The Matlock Paper

by Robert Ludlum

  “And very applicable. I see what you mean.”

  “Very.”

  “Jim, before I go this afternoon, I’m going to write out a telephone number for you. It’s a Bronx number—my parents. They won’t know where I am, but I’ll check with them every day. Use it if you have to.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “I want your word on it.”

  “You have it.” Matlock laughed a short laugh of gratitude.

  “Of course, under the circumstances, I may just be on the other end of the line if you do call.”

  “Back in private practice?”

  “The possibility is less remote than you think.”

  15

  Between his two classes, Matlock drove to the small brokerage office in the town of Carlyle and emerged with a check for $7,312. It represented his total investment in the market, mostly from royalties. The broker had tried to dissuade him; it was no time to sell, especially at current prices. But Matlock had made up his mind. The cashier reluctantly issued the check.

  From there Matlock went to his bank and transferred his entire savings into his checking account. He added the $7,312 to the slip and looked at the sum total of his immediate cash value.

  It came to $11,501.72.

  Matlock stared at the figure for several minutes. He had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, it proved solvency; on the other, it was a little frightening to think that after thirty-three years of living he was able to pinpoint so accurately his net financial worth. There was no house, no land, no hidden investments anywhere. Only an automobile, a few possessions of minor value, and some published words of such a specialized nature that there would be no significant commercial rewards.

  Yet by many standards, it was a great deal of money.

  Only nowhere near enough. He knew that. It was why Scarsdale, New York, was on the day’s schedule.

  The meeting with Sealfont had been unnerving, and Matlock wasn’t sure how much more his shattered nerves could take. The cold fury of Carlyle’s president was matched only by the depth of his anguish.

  The bewildering shadow world of violence and corruption was a world he could never come to grips with because it was not within the realm of his comprehension. Matlock had been startled to hear Seal-font say, as he sat in his chair staring out the bay window overlooking the most beautiful lawn on the Carlyle campus, that he might well resign.

  “If this whole sordid, unbelievable business is true—and who can doubt it—I have no right to sit in this chair.”

  “That’s not so,” Matlock had answered. “If it’s true, this place is going to need you more than ever before.”

  “A blind man? No one needs a blind man. Not in this office.”

  “Not blind. Unexposed.”

  And then Sealfont had swung around in his chair and pounded on the top of his desk in an enormous display of strength.

  “Why here?! Why here?!”

  As he sat in front of Sealfont’s desk, Matlock looked at the pained face of Carlyle’s president. And for a second he thought the man might weep.

  The trip down the Merritt Parkway was made at high speed. He had to race; it was necessary for him. It helped take his mind off the sight of Pat Ballantyne as he had seen her a few minutes before leaving. He had gone from Sealfont’s to the hospital; still he hadn’t been able to talk with her. No one had yet.

  She had awakened at noon, he’d been told. She’d gone into severe hysterics. The doctor from Litchfield had administered further sedatives. The doctor was worried, and Matlock knew it was Pat’s mind he was worried about. The nightmare of terror inflicted upon her body had to touch her brain.

  The first minutes with his parents at the huge Scarsdale house were awkward. His father, Jonathan Munro Matlock, had spent decades in the highest spheres of his marketplace and knew instinctively when a man came to him without strength.

  Without strength but with need.

  Matlock told his father as simply and unemotionally as he could that he wanted to borrow a large sum of money; he could not guarantee its repayment. It would be used to help—ultimately help—young people like his dead brother.

  The dead son.

  “How?” asked Jonathan Matlock softly.

  “I can’t tell you that.” He looked into his father’s eyes and the irrevocable truth of the son’s statement was accepted by the father.

  “Very well. Are you qualified for this undertaking?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Are there others involved?”

  “By necessity, yes.”

  “Do you trust them?”

  “I do.”

  “Have they asked for this money?”

  “No. They don’t know about it.”

  “Will it be at their disposal?”

  “No. Not that I can foresee.… I’ll go further than that. It would be wrong for them to learn of it.”

  “I’m not restricting you, I’m asking.”

  “That’s my answer.”

  “And you believe that what you’re doing will help, in some way, boys like David? Practical help, not theoretical, not dream stuff, not charity.”

  “Yes. It has to.”

  “How much do you want?”

  Matlock took a deep breath silently. “Fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Wait here.”

  Several minutes later, the father came out of his study and gave the son an envelope.

  The son knew better than to open it.

  Ten minutes after the exchange—and Matlock knew it was an exchange—he left, feeling the eyes of his parents as they stood on the enormous porch and watched him drive out through the gates.

  Matlock pulled into the apartment driveway, shut off the lights and the engine, and wearily climbed out. As he approached the old Tudor house, he saw that every light he owned was turned on. Jason Greenberg wasn’t taking chances, and Matlock assumed that some part of Greenberg’s silent, unseen army was watching his place from varying distances—none too far away.

  He unlocked the door and pushed it open. There was no one there. At least, not in sight. Not even his cat.

  “Hello? Jason?… Anybody here? It’s Matlock.”

