The Matlock Paper

by Robert Ludlum

  “Make it Monday. Tomorrow it’s only swimming.”

  “How come?”

  “Sunday. Holy day.”

  “Shit! I’ve got a friend coming in from London. He won’t be here Monday. He’s a big player.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll call Sharpe over in Windsor Shoals. He’s a Jew. Holy days don’t mean a fucking thing to him.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “I may even drop over myself. The wife’s got a Mothers of Madonna meeting, anyway.”

  Matlock looked at his watch. The evening—his point of departure—had gone well. He wondered if he should press his luck. “Only real problem coming into a territory is the time it takes to find the sources.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I’ve got a girl over in the motel. She’s sleeping, we traveled most of the day. She ran out of grass—no hard stuff—just grass. I told her I’d pick some up for her.”

  “Can’t help you, Matlock. I don’t keep none here, what with the kids around during the day. It’s not good for the image, see? A few pills, I got. No needle crap, though. You want some pills?”

  “No, just grass. That’s all I let her use.”

  “Very smart of you.… Which way you headed?”

  “Back into Hartford.”

  Bartolozzi snapped his fingers. A large bartender sprang into position instantly. Matlock thought there was something grotesque about the squat little Italian commandeering in such fashion. Bartolozzi asked the man for paper and pencil.

  “Here. Here’s an address. I’ll make a phone call. It’s an afterhours place right off the main drag. Down the street from G. Fox. Second floor. Ask for Rocco. What you couldn’t use, he’s got.”

  “You’re a prince.” And as Matlock took the paper, he meant it.

  “For four grand the first night, you got privileges.… Hey, y’know what? You never filled out an application! That’s a gas, huh?”

  “You don’t need credit references. I play with cash.”

  “Where the hell do you keep it?”

  “In thirty-seven banks from here to Los Angeles.” Matlock put down his glass and held out his hand to Bartolozzi. “It’s been fun. See you tomorrow?”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll walk you to the door. Don’t forget now. Don’t give Sammy all the action. Come on back here.”

  “My word on it.”

  The two men walked back to the open-air corridor, the short Italian placing his fat hand in the middle of Matlock’s back, the gesture of a new friend. What neither man realized as they stepped onto the narrow causeway was that one well-dressed gentleman at a nearby table who kept punching at a fluidless lighter was watching them. As the two men passed his table, he put his lighter back into his pocket while the woman across from him lit his cigarette with a match. The woman spoke quietly through a smile.

  “Did you get them?”

  The man laughed softly. “Karsh couldn’t have done better. Even got close-ups.”

  20

  If the Avon Swim Club was an advantageous point of departure, the Hartford Hunt Club—under the careful management of Rocco Aiello—was an enviable first lap. For Matlock now thought of his journey to Nimrod as a race, one which had to end within two weeks and one day. It would end with the convocation of the Nimrod forces and the Mafiosi somewhere in the Carlyle vicinity. It would be finished for him when someone, somewhere produced another silver Corsican paper.

  Bartolozzi’s telephone call was effective. Matlock entered the old red stone building—at first he thought he had the wrong address, for no light shone through the windows, and there was no sign of activity within—and found a freight elevator at the end of the hallway with a lone Negro operator sitting in a chair in front of the door. No sooner had he come in than the black rose to his feet and indicated the elevator to Matlock.

  In an upstairs hallway a man greeted him. “Very nice to make your acquaintance. Name’s Rocco. Rocco Aiello.” The man held out his hand and Matlock took it.

  “Thanks.… I was puzzled. I didn’t hear anything. I thought maybe I was in the wrong place.”

  “If you had heard, the construction boys would have taken me. The walls are eighteen inches thick, sound-proofed both sides; the windows are blinds. Very secure.”

  “That’s really something.”

  Rocco reached into his pocket and withdrew a small wooden cigarette case. “I got a box of joints for you. No charge. I’d like to show you around, but Jock-O said you might be in a hurry.”

  “Jock-O’s wrong. I’d like to have a drink.”

