Landslide

I

I did another freelance job during the winter down in the Okanagan valley near the U.S. border and before the spring thaw I was all set to go back to the North-West Territories as soon as the snows melted. There’s not a great deal of joy for a geologist in a snow-covered landscape — he has to be able to see what he’s looking for. It was only during the brief summer that I had a chance, and so I had to wait a while.

During this time, in my correspondence with Susskind, I told him of what had happened in Fort Farrell. His answer reassured me that I had done the right thing.

‘I think you were well advised to cut loose from Fort Farrell; that kind of prying would not do you any good at all. If you stay away your bad dreams should tail off in a few weeks providing you don’t deliberately think about the episode.

‘Speaking as a psychiatrist, I find the ambivalent behaviour of Howard Matterson to be an almost classic example of what, to use the only expression conveniently available, is called a “love-hate” relationship. I don’t like this phrase because it has been chewed to death by the littérateurs (why must writers seize on our specialized vocabulary and twist meanings out of all recognition?) but it describes the symptoms, if only inadequately. He wants her, he hates her; he must destroy her and have her simultaneously. In other words, Mr Matterson wants to eat his cake and have it, too. Taken all in all, Matterson seems to be a classic case of emotional immaturity — at least, he has all the symptoms. You’re well away from him; such men are dangerous. You have only to look at Hitler to see what I mean.

‘But I must say that your Trinavant sounds quite a dish!

‘I’ve just remembered something I should have told you about years ago. Just about the time you left Montreal a private enquiry agent was snooping about asking questions about you, or rather, about Robert Grant. I gave him no joy and sent him away with a flea in his ear and my boot up his rump. I didn’t tell you about it at the time because, in my opinion, you were then in no fit state to be the recipient of news of that sort; and subsequently I forgot about it.

‘At the time I wondered what it was about and I still have not come to any firm conclusion. It certainly was nothing to do with the Vancouver police because, as you know, I straightened them out about you, and a hell of a task it was. Most laymen are thick-headed about psychiatry, but police and legal laymen have heads of almost impenetrable oak. They seem to think that the McNaughten Rules are a psychiatric dictum and not a mere legal formalism, and it was no mean feat getting them to see sense and getting Bob Boyd off the hook for what Robert Grant had done. But I did it.

‘So who could have employed this private eye? I did a check and I came up with nothing — it is not my field. Anyway, it is many years ago and probably means nothing now, but I thought I might as well tell you that someone, other than your mysterious benefactor, was interested in you.’

That was interesting news but many years out of date. I chewed it over for some time, but, like Susskind, I could come to no conclusion, so I let it lie.

In the spring I headed north to the MacKenzie District where I fossicked about all summer somewhere between the Great Slave Lake and Coronation Gulf. It’s a lonely life — there are not many people up there — but one meets the occasional trapper and there are always the wandering Eskimos in the far north. Again, it was a bad year and I thought briefly of giving it up as a bad job and settling for a salaried existence as a company wage slave. But I knew I wouldn’t do that; I’d tasted too much freedom to be nailed down and I’d make a bad company man. But if I were to continue I’d have to go south again to assemble a stake for the next summer, so I humped my pack for civilization.

I suppose I was all sorts of a fool to go back to British Columbia. I wanted to follow Susskind’s advice and forget all about Fort Farrell, but the mind is not as easily controlled as all that. During the lonely days, and more especially the lonelier nights, I had thought about the odd fate of the Trinavants. I felt a certain responsibility because I had certainly been in that Cadillac when it crashed, and I felt an odd guilt about what might have caused it. I also felt guilty about running away from Fort Farrell — McDougall’s last words still stuck in my craw — even though I had Susskind’s assurance that I had done the right thing.

I thought a lot about Clare Trinavant, too — more than was good for a lone man in the middle of the wilderness.

Anyway, I went back and did a winter job around Kamloops in British Columbia, working for an academic team investigating earth tremors. I say ‘academic’ but the tab was picked up by the United States Government because this work could lead to a better means of detecting underground atomic tests, so perhaps it was not so academic, after all. The pay wasn’t too good and the work and general atmosphere a bit too long-haired for me, but I worked through the winter and saved as much as I could.

