Landslide

I

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

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

‘Yes, I’m Boyd.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sat down. ‘Why do you ask?’

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

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

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

‘I’m sorry.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is that so?’ I said drily.

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

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

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

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

‘Did you know the Trinavants?’ I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Everything?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘In your cabin.’

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

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

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

‘Tell me more about her.’

‘She’s in between husbands,’ said Mac. ‘Atherton was her second — I think — and she divorced him about six 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 himself to death on her bones, and anyway I like to make a choice for myself once in a while.

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

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

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

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

III

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

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

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

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 the 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 tonight,’ 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 bulldozed 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 1 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!’

IV

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 walked 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 château not much bigger than the Chࣝteau 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 that 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 foot-ball field, littered with suits of armour and other bric-à-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.

‘I’m not very sociable with rattlesnakes, either,’ I observed.

She slapped me, so I slapped her in return. I’m willing to play along with all this bull about the gentle sex as long as they stay gentle, but once they use violence, then all bets are off. They can’t expect it both ways, can they? I didn’t slap her hard — just enough to make her teeth rattle — but it was unexpected and she stared at me in consternation. In her world she’d been accustomed to slapping men around and they’d taken it like gentlemen, but now one of the poor hypnotized rabbits had stood up and bitten her.

The elevator door slid open silently. She ran out and pointed down the corridor. ‘In there, damn you,’ she said in a choked voice, and hurried in the opposite direction.

The door opened on to a study lined with books and quiet as a cemetery vault. A lot of good cows had been butchered to provide the bindings on those books and I wondered if they shone with that gentle brown glow because they were well used or because some flunkey brightened them up every day the same time he polished his master’s shoes. Tall windows reached from floor to ceiling on the opposite wall and before the windows a big desk was placed; it had a green leather top, tooled in gold.

Behind the desk was a man — Bull Matterson.

I knew he was five years older than McDougall but he looked five years younger, a hale man with a bristling but trim military moustache the same colour as newly fractured cast iron, which matched his hair. He was a big man, broad of shoulder and thick in the trunk, and the muscle was still there, not yet gone to fat. I guessed he still took exercise. The only signs of advanced age were the brown liver spots on the backs of his hands and the rather faded look in his blue eyes.

He waved his hand. ‘Sit down, Mr Boyd.’ The tone of voice was harsh and direct, a tone to be obeyed.

I looked at the low chair, smiled slightly and remained standing. The old man was up to all the psychological tricks. His head twitched impatiently. ‘Sit down, Boyd. That is your name, isn’t it?’

‘That’s my name,’ I agreed. ‘And I’d rather stand. I don’t anticipate staying long.’

‘As you wish,’ he said distantly. ‘I’ve asked you up here for a reason.’

‘I hope so,’ I said.

A glimmer of a smile broke the iron face. ‘It was a damn silly thing to say,’ he agreed. ‘But don’t worry; I’m not senile yet. I want to know what you’re doing in Fort Farrell.’

‘So does everyone else,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what business it is of yours, Mr Matterson.’

‘Don’t you? A man comes fossicking on my land and you think it’s not my business?’

‘Crown land,’ I corrected.

He waved the distinction aside irritably. ‘What are you doing here, Boyd?’

‘Just trying to make a living.’

He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘You’ll get nowhere blackmailing me, young man. Better men than you have tried it and I’ve broken them.’

I lifted my eyebrows. ‘Blackmail! I haven’t asked anything from you, Mr Matterson, and I don’t intend to. Where does the blackmail come in? You might have your secrets to hide, Matterson, but I’m not in the money market where they’re concerned.’

‘What’s your interest in John Trinavant?’ he asked bluntly.

‘Why should you care?’

He thumped his fist and the solid desk shivered. ‘Don’t fence with me, you young whippersnapper.’

I leaned over the desk. ‘Who, in God’s name, do you think you are? And who do you think I am?’ He suddenly sat very still. ‘I’m not one of the townsfolk of Fort Farrell whom you’ve whipped into silence. You think I’m going to stand by when you burn out an old man’s home?’

His face purpled. ‘Are you accusing me of arson, young man?’

