The Matlock Paper Read online

  So he’d fled into the secure confines of graduate school, hoping to find an answer. And as in a love affair begun on a sexual basis but growing into psychological dependence, he had married that world; he’d found what had eluded him for nearly five vital years. It was the first real commitment he’d ever experienced.

  He was free.

  Free to enjoy the excitement of a meaningful challenge; free to revel in the confidence that he was equal to it. He plunged into his new world with the enthusiasm of a convert but without the blindness. He chose a period of history and literature that teemed with energy and conflict and contradictory evaluations. The apprentice years passed swiftly; he was consumed and pleasantly surprised by his own talents. When he emerged on the professional plateau, he brought fresh air into the musty archives. He made startling innovations in long-unquestioned methods of research. His doctoral thesis on court interference with English Renaissance literature—news management—blew into the historical ashcan several holy theories about one benefactress named Elizabeth.

  He was the new breed of scholar: restless, skeptical, unsatisfied, always searching while imparting what he’d learned to others. Two and a half years after receiving his doctorate, he was elevated to the tenured position of associate professor, the youngest instructor at Carlyle to be so contracted.

  James Barbour Matlock II made up for the lost years, the awful years. Perhaps best of all was the knowledge that he could communicate his excitement to others. He was young enough to enjoy sharing his enthusiasm, old enough to direct the inquiries.

  Yes, he was mobile; God, was he! He couldn’t, wouldn’t turn anyone off, shut anyone out because of disagreement—even dislike. The depth of his own gratitude, the profoundness of his relief was such that he unconsciously promised himself never to discount the concerns of another human being.

  “Any surprises?” Loring had completed a section of the material that dealt with narcotics purchases as they’d been traced.

  “More a clarification, I’d say,” replied Matlock. “The old-line fraternities or clubs—mostly white, mostly rich—get their stuff from Hartford. The black units like Lumumba Hall go to New Haven. Different sources.”

  “Exactly; that’s student orientation. The point being that none buy from the Carlyle suppliers. From Nimrod.”

  “You explained that. The Nimrod people don’t want to be advertised.”

  “But they’re here. They’re used.”

  “By whom?”

  “Faculty and staff,” answered Loring calmly, flipping over a page. This may be a surprise. Mr. and Mrs. Archer Beeson …”

  Matlock immediately pictured the young history instructor and his wife. They were Ivy League conformity itself—falsely arrogant, aesthetically precious. Archer Beeson was a young man in an academic hurry; his wife, the perfect faculty ingenue, carelessly sexy, always in awe.

  “They’re with LSD and the methedrines. Acid and speed.”

  “Good Lord! They fooled the hell out of me. How do you know?”

  “It’s too complicated to go into, also restricted. To oversimplify: they, he, used to purchase heavily from a distributor in Bridgeport. The contact was terminated and he didn’t show up on any other lists. But he’s not off. We think he made the Carlyle connection. No proof, though … Here’s another.”

  It was the coach of varsity soccer, a jock who worked in physical education. His items were marijuana and amphetamines; his previous source, Hartford. He was considered a pusher on campus, not a user. Although the Hartford source was no longer employed, the man’s varied and dummied bank accounts continued to grow. Assumption: Nimrod.

  And another. This one frightening to Matlock. The assistant dean of admissions. An alumnus of Carlyle who returned to the campus after a brief career as a salesman. He was a flamboyant, open-handed man; a proselytizer for the cause of Carlyle. A popular enthusiast in these days of cynicism. He, too, was considered a distributor, not a user. He covered himself well through second- and third-level pushers.

  “We think he came back here through the Nimrod organization. Good positioning on Nimrod’s part.”

  “Goddamn scarey. That son of a bitch makes parents think he’s a combination of astronaut and chaplain.”

  “Good positioning, as I said. Remember? I told you and Kressel: the Nimrod people have interests that go beyond drugs.”

  “But you don’t know what they are.”

