“It’s Houston. Fred Houston. See you in twenty minutes. Get rid of the tie.”
17
Bill’s Bar & Grill was a part of Carlyle Matlock had never seen before. Railroad laborers and freight-yard drifters were its predominant clientele. He scanned the filthy room; Houston sat in a back booth.
“It’s cocktail hour, Matlock. A little early by campus standards, but the effects aren’t much different. Not even the clothes these days.”
“It’s quite a place.”
“It serves the purpose. Go up to the bar and get yourself a drink. The bunnies don’t come on till sundown.”
Matlock did as Houston instructed and brought back the best bourbon he could find. It was a brand he had given up when he reached a living wage.
“I think I should tell you right away. Someone using your name telephoned me at the hospital.”
It was as if Houston had been hit in the stomach. “My God,” he said quietly. “What did he say? How did you handle it?”
“I waited for him to identify himself … with Greenberg’s proverb. I gave him a couple of chances but he didn’t.… So I told him to call me later and hung up.”
“He used my name?! Houston. You’re sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“That doesn’t make sense. He couldn’t!”
“Believe me. He did.”
“No one knew I was the replacement.… I didn’t know it until three this morning.”
“Someone found out.”
Houston took several swallows of his beer. “If what you say is true, I’ll be out of here within a couple of hours. Incidentally, that was good thinking.… Let me give you an extra hint, though. Never accept a contact made by telephone.”
“Why not?”
“If that had been me calling—how would I know it was you I was talking to?”
“I see what you mean.…”
“Common sense. Most everything we do is common sense.… We’ll keep the same code. The ‘old men’ and ‘the cities.’ Your next contact will be made tonight.”
“You’re sure you’ll be leaving?”
“I’ve been spotted. I’m not about to stick around. Maybe you forgot Ralph Loring.… We gave big at the office.”
“All right. Have you talked to Jason? Did he brief you?”
“For two hours. From four till six this morning. My wife said he drank thirteen cups of coffee.”
“What can you tell me about Pat? Patricia Ballantyne. What happened?”
“You know the medical facts.…”
“Not all of them.”
“I don’t know all of them, either.”
“You’re lying.”
Houston looked at Matlock without offense. When he replied, he did so compassionately. “All right. There was evidence of rape. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”
Matlock gripped his glass. “Yes,” he said softly.
“However, you should know this, too. The girl doesn’t know it. Not at this stage of her recovery. I understand the mind plays tricks. It rejects things until it thinks—or something tells it—that the remembering can be handled.”
“Thanks for the lesson in psychology.… Animals. Filthy animals …” Matlock pushed his glass away. The liquor was intolerable to him now. The thought of dulling his senses even slightly was abhorrent.
“I’m supposed to play this by ear, so if I read you wrong, all I can do is apologize.… Be around when the puzzle gets put together for her. She’s going to need you.”
Matlock looked up from the table, from the sight of his tensed hands. “It was that bad?” he asked almost inaudibly.
“Preliminary lab tests—fingernails, hair, what have you—indicate that the assault was carried out by more than one person.”
Matlock’s hatred could find only one expression. He closed his eyes and lashed out at the glass, sending it across the floor, where it smashed in front of the bar. The bartender dropped his soiled rag and started toward his latch, looking over at the man who threw the glass. Then he stopped. Houston held up a bill quickly, gesturing the man to stay away.
“Get hold of yourself!” Houston said. “You’re not going to do anyone any good like that. You’re just calling attention to us.… Now, listen. You’re cleared to make further inquiries, but there are two stipulations. The first is to check with our man—it was supposed to be me—before approaching anyone. The second—keep your subjects to students and only students. No faculty, no staff, no one outside—just students.… Make your reports every night between ten and eleven. Your contact will reach you daily as to where. Have you got that?”
Matlock stared at the agent in disbelief. He understood what the man was saying—even why he said it—but he couldn’t believe that anyone who’d been briefed by Jason Greenberg would think he could deliver such instructions. “Are you serious?”