‘Let’s amend it to attempted arson,’ I said. ‘It didn’t work.’

He leaned back. ‘Whose house am I supposed to have attempted to burn?’

‘Not content with firing McDougall just because you thought he was making friends with the wrong people, you—’

He held up his hand. ‘When was this so-called arson attempt made?’

‘Last night.’

He flicked a switch. ‘Send my daughter to me,’ he said brusquely to a hidden microphone. ‘Mr Boyd, I assure you that I don’t burn down houses. If I did, they’d get burned to the ground; there wouldn’t be any half-assed attempts. Now, then: let us get back to the subject. What’s your interest in John Trinavant?’

I said, ‘Maybe I’m interested in the background of the woman I’m going to marry.’ I said it on the spur of the moment, but on second thoughts it didn’t seem a half bad idea.

He snorted. ‘Oh — a fortune-hunter.’

I grinned at him. ‘If I were a fortune-hunter I’d set my sights on your daughter,’ I pointed out. ‘But it would take a stronger stomach than mine.’

I didn’t find out what he would have said to that because just then Lucy Atherton came into the room. Matterson swung round and looked at her. ‘An attempt was made to burn out McDougall’s place last night,’ he said. ‘Who did it?’

‘How should I know?’ she said petulantly.

‘Don’t lie to me, Lucy,’ he said gratingly. ‘You’ve never been good at it.’

She cast a look of dislike at me and shrugged. ‘I tell you I don’t know.’

‘So you don’t know,’ said Matterson. ‘All right: who gave the order — you or Howard? And don’t worry about Boyd being here. You tell me the truth, d’you hear?’

‘All right, I did,’ she burst out. ‘I thought it was a good idea at the time. I knew you wanted Boyd out of here.’

Matterson looked at her incredulously. ‘And you thought you’d get him out by burning old Mac’s cabin? I’ve fathered an imbecile. Of all the stupid things I ever heard!’ He swung out his arm and pointed at me. ‘Take a look at this man. He’s taken on the job of bucking the Matterson Corporation and already he’s been running rings round Howard. Do you think that the burning of a cabin is going to make him just go away?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Father, this man hit me.’

I grinned. ‘Not before she hit me.’

Matterson ignored me. ‘You’re not too old for me to give you a good lathering, Lucy. Maybe I should have done it sooner. Now get the hell out of here.’ He waited until she reached the door. ‘And remember — no more tricks. I’ll do this my way.’

The door slammed.

I said, ‘Your way is legal, of course.’

He stared at me with suffused eyes. ‘Everything I do is legal.’ He simmered down and took a cheque-book from a drawer. ‘I’m sorry about McDougall’s cabin — that’s not my style. What’s the damage?’

I reflected that I was the one who had lectured Clare on sentimentality. Besides, it was Mac’s dough, anyway. I said, ‘A thousand bucks should cover it,’ and added, ‘There’s also the question of a wrecked Land-Rover that belongs to me.’

He looked up at me under grey eyebrows. ‘Don’t try to shake me down,’ he said acidly. ‘What story is this?’

I told him what had happened on the Kinoxi road. ‘Howard told Waystrand to bounce me, and Waystrand did it the hard way,’ I said.

‘I seem to have fathered a family of thugs,’ he muttered and scribbled out the cheque, which he tossed across the desk. It was for $3,000.

I said, ‘You’ve given your daughter a warning; what about doing the same for Howard? Any more tricks on his part and he’ll lose his beauty — I’ll see to that.’

Matterson looked at me appraisingly. ‘You could take him at that — it wouldn’t be too hard.’ There was contempt in his voice for his own son, and for a moment I was on the verge of feeling sorry for him. He picked up the telephone. ‘Get me Howard’s office at the Matterson Building.’

He put his hand over the mouthpiece. ‘I’m not doing this for Howard’s sake, Boyd. I’m going to get rid of you, but when I do it’ll be legal and there’ll be no kickback.’

A squawk came from the telephone. ‘Howard? Now get this. Leave Boyd alone. Don’t do a damn’ thing — I’ll handle it. Sure, he’ll go up to the dam — he’s legally entitled to walk on that land — but what the hell can he do when he gets there? Just leave him alone, d’you hear? And, say, did you have anything to do with that business at McDougall’s cabin last night? You don’t know — well, ask your fool sister.’