  “We’d better find out.… Here’s the breakdown of the kids.”

  The names of the students seemed endless to Matlock. There were 563 out of a total enrollment of 1200 plus. The government man admitted that many were included not because of confirmation of individual use, but due to their campus affiliations. Clubs and fraternities were known to pool resources for the purchase of narcotics.

  “We haven’t the time to ascertain the validity of every name. We’re looking for relationships; any, no matter how remote. You’ve got to have all kinds of avenues; we can’t restrict them.… And there’s one aspect to this list; I don’t know whether you see it or not.”

  “I certainly do. At least, I think I do. Twenty or thirty names here ring loud bells in several high places. Some very influential parents. Industry, government. Here.” Matlock pointed. “The president’s cabinet, if I’m not mistaken. And I’m not.”

  “You see.” Loring smiled.

  “Has any of this had any effect?”

  “We don’t know. Could have, could be. The Nimrod tentacles are spreading out fast. That’s why the alarms are sounding; louder than your bells. Speaking unofficially, there could be repercussions no one’s dreamed of.… Defense overruns, union contracts, forced installations. You name it. It could be related.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Matlock softly.

  “Exactly.”

  The two men heard the front door of Sealfont’s mansion open and shut. As if by reflex, Loring calmly took the papers from Matlock’s hand and quickly replaced them in his briefcase. He closed the case and then did an unexpected thing. He silently, almost unobtrusively, whipped back his jacket and curled his fingers around the handle of a revolver in a small holster strapped to his chest. The action startled Matlock. He stared at the hidden hand.

  The library door opened and Adrian Sealfont walked in. Loring casually removed his hand from inside his coat. Sealfont spoke kindly.

  “I do try. I honestly do. I understand the words and the pictures and take no offense whatsoever at the braided hair. What confuses me is the hostility. Anyone past thirty is the natural enemy of these fellows.”

  “That was Strauss, wasn’t it?” asked Matlock.

  “Yes. Someone inquired about the New Wave influence. He replied that the New Wave was ancient history. Prehistoric, was his word.… I won’t interrupt you gentlemen. I would, however, like to know Kressel’s status, Mr. Loring. Obviously, James has accepted.”

  “So has Mr. Kressel, sir. He’ll act as liaison between us.”

  “I see.” Sealfont looked at Matlock. There was a sense of relief in his eyes. “James, I can tell you now. I’m extremely grateful you’ve decided to help.”

  “I don’t think there’s an alternative.”

  “There isn’t. What’s frightening is the possibility of such total involvement. Mr. Loring, I’ll want to be advised the minute you have anything concrete. At that point, I shall do whatever you wish, follow any instructions. All I ask is that you supply me with proof and you’ll have my complete, my official cooperation.”

  “I understand, sir. You’ve been very helpful. More than we had a right to expect. We appreciate it.”

  “As James said, there is no alternative. But I must impose limits; my first obligation is to this institution. The campuses these days might appear dormant; I think that’s a surface evaluation.… You have work to do and I have some reading to finish. Good night, Mr. Loring. James.”

  Matlock and the government man nodded their goodnights as Adrian Sealfont closed the library door.

>   By one o’clock, Matlock could absorb no more. The main elements—names, sources, conjectures—were locked in; he would never forget them. Not that he could recite everything by rote; that wasn’t expected. But the sight of any particular individual on the lists would trigger a memory response. He knew Loring was right about that. It was why the agent insisted that he say the names out loud, repeating them several times each. It would be enough.

  What he needed now was a night’s sleep, if sleep would come. Let everything fall into some kind of perspective. Then in the morning he could begin to make initial decisions, determine which individuals should be approached, selecting those least likely to come in contact with one another. And this meant familiarizing himself with immediate friends, faculty or student body status—dozens of isolated fragments of information beyond the data supplied by Loring. Kressel’s files—the ones he disclaimed having—would help.

  Once in conversations he’d have to make his way carefully—thrusting, parrying, watching for signs, looks, betrayals.

