“Application photographs?”
“Not allowed anymore, you know that.”
Matlock stared out the window, his eyebrows wrinkled in thought. He looked back at Daniels. “Pete, it’s May.…”
“So? It could be November; that wouldn’t change the Fair Practices law.”
“Graduation’s in a month.… Senior class photographs. Yearbook portraits.”
Daniels understood instantly. He took his pipe from his mouth and started for the door.
“Come with me.”
His name was Alan Pace. He was a senior and his curriculum was not centered on business administration; he was a government major. He lived off campus on Church Street near the Hamden town line. According to his records, Alan Pace was an excellent student, consistent honors in all subjects, a fellowship in the offing at the Maxwell School of Political Science at Syracuse. He had spent twenty-eight months in the army, four more than was required of him. As with most veterans, his university extracurricular activities were minimal.
While Pace was in service, he was an officer attached to inventory and supply. He had volunteered for a four-month extended tour of duty in the Saigon Corps—a fact noted with emphasis on his reapplication form. Alan Pace had given four months of his life more than necessary to his country. Alan Pace was obviously an honorable man in these days of cynicism.
He was a winner, thought Matlock.
The drive out Church Street toward Hamden gave Matlock the chance to clear his mind. He had to take one thing at a time; one item crossed off—on to the next. He couldn’t allow his imagination to interpret isolated facts beyond their meaning. He couldn’t lump everything together and total a sum larger than the parts.
It was entirely possible that this Alan Pace played a solo game. Unattached, unencumbered.
But it wasn’t logical.
Pace’s apartment house was an undistinguished brown brick building, so common on the outskirts of cities. Once—forty or fifty years ago—it had been the proud symbol of a rising middle class extending themselves out beyond the cement confines toward the country, but not so courageous as to leave the city completely. It wasn’t so much run down as it was … not spruced up. The most glaring aspect of the apartment house to Matlock, however, was that it seemed to be a most unlikely place for a student to reside.
But he was there now; Peter Daniels had ascertained that.
Pace had not wanted to unlatch the door. It was only Matlock’s strong emphasis on two points that made the student relent. The first point was that he wasn’t from the police; the second, the name of Rocco Aiello.
“What do you want? I’ve got a lot of work to do; I don’t have time to talk. I’ve got comprehensives tomorrow.”
“May I sit down?”
“What for? I told you, I’m busy.” The tall, brown-haired student crossed back to his desk, piled with books and papers. The apartment was neat—except for the desk—and quite large. There were doors and short corridors leading to other doors. It was the sort of apartment that usually was shared by four or five students. But Alan Pace had no roommates.
“I’ll sit down anyway. You owe that much to Rocco.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just that Rocco was my friend. I was the one with him the other night when you brought him a tab to sign. Remember? And he was good to you.… He’s dead.”
“I know. I read about it. I’m sorry. But I didn’t owe him anything.”
“But you bought from him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Pace. You don’t have the time and neither do I. You’re not connected to Aiello’s death, I know that. But I’ve got to have information, and you’re going to supply it.”
“You’re talking to the wrong person. I don’t know you. I don’t know anything.”
“I know you. I’ve got a complete rundown on you. Aiello and I were considering going into business together. Now, that’s none of your concern, I realize that, but we exchanged … personnel information. I’m coming to you because, frankly, Rocco’s gone and there are areas that need filling. I’m really asking a favor, and I’ll pay for it.”
“I told you, I’m not your man. I hardly knew Aiello. I picked up a few dollars waiting tables. Sure, I heard rumors, but that’s all. I don’t know what you want, but you’d better go to someone else.”
Pace was sharp, thought Matlock. He was disengaging himself but not foolishly claiming complete innocence. On the other hand, perhaps he was telling the truth. There was only one way to find out.
“I’ll try again.… Fifteen months in Vietnam. Saigon, Da Nang; excursions to Hong Kong, Japan. I&S officer; the dullest, most exasperating kind of work for a young man with the potential that earns him honors at a very tough university.”
