Хэммонд Иннес - Nothing to Lose [= Campbell’s Kingdom]

“Mr. Wetheral?” He rose to greet me and his hand was soft and plump. “Glad to see you.” He waved me to a chair and sat down. “Cigar?”

I shook my head. “Pity you didn’t write me before you came out,” he said. “I could have saved you the journey. However, now you’re here, maybe I can clear up any points that are worrying you.” He flicked a switch on the house phone box. “Ellen, bring in the Campbell file, will you? Now then.” He sat back and clipped the end of a cigar. “Fothergill writes that for some reason best known to yourself you don’t want to sell.”

“No,” I said. “Not till I’ve seen the place, anyway.”

He gave a grunt. “It’s oil you’re thinking of, is it? I warned Fothergill to make it perfectly clear to you that there wasn’t any oil. Did he give you my letter?”

“Yes,” I said.

“And you’re not satisfied? All right. Well, let me tell you that Roger Fergus had Bladen’s geophysical outfit up in the Kingdom last summer, and Louis Winnick’s report on that survey finally damns Campbell’s ideas about oil up there as a lot of moonshine.” He reached forward and pulled a document from the file. “Here’s a copy of that report.” He tossed it onto the desk in front of me. “Take it away and read it at your leisure. In any case, the mineral rights don’t belong to you. They belong to Roger Fergus.”

“But I thought I had a controlling interest in the Campbell Oil Exploration Company?”

“Certainly you do. But the mineral rights were mortgaged as security for the cash Fergus advanced the company. Of course,” he added, with a shrug of his shoulders, “that was just a matter of form. They weren’t worth anything. Roger Fergus knew that. He was just being kind to the old fellow, and we fixed it that way so that Campbell wouldn’t think it was charity.”

To gain time and sort out my impressions, I glanced down at the report and my attention was caught by the final paragraph:

... Therefore I have no hesitation in saying there is absolutely no possibility whatever of oil being discovered on this property. Signed:

“Is a survey of this nature conclusive?” I asked.

“Not entirely. It won’t prove the presence of oil. But it’s pretty well a hundred per cent in indicating that a territory is not oil-bearing.”

“I see.”

So that was that. My grandfather’s vision of a great new oilfield in the Rockies was scientifically disproved. I suddenly felt tired and dispirited. I had come a long way, buoyed up with the feeling that I had a mission to accomplish. “I’d like to see the place,” I murmured.

He leaned back and drew slowly on his cigar. “I’m afraid that is impossible. It’s still winter in the mountains and most of the roads are blocked. The Kingdom is a goodish way from any railroad. You might not get through for a month, maybe more. Meantime, the company that’s interested in the property has got to get organized so that work on the dam can begin as soon as they can get up there. The season is a short one.” He leaned forward and searched among the papers on his desk. “Here you are.” He pushed a document across to me. “All you have to do is sign that. I’ll look after the rest. You’ll see the figure they agree to pay is fifty thousand. It’s a sight more than the property is worth. But they’re willing to pay that figure to avoid a court action on compensation. They already have the authority of the Provincial Parliament to go ahead with the construction; so, whether you sign or not, they are in a position to take over the property and flood it, subject to payment of compensation.”

I didn’t say anything and there was an awkward silence, I was thinking that the dam had still to be built before they could flood the Kingdom. For a few months it could be mine. Even if there wasn’t any oil, it was a patch of land that belonged to me.

“Well?”

I stared down at the deed of sale. “I noticed you’ve not inserted the name of the purchasing company.”

“No.” He seemed to hesitate. “A subsidiary will be formed to operate the power scheme. If you’ll sign the deed. I’ll insert the name of the company as soon as it’s formed. Then there’ll be just the deeds and the land registration to be settled. I’ll look after all that.” His eyes fastened on mine, waiting.

“You seem very anxious for me to sob,” I murmured.

“It’s in your interest.” He took the cigar out of his mouth and leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand you,” he said. His tone was one of exasperation. “In the letter I sent you via Fothergill I made it perfectly clear to you that my advice was to sell. And I act for old Roger Fergus. He’s sunk nearly forty thousand dollars in Campbell’s company. I’d say that you have a moral obligation to see that Roger Fergus is repaid.” He sat back in his chair. “You’ve got till this evening,” he said. “Where are you staying?”

“The Palliser.”

“Well, you go back to your room and think it over.” He got to his feet. “Take the report with you. Read it. Come and see me about five.”

The secretary showed me out. As I made for the stairs I checked at the sight of the door opposite me — THE FERGUS OIL DEVELOPMENT COMPANY. On a sudden impulse, I opened the door and went in. The office was empty.

The door of the neighboring office slammed and a girl’s voice behind me said, “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Fergus,” I explained.

“Old Mr. Fergus?” She shook her head. “He hasn’t been coming to the office for a long time now. He’s been ill.”

“Oh.” I hesitated.

“Is your business urgent? Because his son, Mr. Henry Fergus—”

“No,” I said. “It wasn’t really business — more a social call. He was a great friend of my grandfather, Stuart Campbell.”

Her eyes lit up in her rather pale face. “I met Mr. Campbell once.” She smiled. “He was a wonderful old man — quite a character.” She hesitated and then said, “I’ll ring Mr. Fergus’ home. I’m sure he’d like to see you if he’s well enough. He had a stroke, you know. He’s paralyzed all down one side and he tires very easily.”

But apparently it was all right. He would see me if I went straight over. “But the nurse says you’re not to stay more than five minutes. The Fergus farm is a little way out of town on the far side of the Bow River. The cab drivers all know it.”

I thanked her, went down the stairs and found a taxi. The Fergus home was a low, sprawling ranch-house building.

A manservant let me in and took me through into a great lounge hall full of trophies, prizes taken by cattle and horses at shows up and down the country. All these I took in at a glance, and then my gaze came to rest on the man seated in a wheel chair. He was a big man, broad-shouldered with massive, gnarled hands and a great shock of white hair. He had a fine face with bushy, tufty eyebrows and a way of craning his neck forward like a bird.

“So you’re Stuart’s grandson.” He spoke out of one corner of his mouth; the other was twisted by paralysis, “Sit down. He often spoke of you. Had great hopes that one day you’d be managing an oilfield for him. Darned old fool.” His voice was surprisingly gentle.

“Five minutes, that’s all,” the nurse said, and went out.

“Like a drink?” He reached down with his long arm to a cupboard under the nearest pedestal of the desk. “Not supposed to have it. Henry smuggles it in for me. That’s my son. Hopes it’ll kill me off,” he added with a malicious twinkle. He poured out two Scotches neat. “Your health, young feller.”

“And yours, sir,” I said.

“I haven’t got any.” He waved his left hand vaguely. “They’re all hanging around waiting for me to die.” He craned forward, peering at me from under his eyebrows. “You’re from the Old Country, aren’t you? What brought you out to Canada? Think you’re going to drill a discovery well up in the Kingdom?”