“The orders are explicit. No deviations. That’s holy writ.”
It was there again for Matlock. Another sign, another compromise. Another plastic order from the unseen plastic leaders.
“I’m there but I’m not there, is that the idea? I’m consigned to the outer limits and that fulfills the bargain?”
“Frig that.”
Matlock’s eyes wandered upward, at nothing. He was trying to buy a few seconds of sweet reason. “Frigga is the Norse goddess of the sky. She shares the heavens with Odin. Don’t insult the lady, Houston.”
“You’re a nut!” said the agent. “I’m not sorry I’m getting out of here.… Look, it’s for the best, take my word for it. And one last thing. I’ve got to take back the paper Loring gave you. That’s a must do.”
“Is it, really?” Matlock slid across the filthy leatherette seat and started to get up. “I don’t see it that way. You go back to Washington and tell them I see it as a must don’t. Take care of yourself, holy writ.”
“You’re playing around with preventive custody!”
“We’ll see who’s playing,” said Matlock as he pushed himself away from the table, angling it to block the agent’s exit, and started for the door. He could hear the screech of the table’s legs as Houston moved it out of his way. He heard Houston call his name softly, intensely, as if he were confused, wanting to make Matlock come back, yet afraid of identifying him. Matlock reached the door, turned right on the sidewalk, and started running as fast as he could. He found a narrow alley and realized that it was, at least, in the right direction. He raced into it and stopped, pressing himself into a doorway. At the base of the alley, on the freight-yard thoroughfare, he saw Houston walking rapidly past the phlegmatic noonday laborers on their lunch breaks. Houston looked panicked; Matlock knew he couldn’t return to his apartment.
It was a funny thing to do, he considered, as he sat in the booth of Bill’s Bar & Grill. Returning to the place he couldn’t wait to get out of twenty minutes ago. But it made vague sense to him—as much as anything made sense at the moment. He had to be by himself and think. He couldn’t take the chance of wandering the streets where some part of the Greenberg-Houston unseen army might spot him. Ironically, the bar seemed safest.
He’d made his apologies to a wary bartender, offering to pay for the broken glass. He implied that the man he’d had words with before was a deadbeat—into him for a lot of money with no ability to pay. This explanation, given by the now-relaxed customer, was not only accepted by the bartender, it elevated him to a status not often seen in Bill’s Bar & Grill.
He had to marshal his thoughts. There were checkpoints he’d mentally outlined which were to be passed before he began his journey to Nimrod. Now, there was another checkpoint. Houston had supplied it, although he’d never know. Pat had to be totally safe. He couldn’t have that worry on his mind. All other items on his list were subservient to this. The clothes, the ready cash, the unfamiliar automobile, all would have to wait. He might have to alter his strategy now, Matlock thought. Nimrod’s associates would be watched, his apartment would be watched, every name and lo
cation on the Justice list would be under surveillance.
But first, Pat. He’d have her guarded night and day, around the clock, every minute. Guarded openly, with no pretense of secrecy. Guarded in such a way as to be a signal to both the unseen armies, a warning that she was out of the game. Money was no problem now, none at all. And there were men in Hartford whose professions would fit his requirements. He knew that. The huge insurance companies used them incessantly. He remembered an ex-faculty member from the math department who’d left Carlyle for the lucrative field of insurance actuaries. He worked for Aetna. He looked for a telephone inside the dingy bar.
Eleven minutes later, Matlock returned to the booth. The business was concluded with Blackstone Security, Incorporated, Bond Street, Hartford. There would be three men daily on eight-hour shifts, three hundred dollars for each twenty-four-hour period the subject was covered by Blackstone, Inc. There would, of course, be the additional charges for any expenses incurred and a fee attached for the use of a “Tel-electronic” if it was required. The Tel-electronic was a small device which signaled the bearer with short beeps if the telephone number designated was called. Blackstone, of course, suggested a different telephone number from a resident phone—which, of course, they would have activated within twelve hours and for which, of course, there was an additional charge.
