door. Loud laughter from the graduate assistant's lounge opposite swept into the office. Smith held out his. hand.

  "Thank you once more, Mr. Boyden. Perhaps we'll meet again."

  As the door closed behind them, Craig lowered himself into the chair and lit a cigarette. The lungful of smoke did not calm his thumping heart. He felt exhausted and a shiver of nausea ran through him. What had he said? The conversation of the last fifteen minutes had no clarity for him. He could vaguely remember some of the questions and some of his responses, but he could not assess the impression he had made. Had he appeared guilty? Had his lip trembled or his hand shaken as he answered?

  And Martin. Where was he? Perhaps just off on a climbing trip. Or, perhaps he had decided to get out of Denver. There was little to keep him there, except Jean. He must find him and let him know of the FBI's continued interest.

  That should stop him from doing anything rash. Any move to recover the money too soon would be suicidal. Martin was not unintelligent. Once he knew that the police were still active, he would curb his impatience.

  Craig lit another cigarette from the butt of the first. He was feeling better now. They had made no mistakes yet. If they never attempted to retrieve the money, they could not be trapped. There might be clues pointing in their direction but nothing that could lead to their arrest. Provided Martin did nothing foolish. Suddenly a shiver ran down Craig's back, the sort of shiver he had experienced once during the opening chords of Beethoven's Fifth. One false move and that would be it. By either of them. The office suddenly began to feel hot and stuffy. To spend one's life in a cell would be unendurable. Especially for me, thought Craig. His moist hand slipped on the metal door handl
e as he let himself out.

  Seattle to Denver was thirteen hundred miles, a good two days' drive. Craig had driven it twice before, each time taking three days and breaking his journey at Boise, Idaho, and Salt Lake City, Utah. In the latter city he had an acquaintance, Steve Denny, teaching at Brigham Young University and living in middle-class splendor among the righteous. Craig had enjoyed the hospitality of Steve and his young wife, but on this trip he had no intention of staying with them.

  He was tired of lies and half truths, and to visit a community where even the drinking of tea or coffee was considered perilous to the soul would subject his conscience to an intolerable strain.

  Craig had left Seattle very early on that Saturday morning. He had considered leaving after his last class, which had finished at three on Friday afternoon, but had had to get too much together before his departure. Rope, pitons, climbing boots, tent sleeping bag, cooking utensils, all the paraphernalia necessary to survive in the mountains. Food he would buy in Denver, once he got together with Martin and decided where they would go to climb.

  The road sang by, long straight highways, boring but fast, requiring little skill. The weather was clear, with only a few white clouds breaking the monotony of the blue sky. In a week it would be October, and despite the glory of the day, there was a chill in the air.

  Craig had watched the sun rise over the white summit of Mount Hood an hour after he had left. To leave Seattle before dawn and drive through the sleepy Saturday suburbs was always for Craig a thrilling experience. He felt like a convict creeping from his prison after years of internment. There was little traffic on the road, and he made good time at first, enjoying the driving.

  He felt confident that once he met up with Martin, all would be well. He could not believe that five minutes' rancor could destroy the bonds they had forged in their many common experiences. Martin knew he was no coward, and surely mature reflection would have convinced him that Craig had been right not to get involved in the fight in Stanley.

  Through small Western towns he drove. Breakfast at Haches; coffee at Wapato; Umalbitta, with its garish growth of neon; through Echo, Meachan, North Powder—villages less than a hundred years old, singing to him of the wagons that had rumbled West.

  Now, with the sun beginning to dip behind him, he was in the valley of the Snake River, rising up toward Boise. On the horizon he could just make out the tips of the Sawtooth range, their profiles softened in the eastern sky. He would drive for a few hours yet to shorten tomorrow's journey.

  It was strange to be driving past these mountains that he knew so well, to be turning his back on the gray cliff of Mitre Peak, where the money waited. By stealing the money he had sealed himself off from the pure pleasure of traveling and climbing in that area. It was irrevocably linked to the act, and whenever he returned he would be on edge, suspecting the casual conversations with forest wardens and feeling twinges of fear whenever he encountered the local police.

  Craig switched the radio on and drowned his thoughts in the plethora of slick tunes and local temperatures, in the cigarette advertisements and the shallow reports of world news. He began to feel very tired. His weary eyes searched the road ahead for signs of a motel.