As spring approached I began to get restless, but I knew I had not saved up enough to go back north for another summer’s exploration. It really began to look as though this was the end of the line and I would have to settle down to the company grind. As it turned out I got the money in another way, but I would rather have worked twenty years for a company than gain the money the way I did.

I received a letter from Susskind’s partner, a man called Jarvis. He wrote to tell me that Susskind had unexpectedly died of a heart attack and, as executor of the estate, he informed me that Susskind had left me $5,000.

‘I know that you and Dr Susskind had a very special relationship, deeper than that normal to doctor and patient,’ wrote Jarvis. ‘Please accept my deepest regrets, and you will know, of course, that I stand ready to help you in my professional capacity at any time you may need me.’

I felt a deep sense of loss. Susskind was the only father I ever had or knew; he had been my only anchor in a world that had unexpectedly taken away three-quarters of my life. Even though we met but infrequently, our letters kept us close, and now there would be no more letters, no more gruff, irreverent, shrewd Susskind.

I suppose the news knocked me off my bearings for a while. At any rate, I began to think of the geological structure of the North-East Interior of British Columbia, and to wonder if it was at all necessary to go back to the far north that summer. I decided to go back to Fort Farrell.

Thinking of it in hindsight, I now know the reason. While I had Susskind I had a line back to my beginnings. Without Susskind there was no line and again I had to fight for my personal identity; and the only way to do it was to find my past, harrowing though the experience might be. And the way to the past lay through Fort Farrell, in the death of the Trinavant family and the birth of the Matterson logging empire.

At the time, of course, I didn’t think that way. I just did things without thinking at all. I turned in the job, packed my bags and was on my way to Fort Farrell within the month.

The place hadn’t changed any.

I got off the bus at the depot and there was the same fat little guy who looked me up and down. ‘Welcome back,’ he said.

I grinned at him. ‘I don’t need to know where the Matterson Building is this time. But you can tell me one thing — is McDougall still around?’

‘He was up to last week — I haven’t seen him since.’

‘You’d be good in a witness-box,’ I said. ‘You know how to make a careful statement.’

I went up King Street and into Trinavant Park and saw that there had been a change, after all. The Greek place now had a name — a garish neon sign proclaimed it to be the Hellenic Café. Lieutenant Farrell was still the same, though; he hadn’t moved a muscle. I checked into the Matterson House Hotel and wondered how long I’d be staying there. Once I started lifting stones to see what nasty things lay underneath I could see that innkeeper Matterson might not want to have me around as part of his clientele. But this was for the future; now I might as well see how the land lay with Howard.

I took the elevator up to his office. He had a new secretary and I asked her to tell the boss that Mr Boyd wanted to see him. I got into Howard’s office in the record-breaking time of two minutes. Howard must have been very curious to know why I was back in Fort Farrell.

He hadn’t changed, either, although there was no real reason why he should. He was still the same bull-necked, beefy guy, running to fat, but I thought I detected a shade more fat this time. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘I’m certainly surprised to see you again.’

‘I don’t know why you should be,’ I said innocently. ‘Considering that you offered me a job.’

He goggled at me incredulously. ‘What?’

‘You offered me a job. You said you wanted a geological survey of all the Matterson holdings, and you offered the job to me. Don’t you remember?’

He remembered that his mouth was open after a while and snapped it shut. ‘By Christ, but you’ve got a nerve! Do you think that...’ He stopped and chuckled fatly. ‘No, Mr Boyd. I’m afraid we’ve changed our minds about that project.’

‘That’s a pity,’ I said. ‘I find myself unable to go north this year.’

He grinned maliciously. ‘What’s the matter? Couldn’t you find anyone to stake you?’

‘Something like that,’ I said, and let a worried look appear on my face.

‘It’s tough all round,’ he said, enjoying himself, ‘but I’m sorry to tell you that I don’t think there’s a job going anywhere in this territory for a man in your line. In fact, I’ll go further: I don’t think there’s any job around here that you could hold down. The employment situation is terrible in Fort Farrell this year.’ A thought struck him. ‘Of course, I might be able to find you a job as a bell-hop in the hotel. I have influence there, you understand. I hope you’re strong enough to carry bags?’

