Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (291 page)

“That’s outside my expertise. It’s so long ago that it is probably stored in some archive somewhere. Yellowknife is my guess.”

“Can you make some inquiries?”

The sergeant cut him off with a look. “And I have nothing better to do than run all over the territory to track down a seventy-year-old document, on the off chance some Vancouver city kids with too much time and money on their hands decided to go chasing after a family legend?” He slapped his hand on a stack of papers. “These are incident reports and witness statements from the past week, and I have to go through every one, because if we miss something a wife could die, or a kid could be beaten, or an argument in a bar could mean a knife in the back the next time the two meet.”

Green fought back his frustration with a deep breath. “I understand that, believe me. I’m in charge of major cases in Ottawa, and I’ve been knee deep in blood and rage for over twenty years. But these are not just spoiled city kids —” He felt his voice snagging and fought for control.

To his surprise, Sullivan reached for the piece of paper and stood up. “This is already a big help, Travis. We can take it from here, and if we get any useful leads we’ll let you know.”

The sergeant met his gaze, and once again Green felt a silent understanding pass between the two NCOs. He barely managed a civil thank you before heading out of the office into the bracing morning air. Clouds lay low over the town, draping the streets in a chilly grey shroud. Rain threatened. Rain and cold. And four kids were wandering in the mountains somewhere, in search of some mythical pot of gold.

Gravel crunched as Sullivan came up behind him. “You know nothing about being a northern detachment commander, Mike.”

“That’s not the issue. He doesn’t think beyond his rules.”

“You don’t know that. How would you react if he barged into your office and started giving orders?”

“I’d like to think I would —”

“You wouldn’t.”

Reluctantly Green laughed. He felt the tension thaw as they headed back to the truck. They heard the drone only seconds before a float plane broke through the cloud cover and began its descent toward the river. As the plane approached, Green made out the trademark canoe painted on its side.

“Isn’t that Ian Elliott’s plane?” Sullivan asked.

“Yes, it is,” Green said, setting off at a run toward the landing dock. “Elliott knows everything there is to know about the Nahanni. Maybe he’ll be more help than that tight-ass horseman.”

By the time they reached the dock, Green was gasping for breath. Sullivan, he noticed, had barely broken a sweat. All that cardiac conditioning was obviously paying off. Elliott taxied his plane to a mooring spot, jumped down, and secured it before turning his attention to the two detectives on the shore.

“Any news on your girl?”

Green shook his head. “But we’re making some progress on what they might be up to. I want to ask you about mining claims.”

Elliott didn’t mask his surprise. “Up here in the Nahanni? There is no mining allowed in the park. That was one of the major reasons for establishing the park in the first place and for pushing for the recent expansion.”

“Well, it’s an old claim, predates the park.”

Elliott unloaded some packs from the plane. “Then it’s useless.”

“So Sergeant Nihls told us. But I’d still like to pick your brains. Can I buy you an early lunch somewhere?”

Elliott glanced at his watch. “I have a tour group flying in from Yellowknife in a couple of hours and I have to get this gear to the inn, but yeah, I could use some lunch. We can grab a bite at the inn.”

Elliott seemed to know every patron in the restaurant, and he stopped to chat with each one. Green envied him his effortless charm. There was not a hint of boredom or pretence in his smile as he asked about their families or latest ventures. Green wrestled his impatience back and waited until they were all settled over burgers, fries, and coffee before pulling out a copy of the will. He pointed to the number.

“Does this mean anything to you?”

Elliott smiled. “Nineteen-forty-four. Wow, the heyday of prospecting! Every Tom, Dick, and Harry was out in the mountains, laying down stakes and filing claims. You know, in the Klondike gold rush thousands of guys who knew nothing about the north and even less about gold came pouring over the Chilkoot Pass. Almost none of them struck it rich, but the dreams and the hopes kept them coming.”

“But the Klondike was much earlier and farther west. Was there a similar gold rush here too?”