  “Good! Come on in.… Only one thing, Mr. Matlock. I got a nice clientele, you know what I mean? Very rich, very cube. Some of them know about Jock-O’s operation, most of them don’t. You know what I mean?”

  “I understand. I was never much for swimming anyway.”

  “Good, good.… Welcome to Hartford’s finest.” He opened the thick steel door. “I hear you went for a bundle tonight.”

  Matlock laughed as he walked into the complex of dimly lit rooms crowded with tables and customers. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “In Connecticut, that’s what it’s called.… See? I got two floors—a duplex, like. Each floor’s got five big rooms, a bar in each room. Very private, no bad behavior. Nice place to bring the wife, or somebody else, you know what I mean?”

  “I think I do. It’s quite something.”

  “The waiters are mostly college boys. I like to help them make a few dollars for their education. I got niggers, spics, kikes—I got no discrimination. Just the hair, I don’t go for the long hair, you know what I mean?”

  “College kids! Isn’t that dangerous? Kids talk.”

  “Hey, what d’you think?! This place was originally started by a Joe College. It’s like a fraternity home. Everybody’s a bona fide, dues-paying member of a private organization. They can’t getcha for that.”

  “I see. What about the other part?”

  “What other part?”

  “What I came for.”

  “What? A little grass? Try the corner newsstand.”

  Matlock laughed. He didn’t want to overdo it. “Two points, Rocco.… Still, if I knew you better, maybe I’d like to make a purchase. Bartolozzi said what I couldn’t use, you’ve got.… Forget it, though. I’m bushed. I’ll just get a drink and shove off. The girl’s going to wonder where I’ve been.”

  “Sometimes Bartolozzi talks too much.”

  “I think you’re right. By the way, he’s joining me tomorrow night at Sharpe’s over in Windsor Shoals. I’ve got a friend flying in from London. Care to join us?”

  Aiello was obviously impressed. The players from London were beginning to take precedence over the Vegas and Caribbean boys. Sammy Sharpe’s wasn’t that well known, either.

  “Maybe I’ll do that … Look, you need something, you feel free to ask, right?”

  “I’ll do that. Only I don’t mind telling you, the kids make me nervous.”

  Aiello took Matlock’s elbow with his left hand and walked him toward the bar. “You got it wrong. These kids—they’re not kids, you know what I mean?”

  “No, I don’t. Kids are kids. I like my action a little more subdued. No sweat. I’m not curious.” Matlock looked up at the bartender and withdrew what was left of his bankroll. He removed a twenty-dollar bill and placed it on the bar. “Old Fitz and water, please.”

  “Put your money away,” Rocco said.

  “Mr. Aiello?” A young man in a waiter’s jacket approached them. He was perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, Matlock thought.

  “Yeah?”

  “If you’ll sign this tab. Table eleven. It’s the Johnsons. From Canton. They’re O.K.”

  Aiello took the waiter’s pad and scribbled his initials. The young man walked back toward the tables.

  “See that kid? That’s what I mean. He’s a Yalie. He got back from Nam six months ago.”

  “So?”

  “He was a lieutenant. An officer.
Now he’s studying business administration.… He fills in here maybe twice a week. Mostly for contacts. By the time he gets out, he’ll have a real nest egg. Start his own business.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a supplier.… These kids, that’s what I mean. You should hear their stories. Saigon, Da Nang. Hong Kong, even. Real peddling. Hey, these kids today, they’re great! They know what’s up. Smart, too. No worries, believe me!”

  “I believe you.” Matlock took his drink and swallowed quickly. It wasn’t that he was thirsty, he was trying to conceal his shock at Aiello’s revelation. The graduates of Indochina were not the pink-cheeked, earnest, young-old veterans of Armentières, Anzio, or even Panmunjom. They were something else, something faster, sadder, infinitely more knowing. A hero in Indochina was the soldier who had contacts on the docks and in the warehouses. That man in Indochina was the giant among his peers. And such young-old men were almost all back.

  Matlock drank the remainder of his bourbon and let Rocco show him the other rooms on the third floor. He displayed the controlled appreciation Aiello expected and promised he’d return. He said no more about Sammy Sharpe’s in Windsor Shoals. He knew it wasn’t necessary. Aiello’s appetite had been whetted.

