Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

I chopped for a while, then said, ‘Know anything about the value of lumber?’

‘Some. I was boss of a section — I picked up something about values.’

‘Matterson is clearing out his part of the Kinoxi,’ I said. ‘He’s taking everything — not just the normal Forestry Service allowable cut. What do you think the value per square mile is?’

He pondered for a while and said finally, ‘Not much under seven hundred thousand dollars.’

I said, ‘Don’t you think Miss Trinavant should do something about this end? She’ll lose an awful lot of money if those trees are drowned.’

He nodded. ‘You know, this land hasn’t ever been cut over since John Trinavant died. The trees have been putting on weight in the last twelve years, and there’s a lot of mature timber which should have been taken out already. I reckon, if you made a solid cut, this land would run to a million dollars a square mile.’

I whistled. I’d underestimated her loss. Five million bucks was a lot of dough. ‘Haven’t you talked to her about it?’

‘She’s not been here to be talked to.’ He shrugged rather sheepishly. ‘And I’m no great hand with a pen.’

‘Maybe I’d better write to her?’ I suggested. ‘What’s her address?’

Waystrand hesitated. ‘You write to the bank in Vancouver; they pass it on.’ He gave me the address of her bank.

I stayed around until late afternoon, chopping a hell of a lot of logs for Waystrand and cursing young Jimmy with every stroke. That young whelp had no right to leave his old man alone. It was evident that there was no Mrs Waystrand and it wasn’t good for a man to be alone, especially one suffering from back trouble.

When I left, Waystrand said, ‘If you see my boy, tell him he can come back any time.’ He smiled grimly. ‘That is, if you can get near enough to talk without him taking a swing at you.’

I didn’t tell him that I’d already encountered Jimmy. ‘I’ll pass on the message when I see him — and I will be seeing him.’

‘You did right when you straight-armed him that time,’ said Waystrand. ‘I didn’t think so then, but from what Miss Trinavant said afterwards I saw he had it coming.’ He put out his hand. ‘No hard feelings, Mr Boyd.’

‘No hard feelings,’ I said, and we shook on it. I put the Land-Rover into gear and bumped down the track, leaving Waystrand looking after me, a diminishing and rather sad figure.

I made good time on the way back to Fort Farrell but it was dark by the time I was on the narrow track to McDougall’s cottage. Halfway along, on a narrow corner, I was obstructed by a car stuck in the mud and only just managed to squeeze through. It was a Lincoln Continental, a big dream-boat the size of a battleship and certainly not the auto for a road like this; the overhangs fore and aft were much too long and it would scrape its fanny on every dip of the road. The trunk top looked big enough to land a helicopter on.

I pushed on to the cabin and saw a light inside. Mac’s beat-up Chevvy wasn’t around so I wondered who the visitor was. Being of a cautious nature and not knowing what trouble might have stirred up in my absence, I coasted the Land-Rover to a halt very quietly and sneaked across to look through the window before I went in.

A woman was sitting quietly before the fire reading a book. A woman I had never seen before.

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?’