I wasn’t worried about letting him have his fun. ‘I don’t think I’m down to that yet,’ I said, and stood up.

That didn’t suit Howard; he wasn’t through with grinding my face in the mud. ‘Sit down,’ he said genially. ‘Let’s talk about old times.’

‘Okay,’ I said, and sat down again. ‘Seen anything of Clare Trinavant lately?’

That one really harpooned him. ‘We’ll keep her name out of this,’ he snapped.

‘I only wanted to know if she was around,’ I said reasonably. ‘She’s a real nice woman — I’d like to meet her again some time.’

He looked like someone who’d just swallowed his gum. The idea had just sunk in that I was really interested in Clare Trinavant — and he wasn’t far wrong, at that. It looked as though my tenure of the hotel room would be even shorter than I thought. He recovered. ‘She’s out of town,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘She’s out of the country. In fact, she’s even out of the hemisphere, and she won’t be back for a long time. I’m sorry about that — really I am.’

That was a pity; I’d been looking forward to exchanging insults with her again. Still, she wasn’t the main reason I was back in Fort Farrell, even though she was a possibly ally I had lost.

I stood up again. ‘You’re right,’ I said regretfully. ‘It’s tough all round.’ This time he didn’t try to stop me; perhaps he didn’t like my brand of chatty conversation. I made for the door, and said, ‘I’ll be seeing you.’

‘Are you going to stick around here?’ he demanded.

I laughed at him. ‘That depends if the employment situation is as bad as you say.’ I closed the door on him and grinned at his secretary. ‘A mighty fine boss you’ve got there. Yes, sir!’ She looked at me as though I were mad, so I winked at her and carried on.

Baiting Howard Matterson was childish and pretty pointless, but I felt the better for it; it gave a boost to my flagging morale. I hadn’t had much to do with him personally, and beyond the comments of Clare Trinavant and McDougall, I knew nothing about him. But now I knew he was a brave boy indeed; nothing suited Howard better than to put the boot to a man who was down. His little exhibition of sadism made me feel better and gave added enjoyment to the task of cutting him down to size.

As I walked along King Street I glanced at my watch and quickened my pace. If McDougall still kept to his usual schedule he’d be having his afternoon coffee at the Greek place — the Hellenic Café. Sure enough, there he was, brooding over an empty cup. I went to the counter and bought two cups of coffee which came to me via a chromium-plated monster which squirted steam from every joint and sounded like the first stage of an Atlas missile taking off.

I took the coffee over to the table and dumped a cup in front of Mac. If he was surprised to see me he didn’t show it. His eyelids just flickered and he said, ‘What do you want?’

I sat down next to him. ‘I had a change of heart, Mac.’

He said nothing, but the droop of his shoulders altered to a new erectness. I indicated the Espresso machine. ‘When did that sign of prosperity come in?’

‘A couple of months ago — and the coffee’s godawful,’ he said sourly. ‘Glad to see you, son.’

I said, ‘I’ll make this quick because I have an idea that it would be better all round if we aren’t seen together too often. Howard Matterson knows I’m in town and I suspect he’s mad at me.’

‘Why should he be?’

‘I had a barney with him just before I left — eighteen months ago.’ I told Mac what had happened between us and of my suspicions of young Jimmy Waystrand.

Mac clicked his tongue. ‘The bastard!’ he exclaimed. ‘You know what Howard did? He told Clare you’d boasted to him about spending the night in her cabin. She went flaming wild and cursed you up hill and down dale. You’re not her favourite house guest any more.’

‘And she believed him?’

‘Why wouldn’t she? Who else could have told Howard? No one thought of Jimmy.’ He grunted suddenly. ‘So that’s how he got a good job up at the dam. He’s working for the Matterson Corporation now.’

‘So they’re constructing the dam,’ I said.

‘Yeah. Public opinion was well moulded and Matterson rammed it through over Clare’s objections. They began building last summer and they’re working as though Matterson ordered it finished for yesterday. They couldn’t pour concrete in winter, of course, but they’re pouring it now in a round-the-clock operation. In three months there’ll be a ten-mile lake in that valley. They’ve already started to rip out the trees — but not Clare’s trees, though. She says she’d rather see her trees drowned than go to a Matterson mill.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I said. ‘But it’s too long and complicated to go into here. I’ll come up to your apartment tonight.’