Matlock agreed to everything, was grateful for everything, and said he’d be in Hartford to sign the papers later in the afternoon. He wanted to meet Mr. Blackstone—for another reason now. Blackstone, however, made it clear that since the head of Aetna’s actuarial department had personally contacted him regarding Mr. Matlock, the formalities were not pressing. He’d dispatch his team to the Carlyle Hospital within the hour. And by any chance, was Mr. Matlock related to Jonathan Munro Matlock …? The head of Aetna’s actuarial department had mentioned …
Matlock was relieved. Blackstone could be useful. The ex-faculty member at Aetna had assured him that there was none better than Blackstone. Expensive, but the best. Blackstone’s personnel for the most part were former officers of the Special Forces and Marine Intelligence team. It was more than a business gimmick. They were smart, resourceful, and tough. They were also licensed and respected by the state and local police.
The next item on his list was clothes. He had planned to go to his apartment and pack a suit, several pairs of slacks, and a jacket or two. Now that was out. At least for the time being. He would buy clothes—what he needed—as he went along. The ready cash could prove more of a problem, considering the amount he wanted. It was Saturday—he wasn’t going to waste a Saturday night. The banks were closed, the large money sources unavailable.
Alex Anderson would have to solve the problem. He’d lie to Alex Anderson, tell him Jonathan Munro Matlock would look kindly—financially kindly—on Anderson if the banker would made available a large sum of cash on a Saturday afternoon. It would be confidential on both sides, of course. There would be a gratuity rendered for a coveted favor on a Saturday afternoon. Nothing which could be construed remotely indelicate. And, of course, again, confidential.
Matlock rose from the ripped, stained, dirty leatherette seat and returned to the telephone.
Anderson had only fleeting doubts about accommodating Jonathan Munro Matlock’s son, and they concerned not the act but the confidence of the act. Once that concern was allayed, the fact that he was giving aid in the best traditions of banking became clear. It was important for any bank to accommodate the better client. If a particular client wished to show gratitude … well, that was up to the client.
Alex Anderson would secure James Matlock five thousand dollars in cash on a Saturday afternoon. He would deliver it to him at three outside the Plaza Movie Theatre, which was showing a revival of A Knife in the Water—with subtitles.
An automobile would be the least of his problems. There were two rent-a-car offices in the town, a Budget-National and a Luxor-Elite. The first for students, the second for affluent parents. He would rent a Luxor Cadillac or Lincoln and drive into Hartford to another Luxor lot and change cars. From Hartford he’d go to a Luxor branch in New Haven and do the same. With money, there would be the minimum of questions; with decent tips, there might even be cooperation.
He’d moved to his point of departure.
“Hey, mister. Your name Matlock?” The hairy bartender leaned over the table, the soiled bar rag squeezed in his right hand.
“Yes,” answered the startled Matlock with a short, violent intake of breath.
“Guy just came up t’ me. Said for me to tell you you forgot something outside. On the curb, he said. You should hurry, he said.”
Matlock stared at the man. The pain in his stomach was the fear again, the panic. He reached into his pocket and pulled out several bills. Separating a five, he held it up to the bartender. “Come to the door with me. Just to the window. Tell me if he’s outside.”
“Sure.… To the window.” The hairy bartender switched the soiled rag to his left hand and took the bill. Matlock got out of the booth and walked beside the man to the half-curtained, filthy glass looking out on the street. “No, he’s not there. There’s no one there.… Just a dead …”
“I see,” said Matlock, cutting the man off. He didn’t have to go outside, it wasn’t necessary.
Lying on the edge of the curb, its body draping down into the gutter, was Matlock’s cat.
Its head was severed, held to the rest of its body by a small piece of flesh. The blood poured out, staining the sidewalk.
18
The killing preyed on Matlock’s mind as he approached the West Hartford town line. Was it another warning or had they found the paper? If they had found the paper, it didn’t vitiate the warning, only reinforced it. He wondered whether to have a member of the Blackstone team check his apartment, check the litter box. He wasn’t even sure why he hesitated. Why not have a Blackstone man find out? For three hundred dollars a day, plus charges, such an errand was hardly too much to ask. He was going to ask far more of Blackstone, Incorporated, but they didn’t know it. Yet he kept balking. If the paper was secure, sending a man to check it might reveal its location.
