The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (86 page)

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“No harm in that.”

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“Yes. He lives in a shack just west of town. Scrapes out a living as a freelance farmer and tourist guide, now that they have started to come.” Gardiner shuddered at the idea of tourists. “Speaks English well enough. I shouldn’t offer him much money, though, or he’s liable to feel he owes you a good story and embellish it.”

“Anyone else I should see?”

“You might have a chat with MacPherson. He has a small farm near here. Had a few sheep destroyed. He’ll be more accurate than Gregorio.”

MacPherson was one of the names I remembered from the reports Smyth had received.

“Where will I find him?”

“He’s in town right now, matter of fact.”

“That will be convenient. Where?”

Gardiner was pouring another drink.

“Where else?” he said, smiling. “At the bar of the Gran Parque. I’ll drive you in and introduce you, if you like.”

Gardiner drove an ancient Packard with considerable panache. I asked him about Hodson as we rumbled ponderously into town.

“Hodson? Haven’t seen him in years.”

“Smyth seemed certain he was still here.”

“Oh, he’s here. But he never comes into Ushuaia.”

“Any idea where he lives?”

“Not really. He’s an unsociable type.” Gardiner seemed scornful of such behaviour. “He’s out in the mountains somewhere. Graham
might know more about it. He runs a trading company and I think Hodson gets his supplies there. But he never comes in himself.”

“If you’ll introduce me to Graham – ”

“Certainly,” Gardiner said, concentrating on the road with both hands on the wheel. He wore string-backed driving gloves and a flat tweed cap. We came over a sharp rise and there was a horse and rider blocking the road, slowly moving towards us. We seemed to be moving frightfully fast. I started to shout a warning but Gardiner was already moving, shifting down with a fluid sweep of the lever and letting the engine howl. He didn’t bother with brakes or horn, and scarcely turned the steering wheel. The rider hauled the horse around in a rearing sidestep and the animal’s flank flashed by my window. Remembering the taxi driver’s difficulty, I decided that Gardiner must have a considerable reputation.

“Certainly I shall,” he said.

The trading company was on our way and we pulled up in front. The old Packard ran considerably better than it stopped. It rocked to a halt like a weary steeplechaser refusing a jump. Gardiner led the way into a large building cluttered haphazardly with a catholic selection of goods and supplies. Graham was a dusty little man behind a dusty wooden counter, and when Gardiner introduced us, he said, “Baa.”

I expect I looked startled.

“Local greeting,” Gardiner said. “Has something to do with sheep, I assume.”

“That’s right,” Graham said. “Baa.”

“Baa,” I said.

“Brookes is trying to get in touch with Hodson. Does he still trade with you?”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know where he lives?” I asked.

“Nope. Never see him. Haven’t seen Hodson in three or four years.”

“How does he have his supplies delivered?”

“He doesn’t. Sends a man to fetch them.”

“Well, do you know anyone who could take me to him?”

Graham scratched his head.

“Can’t think of anyone off hand. Funny. I guess the best thing would be to wait for the man who fetches his supplies.”

“That would do. If I could speak to him the next time he comes here.”

“Can’t speak to him.”

“Oh?”

“Can’t speak. He’s a mute.”

I felt rather frustrated. Gardiner was grinning. He asked, “Does he come frequently?”

“Yeah. Has to, pretty much. See, Hodson’s camp or whatever it is, is up in the mountains. Probably over on the Chilean side. There aren’t any roads up there, so he has to take the things on pack horses. Can’t take very much stuff on horseback, so he has to come in every few weeks. Should be coming in any day now, matter of fact.”

“Could you let me know when he does?”

“Guess so.”

“I’m at the Albatross.”

“Yep.”

“I’ll be glad to – ”

“Not necessary,” he said, foreseeing the offer of money. “If you need any supplies yourself, buy ’em here.”

That was something I hadn’t thought of.

“What will I need to reach Hodson’s?”

“Hard to say, since I don’t know where it is. You’ll need a horse and pack. I can get something ready for you, if you want. Have it waiting when Hodson’s man arrives.”

“That will be fine.”

I wasn’t sure how fine it would be. I hadn’t been on a horse for years, but some obscure pride rose up in a dubious battle against the urge to ask him to find me a docile animal. The pride won. I suppose I was already being affected by contact with these self-sufficient frontiersmen.