  It was a half hour before he found one and carried his pack into the small, characterless room. Driving exhausted him more than a day's climbing, and he fell asleep shortly after his head touched the pillow.

  He was up early the next morning, packing his car in the frosty half light. It was still six hundred miles to Denver, but with luck he would reach the city that night.

  The high desert of Idaho and Utah was soon left behind. Great vistas of bare mountains opened up before him, and the roads became more tortuous. Craig held his Volkswagen at sixty-five, stopping only when pangs of hunger or his emptying gas tank forced him to.

  It was nine when he reached the outskirts of Denver, and the lights of the city cast an orange glow into the sky. Gas station, cafe, and motel blinked a neon welcome. Craig toyed with the idea of getting a good night's sleep before he tried to find Martin, but, tired as he was, he knew he would have difficulty sleeping before he resolved his doubts.

  The street where Martin had his apartment was quiet and dingy, even more so by night than when Craig had visited it last. He had little difficulty recognizing the block where Martin lived. It was probably useless seeking him at this address since the FBI had told him Martin had left, but it was possible that he had returned or sent a forwarding address. Anyway, Craig had to try, if only to eliminate the possibility.

  At the door, Craig scanned the names. Martin had been in 4B, but now the label read Wilson. Craig rang the bell anyway and waited. Down the stairs, beyond the glass door, came a middle-aged man, shirt-sleeves rolled up. He opened the door a little, peering suspiciously.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm looking for a Mr. Gould, Martin Gould."

  "Don't know him." The man started to close the door.

  "Wait a minute, please. He lived in four-B the last lime I was here."

  "Well, I live here now. Don't know him."

  "How long have you been here?"

  "Three weeks. I never met your friend. But the police were here looking for him." He closed the door and began to ascend the stairs, dragging his slippered feet from one to the other.

  Craig stood at the door, looking at the cards and bells. Someone must know where Martin is. He must have left a forwarding address. He debated whether to ring again but decided against it. If he could not trace Martin through Jean, then he could return again tomorrow. It was already ten fifteen, and he would have to be quick if he wanted to find Martin tonight.

  Craig got into his car again and drove toward the center of the city. Jean's apartment was only a few streets away from City Hall, and once he found that, he knew he could find his way.

  It took him half an hour to find the right street. His memory was not as good as he had thought. He parked his car on the opposite side of the street from the apartment block, locked it, and began to walk toward the entrance. If Jean no longer lived there, he would have to abandon his search for tonight. His muscles ached and he suppressed a yawn. It was four hours since he had eaten or drunk, and he hoped that Jean was at home and would prove hospitable. In their limited acquaintance he had found her friendly and good company. Of course, he had always been with Martin, but Craig sensed that she liked him.

  Jean's apartment was much newer than Martin's had been, and the street on which it stood was much pleasanter, tree-filled and well lit.

  At the door, Craig again looked over the names until his eye caught one which read Jean Allbright. Yes, that was her name. He remembered now that Martin had joked about it. At least she was still in the apartment. Perhaps Martin was living with her.

  He rang the bell and waited. After a few seconds a voice from a small speaker above the door made him start.

  "Who's there?"—a woman's voice made thin and crackly by the speaker.

  "It's Craig, Craig Boyden, Martin's friend from Seattle."

  There was a pause, then, "OK. Come on up." A buzzer sounded and the door opened. Craig climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, where Jean's apartment was. At the door he knocked. He was aware that he was probably being scrutinized through the peephole and smiled. The door opened two inches, still on a heavy chain, and Craig could make out Jean's auburn hair and the right side of her face.

  "Hello," he said. "Sorry to disturb you at this time"

  There was a rattle as the chain came off and the door swung open. "Come in."

  There was Jean, smiling, in her long floral housecoat with blue slippers poking out beneath. Craig had forgotten how dainty she was and how pretty.

  "Nice to see you again," he said, holding out his hand. "It's been quite a time."

  "You look tired. Have you just driven from Seattle?"

  "No I stopped last night at Pocatello."

  'Would you like something to eat? I don't have very much but you're welcome to some bacon and
eggs and coffee. Here, sit down and I'll fix some."

  Craig let himself subside into the large armchair facing the stove.

