The Matlock Paper

by Robert Ludlum

  Matlock closed the notebook. What had the girl named Jeannie said? They have the courts, the police, the doctors. And Alan Pace. He’d added the major university administrations—all over the Northeast. Whole academic policies; employments, deployments, curriculums—sources of enormous financing. They have it all.

  But Matlock had the indictment.

  It was enough. Enough to stop Nimrod—whoever he was. Enough to stop the bloodbath, the executions.

  Now he had to reach Jason Greenberg.

  Alone.

  31

  Carrying the oilcloth packet, he began walking toward the town of Carlyle, traveling the back roads on which there was rarely any night traffic. He knew it would be too dangerous to drive. The man in the field had probably recovered sufficiently to reach someone—reach Nimrod. An alarm would be sent out for him. The unseen armies would be after him now. His only chance was to reach Greenberg. Jason Greenberg would tell him what to do.

  There was blood on his shirt, mud caked on his trousers and jacket. His appearance brought to mind the outcasts of Bill’s Bar & Grill by the railroad freight yards. It was nearly two thirty in the morning, but such places stayed open most of the night. The blue laws were only conveniences for them, not edicts. He reached College Parkway and descended the hill to the yards.

  He brushed his damp clothes as best he could and covered the bloodstained shirt with his jacket. He walked into the filthy bar; the layers of cheap smoke were suspended above the disheveled customers. A jukebox was playing some Slovak music, men were yelling, a stand-up shuffleboard was being abused. Matlock knew he melted into the atmosphere. He would find a few precious moments of relief.

  He sat down at a back booth.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  It was the bartender, the same suspicious bartender whom he’d finally befriended several days ago. Years … ages ago.

  “Caught in the rainstorm. Fell a couple of times. Lousy whisky.… Have you got anything to eat?”

  “Cheese sandwiches. The meat I wouldn’t give you. Bread’s not too fresh either.”

  “I don’t care. Bring me a couple of sandwiches. And a glass of beer. Would you do that?”

  “Sure. Sure, mister.… You sure you want to eat here? I mean, I can tell, this ain’t your kind of place, you know what I mean?”

  There it was again. The incessant, irrelevant question; the dangling interrogative. You know what I mean …? Not a question at all. Even in his few moments of relief he had to hear it once more.

  “I know what you mean … but I’m sure.”

  “It’s your stomach.” The bartender trudged back to his station.

  Matlock found Greenberg’s number and went to the foul-smelling pay phone on the wall. He inserted a coin and dialed.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the operator said, “the telephone is disconnected. Do you have another number where the party can be reached?”

  “Try it again! I’m sure you’re wrong.”

  She did and she wasn’t. The supervisor in Wheeling, West Virginia, finally informed the operator in Carlyle, Connecticut, that any calls to a Mr. Greenberg were to be routed to Washington, D.C. It was assumed that whoever was calling would know where in Washington.

  “But Mr. Greenberg isn’t expected at the Washington number until early A.M.,” she said. “Please inform the party on the line.”

  He tried to think. Could he trust calling Washington, the Department of Justice, Narcotics Division? Under the circumstances, might not Washington—for the sake of speed—alert someone in the Hartford vicinity to get to him? And Greenberg had made it clear—he didn’t trust the Hartford office, the Hartford agents.

  He understood Greenberg’s concern far better now. He had only to think of the Carlyle police—Nimrod’s private army.

  No, he wouldn’t call Washington. He’d call Sealfont. His last hope was the university president. He dialed Sealfont’s number.

  “James! Good Lord, James! Are you all right?! Where in heaven’s name have you been?!”

  “To places I never knew were there. Never knew existed.”

  “But you’re all right? That’s all that matters! Are you all right?!”

  “Yes, sir. And I’ve got everything. I’ve got it all. Herron wrote everything down. It’s a record of twenty-three years.”

  “Then he was part of it?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Poor, sick man.… I don’t understand. However, that’s not important now. That’s for the authorities. Where are you? I’ll send a car.… No, I’ll come myself. We’ve all been so worried. I’ve been in constant touch with the men at the Justice Department.”

  “Stay where you are,” Matlock said quickly. “I’ll get to you myself—everyone knows your car. It’ll be less dangerous this way. I know they’re looking for me. I’ll have a man here call me a taxi. I just wanted to make sure you were home.”

  “Whatever you say. I must tell you I’m relieved. I’ll call Kressel. Whatever you have to say, he should know about it. That’s the way it’s to be.”

  “I agree, sir. See you shortly.”

  He went back to the booth and began to eat the unappetizing sandwiches. He had swallowed half the beer when from inside his damp jacket, the short, hysterical beeps of Blackstone’s Tel-electronic seared into his ears. He pulled out the machine and pressed the button. Without thinking of anything but the number 555-6868 he jumped up from the seat and walked rapidly back to the telephone. His hand trembling, he awkwardly manipulated the coin and dialed.