He slammed down the telephone and glared at me. ‘Does that satisfy you?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’m not looking for trouble.’

‘You’ll get it,’ he promised. ‘Unless you leave Fort Farrell. With your record it wouldn’t be too much trouble to get you tossed in the can.’

I leaned over the desk. ‘What record, Mr Matterson?’ I asked softly.

‘I know who you are,’ he said in a voice like gravel. ‘Your new face doesn’t fool me any, Grant. You have a police record as long as my arm — delinquency, theft, drug-peddling, assault — and if you step out of line just once while you’re in Fort Farrell you’ll be put away fast. Don’t stir anything up here, Grant. Just leave things alone and you’ll be safe.’

I took a deep breath. ‘You lay it on the line, don’t you?’

‘That’s always been my policy — and I warn a man only once,’ he said uncompromisingly.

‘So you’ve bought Sergeant Gibbons.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Matterson. ‘I don’t have to buy policemen — they’re on my side anyway. Gibbons will go by the book and you are recorded on the wrong page.’

I wondered how he knew I had been Grant, and then suddenly I knew who had employed a private investigator to check on me. But he wouldn’t have done that unless he had been worried about something; he was still hiding something and that gave me the confidence to say, ‘To hell with you, Matterson. I’ll go my own way.’

‘Then I feel sorry for you,’ he said grimly. ‘Look, boy: stay out of this. Don’t trouble yourself with things that don’t concern you.’ There was a strange tone in his voice; with any other man one might have thought he was pleading.

I said, ‘How do I get back to Fort Farrell? Your daughter brought me up here, but I doubt if she’ll be willing to take me back.’

Matterson chuckled coldly. ‘The exercise will do you good. It’s only five miles.’

I shrugged and walked out on him. I went down the stairs instead of taking the elevator and found the great hall deserted. Going outside the house was like being released from prison and I stood on the front step savouring the fresh air. There were too many tensions in the Matterson household for a man to be comfortable.

Lucy Atherton’s Continental was still standing where she had left it, and I saw that the key was still in the ignition lock. I climbed in and drove back to Fort Farrell. The exercise would be even better for her.

V

I parked the Continental outside the Matterson Building, cashed the cheque in the Matterson Bank and walked across to pick up the Land-Rover. Clarry Summerskill said, ‘I’ve fixed the pump, Mr Boyd, but that’ll be another fifteen dollars. Look, it’ll pay you better to get a new heap — this one is about shot. I’ve got a jeep just come in which should suit you. I’ll take the Land-Rover as a trade-in.’

I grinned. ‘How much will you give me on it?’

‘Mr Boyd, you’ve ruined it,’ he said earnestly. ‘All I want it for now are the spare parts, but I’ll still give you a good price.’

So we dickered and I ended up by driving back to Mac’s cabin in a jeep. Clare and Mac had just about finished cleaning up, although the stink of kerosene still lay heavily on the air inside. I gave Mac a thousand dollars in folding money and he looked at it in surprise. ‘What’s this?’

‘Conscience money,’ I said, and told him what had happened.

He nodded. ‘Old Bull is a ruthless bastard,’ he said. ‘But he’s never been caught in anything illegal. To tell you the truth, I was a mite surprised at what happened last night.’

Clare said thoughtfully, ‘I wonder how he knew you were Grant.’

‘He hired a detective to find out — but that’s not the point. What I want to know is why he thought it necessary to check up on me so many years ago. Another thing that puzzles me is the old man’s character.’

‘What do you mean?’

I said, ‘Look at it this way. He strikes me as being an honest man. He may be as ruthless as Genghis Khan and as tough as hickory, but I think he’s straight. Everything he said gave that impression. Now, what could a man like that be hiding?’

‘He did bring up the question of blackmail,’ said Clare tentatively. ‘So you want to know what he could be blackmailed for.’

I said, ‘What’s your impression of him, Mac?’