  "I could really use some coffee first, please. My eyes are dropping."

  He lit a cigarette, more to keep himself awake than because he wanted to smoke. His mouth tasted of old food. and his teeth were furry to his tongue.

  He wanted to have a wash, but he could not persuade his tired muscles. Jean brought the coffee over to him, her delicate arm extended from the voluminous sleeve of her housecoat.

  "Sorry it's only instant."

  Craig smiled and took the mug. The coffee was hot and bitter.

  "I'm looking for Martin," he started.

  "Oh, he's out of town. Didn't you know?" Jean looked puzzled. "I thought it was all arranged. Didn't vou work it all out with him?"

  "Work out what?" Craig was bolt upright in his chair. "Work out what, for God's sake? Where is he?"

  Jean turned and pushed at the bacon in the pan with a fork. It was spluttering and spitting and a blue smoke was beginning to rise in the air.

  "What's the matter? Where is he? Leave the damned bacon for a minute. What do you mean he's out of town?"

  Suddenly Craig realized that Jean was crying, her mouth tensed in a vain effort to force back the tears. She dabbed at her eye with the back of her hand. "He's gone." A sob choked her words.

  Craig eased himself out of his chair, still holding the mug, and reached his free hand out to turn her around.

  "Here, come on now. No need for tears. Sit down. Would you like a cigarette?" He drew her to the chair and she sank into it. She looked white, and the bright colors of her robe emphasized her pallor. Craig pushed the bacon off the heat and sat on a kitchen chair, towering over her as she slumped in the low armchair. He lit a cigarette and passed it to her, waiting for her to continue.

  "Well, he said it was all arranged, and that he would be gone about a week, picking up the money. He's been so tight recently." Her voice faltered and the tears began to flow in a wet stream down her cheeks.

  Craig went to the kitchen counter and returned with a box of Kleenex. Jean was still crying, silently and peacefully, as though all the fight was out of her. She blew her nose quietly and daintily.

  Craig looked at her. Well this is it, he thought. The stupid bastard has stuck his neck out. And ours will be chopped along with his.

  "When did he go?" Craig's voice came out calmly, though he felt a desperation growing inside him, threatening to overwhelm his reason.

  "He left Friday night about seven, the day before yesterday. He said he was going to Billings, Montana, to look up a friend there."

  "Did he say who?"

  "No. All he said was he would be back in a week. We weren't talking much at the end."

  Craig lit another cigarette. He felt no tiredness now. His mind was racing, but without concentration. Disjointed thoughts. Half-formed ideas. His head felt light and insubstantial, the sort of feeling one gets above fourteen thousand feet. Billings, Montana, was a day's hard drive from Denver, and Martin had left Friday night. Probably arrived in Billings yesterday, late. So today he might have seen his friend and already be on his way to the Sawtooths, if not already there. Craig looked at his watch. Eleven fifteen. Even if he left Jean's apartment now, he could never make the Sawtooths before tomorrow night. He would have to sleep, and he might as well sleep here as on the road. But was it worth pursuing Martin? He rose and put the pan back onto the stove, pushing the crisp bacon to one side. He broke an egg into the pan and watched the jelly whiten and set. Turning to where Jean still sat, immobile, sunk in the enveloping chair, he asked, "Did Martin discuss his plans, or why he was doing this alone?"

  Jean raised her head. "No. All he said was that you had chickened out and asked him to do the pickup. He said we would go to Brazil when he returned, and that we would mail your share. Didn't he ever discuss it with you?"

  Craig shook his head. "We haven't been in touch since we were in Stanley, two months ago. We were supposed to wait a year before going back. Now he's going up there alone, with the police still crawling around, and once he gets caught they're not going to need Dick Tracy to realize who was in it with him. The cops have my name from their questioning when we came out of the mountains. And they're going to be looking for the girl who made the telephone calls. Doesn't the stupid bastard know that the FBI is interested in us? They questioned me at the college about a week back."

  "I wish I'd never got into it," said Jean. She had stopped crying, but her cheeks retained their blanched look. "I never really cared about the money. It was only Martin." She gave a small sob. "And now I'm not sure he'll be back. He gave up his job about two weeks ago, and he's been living here for a month." Jean laughed, a short, cynical, dry laugh. "We were closer when we were apart. He just lay around brooding, and he wouldn't talk. What happened in the Sawtooths, Craig? He seemed so unhappy when he came back, but he wouldn't say why. He only said it had gone OK."