“Oh yeah! Back in the early twentieth century.” Elliott piled his burger high with pickles, onions, and coleslaw and licked his fingers with alacrity. “There’s the story of the McLeod brothers, who claimed they found gold in one of the creeks up the Nahanni, but they died in mysterious circumstances. Lots of people died in the wilderness in those days. Starved, frozen, drowned, beheaded …” His devilish grin faded as if he realized too late the implications of his words. He rushed on. “Anyway, that news spawned a flood of adventurers and prospectors trying to find the creek. Every time a reporter ran the story a new bunch would show up.”

He stretched his mouth wide enough to take a huge bite of his towering burger, and for a moment he was reduced to shaking his head. “Sorry,” he mumbled, mustard dribbling down his chin, “there is no other way to eat Lilian’s burgers than to go for it. So! Back to gold. There’s no verified record of gold ever being found in the Nahanni watershed, but there are plenty of other valuable minerals. The mountains, especially in the upper Nahanni from the Ragged Range on up to Moose Ponds, are perfect for that. Earthquakes, glacial scouring, fluvial deposits, frost heave, and of course the eruption of the mountains themselves make them a diverse place for rare earth metals, which are all the rage right now, but also for gemstones.”

“What kind of gemstones?”

“All kinds.” He chuckled and his sunny blue eyes lit up. “Back in the early days, when this place was mostly fur trappers and speculators, the mining companies used to hand out prospecting kits with samples of the different stones and send the adventurers out into the wilds with a pick, a trowel, some sacks for samples, and a mineral identification kit to see what they could find. These weren’t geologists, they were bushmen, trappers, and assorted dreamers seduced by the get-rich-quick scheme.”

Elliott looked as if he were settling back to regale them with colourful tales of the wild, wild north. It was clear he loved his land, but Green had other priorities.

“So this mining claim could be one of many?”

“Oh, absolutely. The motto back then was stake a claim first and then send the real prospectors in to find out if there’s anything worthwhile. The point is, you can’t do any work in an area until you’ve registered your claim with the Mining Recorder’s Office. They record where the claim is, who staked it, and when, and that gives that person exclusive right to work the area for a set period. That’s to prevent a whole bunch of prospectors claiming they found gold on the same land. The guy who registers it first has the legal right.”

“So how do you actually stake it? Literally with a stake in the ground?”

Elliott laughed. “Yup. You mark the borders of your claim using wooden stakes stamped with your company name and the date, you draw a rough location map, and then you take that information to the Mining Recorder’s Office.”

“So it’s a kind of race to get there first and prevent others from beating you to it?”

Elliott nodded gleefully. “And there were plenty of dirty tricks, believe me. Lies, misdirection, secrecy… When diamond deposits were found in the barrens up north, speculators went crazy. Staked half the wilderness.”

Sounds like a recipe for paranoia, Green thought as he studied the cryptic notes on the will. “Whenever there’s big money to be made …”

“Well, most of the time there’s nothing valuable in the land. Or it’s valuable but far too expensive or too small a deposit to justify developing it. But mining companies and speculators still stake claims willy-nilly in the hope that one in a thousand will pan out.”

Green thought about the miles and miles of mountainous wilderness they had flown over. All impenetrable and unreadable. “But how do they even know where to look? I mean, you could walk your whole life and never cover the whole area!”

“That’s why they hired the trappers, who were there anyway. Sometimes it’s a chance sighting, for example a trapper stumbles upon an interesting rock on the trail. But prospectors also look for favourable geological conditions. As I mentioned, places where the glacier had dug deep into a hillside or a landslide had brought mineral deposits up to the surface. Prospectors also waited for the Canadian Geological Surveys being done in a particular area. The moment the scientists released their findings, the prospectors were ready to pounce. They’ve been known to fly over the promising areas in a helicopter and drop their stakes out the door.”

He chuckled as he finished off his burger and licked his fingers. “Takes half the fun out of it, but that’s progress.”

“But back in 1944 …?”

