Bagley, Desmond - Landslide

by Landslide

  "My God, a backwoods cavalier I" she said in disgust, but she stayed around to watch me kick earth over the embers of the fire. While I checked my rifle she looked around at my gear, dimly illuminated in the moonlight. "You make a neat camp."

  "Conies of experience," I said. "Shall we go?" She fell into step beside me and, as we passed the marker, I said, "Thanks for letting me on your land, Miss Trinavant."

  "I'm a sucker for sweet talk," she said, and pointed. "We go that way."

  chapter 3

  Her "camp" was quite a surprise. After we had walked for over half an hour up a slope that tested the calf muscles there came the unexpected dark loom of a building. The hunting beam of the flashlamp she produced disclosed walls of fieldstone and logs and the gleam of large windows. She pushed open an unlocked door, then said a little irritably, "Well, aren't you coming in?"

  The interior was even more of a surprise. It was warm with central heating and it was big. She flicked a switch and a small pool of light appeared, and the room was so large that it retreated away into shadows. One entire wall was windowed and there was a magnificent view down the valley. Away in the distance I could see the moonglow on the lake I had prospected around.

  She flicked more switches and more lights came on, revealing the polished wooden floor carpeted with skins, the modern furniture, the wall brightly lined with books and a scattering of phonograph records on the floor grouped around a built-in hi-fi outfit as though someone had been interrupted.

  This was a millionaire's version of a log cabin. I looked about, probably with my mouth hanging open, then said, "If this were in the States, a guy could get to be President just by being born here."

  "I don't need any wisecracks," she said. "If you want a drink, help yourself; it's over there. And you might do something about the fire; it isn't really necessary but I like to see flames."

  She disappeared, closing a door behind her, and I laid down my rifle. There was a massive fieldstone chimney with a fireplace big enough to roast a moose in which a few red embers glowed faintly, so I replenished it from the pile of logs stacked handily and waited until the flames came and I was sure the fire had caught hold. Then I did a tour of the room, hoping she wouldn't be back too soon. You can find out a lot about a person just by looking at a room as it's lived in.

  The books were an eclectic lot; many modern novels but very little of the avant-garde, way-out stuff; a solid wedge of English and French classics, a shelf of biographies and a sprinkling of histories, mostly of Canada and, what was surprising, a scad of books on archaeology, mostly Middle-Eastern. It looked as though Clare Trinavant had a mind of her own.

  I left the books and drifted around the room, noting the odd pieces of pottery and statuary, most of which looked older than Methuselah; the animal photographs on the walls, mainly of Canadian animals, and the rack of rifles and shotguns in a glassed-in case. I peered at these curiously through the glass and saw that, although the guns appeared to be well kept, mere was a film of dust on them. Then I looked at a photograph of a big brute of a brown bear and decided that, even with a telephoto lens, whoever had taken that shot-had been too damn' close.

  She said from close behind me, "Looks a bit like you, don't you mink?"

  I turned. "I'm not mat big. He'd make six of me."

  She had changed her shirt and was wearing a well-cut pair of slacks that certainly hadn't been bought off any shelf. She said, "I've just been in to see Jimmy. I think hell be all right."

  "I didn't hit him harder than necessary," I said. "Just enough to teach him manners." I waved my arm about the room. "Some shack!"

  "Boyd, you make me sick," she said coldly. "And you can get the hell out of here. You have a dirty mind if you think I'm shacked up with Jimmy Waystrand."

  "Hey!" I said. "You jump to an awful fast conclusion, Trinavant. All I meant was that this is a hell of a place you have here. I didn't expect to find this in the woods, that's all."

  Slowly the pink spots in her cheeks died away, and she said, "I'm sorry if I took you the wrong way. Maybe I'm a little jumpy right now, and if I am, you're responsible, Boyd,"

  "No apology necessary, Trinavant."

  She began to giggle and it developed, into a full-throated laugh. I joined in and we had an hysterical thirty seconds. At last she controlled herself. "No," she said, shaking her head. That won't do. You can't call me Trinavant -- you'd better make it Clare."