‘Pretty much the same. I said he’d never been caught in anything illegal and he never has. You get talk around town that a man couldn’t make the dough that he has by legal means, but that’s only the talk of a lot of envious failures. Could be that he is straight.’

‘So what could he have done that makes him talk of blackmail?’

‘I’ve been giving thought to that,’ said Mac. ‘You’d better sit down, son, because what I’ve got to tell you might knock you on your back. Clare, put the kettle on; it’s about time we had tea, anyway.’

Clare smiled and filled the kettle. Mac waited until she came back. ‘This has something to do with you, too,’ he said. ‘Now I want you both to listen carefully, because this is complicated.’

He seemed to hunt a little, searching for a place to begin, then he said, ‘Folks are more different now than they used to be, especially young folks. Time was when you could tell a rich man from a poor man by the way he dressed, but not any more. And that goes in spades for teenagers and college students.

‘Now, in that Cadillac which crashed there were four people — John Trinavant, his wife and two young fellows — Frank Trinavant and Robert Boyd Grant, both college students. Frank was the son of a rich man and Robert was a bum — to say the best of him. But you couldn’t tell the difference by the way they dressed. You know college kids: they dress in a kind of uniform. Both these boys were dressed in jeans and open-necked shirts and they’d taken off their jackets.’

I said slowly, ‘What the hell are you getting at, Mac?’

‘Okay, I’ll come right out with it,’ he said. ‘How do you know you are Robert Boyd Grant?’

I opened my mouth to tell him — then shut it again.

He smiled sardonically. ‘Just because somebody told you, but not out of your own knowledge.’

Clare said incredulously, ‘You think he might be Frank Trinavant?’

‘He might,’ said Mac. ‘Look, I’ve never gone for all this psychiatric crap. Frank was a good boy — and so are you, Bob. I checked on Grant and decided I’d never come across a bigger sonofabitch in my life. It’s never made sense to me that you should be Grant. Your psychiatrist, Susskind, explained it all away cleverly by this multiple personality stuff, but I don’t give a good goddam for that. I think you’re plain Frank Trinavant — still the same guy but you happen to have lost your memory.’

I sat there stunned. After a while my brain got working again in a cranky sort of fashion, and I said, ‘Steady on, Mac. Susskind couldn’t have made that kind of error.’

‘Why couldn’t he?’ Mac demanded. ‘Remember, he was told you were Grant. You’ve got to realize the way it was. Matterson made the identification of the bodies, he tagged the three dead people as Trinavants. Naturally there was no room for error in the case of John Trinavant and his wife, but the dead boy he named as Frank Trinavant.’ He snorted. ‘I’ve seen Highway Patrol photographs of that body and how in hell he was sure I’ll never know.’

‘Surely there must have been some means of identification,’ said Clare.

Mac looked at her soberly. ‘I don’t know if you’ve seen a really bad auto smash — one followed by a gasoline fire. Bob, here, was burnt beyond recognition — and he lived. The other boy was burnt and killed. The shoes were ripped from their feet and neither of them was wearing a wrist-watch when they were found. The shirts had been pretty near burnt off their backs and they wore identical jeans. They were both husky guys, much about the same size.’

‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘How come I knew so much about geology unless I’d been taking a course like Grant?’

Mac nodded. ‘True.’ He leaned forward and tapped me on the knee. ‘But so was Frank Trinavant. He was majoring in geology too.’

‘For God’s sake!’ I said explosively. ‘You’ll have me believing in this crazy story. So they were both majoring in geology. Did they know each other?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Mac. ‘Grant went to the University of British Columbia; Trinavant to the University of Alberta. Tell me, Bob, before I go any further: is there anything in all that you know of that would blow this idea to hell? Can you find any sound proof to show that you are Grant and not Frank Trinavant?’

I thought about it until it hurt. Ever since Susskind took me in hand I knew I was Grant — but only because I was told so. To make a mean pun, I had taken it for granted. Now it came as a shock to find the matter in question. Yet try as I would, I couldn’t think of any real proof to settle it one way or the other.

I shook my head. ‘No proof from where I’m standing.’