  As he drove away, two thoughts occupied his mind. Two objectives had to be accomplished before Sunday afternoon was over. The first was that he had to produce an Englishman; the second was that he had to produce another large sum of money. It was imperative that he have both. He had to be at Sharpe’s in Windsor Shoals the next evening.

  The Englishman he had in mind lived in Webster, an associate professor of mathematics at a small parochial campus, Madison University. He had been in the country less than two years; Matlock had met him—quite unprofessionally—at a boat show in Saybrook. The Britisher had lived on the Cornwall coast most of his life and was a sailing enthusiast. Matlock and Pat had liked him immediately. Now Matlock hoped to God that John Holden knew something about gambling.

  The money was a more serious problem. Alex Anderson would have to be tapped again, and it was quite possible that he’d find enough excuses to put him off. Anderson was a cautious man, easily frightened. On the other hand, he had a nose for rewards. That instinct would have to be played upon.

  Holden had seemed startled but not at all annoyed by Matlock’s telephone call. If he was anything other than kind, it was curious. He repeated the directions to his apartment twice and Matlock thanked him, assuring him that he remembered the way.

  “I’ll be perfectly frank, Jim,” said Holden, admitting Matlock into his neat three-room apartment. “I’m simply bursting. Is anything the matter? Is Patricia all right?”

  “The answers are yes and no. I’ll tell you everything I can, which won’t be a hell of a lot.… I want to ask you a favor, though. Two favors, actually. The first, can I stay here tonight?”

  “Of course—you needn’t ask. You look peaked. Come, sit down. Can I get you a drink?”

  “No, no thanks.” Matlock sat on Holden’s sofa. He remembered that it was one of those hide-a-beds and that it was comfortable. He and Pat had slept in it one happy, alcoholic night several months ago. It seemed ages ago.

  “What’s the second favor? The first is my pleasure. If it’s cash, I’ve something over a thousand. You’re entirely welcome to it.”

  “No, not money, thanks just the same.… I’d like you to impersonate an Englishman for me.”

  Holden laughed. He was a small-boned man of forty, but he laughed the way older, fatter men laughed.

  “That shouldn’t be too demanding, now should it? I suspect there’s still a trace of Cornwall in my speech. Hardly noticeable, of course.”

  “Hardly. With a little practice you may even lose the Yankee twang.… There’s something else, though, and it may not be so easy. Have you ever gambled?”

  “Gambled? You mean horses, football matches?”

  “Cards, dice, roulette?”

  “Not substantially, no. Of course, as any reasonably imaginative mathematician, I went through a phase when I thought that by applying arithmetical principles—logarithmic averages—one could beat the gambling odds.”

  “Did they work?”

  “I said I went through the phase, I didn’t stay there. If there’s a mathematical system, it eluded me. Still does.”

  “But you’ve played? You know the games.”

  “Rather well, when you come right down to it. Laboratory research, you might say. Why?”

  Matlock repeated the story he had told Blackstone. However, he minimized Pat’s injuries and lightened the motives of those who assaulted her. When he finished, the Englishman, who’d lit his pipe, knocked the ashes out of the bowl into a large glass ashtray.

  “It’s right out of the cinema, isn’t it?… You say Patricia’s not seriously hurt. Frightened but nothing much more than that?”

  “Right. If I went to the police it might louse up her scholarship money.”

  “I see.… Well, I don’t really, but we’ll let it go. And you’d rather I lost tomorrow night.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Just that you bet a great deal.”

  “But you’re prepared for heavy losses.”

  “I am.”

  Holden stood up. “I’m perfectly willing to go through with this performance. It should prove rather a lark. However, there’s a great deal you’re not telling me and I wish you would. But I shan’t insist upon it. I will tell you that your story is boggled with a large mathematical inconsistency.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As I understand it, the money you are prepared to lose tomorrow evening is far in excess of any amount Patricia might realize in scholarship aid. The logical assumption, therefore, is that you do not wish to go to the police. Or perhaps, you can’t.”