  Craig eased the bacon and eggs out of the pan onto the plate. He sat down at the table, pushing aside a couple of magazines.

  "We fell out. I guess it was the strain of all the lies we had to tell."

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "Christ only knows," Craig replied. "Perhaps the best thing is to run. He's sure to be caught. The cops are bound to be waiting for someone who was there in August to return. If he's caught, we've had it."

  "I don't want to run," said Jean. "Where could I go, anyway? Mexico? I've been there. Dirt and flies and poverty. It's great for a month, but prison might be better."

  "Well, you could go to another city. Chicago, or perhaps San Francisco. They won't be able to pin much on you, and they certainly won't have a nationwide hunt on the off chance you might be the mystery voice on the phone. In fact, maybe you don't need to run anyway. Unless Martin tells them, they may suspect it but they'll never prove anything. As for me, once they have Martin, I'm through. They already have my statements, and they know that I was with Martin all the time when the money was dropped."

  "Couldn't you stop him? You've nothing to lose now. Perhaps you could persuade him to wait."

  Craig mused. There was an outside chance he could get to Martin before the police. He tried to get into Martin's head and work out how Martin would approach the area. He was no fool. He must be aware that he was running an enormous risk and would not simply dash straight to the face and retrieve the money. He certainly had guts if he was going to attempt that climb alone.

  Perhaps he would take the friend from Billings along. No. Martin must be after the money for himself; otherwise he would have used Craig, despite his anger at him. So he must be intending to do it alone and if successful would probably never return to Denver. Jean must have sensed that, Craig thought. Why did it never cross my mind?

  "Do you mind if I sleep here? I have a sleeping bag in the car and I don't mind the floor."

  "What are you going to do?" asked Jean.

  "I think I'll try to stop him," replied Craig. "As you say, I've nothing to lose and a lot to gain. I'll leave early tomorrow. Martin will probably take his time in approaching the money, so I may get there first. Did he tell you where we hid it?"

  "No. I never asked him. And I don't want to know. As far as I'm concerned it's a bad dream, and I just want to forget my part in it."

  "Me too," said Craig, "but I'm still in the dream, .and I've got to wind it up." He yawned.

  "You can sleep on the couch if you like. And I have a bag in the closet to save you going to the car. When do you want to leave in the morning?"

  "About six thirty. I want to make Atlanta in the Sawtooths before dark tomorrow."

  Jean rose and went to the closet, returning with a blue down bag.

  "I'll get up and make your breakfast," she said as she retreated to the door of the bedroom.

  "No need. I can get myself out," replied Craig. "Thanks anyway."

  "No trouble. I need to be up early, anyway. Go
od night." She smiled at him, the first time she had smiled for an hour; a cautious, somewhat sad little creasing of the mouth.

  "I'm sure everything will work out," she said, closing the door.

  Craig stripped off his pants and unzippered the sleeping bag. The couch was not quite long enough, but he was so tired he didn't care. In the bag, with the light out, he could hear the traffic still moving in the street below. Somewhere Martin must also be bedding down, alone and excited, thinking of the pickup perhaps tomorrow or the next day.

  Craig let his head sink back into the cushion, the down bag pulled up around his neck. His thoughts seemed to be the only part of him with life. His body, somewhat cramped by the couch on which he lay, was nevertheless utterly relaxed. He was conscious of nothing save a slight latent panic that forced him to jump from idea to idea. What can I do? he thought. Is it worth pursuing Martin, or should I just disappear? There were so many ways to approach Mitre Peak that the chance of his meeting up with Martin was slim. And even if he did, would Martin listen? He no longer wanted the money. In fact, it seemed ridiculous that he had ever considered Martin's crazy scheme. Yet he had. And here he was. He alone was responsible. He could not plead the desperation of poverty or a criminal upbringing. It was not the extension of any thread he could recognize in his life. Now his act would determine his future no matter what he chose to do, flee or pursue. He had laughed at the poor middle- class fools who were locked into a nine-to-five existence and had seen himself to be a free creature, though a temporary prisoner at Baxter. Now he was held by a shackle of his own making, and his tired brain could not produce a key.