We went back to the car.

“It’s a rather rough trek up those hills,” Gardiner said, as he started the engine. He let it idle for a moment. Perhaps he’d seen my doubts mirrored in my expression. “I suppose you can handle a horse all right?”

“I’ve ridden,” I said. “Not for some time.”

“Best to let the horse pick his own way. Good, sure-footed animals here.”

“Well, the worst I can do is fall off.”

Gardiner looked horrified.

“A gentleman never falls off,” he said. “He is thrown.”

He was chuckling happily as we drove off.

MacPherson wasn’t in the Gran Parque.

This distressed Gardiner, who hated to have people behave out of character, and hated to have his predictions proven wrong. We found him in the next bar down the street, however, so it wasn’t too unjustifiable. MacPherson was classically sandy haired, proving that truth has less regard for triteness than literary convention. He
was standing at the bar, talking with a villainous-looking man with a drooping moustache and splendidly hand-tooled boots.

Gardiner drew me to the bar at the far end.

“He’s talking business. We’ll wait here until he’s finished.”

“What a remarkable looking fellow.”

“Mac?”

“The other one. Looks like a Mexican bandit.”

Gardiner grinned. “He is rather traditional, isn’t he? A Yugoslav. Free zone trader.”

“What would that be?”

“A smuggler. Works from here up to Rio Grande through the Gortbaldi Pass. Quite a bit of that goes on. This fellow is very respected in his line, I understand. Not that I would have any dealings with him, of course.” Gardiner looked amused. The Spanish barman came over, running a rag along the bar, and Gardiner ordered gin and tonics, after checking his wrist-watch to make sure it wasn’t yet time to switch to the afternoon whiskies. I expect he lived by a rigid code in such matters. The barman set the drinks down and wiped his hands on the same rag he’d wiped the bar with.

Gardiner said “Cheers,” and took a large swallow.

I was unaccustomed to drinking this much, and certainly not this early in the day, and sipped cautiously. Gardiner drank fast. I could see that Clyde Jones, in many ways, would fit into this society much more readily than I; that my first impression had been hasty and ungracious and single-minded. But I resisted the temptation to drink more quickly.

Presently the Yugoslav departed, walking very tall and proud with his spurs clanking, and we moved down the bar. Gardiner introduced us and I bought MacPherson a drink. He drank Scotch, but I expect his code was more accountable to nationality than chronometry.

“Lived here long?” I asked.

“Too long,” MacPherson said. Then he shrugged. “Still, it’s not a bad life. It’s all right.”

“Brookes is interested in this thing that’s been killing your sheep,” Gardiner said.

“Oh?”

“Came all the way from London to investigate it.”

“I don’t suppose there are many natural predators here, are there?” I asked.

“Ah, there’s the odd fox and the hawks and such. Never been anything like this before, though.”

“It’s a curious business, from what I’ve heard.”

“It is that.”

“What do you make of it?”

He considered for a few moments and a few swallows of Scotch, the skin on his brow like furrowed leather. “Well, it’s not serious, really. Not enough damage been done to do me any financial harm. I guess I lost half a dozen sheep all told. But it’s the way they were killed that bothers me.”

“How was that?”

“Well, they were torn apart. Mutilated. Throats torn out and skulls crushed. Never saw anything quite like it. Whatever did it is not only powerful but vicious. And the strangest part is that my dogs seem helpless.”

Gardiner signalled for another round of drinks, and MacPherson seemed to be thinking deeply while the barman brought them.

“Have you tried to find it?”

“Of course. I almost had it once. That was the strangest part of all. It was a month or so ago and I was sort of keeping an eye out for it. Had my gun with me, and four good dogs. Well, we found a sheep that had just been killed. Couldn’t have been dead more than a few minutes. Torn to pieces. I put the dogs on to it and they started howling and growling and sniffing about, then they got the scent and took off after the thing. The land’s rocky and I couldn’t see a trail myself, but the dogs had it sure enough. I followed them and they tracked it a few hundred yards in to a ravine. I thought I had it then for sure. But when I was coming up behind, the dogs suddenly stopped dead and for no reason I could see, the whole pack started yelping and came running back with their tails between their legs. Made the hair stiffen on my neck, I’ll tell you that. They came back so fast they almost knocked me down, and they all crowded around my legs, whimpering. Gave me a funny sensation, that. I kicked ’em and beat ’em but damned if I could make them go into that ravine. Even when I went up to the edge myself, they wouldn’t follow. I looked around a little, walked along the edge for a little way, but it was rocky wasteland with heavy undergrowth all along the bottom and I had no chance of finding it without the dogs. But I was sure that it was in there, waiting.”