His face crinkled into a smile. ‘Clare left some Islay Mist for me when she went. You know she’s not here?’

‘Howard took great pleasure in informing me,’ I said drily.

‘Um,’ he said, and suddenly drained his cup of coffee. ‘I’ve just remembered there’s something I have to do. I’ll see you to-night — about seven.’ He rose stiffly. ‘My bones are getting older,’ he said wryly, and headed for the street.

I finished my coffee more leisurely and then went back to the hotel. My pace was quicker than that of McDougall and I’d almost caught up with him on High Street when he turned off and disappeared into the telegraph office. I carried on. There wasn’t any more I wanted to say to him that couldn’t wait until evening and, as I had told him, the less we were seen together the better. In a few days I wouldn’t be too popular around Fort Farrell and any Matterson employee who was seen to be too friendly with me wouldn’t be too safe in his job. I’d hate to get McDougall fired.

I had not been evicted from my room yet — but that was a problem I had to bring up with Mac. Probably Howard didn’t think I’d have the brazen nerve to stay at the Matterson House and it wouldn’t have entered his mind to check — but as soon as I started to make a nuisance of myself he’d find out and I’d be out on my ear. I would ask Mac about alternative accommodation.

I lounged about until just before seven and then went over to Mac’s apartment and found him taking his ease before a log fire. He pointed wordlessly to the bottle on the table and I poured myself a drink and joined him.

For a while I looked at the dancing flames, then said, ‘What I’m going to tell you I’m not sure you’re going to believe, Mac.’

‘You can’t surprise a newspaperman my age,’ he said. ‘We’re like priests and doctors — we hear a lot of stories that we don’t tell. You’d be surprised at the amount of news that’s not fit to print, one way or another.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘But I still think it’s going to surprise you — and it’s something I haven’t told another living soul — the only other people who know about it are a few doctors.’

I launched forth on the story and told him everything — the waking up in hospital, Susskind’s treatment, the plastic surgery — everything, including the mysterious $36,000 and the investigation by the private detective. I finished up by saying, ‘That’s why I told you that I didn’t know anything that could help. I wasn’t lying, Mac.’

‘God, I feel sorry about that now,’ he mumbled. ‘I said things to you that no man should say to another.’

‘You weren’t to know,’ I said. ‘No apologies needed.’

He got up and found the file he had shown me before and dug out the photograph of Robert Grant. He looked at me closely and then his eyes switched to the photograph and then back to me again. ‘It’s incredible,’ he breathed. ‘It’s goddam incredible. There’s no resemblance at all.’

‘I took Susskind’s advice,’ I said. ‘Roberts, the surgeon, had a copy of that and used it as an example of what not to do.’

‘Robert Grant — Robert B. Grant,’ he murmured. ‘Why in hell didn’t I have the sense to find out what that initial stood for? A fine reporter I am!’ He put the photograph back in the file. ‘I don’t know, Bob. You’ve put a lot of doubt in my mind. I don’t know whether we should go through with this thing now.’

‘Why not? Nothing has changed. The Trinavants are still dead and Matterson is still screwing the lid down. Why shouldn’t you want to go ahead?’

‘From what you’ve told me, you stand in some personal risk,’ he said slowly. ‘Once you start monkeying about with your mind anything could happen. You could go nuts.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t like it.’

I stood up and paced the floor. ‘I’ve got to find out, Mac — no matter what Susskind said. While he was alive I was all right; I leaned on him a lot. But now I have to find out who I am. It’s killing me not to know.’ I halted behind his chair. ‘I’m not doing this for you, Mac; I’m doing it for me. I was in that car when it crashed, and it seems to me that this whole mystery stems from that crash.’

‘But what can you do?’ asked Mac helplessly. ‘You don’t remember anything.’

I sat down again. ‘I’m going to stir things up. Matterson doesn’t want the Trinavants talked about. Well, I’m going to do a lot of talking in the next few days. Something will break sooner or later. But first I want to get some ammunition, and you can supply that.’

‘You’re really intent on going through with this?’ asked Mac.