  The recorded words were like the lash of a whip across his face.

  “Charger Three-zero is canceled.”

  Then there was silence. As Blackstone had promised, there was nothing else but the single sentence—stated but once. There was no one to speak to, no appeal. Nothing.

  But there had to be! He would not, could not, be cut off like this! If Blackstone was canceling him, he had a right to know why! He had a right to know that Pat was safe!

  It took several minutes and a number of threats before he reached Blackstone himself.

  “I don’t have to talk to you!” The sleepy voice was belligerent. “I made that clear!… But I don’t mind because if I can put a trace on this call I’ll tell them where to find you the second you hang up!”

  “Don’t threaten me! You’ve got too much of my money to threaten me.… Why am I canceled? I’ve got a right to know that.”

  “Because you stink! You stink like garbage!”

  “That’s not good enough! That doesn’t mean anything!”

  “I’ll give you the rundown then. A warrant is out for you. Signed by the court and …”

  “For what, goddamn it? Protective custody?! Preventive detention?!”

  “For murder, Matlock! For conspiracy to distribute narcotics! For aiding and abetting known narcotics distributors!… You sold out! Like I said, you smell! And I hate the business you’re in!”

  Matlock was stunned. Murder? Conspiracy! What was Blackstone talking about?

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but it’s not true. None of it’s true! I risked my life, my life, do you hear me! To bring what I’ve got …”

  “You’re a good talker,” interrupted Blackstone, “but you’re careless! You’re also a ghoulish bastard! There’s a guy in a field outside of Carlyle with his throat slit. It didn’t take the government boys ten minutes to trace that Ford wagon to its owner!”

  “I didn’t kill that man! I swear to Christ I didn’t kill him!”

  “No, of course not! And you didn’t even see the fellow whose head you shot off at East Gorge, did you? Except that there’s a parking lot attendant and a couple of others who’ve got you on the scene!… I forgot. You’re also stupid. You left the parking ticket under your windshield wiper!”

  “Now, wait a minute! Wait a minute! This is all crazy! The man at East Gorge asked to meet me there! He tried to murder me!”

  “Tell that to your lawyer. We got th
e whole thing—straight—from the Justice boys! I demanded that. I’ve got a damned good reputation.… I’ll say this. When you sell out, you sell high! Over sixty thousand dollars in a checking account. Like I said, you smell, Matlock!”

  He was so shocked he could not raise his voice. When he spoke, he was out of breath, hardly audible. “Listen to me. You’ve got to listen to me. Everything you say … there are explanations. Except the man in the field. I don’t understand that. But I don’t care if you believe me or not. It doesn’t matter. I’m holding in my hand all the vindication I’ll ever need.… What does matter is that you watch that girl! Don’t cancel me out! Watch her!”

  “Apparently you don’t understand English very well. You are canceled! Charger Three-zero is canceled!”

  “What about the girl?”

  “We’re not irresponsible,” said Blackstone bitterly. “She’s perfectly safe. She’s under the protection of the Carlyle police.”

  There was a general commotion at the bar. The bartender was closing up and his customers resented it. Obscenities were shouted back and forth over the beer-soaked, filthy mahogany, while cooler or more drunken heads slowly weaved their way toward the front door.

  Paralyzed, Matlock stood by the foul-smelling telephone. The roaring at the bar reached a crescendo but he heard nothing; the figures in front of his eyes were only blurs. He felt sick to his stomach, and so he held the front of his trousers, the oilcloth packet with Lucas Herron’s notebook between his hands and his belt. He thought he was going to be sick as he had been sick beside the corpse on the East Gorge slope.

  But—there was no time. Pat was held by Nimrod’s private army. He had to act now. And when he acted, the spring would be sprung. There would be no rewinding.

  The horrible truth was that he didn’t know where to begin.

  “What’s the matter, mister? The sandwiches?”

  “What?”

  “Ya look like you’re gonna throw up.”

  “Oh?… No.” Matlock saw for the first time that almost everyone had left the place.

  The notebook! The notebook would be the ransom! There would be no tortured decision—not for the plastic men! Not for the manipulators! Nimrod could have the notebook! The indictment!

  But then what? Would Nimrod let her live? Let him live?… What had Lucas Herron written: “The new Nimrod is a monster … ruthless. He orders executions.…”

  Nimrod had murdered with far less motive than someone’s knowledge of Lucas Herron’s diaries.

  “Look, mister. I’m sorry, but I gotta close up.”

  “Will you call a taxi for me, please?”

  “A taxi? It’s after three o’clock. Even if there was one, he wouldn’t come down here at three o’clock in the morning.”

  “Have you got a car?”

  “Now wait a minute, mister. I gotta clean up and ring out. I had some action tonight. The register’ll take me twenty minutes.”

  Matlock withdrew his bills. The smallest denomination was a hundred. “I’ve got to have a car—right away. How much do you want? I’ll bring it back in an hour—maybe less.”