He paused. He looked a little shaken.

“Matter of fact, I was scared to go in after it.”

MacPherson didn’t look the type to be afraid of much.

“Any trouble recently?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s still there all right. Whatever the hell it is. I’ve tried setting traps for it and poisoned one of the carcasses, but it did no good. Cunning brute. I got the idea, you know the feeling, that it was watching me all the while I was putting the traps out.”

“Could it be a wild dog or something of the sort?”

“I doubt that. No dog could have put the fear into my pack that
way. And no dog could’ve crushed those sheep’s skulls that way, either. No dog I ever saw.”

“A man?”

“Maybe. I thought of that. Used to have a few sheep carried off by the Indians. But they always stole them to eat. This thing just mangles them and leaves them where they died. Maybe eats a mouthful or two, the carcasses are so shredded I can’t really tell. But no more than that.”

“Few animals kill purely for pleasure,” I said. “Wolverine, leopard maybe . . . and man, of course.”

“If it’s a man, it’s a madman.”

MacPherson bought a round. I had a glass in my hand and two waiting on the bar now, and felt that I’d soon be in no condition to pursue any investigations.

“Would it be possible for me to stay at your place if I find it necessary to look for this thing?” I asked.

“Surely. I don’t know if you can find it, but I’ll give you every help I can. I’ll have to take you out, though. You’d never find my place on your own. It’s in the mountains west of here and there are no roads and only crude maps. I’m not even sure if I’m in Chile or Argentina.”

“I have some other things to do first,” I said. “I may not have to take advantage of your hospitality.”

“I hope you get the bastard. What gun are you using?”

It took me a moment to comprehend that.

“I didn’t come to shoot it,” I said.

MacPherson blinked.

“Then what the hell are you going to do?”

“That depends on what it turns out to be.”

MacPherson snorted. Then he looked serious. He said: “Well, it’s none of my business, but if you’re going to look for this thing, you’d better take a gun with you.”

“Surely it wouldn’t attack a man?”

MacPherson shrugged.

“You haven’t seen those sheep, son. I have. Believe me, you better take a gun.”

The way he said it was quite impressive.

It was past noon now, and Gardiner had switched to Scotch. MacPherson approved. We had not had lunch, and Gardiner and MacPherson both seemed content to spend the afternoon at the bar. I’d had more than enough to drink, and the barman brought me a coffee with the next round. A few more customers wandered in and stood at the bar, talking and drinking. I noticed them vaguely, my
thoughts on what MacPherson had told me. It was virtually the same story that I’d read in the reports, but hearing it in person, and seeing the man who told it, was far more effective than reading it in the grey safety of London. I was far less sceptical, and ready to believe a great deal more. Perhaps the alcohol had stimulated my imagination; it had certainly fired my impatience to get to the bottom of the mystery. I was convinced now that something very strange indeed was roaming those all but inaccessible mountains, and much too excited to waste any more time in that bar.

“Would this be a good time to see Gregorio?” I asked.

“Good as any,” Gardiner said.

“If you could direct me – ”

“I’ll drive you there. It’s not far.”

He looked a shade disappointed at the prospect of leaving the bar.

“That’s not necessary. Actually, I could use some air to clear my head. I’ll walk.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll give me an opportunity to look around a bit more, too. I couldn’t see much at the speed you drive.”

Gardiner laughed. He was possibly a certain degree in his cups by this time. MacPherson seemed absolutely impervious to intoxication. I took my note pad out to write down the address, but Gardiner laughed more at this, and when he’d given me the directions, I saw why. They were accurate but somewhat unusual. Gregorio lived in the third orange shack on the western approach to town. There was a grey horse in a tin shed beside the shack. The shed was green and the horse was gelded. It was surely a more exact method of location than street names and postal districts, as any stranger who has asked directions in London will know.