‘I am.’

He sighed. ‘All right, Bob. What do you want to know?’

‘One thing I’d give a lot to know is where old man Matterson was when the crash happened.’

Mac grimaced wryly. ‘I got there ahead of you. I had that nasty suspicion, too. But there’s no joy there. Guess who’s his alibi?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Me, goddam it!’ said Mac disgustedly. ‘He was in the office of the Recorder for most of that day. I wish I couldn’t vouch for it, but I can.’

‘What time of day did the crash happen?’

‘It’s no good,’ said Mac. ‘I thought of that, too. I’ve juggled the time factors and there’s absolutely no way in which Bull Matterson can be placed at the scene of the accident.’

‘He stood to gain a lot,’ I said. ‘He was the only gainer — everyone else lost. I’m convinced he had something to do with it.’

‘For God’s sake, when did you hear of one millionaire killing another?’ Mac suddenly went very still. ‘Personally, that is,’ he said softly.

‘You mean he could have hired someone to do it?’

Mac looked tired and old. ‘He could — and if he did we haven’t a hope in hell of proving it. The killer is probably living it up in Australia on a fat bank-roll. It’s nearly twelve years ago, Bob; how in hell can we prove anything now?’

‘We’ll find a way,’ I said stubbornly. ‘That partnership agreement — was it really on the level?’

He nodded. ‘Seemed so. John Trinavant was a damn’ fool not to have revoked it when he got married and started a family.’

‘No possibility of forgery?’

‘There’s a thought,’ said Mac, but shook his head. ‘Not a chance. Old Bull dug up a living witness to the signatures.’ He got up to put another log on the fire, then turned and said despondently, ‘I don’t see a single thing we can do.’

‘Matterson has a weak point,’ I said. ‘He’s tried to lose the name of Trinavant and he must have had a good reason for it. Well, I’m going to get the name of Trinavant talked about in Fort Farrell. He must react to that in some way.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then we play it as the chips fall.’ I hesitated. ‘If necessary, I’ll come right into the open. I’ll announce that I’m Robert Grant, the guy who was in the Trinavants’ car. That should cause a tremor.’

‘If there was any jiggery-pokery about that car crash, and if Matterson had anything to do with it, the roof will fall in on your head,’ warned Mac. ‘If Matterson did kill the Trinavants you’ll be in trouble. A three-time murderer won’t hesitate at another.’

‘I can look after myself,’ I said — and hoped it was true. ‘That’s another thing. I won’t be able to stay at the Matterson House once I start stirring the mud. Can you recommend alternative accommodation?’

‘I’ve built a cabin on a piece of land just outside town,’ said Mac. ‘You can move in there.’

‘Hell, I can’t do that. Matterson will tie you in with me and your head will be on the block.’

‘It’s about time I retired,’ said Mac equably. ‘I was going to quit at the end of summer, anyway; and it doesn’t matter if it’s a mite sooner. I’m an old man, Bob — rising seventy-two; it’s about time I rested the old bones. I’ll be able to get in the fishing I’ve been promising myself.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But batten down the hurricane hatches. Matterson will raise a big wind.’

‘I’m not scared of Matterson,’ he said. ‘I never have been and he knows it. He’ll just fire me and that will be that. Hell, I’m keeping a future Pulitzer prizewinner out of a job, anyway. It’s time I packed up. There’s just one story I want to write and it’ll hit headlines all over Canada. I’m depending on you to give it to me.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

Lying in bed that evening, I had a thought that made my blood run cold. McDougall had suggested that Matterson could have hired someone to do his dirty work and the terrifying possibility came to me that the someone could have been an unscrupulous bastard called Robert Grant.

Supposing Grant had boobed on the job and become involved in the accident himself by mischance. Supposing that Robert Boyd Grant was a triple murderer — what did that make me, Bob Boyd?

I broke into a cold sweat. Maybe Susskind had been right. Perhaps I’d discover in my past enough to drive me out of my mind.

I tossed and turned for most of the night and tried to get a grip on myself. I thought about every angle in an attempt to prove Grant’s innocence. From what Susskind had told me, Grant had been on the run when the accident happened; the police were after him for an assault on a college student. Was it likely, then, that he would deliberately murder just because someone asked him?