“I&S was good duty; no combat, no sweat. Everybody made the tourist hops. Check the R&R route sheets.”
“Then,” continued Matlock without acknowledging Pace’s interruption, “the dedicated officer returns to civilian life. After a four-month voluntary extension in Saigon—I’m surprised you weren’t caught up on that one—he comes back with enough money to make the proper investments, and certainly not from his army pay. He’s one of the biggest suppliers in New Haven. Do you want me to go on?”
Pace stood by the desk and seemed to stop breathing. He stared at Matlock, his face white. When he spoke, it was the voice of a frightened young man.
“You can’t prove anything. I haven’t done anything. My army record, my record here—they’re both good. They’re very good.”
“The best. Unblemished. They’re records to be proud of; I mean that sincerely. And I wouldn’t want to do anything to spoil them; I mean that, too.”
“You couldn’t. I’m clean!”
“No, you’re not. You’re up to your fellowship neck. Aiello made that clear. On paper.”
“You’re lying!”
“You’re stupid. You think Aiello would do business with anyone he didn’t run a check on? Do you think he’d be allowed to? He kept very extensive books, Pace, and I’ve got them. I told you; we were going into business together. You don’t form a partnership without audit disclosures, you should know that.”
Pace spoke barely above a whisper. “There are no books like that. There never are. Cities, towns, codes. No names. Never any names.”
“Then why am I here?”
“You saw me in Hartford; you’re reaching for a connection.”
“You know better than that. Don’t be foolish.”
Matlock’s quickly put implications were too much for the tall, shocked young man. “Why did you come to me? I’m not that important. You say you know about me; then you know I’m not important.”
“I told you. I need information. I’m reluctant to go to the high priests, anyone with real authority. I don’t want to be at a disadvantage. That’s why I’m willing to pay; why I’m prepared to tear up everything I’ve got on you.”
The prospect of being cut free of the stranger’s grip was obviously all that was on Pace’s mind. He replied quickly.
“Suppose I can’t answer your questions? You’ll think I’m lying.”
“You can’t be worse off. All you can do is try me.”
“Go ahead.”
“I met a girl … from a nearby college. I met her under circumstances that can only be described as professional prostitution. Professional in every sense of the word. Appointments, set fees, no prior knowledge of clients, the works.… What do you know about it?”
Pace took several steps toward Matlock. “What do you mean, what do I know? I know it’s there. What else is there to know?”
“How extensive?”
“All over. It’s not news.”
“It is to me.”
“You don’t know the scene. Take a walk around a few college towns.”
Matlock swallowed. Was he really that far out of touch? “Suppose I were to tell you I’m familiar with a lot of
… college towns?”
“I’d say your circles were cubed. Also, I’m no part of that action. What else?”
“Let’s stick to this for a minute.… Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do the girls do it?”
“Bread, man. Why does anyone do anything?”
“You’re too intelligent to believe that.… Is it organized?”
“I guess so. I told you, I’m no part of it.”
“Watch it! I’ve got a lot of paper on you.…”
“All right. Yes, it’s organized. Everything’s organized. If it’s going to work.”
“Where specifically are the operations?”
“I told you! All over.”
“Inside the colleges?”
“No, not inside. On the outskirts. A couple of miles usually, if the campuses are rural. Old houses, away from the suburbs. If they’re in cities—downtown hotels, private clubs, apartment houses. But not here.”
“Are we talking about … Columbia, Harvard, Radcliffe, Smith, Holyoke? And points south?”
“Everyone always forgets Princeton,” replied Pace with a wry smile. “A lot of nice old estates in those back roads.… Yes, we’re talking about those places.”