  "I'm Bob," I said. "Hello, Clare."

  "Hello, Bob."

  "You know, I didn't really mean to imply that Jimmy was anything to you," I said. "He isn't man enough for you."

  She stopped smiling and, folding her arms, she regarded me for a long time. "Bob Boyd, I've never known another man who makes my hackles rise the way you do. If you think I judge a man by the way he behaves in a fight you're dead wrong. The trouble with you is that you've got logopaedia -- every time you open your mouth you put your foot in it. Now, for God's sake, keep your mouth shut and get me a drink."

  I moved towards what looked like the drinks cabinet. "You shouldn't steal your wisecracks from the Duke of Edinburgh," I said. "That's verging on lese majeste. What will you have?"

  "Scotch and water -- fifty-fifty. You'll find a good Scotch in there."

  Indeed it was a good Scotch! I lifted out the bottle of Islay Mist reverently and wondered how long ago it was since Hamish McDougall had seen Clare Trinavant. But I said nothing about that. Instead, I kept my big mouth shut as she had advised and poured the drinks.

  As I handed her the glass she said, "How long have you been in the woods this trip?"

  "Nearly two weeks."

  "How would you like a hot bath?"

  "Clare, for mat you can have my soul," I said fervently. Lake water is damned cold and a man doesn't bathe as often as he should when in the field.

  She pointed. "Through that door -- second door on the left. I've put towels out for you."

  I picked up my glass. "Mind if I take my drink?"

  "Not at all."

  The bathroom was a wonder to behold. Tiled in white and dark blue, you could have held a convention in there -- if that was the kind of convention you had in mind. The bath was sunk into the floor and seemed as big as a swimming-pool, tad the water poured steaming out of the faucet. And there was a plenitude of bath towels, each about an acre in extent.

  As I lay soaking I thought about a number of th ings. I thought of the possible reason why Clare Trinavant should bring up the name of Howard Matterson when I brought up the subject of her marriage. I thought of the design of the labels of Scotch, especially on those from the island of Islay. I thought of the curve of Clare Trinavant's neck as it rose from the collar of her shirt. I thought of a man I had never seen -- Bull Matterson -- and wondered what he was like in appearance. I thought of the tendril of hair behind Clare Trinavant's ear.

  None of these thoughts got me anywhere in particular, so I got out of the bath and finished the Scotch while I dried myself. As I dressed I became aware of music drifting through the cabin -- some cabin! -- which drowned out the distant throbbing of a diesel generator, and when I got back to Clare I found her sitting on the floor listening to the last movement .of Sibelius's First Symphony.

  She waved me to the drinks cabinet and held up an empty glass, -so I gave us both a refill and we sat quietly until the music came to an end. She shivered slightly and pointed to me moonlit view down the valley. "I always think the music a describing this."

  "Finland has pretty much the same scenery as Canada," I said. "Woods and lakes."

  One eyebrow lifted. "Not only a backwoods cavalier, but an educated one."

  I grinned at her. "I've had a college education, too."

  She coloured a little and said quietly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was bitchy, wasn't it?"

  "That's all right." I waved my hand. "What made you build here?"

  "As your mysterious informant has probably told you, I was brought up around here. Uncle John left
me this land. I love it, so I built here." She paused. "And, since you're so well informed, you probably know that he wasn't really my uncle."

  "Yes," I said.'"I have only one criticism. Your rifles and shotguns need cleaning more often."

  "I don't use them now," she said. "I've lost the taste for killing animals just for fun. I do my shooting with a camera now."

  I indicated the close-up of the snapping jaws of the brown bear. "Such as that?" She nodded, and I said, "I hope you had your rifle handy when you took that shot."

  "I was in no danger," she said. We fell into a companionable silence, looking into the fire. After a few minutes, she said, "How long will you be working for Matterson, Bob?"

  "Not long. I've just about got the job cleaned up now -- with the exception of the Trinavant land." I smiled. "I mink I'll give that a miss -- the owner is a shade tetchy."

  "And then?" Clare questioned.

  "And then back to the North-West Territories."

  "Who do you work for up there?"

