High Citadel / Landslide (45 page)

‘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.

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.