“I never would have believed it.…” Matlock spoke as much to himself as to Pace. “But, why? Don’t give me the ‘bread’ routine.…”
“Bread is freedom, man! For these kids it’s freedom. They’re not psyched-up freaks; they’re not running around in black berets and field jackets. Very few of us are. We’ve learned. Get the money, fella, and the nice people will like you.… Also, whether you’ve noticed it or not, the straight money’s not as easy to come by as it once was. Most of these kids need it.”
“The girl I mentioned before; I gathered she was forced into it.”
“Oh, Jesus, nobody’s forced! That’s crap.”
“She was. She mentioned a few things.… Controls is as good a word as any. Courts, doctors, even jobs.…”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“And afterward. Making contact later—perhaps a few years later. Plain old-fashioned blackmail. Just as I’m blackmailing you now.”
“Then she was in trouble before; this girl, I mean. If it’s a bummer, she doesn’t have to make the trip. Unless she’s into somebody and owes what she can’t pay for.”
“Who is Nimrod?” Matlock asked the question softly, without emphasis. But the question caused the young man to turn and walk away.
“I don’t know that. I don’t have that information.”
Matlock got out of the chair and stood motionless. “I’ll ask you just once more, and if I don’t get an answer, I’ll walk out the door and you’ll be finished. A very promising life will be altered drastically—if you have a life.… Who is Nimrod?”
The boy whipped around and Matlock saw the fear again. The fear he had seen on Lucas Herron’s face, in Lucas Herron’s eyes.
“So help me Christ, I can’t answer that!”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. I don’t know!”
“I think you do. But I said I’d only ask you once. That’s it.” Matlock started for the apartment door without looking at the student.
“No!… Goddamn it, I don’t know!… How could I know? You can’t!” Pace ran to Matlock’s side.
“Can’t what?”
“Whatever you said you’d do.… Listen to me! I don’t know who they are! I don’t have …”
“They?”
Pace looked puzzled. “Yeah.… I guess ‘they.’ I don’t know. I don’t have any contact. Others do; I don’t. They haven’t bothered me.”
“But you’re aware of them.” A statement.
“Aware.… Yes, I’m aware. But who, honest to God, no!”
Matlock turned and faced the student. “We’ll compromise. For now. Tell me what you do know.”
And the frightened young man did. And as the words came forth, the fear infected James Matlock.
Nimrod was an unseen master puppeteer. Faceless, formless, but with frightening, viable authority. It wasn’t a he or a they—it was a force, according to Alan Pace. A complex abstraction that had its elusive tentacles in every major university in the Northeast, every municipality that served the academic landscape, all the financial pyramids that funded the complicated structures of New England’s higher education. “And points south,” if the rumors had foundation.
Narcotics was only one aspect, the craw in the throats of the criminal legions—the immediate reason for the May conference, the Corsican letter.
Beyond drugs and their profits, the Nimrod imprimatur was stamped on scores of college administrations. Pace was convinced that curriculums were being shaped, university personnel hired and fired, degree and scholarship policies, all were expedited on the Nimrod organization’s instructions. Matlock’s memory flashed back to Carlyle. To Carlyle’s assistant dean of admissions—a Nimrod appointee, according to the dead Loring. To Archer Beeson, rapidly rising in the history department; to a coach of varsity soccer; to a dozen other faculty and staff names on Loring’s list.
How many more were there? How deep was the infiltration?
Why?
The prostitution rings were subsidiary accommodations. Recruitments were made by the child-whores among themselves; addresses were provided, fees established. Young flesh with ability and attractiveness could find its way to Nimrod and make the pact And there was “freedom,” there was “bread” in the pact with Nimrod.
And “no one was hurt”; it was a victimless crime.
“No crime at all, just freedom, man. No pressures over the head. No screaming zonkers over scholarship points.”
Alan Pace saw a great deal of good in the elusive, practical Nimrod. More than good.