  "Myself." I told her a little of what I was doing. "I hadn't been going for more than eighteen months when I made a strike. It brought me in enough to keep me going for the next five years and in mat time I didn't find a thing that was worth anything. That's why I'm here working for Matterson -- getting a stake together again."

  She was thoughtful. "Looking for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?"

  "Something like that," I admitted. "And you? What do you do?"

  "I'm an archaeologist," she said unexpectedly.

  "Oh!" I said, rather inadequately.

  She roused herself and turned to look at me. "I'm not a dilettante. Bob. I'm not a rich bitch playing around with a hobby until I can find a husband. I really work at it -- you should read the papers I've written."

  "Don't be so damned defensive," I said. "I believe you. Where do you do your prospecting?"

  She laughed at that. "Mostly in the Middle East, although I've done one dig in Crete." She pointed to a small statuette of a woman bare to the waist and in a flounced skirt. "That came from Crete -- the Greek government let me bring it out."

  I picked it up. "I wonder if this is Ariadne?"

  "I've had that thought." She looked across at the window. "Every year I try to come back here. The Mediterranean lands are so bare and treeless -- I have to come back to my own place."

  "I know what you mean."

  We talked for a long time while the fire died. I don't remember now exactly what we talked about -- it was just about the trivialities that went to make up our respective lives. At last, she said, "My God, but I'm suddenly sleepy. What time is it?"

  "Two a.m."

  She laughed. "No wonder, then." She paused. "There's a spare bed if you'd like to stay. It's pretty late to be going back to your camp." She looked at me sternly. "But remember -- no passes. One pass and you're out on your ear."

  "All right, Clare. No passes," I promised.

  I was back in Fort Farrell two days later and, as soon as I got to my room at the Matter son House hotel, I filled the bathtub and got down to my favourite pastime of soaking, drinking and thinking deep thoughts.

  I had left Clare early on the morning following our encounter and was surprised to find her reserved and somewhat distant. True, she cooked a good man-sized breakfast, but that was something a good housewife would do for her worst enemy by reflex action. I thought that perhaps she was regretting her fraternization with the enemy -- after all, I was working for Matterson -- or maybe she was miffed because I hadn't made a pass at her. You never know with women.

  Anyway, she was pretty curt in her leave-taking. When I commented that her cabin would be on the edge of a new lake as soon as Matterson had built the dam, she said violently, "Matterson isn't going to drown my land. You can tell him from me that I'm going to fight him."

  "Okay, I'll tell him."

  "You'd better go, Boyd. I'm sure you have a lot to do."

  "Yes, I have," I said. "But I won't do it on your land." I picked up my rifle. "Keep smiling, Trinavant."

  So I went, and half-way down the trail I turned to look back at the house, but all I could see was the figure of Jimmy Waystrand standing straddle-legged like a Hollywood cowboy at the top of the rise, making sure I left.

  It didn't take long to check the rest of the Matterson patch and I was back at my main camp early and loafed about for a day until the helicopter came for me. An hour later I was back in Fort Farrell and wallowing in the bathtub.

  Languidly I splashed hot water and figured out my schedule. The telephone in the bedroom rang but I ignored it and pretty soon it got tired and stopped. I had to see Howard Matterson, then I wanted to check with McDougall to confirm a suspicion. All that remained after that was to write a report, collect my dough and catch the next bus out of town. There was nothing for me in Fort Farrell beyond a lot of personal grief.

  The telephone began to ring again so I splashed out of the tub and walked into the bedroom. It was Howard Matterson and he seemed to be impatient at being kept waiting. "I heard you were back," he said. "I've been expecting you up here."

  "I'm ironing out the kinks in a bathtub," I said. "Ill be up to see you when I'm ready."

  There was a silence while he digested that -- I guess he wasn't used to waiting on other people. Finally, he said, "Okay, make it quick. Have a good trip?"

  "Moderately so," I said. "I'll tell you about it when I come up. I'll pack in a nutshell what you want to know -- there's no sound geological reason for any mining operations in the Kinoxi Valley. Ill fill in the details later."