  Matlock looked up at the Englishman and wondered at his own stupidity. He felt embarrassed and very inadequate. “I’m sorry.… I haven’t consciously lied to you. You don’t have to go through with it; maybe I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “I never implied that you lied—not that it matters. Only that there was much you haven’t told me. Of course, I’ll do it. I just want you to know I’m a willing audience when and if you decide to tell me everything that’s happened.… Now, it’s late and you’re tired. Why don’t you take my room.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll sack out here. It has pleasant memories. A blanket’s all I need. Also I have to make a phone call.”

  “Anything you say. A blanket you’ll get, and you know where the phone is.”

  When Holden left, Matlock went to the phone. The Tel-electronic device he’d agreed to lease would not be ready until Monday morning.

  “Blackstone.”

  “This is James Matlock. I was told to call this number for any messages.”

  “Yes, Mr. Matlock. There is a message, if you’ll hold on while I get the card.… Here it is. From the Carlyle team. Everything is secure. The subject is responding nicely to medical treatment. The subject had three visitors. A Mr. Samuel Kressel, a Mr. Adrian Sealfont, and a Miss Lois Meyers. The subject received two telephone calls, neither of which the physician allowed to be taken. They were from the same individual, a Mr. Jason Greenberg. The calls were from Wheeling, West Virginia. At no time was the subject separated from the Carlyle team.… You can relax.”

  “Thank you. I will. You’re very thorough. Good night.” Matlock breathed deeply in relief and exhaustion. Lois Meyers lived across the hall from Pat in the graduate apartment house. The fact that Greenberg had called was comforting. He missed Greenberg.

  He reached up and turned off the table lamp by the sofa. The bright April moon shone through the windows. The man from Blackstone’s service was right—he could relax.

  What he couldn’t allow to relax were his thoughts about tomorrow—and after tomorrow. Everything had to remain accelerated; one productive day had to lead into another. There could be no letup, no sense of momentary satisfaction which might slow his thrust.
>
  And after tomorrow. After Sammy Sharpe’s in Windsor Shoals. If all went according to his calculations, it would be the time to head into the Carlyle area. Matlock closed his eyes and saw Blackstone’s printed page in front of his mind.

  CARMOUNT COUNTRY CLUB—CONTACT: HOWARD STOCKTON

  WEST CARLYLE SAIL AND SKI RESORT—CONTACT: ALAN CANTOR

  Carmount was east of Carlyle near the border of Mount Holly. The Sail and Ski was west, on Lake Derron—a summer and winter resort area.

  He’d find some reason to have Bartolozzi or Aiello, or, perhaps, Sammy Sharpe, make the proper introductions. And once in the Carlyle area, he would drop the hints. Perhaps more than hints—commands, requirements, necessities. This was the boldness he needed to use, this was the way of Nimrod.

  His eyes remained closed, the muscles in his body sagged, and the pitch darkness of exhausted sleep came over him. But before sleeping he remembered the paper. The Corsican paper. He had to get the paper now. He would need the silver paper. He would need the invitation to Nimrod.

  His invitation now. His paper.

  The Matlock paper.

  21

  If the elders at the Windsor Shoals Congregational Church had ever realized that Samuel Sharpe, attorney at law, the very bright Jewish lawyer who handled the church’s finances, was referred to as Sammy the Runner by most of North Hartford and South Springfield, Massachusetts, vespers would have been canceled for a month. Fortunately, such a revelation had never been made to them and the Congregational Church looked favorably on him. He had done remarkable things for the church’s portfolio and gave handsomely himself during fund drives. The Congregational Church of Windsor Shoals, as indeed most of the town, was nicely disposed toward Samuel Sharpe.

  Matlock learned all of this in Sharpe’s office inside the Windsor Valley Inn. The framed citations on the wall told half the story, and Jacopo Bartolozzi good-naturedly supplied the rest. Jacopo was actually making sure that Matlock and his English friend were aware that Sharpe’s operation, as well as Sharpe himself, lacked the fine traditions of the Avon Swim Club.