  There was no answer and Matlock was relieved. He wanted only to crawl into bed and sleep. He’d stopped at the hospital to see Pat, and the request had been denied. At least he’d learned that “… she is resting and her condition is deemed satisfactory.” That was a step up. That afternoon she’d still been on the critical list. He would see her at nine in the morning.

  Now was the time for him to sleep—peaceably if possible. Sleep at all costs. There was a great deal to do in the morning.

  He went into his bedroom, passing the still unrepaired sections of wall and window as he did so. Carpenter’s and plasterer’s tools were neatly stacked in corners. He removed his jacket and his shirt and then thought, with a degree of self-ridicule, that he was becoming far too confident. He walked rapidly out of the bedroom and into his bathroom. Once the door was shut, he reached down to the litter box and lifted up the newspaper to the layer of canvas. The Corsican paper was there, the tarnished silver coating reflecting the light.

  Back in the bedroom, Matlock removed his wallet, cash, and car keys, placing them on top of his bureau. As he did so, he remembered the envelope.

  He hadn’t been fooled. He knew his father, perhaps better than his father realized. He presumed there was a short note with the check stating clearly that the money was a gift, not a loan, and that no repayment was anticipated.

  The note was there, folded inside the envelope, but the written words were not what Matlock expected.

  I believe in you. I always have.

  Love,

  Dad

  On top of the note, clipped to the paper on the reverse side, was the check. Matlock slipped it off and read the figure.

  It was for fifty thousand dollars.

  16

  Much of the swelling on her face and around her eyes had
subsided. He took her hand and held it tightly, putting his face once more next to hers.

  “You’re going to be fine,” were the innocuous words he summoned. He had to hold himself in check to stop himself from screaming out his anger and his guilt. That this could be done to a human being by other human beings was beyond his endurance. And he was responsible.

  When she spoke, her voice was hardly audible, like a small child’s, the words only partially formed through the immobile lips.

  “Jamie … Jamie?”

  “Shh … Don’t talk if it hurts.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. But we’ll find out.”

  “No!… No, don’t! They’re … they’re …” The girl had to swallow; it was nearly impossible for her. She pointed to a glass of water on the bedside table. Matlock quickly reached for it and held it to her lips, supporting her by the shoulders.

  “How did it happen? Can you tell me?”

  “Told … Greenberg. Man and woman … came to the table. Said you were … waiting … outside.”

  “Never mind, I’ll talk to Jason.”

  “I … feel better. I hurt but … feel better, I … really do.… Am I going to be all right?”

  “Of course you are. I spoke with the doctor. You’re bruised, but nothing broken, nothing serious. He says you’ll be out of bed in a few days, that’s all.”

  Patricia Ballantyne’s eyes brightened, and Matlock saw the terrible attempt of a smile on her sutured lips. “I fought.… I fought and I fought … until I … couldn’t remember any more.”

  It took all of Matlock’s strength not to burst into tears. “I know you did. Now, no more talking. You rest, take it easy. I’ll just sit here and we’ll talk with our eyes. Remember? You said we always communicate around other people with our eyes.… I’ll tell you a dirty joke.”

  When the smile came, it was from her eyes.

  He stayed until a nurse forbade him to stay longer. Then he kissed her softly on the lips and left the room. He was a relieved man; he was an angry man.

  “Mr. Matlock?” The young doctor with the freshly scrubbed face of an intern approached him by the elevator.

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a telephone call for you. You can take it at the second floor reception, if you’ll follow me.”

  The caller’s voice was unknown. “Mr. Matlock, my name’s Houston. I’m a friend of Jason Greenberg’s. I’m to get in touch with you.”

  “Oh? How’s Jason?”

  “Fine. I’d like to get together with you as soon as possible.”

  Matlock was about to name a place, any place, after his first class. And then he stopped. “Did Jason leave any message … where he is now, or anything?”

  “No sir. Just that I was to make contact pronto.”

  “I see.” Why didn’t the man say it? Why didn’t Houston identify himself? “Greenberg definitely told me he’d leave word … a message … where he’d be. I’m sure he said that.”

  “Against department regulations, Mr. Matlock. He wouldn’t be allowed to.”

  “Oh?… Then he didn’t leave any message at all?”

  The voice on the other end of the line hesitated slightly, perceptively. “He may have forgotten.… As a matter of fact, I didn’t speak to him myself. I received my orders directly from Washington. Where shall we meet?”

  Matlock heard the anxiety in the man’s voice. When he referred to Washington, his tone had risen in a small burst of nervous energy. “Let me call you later. What’s your number?”

  “Now listen, Matlock. I’m in a telephone booth and we have to meet. I’ve got my orders!”

  “Yes, I’ll bet you do.…”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Are you downtown? In Carlyle?”

  The man hesitated again. “I’m in the area.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Houston.… Is the city dying?”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to be late for my class. Try me again. I’m sure you’ll be able to reach me.” Matlock hung up the phone. His left hand shook and perspiration had formed on his brow.

  Mr. Houston was the enemy.

  The enemy was closing in.