  Somewhere, with someone, it would happen.

  “I’d like to go back to something,” said Loring. “Background material.”

  “We’ve covered an awful lot. Maybe I should digest what I’ve got.”

  “This won’t take a minute. It’s important.” The agent reached into his briefcase and withdrew the filthy, scissored paper. “Here, this is yours.”

  “Thanks for I-don’t-know-what.” Matlock took the once-shining silver paper and looked at the strange script.

  “I told you it was written in Oltremontan-Corsican and, except for two words, that’s correct. At the bottom, on a single line, you’ll see the phrase Venerare Omerta. That’s not Corsican, it’s Sicilian. Or a Sicilian contraction, to be precise.”

  “I’ve seen it before.”

  “I’m sure you have. It’s been given wide distribution in newspapers, movies, fiction. But that doesn’t lessen its impact on those concerned by it. It’s very real.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Roughly translated: Respect the law of Omerta. Omerta is an oath of allegiance and silence. To betray either is asking to be killed.”

  “Mafia?”

  “It’s involved. You might say it’s the party of the second part. Bear in mind that this little announcement was issued jointly by two factions trying to reach an accommodation. ‘Omerta’ goes across the board; it’s understood by both.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it.”

  “Just know about it.”

  “O.K.”

  “One last item. Everything we’ve covered here tonight is related to narcotics. But if our information is correct, the Nimrod people are involved in other fields. Sharking, prostitution, gambling … perhaps, and it’s only perhaps, municipal controls, state legislatures, even the federal government.… Experience tells us that narcotics is the weakest action, the highest rate of collapse among these activities, and that’s why we’ve centered on it. In other words, concentrate on the drug situation but be aware that other avenues exist.”

  “It’s no secret.”

  “Maybe not to you. Let’s call it a night.”

  “Shouldn’t you give me a number where I can reach you?”

  “Negative. Use Kressel. We’ll check with him several times a day. Once you start asking questions, you may be put under a microscope. Don’t call Washington. And don’t lose our Corsican invitation. It’s your ultimate clout. Just find another one.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Matlock watched as Loring closed his briefcase, looped the thin black chain around his wrist, and snapped the built-in lock.

  “Looks very cloak-and-daggerish, doesn’t it?” Loring laughed.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. The custom began with diplomatic couriers who’d take their pouches to hell with them, but today it’s simply a protection against purse-snatching.… So help me, that’s what they think of us.”

  “I don’t believe a word you say. That’s one of those cases that make smoke screens, send out radio signals, and trigger bombs.”

  “You’re right. It does all those things and more. It’s got secret compartments for sandwiches, laundry, and God knows what else.” Loring swung the briefcase off the desk. “I think it’d be a good idea if we left separately. Preferably one from the front, one from the rear. Ten minutes apart.”

  “You think that’s necessary?”

  “Frankly, no, but that’s the way my superiors want it.”

  “O.K. I know the house. I’ll leave ten minutes after you do, from the kitchen.”

  “Fine.” Loring extended his right hand by steadying the bottom of his case with his left. “I don’t have to tell you how much we appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “I think you know why I’m doing it.”

  “Yes, we do. Frankly, we counted on it.”

  Loring let himself out of the library and Matlock waited until he heard the outer door open and close. He looked at his watch. He’d have one more drink before he left.

  By one twenty Matlock was several blocks away from the house. He walked slowly west toward his apartment, debating whether to detour around the campus. It often helped him to walk out a problem; he knew sleep would come fitfully. He passed a number of students and several faculty members, exchanging low-keyed, end of the weekend greetings with those he recognized. He’d about made up his mind to turn north on High Street, away from the direction of his apartment, when he heard the footsteps behind him. First the footsteps, then the harshly whispered voice.

  “Matlock! Don’t turn around. It’s Loring. Just keep walking and listen to me.”

  “What is it?”

  “Someone knows I’m here. My car was searched.…”

  “Christ! How do you know?”