He might — if his total getaway could thereby be financed.

But how would Bull Matterson know that Grant was the man he wanted? You don’t walk up to the average college student and say, ‘I’ve got a family of three I want knocked off — what about it?’ That would be ridiculous.

I began to think that the whole structure McDougall and I had built up was nonsensical, plausible though it might appear. How could one accuse a respectable, if ruthless, millionaire of murder? It was laughable.

Then I thought of my mysterious benefactor and the $36,000. Was this the pay-off to Grant? And what about that damned private detective? Where did he fit into the picture?

I dropped into an uneasy sleep and had the Dream, slipping into the hot snow and watching my flesh blister and blacken. And there was something else this time. I heard noises — the sharp crackle of flames from somewhere, and there was a dancing red light on the snow which sizzled and melted into rivulets of blood.

II

I was in no good mood when I went down to the street next morning. I was tired and depressed and I ached all over as though I had been beaten. The bright sunshine didn’t help, either, because my eyes were gritty, and I felt as though there were many grains of sand under my eyelids. Altogether I wasn’t in any good shape.

Over a cup of strong black coffee I began to feel better. You knew you were going to have a tough time, I argued with myself. Are you going to chicken out now? Hell, you haven’t even started yet — it’s going to get tougher than this.

That’s what I’m afraid of, I told myself.

Think what a wallop you’re going to give Matterson, I answered back. Forget yourself and think of that bastard.

By the time I finished the coffee I had argued myself back into condition and felt hungry, so I ordered breakfast, which helped a lot more. It’s surprising how many psychological problems can be traced to an empty gut. I went out into King Street and looked up and down. There was a new car dealer a little way down the street and a used car lot up the street. The big place was owned by Matterson and, since I didn’t want to put any money in his pocket, I strolled up to the used car lot.

I looked at the junk that was lying round and a thin-faced man popped out of a hut at the front of the lot. ‘Anything I can do for you? Got some good stuff here going cheap. Best autos in town.’

‘I’m looking for a small truck — four by four.’

‘Like a jeep?’

‘If you have one.’

He shook his head. ‘Got a Land-Rover, though. How about that? Better than the jeep, I think.’

‘Where is it?’

He pointed to a tired piece of scrap iron on four wheels. ‘There she is. You won’t do better than that. British made, you know. Better than any Detroit iron.’

‘Don’t push so hard, bud,’ I said, and walked over to have a look at the Land-Rover. Someone had used it hard; the paint had worn and there were dents in every conceivable place and in some which weren’t so conceivable. The interior of the cab was well worn, too, and looked pretty rough, but a Land-Rover isn’t a luxury limousine in the first place. The tyres were good.

I stepped back. ‘Can I look under the hood?’

‘Sure.’ He released the catch and lifted the hood, chattering as he did so. ‘This is a good buy — only had one owner.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘A little old lady who only used it to go to church every Sunday.’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he said. ‘I really mean that. It belonged to Jim Cooper; he runs a truck farm just outside town. He turned this in and got himself a new one. But this crate still runs real good.’

I looked at the engine and halfway began to believe him. It was spotless and there were no telltale oil drips. But what the transmission was like was another story, so I said, ‘Can I take her out for half an hour?’

‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘You’ll find the key in the lock.’

I wheeled out the Land-Rover and headed north to where I knew I could find a bad road. It was also in the direction of where McDougall had his cabin and I thought I might as well check on its exact position in case I had to find it in a hurry. I found a nice corrugated stretch of road and accelerated to find out what the springing was like. It seemed to be all right, although there were some nasty sounds coming from the battered body that I didn’t care for.

I found the turn-off for Mac’s place without much trouble and found a really bad road, a hummocky trail rising and dipping with the fall of the land and with several bad patches of mud. Here I experimented with the variety of gears which constitute the charm of the Land-Rover, and I also tried out the front-wheel drive and found everything in reasonable condition.

Mac’s cabin was small but beautifully positioned on a rise overlooking a stretch of woodland, and just behind it was a stream which looked as though it might hold some good fish. I spent five minutes looking the place over, then I headed back to town to do a deal with the friendly small-town car dealer.