He’d almost made up his mind to take the chance when he noticed the tan sedan in his rear-view mirror. It was there again. It had been there, off and on, since he’d entered Highway 72 a half hour ago. Whereas other cars turned off, passed him, or fell behind, this tan sedan was never really out of sight. Weaving in and around the traffic, it always managed to stay three or four cars behind him. There was one way to find out if it was coincidence. Off the next exit into West Hartford was a narrow street which wasn’t a street at all but a cobblestone alley used almost exclusively for deliveries. He and Pat thought it was a shortcut one hectic afternoon and had been hemmed in for five minutes.
He swung off the exit and down the main street toward the alley. He made a sharp left and entered the narrow cobblestone lane. Since it was Saturday afternoon, there were no delivery trucks, and the alley was clear. He raced through, emerging in a crowded A & P parking lot, which in turn led to a parallel main road. Matlock drove to an empty parking space, shut off his motor, and lowered himself on the seat. He angled his side-view mirror so that it reflected the entrance of the alley. In roughly thirty seconds, the tan sedan came into view.
The driver was obviously confused. He slowed down, looking at the dozens of automobiles. Suddenly, behind the tan sedan, another car began blowing its horn. The driver was impatient; the tan sedan was blocking his progress. Reluctantly, the driver of the tan sedan started up; but before he did, he turned his face, craning his neck over his right shoulder in such a way that Matlock, now looking directly at the automobile, recognized him.
It was the patrolman. The police officer who’d been in his demolished apartment after the Beeson episode, the man who had covered his face with a towel and raced down the corridor of squash alley two days ago.
Greenberg’s “coincidence.”
Matlock was perplexed. H
e was also frightened.
The patrolman in mufti drove the tan sedan haltingly toward a parking lot exit, still obviously searching. Matlock saw the car turn into the flow of traffic and drive away.
The offices of Blackstone Security, Incorporated, Bond Street, Hartford, looked more like a wealthy, sedate insurance company than an investigatory agency. The furniture was heavy colonial, the wallpaper a subdued, masculine stripe. Expensive hunting prints above the glow of brass table lamps. The effect was immediately one of strength, virility, and financial solidity. Why not? thought Matlock, as he sat in the Early American two-seater in the outer office. At three hundred dollars a day, Blackstone Security, Incorporated, probably rivaled Prudential in ratio of investment to profits.
When he was at last ushered into the office, Michael Blackstone rose from his chair and walked around the cherrywood desk to greet him. Blackstone was a short, compact man, neatly dressed. He was in his early fifties, obviously a physical person, very active, probably very tough.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I hope you didn’t drive down here just for the papers. They could have waited. Just because we work seven days a week, doesn’t mean we expect the rest of the world to do so.”
“I had to be in Hartford, anyway. No problem.”
“Sit down, sit down. Can I offer you anything? A drink? Coffee?”
“No thanks.” Matlock sat in a huge black leather chair, the kind of chair usually found in the oldest, most venerated men’s clubs. Blackstone returned to his desk. “Actually, I’m in somewhat of a hurry. I’d like to sign our agreement, pay you, and leave.”
“Certainly. The file’s right here.” Blackstone picked up a folder on his desk and smiled. “As I mentioned on the phone, there are questions we’d like answered, of course. Beyond what you’ve instructed us to do. It would help us carry out your orders. Take just a few minutes.”
Matlock expected the request. It was part of his plan, why he wanted to see Blackstone. His assumption—once Blackstone entered the picture—was that Blackstone might be able to offer him shortcuts. Perhaps not willingly, but if it was a question of “an additional charge.” … It was for this reason that he had to meet Blackstone face to face. If Blackstone could be bought, a great deal of time could be saved.
The Matlock Paper Page 15
