Алистер Маклин - Athabasca

“We can scare him,” Dermott answered, “that’s what we can do. I’ll bet he’s already worried by the fact that we’re raking in fingerprints and records all over the shop. Let’s try to worry him a little more. I’ll go down to Anchorage tomorrow while you and Mackenzie stay here and do some work.” Dermott sipped his Scotch. “It should be a change for at least one of you.”

“I could be deeply wounded,” Brady said, “but slings and arrows from an ungrateful staff are nothing new to me. What, precisely, do you have in mind?”

“Drastically narrowing the range of suspects is what I have in mind. All very simple, really. This is a close-knit community here in Prudhoe Bay. They more or less live out of each other’s pockets. Everyone’s movements must be known to at least a handful of other people, probably a great deal more. Check on everybody and find out who has a definite alibi for being here on the morning the engineers were being killed out in the mountains. If two or more people, say, can honestly tell you that X was here at the time of the crime, you can strike X off the suspects’ list. At the end of the day we’ll know how many suspects we have. Not even a handful, I bet. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were none at all. Remember that Pump Station Four is a hundred and forty miles away, and the only feasible way of getting there is by helicopter. One would have to have the time and opportunity and the ability to fly a helicopter to get there, and there would be no hope of taking a chopper without someone noticing. I think you’ll find it all very straightforward.

“Less straightforward is the next enquiry – who was in Anchorage on the day that the original phone message was sent from there to Sanmobil? There must have been quite a few. Don’t forget they go on holiday every three or four weeks and, almost without exception, they go to Fairbanks or Anchorage. It will be more difficult to establish alibis: you won’t find many people who have witnesses as to their whereabouts at six a.m. of a black winter morning in Alaska.

“In this case, though, we’re more concerned about those who are not in the clear than those who are. I’ll bring back a Photostat of the prints they’ve taken. We should be able to get the doubtfuls’ fingerprints without too much trouble, and, with luck, match one set up with the phone booth’s set. I don’t know how this sounds to you, but it seems quite straightforward to me.”

“And to me,” said Brady. “I think Don and I can manage that little chore without too much difficulty. Don’t forget, though, that there’s a fairly large community of people down at Valdez.”

“As you’re my boss,” Dermott said, “I’ll refrain from giving you a withering stare. Who in Valdez is going to fly a round trip of 1,300 miles during a winter night, stopping occasionally for fuel and to giving his identity away? And who’s going to fly or helicopter the 1,600 miles round trip to clobber Bronowski and very possibly do away with Finlayson, especially as he would be immediately recognised as a stranger the moment he set foot in this area?”

Mackenzie said: “He has a point, you must admit. In fact, two points.”

Dermott went on: “And don’t tell me they could have come from one of the pumping stations. They don’t have helicopters.”

“I didn’t say anything of the sort.” Brady sounded aggrieved. “All right, we’ll go along with the assumption that it’s Prudhoe Bay or nothing. But what if we turn up zero?”

“Then it will be your turn to come up with the next bright idea.”

“Hard day,” Brady said. “You for bed?”

“Yes. I had intended to look at those records and prints tonight but the prints aren’t going to be of any use to me until I return from Anchorage. Reports can wait, too. I’ll just hunt up that Edmonton telex and take it down to the Anchorage police and see if they can help me.” He stood up. “By the way: has it occurred to you that you yourself may be in danger tonight?”

“Me!” It was as if Dermott had suggested some unthinkable form of lèse-majesté. Then a look of vague apprehension crept into Brady’s face.

“It may not be just your family who are at risk,” Dermott persisted. “Why should these people bother about kidnapping when they could achieve their ends by putting a bullet in your back – which is not, if I may say so without offence, a very easy target to miss? How are you to know there isn’t a homicidal maniac in the room next door to you?”

“Good God!” Brady drank deeply from his daiquiri. Then he sat back and smiled. “At last, action! Donald, get the Smith and Wesson from my case.” He took the gun, thrust it deep under his pillow and said, almost hopefully: “Don’t you think you two are at risk also?”

“Sure,” Mackenzie said. “But not nearly, as much as you. No Jim Brady, no Brady Enterprises. You’re the legend. Without either of us, you could still function quite efficiently. This homicidal maniac doesn’t strike me as the type who would go for a couple of lieutenants while the captain is around.”

“Goodnight, then,” Dermott said. “Don’t forget to lock your door as soon as we’re gone.”

“Don’t worry. You’re armed, right?”

“Of course. But we don’t think we’ll be needing any weapons.”

When Dermott woke up it was with such a heavy-headed feeling of exhaustion that he could have sworn he hadn’t been to sleep at all. In fact, less than an hour had elapsed since he’d switched out the light, closed his eyes and dropped off. He did not wake up of his own volition. The overhead light was on and Morrison, looking as distraught as a senior F.B.I. agent is ever likely to look, was shaking him by the shoulder. Dermott eyed him blearily.

“Sorry about this,” Morrison began. “But I thought you’d like to come along. In fact, I want you to.”

Dermott peered at his watch and winced. “For God’s sake, where?”

“We’ve found him.”

Sleep, and all desire for it, dropped from Dermott like a cloak. “Finlayson?”

“Yes.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Murdered?”

“We don’t know. You’ll need warm clothing.”

“Wake Mackenzie, will you?”

“Sure.”

Morrison left. Dermott rose and dressed for the cruel temperatures outside. As he pulled on a quilted anorak his mind went back to his first meeting with Finlayson. He thought of the neatly-parted white hair, the grizzled Yukon beard, the hobo clothes. Had he been too hard on the man? No good worrying now. He pocketed a flashlight and moved into the passageway. Tim Houston was standing there. Dermott said: “So you know too?”

“I found him.”

“How come?”

“Instinct, I guess.” The bitterness in Houston’s voice was unmistakable. “One of those finely-honed instincts that comes into operation about ten hours too late.”

“Meaning that Finlayson could have been saved if this instinct of yours had been operational ten hours ago?”

“Maybe – but almost certainly not. John was murdered.”

“Shot? Knifed? What?”

“Nothing like that. I didn’t examine him. I knew that Mr Morrison and you wouldn’t want me to touch him. I didn’t have to examine him. He’s outside, it’s thirty below, and all he’s wearing is a linen shirt and jeans. He’s not even got shoes on. That makes it murder.”

Dermott said nothing, so Houston continued. “Apart from the fact that he’d never have crossed the outside doorstep voluntarily without his Arctic clothing, he’d never have been permitted to do so anyway. There are always people in the reception area, besides a person who mans the central telephone fulltime. By the same token, it would have been impossible for anyone to carry him out.”