We dickered a bit and then finally settled on a price — a shade more than I had intended to pay and a shade less than he had intended to get, which made both of us moderately unhappy. I paid him the money and decided I might as well start here as anywhere else. ‘Do you remember a man called Trinavant — John Trinavant?’

He scratched his head. ‘Say, yes; of course I remember old John. Funny — I haven’t thought of him in years. Was he a friend of yours?’

‘Can’t say I remember meeting him,’ I said. ‘Did he live round here?’

‘Live round here? Mister, he was Fort Farrell!’

‘I thought that was Matterson.’

A gobbet of spit just missed my foot. ‘Matterson!’ The tone of voice told me what he thought of that.

I said, ‘I hear he was killed in an auto accident. Is that right?’

‘Yeah. And his son and wife both. On the road to Edmonton. Must be over ten years ago now. A mighty nasty thing, that was.’

‘What kind of a car was he driving?’

He looked at me with speculative eyes. ‘You got any special interest, Mister...?’

‘The name’s Boyd,’ I said. ‘Bob Boyd. Someone asked me to check if I was in these parts. It seems as though Trinavant did my friend a good turn years ago — there was some money involved, I believe.’

‘I can believe that of John Trinavant; he was a pretty good guy. My name’s Summerskill.’

I grinned at him. ‘Glad to meet you, Mr Summerskill. Did Trinavant buy his car from you?’

Summerskill laughed uproariously, ‘Hell, no! I don’t have that class. Old John was a Cadillac man, and, anyway, he owned his own place up the road a piece — Fort Farrell Motors. It belongs to Matterson now.’

I looked up the street. ‘Must make pretty tough competition for you,’ I said.

‘Some,’ he agreed. ‘But I do all right, Mr Boyd.’

‘Come to think of it,’ I said, ‘I’ve seen nothing else but the name of Matterson since I’ve been here, Mr Summerskill. The Matterson Bank, Matterson House Hotel — and I believe there’s a Matterson Corporation. What did he do — buy out Trinavant?’

Summerskill grimaced. ‘What you’ve seen is the tip of the iceberg. Matterson pretty near owns this part of the country — logging operations, sawmills, pulp mills. He’s bigger than old John ever was — in power, that is. But not in heart, no, sir! No one had a bigger heart than John Trinavant. As for Matterson buying out Mr Trinavant — well, I could tell you a thing or two about that. But it’s an old story and better forgotten.’

‘Looks as though I came too late.’

‘Yeah, you tell your friend he was ten years too late. If he owed old John any dough it’s too late to pay it back now.’

‘I don’t think it was the money,’ I said. ‘My friend just wanted to make contact again.’

Summerskill nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s like that. I was born in Hazelton and I went away just as soon as I could, but of course I had a hankering to go back, so I did after five years. And you know what? The first two guys I went to see had died — the first two guys on my list. Things change around a place, they certainly do.’

I stuck my hand out. ‘Well, it’s been nice doing business with you, Mr Summerskill.’

‘Any time, Mr Boyd.’ We shook hands. ‘You want any spares, you come right back.’

I climbed up into the cab and leaned out of the window. ‘If the engine drops out of this heap in the next couple of days you’ll be seeing me soon enough,’ I promised, softening it with a grin.

He laughed and waved me away, and as I drove down King Street I thought that the memory of John Trinavant had been replanted in at least one mind. With a bit of luck Summerskill would mention it to his wife and a couple of his buddies. You know what? Me and a stranger had a chat about a guy I haven’t thought of in years. You must remember old John Trinavant. Remember when he started the Recorder and everyone thought it would go bust?

So it would go, I hoped; and the ripples would go wider and wider, especially if I dropped some more rocks into this stagnant pool. Sooner or later the ripples would reach the ferocious old pike who ruled the pool, and I hoped he would take action.

I pulled up in front of the Forestry Service office and went inside. The Forestry Officer was called Tanner and he was cordial if not hopeful. I told him I was passing through and that I was interested in tree-farm licences.

‘Not a chance, Mr Boyd,’ he said. ‘The Matterson Corporation has licensed nearly all the Crown lands round here. There are one or two pockets left but they’re so small you could spit across them.’