“You think it’s all so different from the outside—straight? You’re wrong, mister. It’s mini-America: organized, computerized, and very heavy with the corporate structure. Hell, it’s patterned on the American syndrome; it’s company policy, man! It’s GM, ITT, and Ma Bell—only someone was smart enough to organize the groovy groves of academe. And it’s growing fast. Don’t fight it. Join it.”
“Is that what you’re going to do?” asked Matlock.
“It’s the way, man. It’s the faith. For all I know you’re with it now. Could be, you’re a recruiter. You guys are everywhere; I’ve been expecting you.”
“Suppose I’m not?”
“Then you’re out of your head. And over it, too.”
27
If one watched the white station wagon and its driver heading back toward the center of New Haven, one would have though—if he thought at all—that it was a rich car, suitable to a wealthy suburb, the man at the wheel appropriately featured for the vehicle.
Such an observer would not know that the driver was barely cognizant of the traffic, numbed by the revelations he’d learned within the hour; an exhausted man who hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours, who had the feeling that he was holding onto a thin rope above an infinite chasm, expecting any instant that his lifeline would be severed, plunging him into the infinite mist.
Matlock tried his best to suspend whatever thought processes he was capable of. The years, the specific months during which he’d run his academic race against self-imposed schedules had taught him that the mind—at least his mind—could not function properly when the forces of exhaustion and overexposure converged.
Above all, he had to function.
He was in uncharted waters. Seas where tiny islands were peopled by grotesque inhabitants. Julian Dunoises, Lucas Herrons; the Bartolozzis, the Aiellos, the Sharpes, the Stocktons, and the Paces. The poisoned and the poisoners.
Nimrod.
Uncharted waters?
No, they weren’t uncharted, thought Matlock.
They were well traveled. And the travelers were the cynics of the planet.
He drove to the Sheraton Hotel and took a room.
He sat on t
he edge of the bed and placed a telephone call to Howard Stockton at Carmount. Stockton was out.
In brusque, officious tones, he told the Carmount switchboard that Stockton was to return his call—he looked at his watch; it was ten of two—in four hours. At six o’clock. He gave the Sheraton number and hung up.
He needed at least four hours’ sleep. He wasn’t sure when he would sleep again.
He picked up the telephone once more and requested a wake-up call at five forty-five.
As his head sank to the pillow, he brought his arm up to his eyes. Through the cloth of his shirt he felt the stubble of his beard. He’d have to go to a barbershop; he’d left his suitcase in the white station wagon. He’d been too tired, too involved to remember to bring it to his room.
The short, sharp three rings of the telephone signified the Sheraton’s adherence to his instructions. It was exactly quarter to six. Fifteen minutes later there was another ring, this one longer, more normal. It was precisely six, and the caller was Howard Stockton.
“I’ll make this short, Matlock. You got a contact. Only he doesn’t want to meet inside the Sail and Ski. You go to the East Gorge slope—they use it in spring and summer for tourists to look at the scenery—and take the lift up to the top. You be there at eight thirty this evenin’. He’ll have a man at the top. That’s all I’ve got to say. It’s none of mah business!”
Stockton slammed down the telephone and the echo rang in Matlock’s ear.
But he’d made it! He’d made it! He had made the contact with Nimrod! With the conference.
He walked up the dark trail toward the ski lift. Ten dollars made the attendant at the Sail and Ski parking lot understand his problem: the nice-looking fellow in the station wagon had an assignation. The husband wasn’t expected till later—and, what the hell, that’s life. The parking lot attendant was very cooperative.
When he reached the East Gorge slope, the rain, which had threatened all day, began to come down. In Connecticut, April showers were somehow always May thunderstorms, and Matlock was annoyed that he hadn’t thought to buy a raincoat.
He looked around at the deserted lift, its high double lines silhouetted against the increasing rain, shining like thick strands of ship hemp in a fogged harbor. There was a tiny, almost invisible light in the shack which housed the complicated, hulking machines that made the lines ascend. Matlock approached the door and knocked. A small, wiry-looking man opened the door and peered at him.
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