  “Field threads, preset markings. All over the car. Front, back, trunk. A very thorough, very professional job.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “So goddamn sure I’m not going to start that engine!”

  “Jesus!” Matlock nearly stopped.

  “Keep walking! If anyone was watching me—and you can be damned sure someone was—I made it clear I’d lost my ignition key. Asked several people who passed by where a pay phone was and waited till I saw you far enough away.”

  “What do you want me to do? There’s a phone booth on the next corner.…”

  “I know. I don’t think you’ll have to do anything, and for both our sakes, I hope I’m right. I’m going to jostle you as I pass—pretty hard. Lose your balance, I’ll shout my apologies. Pretend you twisted an ankle, a wrist, anything you like; but buy time! Keep me in sight until a car comes for me and I nod that it’s o.k. Do you have all that? I’ll get to the booth in a hurry.”

  “Suppose you’re still phoning when I get there?”

  “Keep walking but keep checking. The car’s cruising.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “This briefcase. That’s the point. There’s only one thing Nimrod—if it is Nimrod—would like more than this briefcase. And that’s the paper in your coat pocket. So be carefull!”

  Without warning, he rushed up beside Matlock and pushed him off the sidewalk.

  “Sorry, fella! I’m in an awful hurry!”

  Matlock looked up from the ground, reflecting that he’d had no reason to pretend to fall. The force of Loring’s push eliminated that necessity. He swore and rose awkwardly. Once on his feet, he limped slowly toward the phone booth several hundred yards away. He wasted nearly a minute lighting a cigarette. Loring was inside the booth now, sitting on the plastic seat, hunched over the phone.

  Any second, Matlock expected Loring’s car to drive up the street.

  Yet none came.

  Instead, there was the tiniest break in the spring noises. A rush of air through the new leaves. Or was it the crush of a stone beneath a foot, or a small twig unable to take the weight of the new growth in the tr
ees? Or was it Matlock’s imagination? He couldn’t be sure.

  He approached the booth and remembered Loring’s orders. Walk by and pay no attention. Loring was still huddled over the phone, his briefcase resting on the floor, its chain visible. But Matlock could hear no conversation, could see no movement from the man within. Instead, again, there was a sound: now, the sound of a dial tone.

  Despite his instructions, Matlock approached the booth and opened the door. There was nothing else he could do. The government man had not even begun his call.

  And in an instant, he understood why.

  Loring had fallen into the gleaming gray metal of the telephone. He was dead. His eyes wide, blood trickling out of his forehead. A small circular hole no larger than a shirt button, surrounded by a spray of cracked glass, was ample evidence of what had happened.

  Matlock stared at the man who had briefed him for hours and left him minutes ago. The dead man who had thanked him, joked with him, then finally warned him. He was petrified, unsure of what he should do, could do.

  He backed away from the booth toward the steps of the nearest house. Instinct told him to stay away but not to run away. Someone was out there in the street. Someone with a rifle.

  When the words came, he realized they were his, but he didn’t know when he’d decided to shout them. They just emerged involuntarily.

  “Help … Help! There’s a man out here! He’s been shot!”

  Matlock raced up the steps of the corner house and began pounding on the door with all his strength. Several lights went on in several different homes. Matlock continued shouting.

  “For God’s sake, someone call the police! There’s a dead man out here!”

  Suddenly, from the shadows underneath the full trees in the middle of the block, Matlock heard the roar of an automobile engine, then the sound of swerving tires as the vehicle pulled out into the middle of the street and started forward. He rushed to the edge of the porch. The long black automobile plunged out of the darkness and sped to the corner. Matlock tried to see the license plates and, realizing that was impossible, took a step down to identify the make of the car. Suddenly he was blinded. The beam of a searchlight pierced the dimly lit spring night and focused itself on him. He pulled his hands up to shield his eyes and then heard the quiet slap, the instant rush of air he had heard minutes ago.