by Landslide
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 Matter son 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."
Chapter 2
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 havi ng 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 mat 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 dreamed. "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?"
"Dormer. 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 Dormer 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 Matter-son 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 months 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 h
imself 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 to-night."
Clare poked me in the chest with her ringer 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.
Chapter 3
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.
There was a movement in the darkness ahead of me and then I heard the crunch of Mac's footsteps coming to the cabin door. "Stay out of here, Mac," I yelled.
My eyes were getting accustomed to the interior darkness and I could see the light patch of a window at the back of the cabin. I dropped to one knee in a crouch and looked around slowly. Sure enough, the light patch was momentarily eclipsed as someone moved across it and I had my man placed. He was moving from left to right, trying to get to the door unnoticed. I dived for where I thought his legs were and grabbed him, and he fell on top of me but didn't come to the ground.
Then I felt a sharp pain thumping in my shoulder and had to let go and there was a boot in my face before I could roll over out of the way. By the time I stumbled to the door there was just the sound of running footsteps disappearing in the distance, and I saw Clare bending over a prostrate figure.
It was Mac, and he got groggily to his feet as I walked up. "Are you all right?"
He held his belly. "He . . . just rammed . . . me," he whispered painfully. "Knocked the wind out of me."
'Take it easy," I said.
"We'd better get him into the cabin," said Clare.
"Stay away from there," I said harshly. "It's ready to go off like a bomb. There's a flashlamp in the Land-Rover; will you get it?"
She went away and I walked Mac a few steps to a stump he could sit on. He was wheezing like an old steam engine and I cursed the man who'd done that to him. Clare came back with toe lamp and flashed it at me. "My God!" she exclaimed. "What happened to your face?"
"It got stepped on. Give me the torch." I went into the cabin and looked around. The stink of kerosene made me gag and I saw the reason why it should; the place was a mess -- all the sheets and blankets had been ripped from the beds, and the mattresses had been knifed open to liberate the stuffing. All this had been piled in the middle of the floor and doused with kerosene. There must have been five gallons because the floor was swimming.
I collected a pressure lantern and some cans from the larder and joined the others. "We'll have to camp out to-night," I said. "The cabin's too dangerous to use until we clean it out. It's lucky I didn't unpack the truck -- we still have blankets we can use."
Mac was better and breathing more easily. He said, "What's wrong with the cabin?" I told him and he cursed freely until he recollected that Clare was by his elbow. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I got carried away."
She gave a low laugh. "I haven't heard cussing like that since Uncle John died. Who do you think did this, Bob?"
"I don't know -- I didn't see any faces. But the Mattersons move fast. Mrs. Atherton made her report and Matterson acted."
"We'd better report it to the police," she said.
Mac snorted. "A lot of good that will do," he said disgustedly. "We didn't see who it was and we have no evidence to connect it with the Mattersons. Anyway, I can't see the cops tackling Bull Matterson -- he draws too much water to be bull-dozed by Sergeant Gibbons."
I said, "You mean that Gibbons has been bought just like everyone else?"
"I mean nothing of the kind," said Mac. "Gibbons is a good guy; but he'll need hard evidence before he as much as talks to Matterson -- and what evidence have you got? None that Gibbons can use, that's for sure."
I said, "Let's make camp and talk about it then. And not too near the cabin, either."
We camped in a glade a quarter of a mile from the cabin and I lit the lantern and set about making a fire. My left shoulder hurt and when I put my hand to it, it came away sticky with blood. Clare said in alarm, "What's happened?"
I looked at the blood stupidly. "My God, I think I've been stabbed!"
Chapter 4.
I left Clare and Mac to clean out the cabin next morning and drove into Fort Farrell. The wound in my shoulder wasn't too bad; it was a clean cut in the flesh which Clare bound up without too much trouble. It was sore and stiff but it didn't trouble me much once the bleeding was staunched.
Mac said, "Where are you going?"
'To pay a call," I said shortly.
"Keep out of trouble -- do you hear me?"
"There'll be no trouble for me," I promised.