Mac said gently, ‘This leads to an odd situation. If you are Frank Trinavant, then you inherit old John’s estate which puts Bull Matterson in a hell of a jam. The whole question of the estate goes into the melting-pot again. Maybe he’d still be able to enforce that option agreement in the courts, but the trust fund would revert to you and the financial flapdoodle he’s been pulling would come into the open.’

My jaw dropped. ‘Wait a minute, Mac. Let’s not take this thing too far.’

‘I’m just pointing out the logical consequences,’ he said. ‘If you are Frank Trinavant — and can prove it — you’re a pretty rich guy. But you’ll be taking the dough from Matterson, and he won’t like it. And that’s apart from the fact that he’ll be branded as a crook and will be lucky to escape jail.’

Clare said, ‘No wonder he doesn’t want you around.’

I rubbed my chin. ‘Mac, you say it all boils down to Matterson’s identification of the bodies. Do you think he did it deliberately or was it a mistake? Or was there a mistake at all? I could still be Grant, for all I know and can prove.’

‘I think he wanted the Trinavants dead,’ said Mac flatly. ‘I think he took a chance. Remember, the survivor was in a bad way — you weren’t expected to live another twelve hours. If Matterson’s chance didn’t come off — if you survived as Frank Trinavant — then it would have been a mistake on his part, understandable in the circumstances. Hell, maybe he didn’t know himself which was which, but he took the chance and it paid off in a way that even he couldn’t expect. You survived but without memory — and he’d tagged you as Grant.’

‘He talked about blackmail,’ I said. ‘And from what you’ve just handed me, he had every justification for believing I would blackmail him — if I am Grant. It’s just the sort of thing a guy like Grant would do. But would Frank Trinavant blackmail him?’

‘No,’ said Clare instantly. ‘He wasn’t the type. Besides, it’s not blackmail to demand your own rights.’

‘Hell, this thing is biting its own tail,’ said Mac disgustedly. ‘If you are Grant you can’t blackmail him — you have no standing. So why is he talking about blackmail?’ He stared at me speculatively. ‘I think, maybe, he committed one illegal act — a big one — to which you were a witness, and he’s scared of it coming to light because it would knock the footing right out from under him.’

‘And this illegal act?’

‘You know what I mean,’ snapped Mac. ‘Let’s not be mealy-mouthed about it. Let’s come right out and say murder.’

We didn’t talk too much about it after that. Mac’s final statement was a bit too final, and we couldn’t speculate on it without any firm proofs — not out loud, that is. Mac took refuge in chores about the house and refused to say another word, but I noticed he kept a bright eye on me until I got tired of his silent questioning and went out to sit by the stream. Clare took the jeep and went into town on the pretext of buying new blankets and mattresses for Mac.

Mac had handed me the biggest problem I had ever had in my life. I thought back to the days when I was reborn in the Edmonton hospital and searched for any mental clue to my identity — as though I had never done so before. Nothing I found led to any positive result and I found I now had two possible pasts. Of the two I much preferred Trinavant; I had heard enough of John to be proud to be his son. Of course, if I did turn out to be Frank Trinavant, then complications would set in between me and Clare.

I tossed a stone in the stream and idly wondered how close the kinship was between Frank and Clare and could it possibly be a bar to marriage, but I assumed it wouldn’t be.

That short and ugly word which had been Mac’s final pronouncement had given us pause. We had discussed the possibility in vague terms and it had come to nothing as far as Matterson was concerned. He had his alibi — Mac himself.

I juggled the possibilities and probabilities around, thinking of Grant and Trinavant as two young men whom I might have known in the distant past but without any relationship to me. It was a technique Susskind had taught me to stop me getting too involved in Grant’s troubles. I got nowhere, of course, and gave up when Clare came back.

I camped in the woodland glade again that night because Clare had still not gone up to the Kinoxi Valley and the cabin had only two rooms. Again I had the Dream and the hot snow ran in rivers of blood and there was a jangle of sound as though the earth itself was shattering, and I woke up breathless with the cold night air choking in my throat. After a while I built up the fire again and made coffee and drank it, looking towards the cabin where a gleam of light showed where someone was sitting up half the night.

I wondered if it was Clare.