Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

‘Yes, doctor,’ said a woman.

‘If there’s any change, ring me at once.’ A car door slammed. ‘I’ll be home all night.’ A car engine started and headlights switched on. The car curved round and the headlights momentarily illuminated the interior of the garage, then it was gone down the drive. The front door of the house closed quietly and all was in darkness again.

I waited awhile to let the woman get settled and used the time to explore the garage. By the look of it, in the brief glimpses of my flashlamp, the Mattersons were a ten-car family. There was Mrs Atherton’s big Continental, Bull Matterson’s Bentley, a couple of run-of-the-mill Pontiacs and a snazzy Aston Martin sports job. I flicked the light farther into the garage towards the back and held it on a Chevvy — it was McDougall’s beat-up auto. And standing next to it was Clare’s station-wagon!

I swallowed suddenly and wondered where Clare was — and old Mac.

I was wasting time here so I went out of the garage and walked boldly up to the front door and pushed it open. The big hall was dimly lit and I tiptoed up the great curving staircase on my way to the old man’s study. I thought I might as well start there — it was the only room I knew in the house.

There was someone inside. The door was ajar and light flooded out into the dimly lit corridor. I peeked inside and saw Lucy Atherton pulling out drawers in Bull Matterson’s desk. She tossed papers around with abandon and there was a drift of them on the floor like a bank of snow. She’d be a very suitable person to start with, so I pushed open the door and was across the room before she knew I was there.

I rounded the desk and got her from behind with her neck in the crook of my elbow, choking off her wind. ‘No noise,’ I said quietly, and dropped the shotgun on the soft carpet. She gurgled when she saw the keen blade of my knife before her eyes. ‘Where’s the old man?’

I relaxed my grip to give her air enough to speak and she whispered through a bruised throat, ‘He’s... sick.’

I brought the point of the knife closer to her right eye — not more than an inch from the eyeball. ‘I won’t ask you again.’

‘In... bedroom.’

‘Where’s that? Never mind — show me.’ I slammed the knife into its sheath and dragged her down with me into a stoop as I picked up the shotgun. I said, ‘I’ll kill you if you raise a noise, Lucy. I’ve had enough of your damn’ family. Now, where’s the room?’

I still kept the choke-hold on her and felt her thin body trembling against mine as I frog-marched her out of the study. Her arm waved wildly at a door, so I said, ‘Okay, put your hand on the knob and open it.’

As soon as I saw her turn the knob I kicked the door open and pushed her through. She went down on her knees and sprawled on the thick carpet and I ducked in quickly and closed the door behind and lifted the shotgun in readiness for anything.

Anything proved to be a night nurse in a trim white uniform who looked up with wide eyes. I ignored her and glanced around the room; it was big and gloomy with dark drapes and there was a bed in a pool of shadow. Heaven help me, but it was a four-poster with drapes the same colour as those at the windows but drawn back.

The nurse was trembling but she was plucky. She stood up and demanded, ‘Who are you?’

‘Where’s Bull Matterson?’ I asked.

Lucy Atherton was crawling to her feet so I put my boot on her rump and pushed her down again. The nurse trembled even more. ‘You can’t disturb Mr Matterson; he’s a very sick man.’ Her voice dropped. ‘He’s... he’s dying. ’

A rasping voice from the darkened bed said, ‘Who’s dying? I heard that, young woman, and you’re talking nonsense.’

The nurse half-turned away from me towards the bed. ‘You must be quiet, Mr Matterson.’ Her head turned and her eyes pleaded with me. ‘ Please go. ’

Matterson said, ‘That you, Boyd?’

‘I’m here.’

His voice was sardonic. ‘I thought you’d be around. What kept you?’ I was about to tell him when he said irritably, ‘Why am I kept in darkness? Young lady, switch on a light here.’

‘But, Mr Matterson, the doct—’

‘Do as I say, damn it. You get me excited and you know what’ll happen. Switch on a light.’

The nurse stepped to the bedside and clicked a switch. A bedside lamp lit up the shrunken figure in the big bed. Matterson said, ‘Come here, Boyd.’

I hauled Lucy from the floor and pushed her forward. Matterson chuckled. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Lucy. Come to see your father at last, have you? Well, what’s your story, Boyd? It’s a mite late for blackmail.’

I said to the nurse, ‘Now, see here: you don’t make a move to leave this room — and you keep dead quiet.’

‘I’m not going to leave my patient,’ she said stiffly.

I smiled at her. ‘You’ll do.’

‘What’s all the whispering going on?’ inquired Matterson.

I stepped up to the bedside keeping tight hold of Lucy. ‘Howard’s going hog wild up in the Kinoxi,’ I said. ‘He’s whipped up your loggers into a lynching-party — got them all steamed up with a story of how I beat you up. They’ve had me on the run for nearly two weeks. And that’s not all. Howard’s killed a man. He’s for the eight o’clock walk.’

Matterson looked at me expressionlessly. He’d aged ten years in two weeks; his cheeks were sunken and the bones of his skull were sharply outlined by the drawn and waxy skin, his lips were bluish and the flesh round his neck had sagged. But there was still a keen intelligence in his eyes. He said tonelessly, ‘Who did he kill?’

‘A man called Jimmy Waystrand. He didn’t intend to kill Waystrand — he thought he was shooting at me.’

‘Is that the guy I saw up at the dam?’

‘He’s the one.’ I dropped a shotgun shell on Matterson’s chest. ‘He was shot with one of these.’

Matterson scrabbled with a dessicated hand and I edged the shell into his fingers. He lifted it before his eyes and said softly, ‘Yes, a very efficient way of killing.’ The shell dropped from his fingers. ‘I knew his father. Matthew’s a good man — I haven’t seen him in years.’ He closed his eyes and I saw a tear squeeze under the eyelid and on to his cheek. ‘So Howard’s done it again. Aaah, I might have known it would happen.’

‘ Again! ’ I said urgently. ‘Mr Matterson, did Howard kill John Trinavant and his family?’

He opened his eyes and looked up at me. ‘Who are you, son? Are you Grant — or are you John Trinavant’s boy? I must know.’

I shook my head soberly. ‘I don’t know, Mr Matterson. I really don’t know. I lost my memory in the crash.’

He nodded weakly. ‘I thought you’d got it back again.’ He paused, and the breath rattled in his throat. ‘They were so burned — black flesh and raw meat... I didn’t know, God help me!’ His eyes stared into the vast distances of the past at the horrors of the crash on the Edmonton road. ‘I took a chance on the identification — it was for the best,’ he said.

Whose best? I thought bitterly, but I let no bitterness come into my voice as I asked evenly, ‘Who killed John Trinavant, Mr Matterson?’

Slowly he lifted a wasted hand and pointed a shaking finger at Lucy Atherton. ‘She did — she and her hellion brother.’

Lucy Atherton tore her arm from my grasp and ran across the room towards the door. Old Bull, ill though he was, put all his energy into a whipcrack command. ‘ Lucy! ’

She stopped dead in the middle of the room. Matterson said coldly, ‘What load have you got in the gun?’