The feed-pump was giving trouble, so I left the Land-Rover with Clarry Summerskill, then wa lked up the street to the police station to find that Sergeant Gibbons was absent from Fort Farrell. There was nothing unusual in that -- an RCMP sergeant in the country districts has a big parish and Gibbons's was bigger than most.
The constable listened to what I had to tell him and his brow furrowed when I told him of the stab wound. "You didn't recognize these men?"
I shook my head. "It was too dark."
"Do you -- or Mr. McDougall -- have any enemies?"
I said carefully, "You might find that these men were employees of Matterson's."
The constable's face closed up as though a blind was drawn. He said warily, "You could say that for half the population of Fort Farrell. All right, Mr. Boyd; I'll look into it. If you would make a written statement for the record I'd be obliged."
"I'll send it to you," I said wearily. I saw I wouldn't get anywhere without hard evidence. "When is Sergeant Gibbons due back?"
"In a couple of days. I'll see he's informed of this."
I bet you will, I thought bitterly. This constable would be only too pleased to pass such a hot potato to the sergeant. The sergeant would read my statement, nose around and find nothing and drop the whole thing. Not that one could blame him in the circumstances.
I left the police station and crossed to the Matterson Building. The first person I saw in the foyer was Mrs. Atherton. "Hello there," she said gaily. "Where are you going?"
I looked her in the eye. "I'm going up to rip out your brother's guts."
She trilled her practised laughter. "I wouldn't, you know; he.'s got himself a bodyguard. You wouldn't get near him." She looked at me appraisingly. "So the old Scotsman has been talking about me."
"Nothing to your credit," I said.
"I really wouldn't go up to see Howard," she said as I pressed for the elevator. "It wouldn't do you any good to be bounced from the eighth floor. Besides, the old man wants to see you. That's why I'm here -- I've been waiting for you."
"Bull Matterson wants to see me?"
"That'
s right. He sent me to get you."
"If he wants to see me, I'm around town often enough," I said. "He can find me when he wants me."
"Now is that a way to treat an old man?" she asked. "My father is seventy-seven, Mr. Boyd. He doesn't get around much these days."
I rubbed my chin. "He doesn't have to, does he? Not when he can get other people to do his running for him. All right, Mrs. Atherton. I'll come and see him."
She smiled sweetly. "I knew you'd see reason. I have my car just outside."
We climbed into the Continental and drove out of town to the south. At first, I thought we were heading for Lakeside, the nearest thing to an upper-class suburb Fort Farrell can afford -- all the Matterson Corporation executives lived out there -- but we by-passed it and headed farther south. Then I realized that Bull Matterson wasn't just an executive and he didn't consider himself as upper class. He was king and he'd built himself a palace appropriate to his station.
On the way Mrs. Atherton didn't say much -- not after I'd choked her off rudely. I was in no mood for chit-chat from her and made it pretty clear. It didn't seem to worry her. She smoked one cigarette after the other and drove the car with one hand. A woman wearing a mini-skirt and driving a big car leaves little to the imagination, and that didn't worry her either. But she liked to think it worried me because she kept casting sly glances at me out of the corner of her eye.
Matterson's palace was a reproduction French chateau not 'much bigger than the Chateau Frontenac in Quebec, and it gave me an inkling of the type of man he was. It was a type I had thought had died out during the nineteenth century, a robber baron of the Jim Fisk era who would gut a railroad or a corporation and use the money to gut Europe of its treasures. It seemed incredible mat such men could still exist in the middle of the twentieth century, but this overgrown castle was proof.
We went into a hall about as big as a medium-sized football field, littered with suits of armour and other bric-a-brac. Or were they fake? I didn't know, but it didn't really make any difference -- fake or not, they illuminated Matterson's character. We ignored the huge sweep of staircase and took an elevator which was inconspicuously tucked away in one corner. It wasn't a very big one and Mrs. Atherton took the opportunity to make a pass at me during the ride. She pressed hard against me, and said, "You're not very nice to me, Mr. Boyd," in a reproachful tone.