  His first Saturday class was at eleven, which gave him just about an hour to make what he felt were the most logical arrangements for the money. He didn’t want to think that he had to physically be in the town of Carlyle—at the Carlyle Bank—on Monday morning. He wasn’t sure it would be possible. He wasn’t sure where he would be on Monday.

  Since, on the surface, Carlyle was a typical New England college town, it had a particular way of life common to such places. One knew, generally on a first-name basis, all the people whose jobs made day-to-day living the effortless, unhurried existence that it was. The garage mechanic was “Joe” or “Mac,” the manager at J. Press was “Al,” the dentist “John” or “Warren,” the girl at the dry cleaners “Edith.” In Matlock’s case, the banker was “Alex.” Alex Anderson, a Carlyle graduate of forty, a local boy who’d made the jump from town to gown and then coordinated both. Matlock called him at home and explained his problem. He was carrying around a large check from his father. He was making some private family investments in his own name, and they were confidential. Since the robbery at his apartment, he wanted to divest himself of the check immediately. Could Alex suggest anything? Should he put it in the mail? How best to get it into his account, since he wasn’t sure he would be in Carlyle on Monday, and he needed it cleared, the money available. Alex Anderson suggested the obvious. Matlock should endorse the check, put it in an envelope marked for Anderson’s attention, and drop it in the night deposit box at the bank. Alex would take care of the rest first thing Monday morning.

  And then Alex Anderson asked him the denomination and Matlock told him.

  The account problem solved, Matlock concentrated on what he began to think of as his point of departure. There was no other phrase he could find, and he needed a phrase—he needed the discipline of a definition. He had to start precisely right, knowing that what might follow could be totally undisciplined—completely without plan or orthodoxy. For he had made up his mind.

  He was going to enter the world of Nimrod. The builder of Babylon and Nineveh, the hunter of wild animals, the killer of children and old men, the beater of women.

  He was going to find Nimrod.

  As were most adults not wedded to the precept that all things enjoyable were immoral, Matlock was aware that the state of Connecticut, like its sister states to the north, the south, and the west, was inhabited by a network of men only too eager to supply those divertissements frowned upon by the pulpits and the courts. What Hartford insurance executive in the upper brackets never heard of that string of “Antique Shoppes” on New Britain Avenue where a lithe young girl’s body could be had for a reasonable amount of petty cash? What commuter from Old Greenwich was oblivious to the large estates north of Green Farms where the gambling often rivaled the Vegas stakes? How many tired businessmen’s wives from New Haven or Westport were really ignorant of the various “escort” services operating out of Hamden and Fairfield? And over in the “old country,” the Norfolks? Where the rambling mansions were fading apotheoses to the real money, the blooded first families who migrated just a little west to avoid the new rich? The “old country” had the strangest diversions, it was rumored. Houses in shadows, lighted by candles, where the bored could become aroused by observation. Voyeurs of the sickest scenes. Female, male animal—all types, all combinations.

  Matlock knew that in this world Nimrod could be found. It had to be. For although narcotics were but one aspect of the services rendered within this network, they were available—as was everything else.

  And of all these games of indulgence, none had the fire and ice, none had the magnetism, of the gambling houses. For those thousands who couldn’t find time for the junkets to San Juan, London, or Paradise Island, there were the temporary excursions into the manic moments w
here daily boredom could be forgotten—a stone’s throw from home. Reputations were made quickly over the green felt tables—with the roll of the dice or a turn of a card. It was here that Matlock would find his point of departure. It was in these places where a young man of thirty-three years was prepared to lose thousands—until someone asked who he was.

  At twelve thirty Matlock walked across the quadrangle toward his apartment. The time had come to initiate his first move. The vague outline of a plan was coming into focus.

  He should have heard the footsteps, but he didn’t He only heard the cough, a smoker’s cough, the cough of a man who’d been running.

  “Mr. Matlock?”

  Matlock turned and saw a man in his middle thirties, like himself, perhaps a bit older and, indeed, out of breath.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry, I keep missing you. I got to the hospital just as you’d left, then waited in the wrong damn building for you, after your class. There’s a very confused biology teacher with a name similar to yours. Even looks a little like you. Same height, build, hair …”

  “That’s Murdock. Elliott Murdock. What’s the matter?”

  “He couldn’t understand why I kept insisting that when ‘old men kill themselves, the cities are dying’!”

  “You’re from Greenberg!”

  “That’s it. Morbid code, if you don’t mind my saying so. Keep walking. We’ll separate at the end of the path. Meet me in twenty minutes at Bill’s Bar & Grill by the freight depot. It’s six blocks south of the railroad station. O.K.?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I was going to suggest you remove your necktie. I’ll be in a leather jacket.”

  “You pick classy spots.”

  “Old habit. I cheat on the expense account.”

  “Greenberg said I was to work with you.”

  “You better believe it! He’s up to his Kosher ass in boiling oil for you. I think they’re shipping him out to a job in Cairo.… He’s one hell of a guy. We field men like him. Don’t louse him up.”

  “All I wanted to ask was your name. I didn’t expect a sermon.”