  "Ah! That's what I wanted to know." He rang off.

  I dressed leisurely, then went up to his office. I was kept waiting even longer this time -- forty minutes. Maybe Howard figured I rated a wait for the way I answered telephones. But he was pleasant enough when I finally got past his secretary. "Glad to see you," he said. "Have any trouble?"

  I lifted an eyebrow. "Was I expected to have any trouble?"

  The smile hovered on his face as though uncertain whether to depart or not, but it finally settled back into place again. "Not at all," he said heartily. "I knew I'd picked a competent man."

  "Thanks," I said drily. "I had to put a crimp in someone's style, though. You'd better know about it because you might be getting a complaint. Know a man called Jimmy Way-strand?"

  Matterson busied himself in lighting a cigar. "At the north end?" he asked, not looking at me.

  "That's right. It came to fisticuffs, but I managed all right," I said modestly.

  Matterson looked pleased. "Then you did the whole survey."

  "No, I didn't."

  He tried to look stern. "Oh! Why not?"

  "Because I don't slug women," I said urgently. "Miss Trinavant was most insistent that I did not survey her land on behalf of the Matterson Corporation." I leaned forward. "I believe you told Mr. Dormer that you would straighten out that little matter with Miss Trinavant. Apparently you didn't."

  "I tried to get hold of her, but she must have been away," he said. He drummed his fingers on the desk. "A pity about mat, but it can't be helped, I suppose."

  I thought he was lying, but it wouldn't help to say so. I said, "As far as the rest of the area goes, there's nothing worth digging up as far as I can see."

  "No trace of oil or gas?"

  "Nothing like that. Ill give you a full report. Maybe I can borrow a girl from your typing pool; you'll get it quicker that way." And I'd get out of town quicker, too.

  "Sure," he said. "Ill arrange that. Let me have it as soon as you can."

  "Right," I said, and got up to go. At the door I paused. "Oh, there's just one thing. By the lake in the valley I found traces of quick clay -- it's not uncommon in sedimentary deposits in these parts. It's worth doing a further check; it could cause you trouble."

  "Sure, sure," he said. "Put it in your report."

  As I went down to the street I wondered if Matter son knew what I was talking about. Still, he'd get a ful
l explanation in the report.

  I walked down to Trinavant Park and saw that Lieutenant Farrell was still on guard duty policing the pigeons, then I went into the Greek joint and ordered a cup of coffee substitute and s at at a table. If McDougall was half the newspaperman he said he was, I could expect him any moment. Sure enough, he walked in stiffly within fifteen minutes and sat down next to me wordlessly.

  I watched him stir his coffee. "What's the matter, Mac? Lost your tongue?"

  He smiled. "I was waiting for you to tell me something. I'm a good listener."

  I said deliberately. There's nothing to stop Matterson building his dam -- except Clare Trinavant. Why didn't you tell me she was up there?"

  "I thought you'd do better making the discovery for yourself. Did you run into trouble son?"

  "Not much! Who is this character, Jimmy Waystrand?"

  McDougall laughed. "Son of the caretaker at Clare's place -- a spunky young pup."

  "He's seen too many Hollywood westerns," I said, and described what had happened.

  McDougall looked grave. "The boy wants talking to. He had no right trailing people on Matterson land -- and as for the rifle . . ." He shook his head. "His father ought to rip the hide off him."

  "I think I put him on the right way." I glanced at him. "When did you last see Clare Trinavant?"

  "When she came through town, about a month ago."

  "And she's been up at the cabin ever since?"

  "So far as I know. She never moves far from it."

  I thought it wouldn't be too much trouble for Howard Matterson to climb into that helicopter of his for the fifty-mile flight from Fort Farrell. Then why hadn't he done so? Perhaps it was as Clare had said, that he was a sloppy businessman. I said, "What's between Clare and Howard Matter-son?"

  McDougall smiled grimly. "He wants to marry her."

  I gaped, then burst out laughing. "He hasn't a snowball's hope. You ought to hear the things she says about the Mattersons -- father and son."

  "Howard has a pretty thick skin," said McDougall. "He hopes to wear her down."