I scratched my jaw. ‘Perhaps if I could see a map?’ I suggested.

‘Sure,’ he said promptly, and quickly produced a largescale map of the area which he spread on his desk. ‘There you have it in a nutshell.’ His finger traced a wide sweep. ‘All this is the holding of the Matterson Corporation — privately owned. And this here...’ a much larger sweep this time... ‘is Crown land franchised to the Matterson Corporation under tree-farm licences.’

I looked closely at the map, which made very interesting viewing. To divert Tanner from what I was really after, I said, ‘What about public sustained-yield units?’ Those were areas where the Forestry Service did all the work but let the felling franchises out on short-term contracts.

‘None of those round here, Mr Boyd. We’re too far off the beaten track for the Forestry Service to run tree farms. Most of the sustained-yield units are down south.’

‘It certainly looks like a closed shop,’ I commented. ‘Any truth in what I hear that the Matterson Corporation got into trouble for over-felling?’

Tanner looked at me warily. Over-felling is the most heinous crime in the Forestry Service book. ‘I couldn’t say about that,’ he said stiffly.

I wondered if he had been bought by Matterson, but on second thoughts I didn’t think so. Buying a forestry officer in British Columbia would be like buying a Cardinal of the Church — just about impossible. Fifty per cent of the province’s revenue comes from timber and conservation is the great god. To come out against conservation is like coming out against motherhood.

I checked the map again. ‘Thanks for your trouble, Mr Tanner,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very obliging, but there seems precious little for me here. Any of these tree-farm licences likely to fall vacant?’

‘Not for a long time, Mr Boyd. The Matterson Corporation has put in a lot of capital in sawmills and pulp mills; they insisted on long-term licences.’

I nodded. ‘Very wise; I’d want the same. Well, thanks again, Mr Tanner.’

I left him without satisfying the wondering look in his eye and drove down to the depot where I picked up a lot of geological gear that I had sent in advance. The fat depot superintendent helped me load the Land-Rover, and said, ‘You figuring on staying?’

‘For a while,’ I said. ‘Just for a while. You can call me Trinavant’s last hope.’

A salacious leer spread over his face. ‘Clare Trinavant? You want to watch out for Howard Matterson.’

I suppressed the desire to push his face in. ‘Not Clare Trinavant,’ I said gently. ‘John Trinavant. And I can take care of Howard Matterson, too, if he interferes. Have you got a phone anywhere?’

He still wore the surprised look as he said abstractedly, ‘In the hall.’

I strode past him and he came pattering after me. ‘Hey, mister, John Trinavant is dead — he’s been dead for over ten years.’

I stopped. ‘I know he’s dead. That’s the point. Don’t you get it? Now beat it. This is a private telephone call.’

He turned away with a baffled shrug and a muttered, ‘Aw, nuts!’ I smiled because another rock had been thrown into the pool and another set of ripples started to affright the hungry pike.

Did you hear about that crazy man that just blew into town? Said he was Trinavant’s last hope. I thought he meant Clare; you know, Clare Trinavant, but he said he meant John. Can you beat that, with old John been dead for ten — no, twelve — years! This guy was here a couple of years back and had words with Howard Matterson about Clare Trinavant. How do I know? Because Maggie Hope told me — she was Howard’s secretary then. I warned her not to shoot her mouth off but it was no good. Howard fired her. But this guy is crazy, for sure. I mean, John Trinavant — he’s dead.

I phoned the Recorder office and got hold of Mac. ‘Do you know of a good lawyer?’ I asked.

‘I might,’ he said cautiously. ‘What do you want a lawyer for?’

‘I want a lawyer who isn’t afraid of bucking Matterson. I know the land laws but I want a lawyer who can give legal punch to what I know — dress the stuff up in that scary legal language.’

‘There’s old Fraser — he’s retired now but he’s a friend of mine and he doesn’t like Matterson one little bit. Would he do?’

‘He’ll do,’ I said. ‘As long as he’s not too old to go into court if necessary.’

‘Oh, Fraser can go into court. What are you up to, Bob?’

I grinned. ‘I’m going prospecting on Matterson land. My guess is that Matterson isn’t going to like it.’

There was a muffled noise in the receiver and I put the phone down gently.