“Back then it would have been old-fashioned staking. Guys would tromp over the ground, studying soil composition, glacial deposits, geological reports, rock layering on mountainsides, and they’d take soil samples in promising areas to look for indicator minerals. Back then they wouldn’t have been looking for rare earth metals, which are all the rage today for use in modern electronics and technology. Back then it would have been the old standbys: gold, silver, copper, zinc.” Elliott glanced at his watch and exclaimed in dismay. They were now the only people in the restaurant.

“One more thing,” Green asked hastily. “You said this mining claim number is recorded somewhere? Where? And would that tell me where the claim was staked?”

“Absolutely. To register a claim you have to provide a map. Back then it might be hand drawn and pretty iffy, but it should at least have the coordinates and the major landmarks.”

For the first time Green felt a swell of hope. Here was a concrete direction, a place to start the search. “And where would this record be?”

“That old? Probably archived in Yellowknife. But one of my former guides, Kim Swift, works at the Mining Recorder’s Office there. She’s a sweetheart, she always kept a soft spot for the Nahanni. And I bet she can track it down.” Elliott was standing now, pulling some money out of his wallet. “I’ll give you her number and tell her to expect your call.”

Nahanni Butte, January 2, 1944

My Darling Lydia,

Leaving you yesterday was the hardest day of my life. But this is not forever. We are not giving up. I don’t trust the sample report. Once we get more money, we will expand the claim ourselves. Gaetan will leave soon to earn good pay on the CANOL pipeline, and I will continue the traplines near the claim. The Indians are angry about all the white trappers using poison to bait their traps. They say it is wrong and the land is punishing us all. The beaver and marten stop coming to our traps. Bizarre ideas these people have.

But the marten are still very plentiful farther up the Nahanni. I made a good bargain with the post here. When I will come home in May, my wallet will be full. I wish I could be there to hold you, but my bad English writing is all I can offer. But with all the books you gave me, Dickens, Shelley, and your favourite Shakespeare, I will get better. What is the news of your health? Gaetan tells me he will be a father soon too. Nicolette, a daughter in the family he is lodging with.

I remain,

Your lonely but loving husband, Guy

When the two detectives got back to Andy’s B&B, Green put in an immediate call to Kim Swift, but was connected to her voicemail. Frustrated, he left a message and then began to toss some clothes into his backpack.

“What are you doing?” Sullivan asked.

“I’m getting ready. We have to go up there again.”

Sullivan watched in silence for a moment. “We’ll need a whole lot more than a couple of sleeping bags and backpacks.”

“Then we’ll rent the gear,” Green said. “There must be some place to rent in town.”

Andy, in her usual quiet way, had come to stand in the doorway of the bedroom. “My cousin can get you what you need,” she said. “He used to do private guiding when he was younger.”

Andy’s cousin Jethro arrived in less than half an hour. Sitting at her dining room table, he was as serene as always, and didn’t blink an eye when Green explained their request. He spread a checklist out before him. “How many in the party?” he asked.

Green glanced at Sullivan. “Just the two of us.”

“And a guide,” Sullivan cut in. “We’ll need a guide. Do you know someone?”

“Maybe. Four people is better. Three canoes. Can you paddle whitewater?”

“I can,” Sullivan said. Green’s denial stuck in his throat.

Jethro kept words to a bare minimum as he worked his way through his list, checking off items. “First-aid training?”

“Some. We’re cops,” Sullivan said without looking at Green. Green had passed his medical course by the barest of margins, and despite — or perhaps because of — attending dozens of crime scenes and post-mortems, the sight of blood still made him queasy.

“How many days?”

“We don’t know. Probably a week.”

“Until we find her,” Green said.

Jethro pushed back from the table and went into Andy’s front room, which she had decorated in a cozy frontier style with a wood stove, a mismatched jumble of well-worn couches, and a woven Native rug on the floor. Tacked on the wall beside a huge pair of moose antlers and assorted stuffed fish was a large map of the Nahanni watershed. Jethro stood in front of it, motionless. “The Naha Dene is a big place.”

Green joined him and traced his finger up the river until he found Broken Skull River. “Their canoe was found around here, so they may have capsized somewhere before that, up here.”