  The bartender looked at Matlock’s money. It wasn’t a normal sight. “It’s a pretty old heap. You might have trouble driving it.”

  “I can drive anything! Here! Here’s a hundred! If I wreck it you can have the whole roll. Here! Take it, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Sure. Sure, mister.” The bartender reached under his apron and took out his car keys. “The square one’s the ignition. It’s parked in the rear. Sixty-two Chevy. Go out the back door.”

  “Thanks.” Matlock started for the door indicated by the bartender.

  “Hey, mister!”

  “What?”

  “What’s your name again?… Something ‘rock’? I forgot. I mean, for Christ’s sake, I give you the car, I don’t even know your name!”

  Matlock thought for a second. “Rod. Nimrod. The name’s Nimrod.”

  “That’s no name, mister.” The burly man started toward Matlock. “That’s a spin fly for catchin’ trout. Now, what’s your name? You got my car, I gotta know your name.”

  Matlock still held the money in his hand. He peeled off three additional hundreds and threw them on the floor. It seemed right. He had given Kramer four hundred dollars for his station wagon. There should be symmetry somewhere. Or, at least, meaningless logic.

  “That’s four hundred dollars. You couldn’t get four hundred dollars for a ’62 Chevy. I’ll bring it back!” He ran for the door. The last words he heard were those of the grateful but confused manager of Bill’s Bar & Grill.

  “Nimrod. Fuckin’ joker!”

  The car was a heap, as its owner had said. But it moved, and that was all that mattered. Sealfont would help him analyze the facts, the alternatives. Two opinions were better than one; he was afraid of assuming the total responsibility—he wasn’t capable of it. And Sealfont would have people in high places he could contact. Sam Kressel, the liaison, would listen and object and be terrified for his domain. No matter; he’d be dismissed. Pat’s safety was uppermost. Sealfont would see that.

  Perhaps it was time to threaten—as Herron ultimately had threatened. Nimrod had Pat; he had Herron’s indictment. The life of one human being for the protection of hundreds, perhaps thousands. Even Nimrod had to see their bargaining position. It was irrefutable, the odds were on their side.

  He realized as he neared the railroad depot that this kind of thinking, by itself, made him a manipulator, too. Pat had been reduced to quantity X, Herron’s diaries, quantity Y. The equation would then be postulated and the mathematical observers would make their decisions based on the data presented. It was the ice-cold logic of survival; emotional factors were disregarded, consciously despised.

  Frightening!

  He turned right at the station and started to drive up College Parkway. Sealfont’s mansion stood at the end. He went as fast as the ’62 Chevy would go, which wasn’t much above thirty miles an hour on the hill. The streets were deserted, washed clean by the storm. The store fronts, the houses, and finally the campus were dark and silent.

  He remembered that Kressel’s house was just a half block off College Parkway on High Street. The detour would take him no more than thirty seconds. It was worth it, he thought. If Kressel hadn’t left for Sealfont’s, he would pick him up and they could talk on the way over. Matlock had to talk, had to begin. He couldn’t stand the isolation any longer.

  He swung the car to the left at the corner of High Street. Kressel’s house was a large gray colonial set back from the street by a wide front lawn bordered by rhododendrons. There were lights on downstairs. With luck, Kressel was still home. There were two cars, one in the driveway; Matlock slowed down.

  His eyes were drawn to a dull reflection at the rear of the driveway. Kressel’s kitchen light was on; the spill from the window illuminated the hood of a third car, and the Kressels were a two-car family.

  He looked again at the car in front of the house. It was a Carlyle patrol car. The Carlyle police were in Kressel’s house!

  Nimrod’s private army was with Kressel!

  Or was Nimrod’s private army with Nimrod?

  He swerved to the left, narrowly missing the patrol car, and sped down the street to the next corner. He turned right and pressed the accelerator to the floor. He was confused, frightened, bewildered. If Sealfont had called Kressel—which he had obviously done—and Kressel worked with Nimrod, or was Nimrod, there’d be other patrol cars, other soldiers of the private army waiting for him.

  His mind went back to the Carlyle Police Station—a century ago, capsuled in little over a week—the night of Loring’s murder. Kressel had disturbed him then. And even before that—with Loring and Greenberg—Kressel’s hostility to the federal agents had been outside the bounds of reason.

  Oh, Christ! It was so clear now! His instincts had been right. The instincts which had served him as the hunted as well as the hunter had been true! He’d been watched t
oo thoroughly, his every action anticipated. Kressel, the liaison, was, in fact, Kressel the tracker, the seeker, the supreme killer.

  Nothing was ever as it appeared to be—only what one sensed behind the appearance. Trust the senses.

  Somehow he had to get to Sealfont. Warn Sealfont that the Judas was Kressel. Now they both had to protect themselves, establish some base from which they could strike back.

  Otherwise the girl he loved was lost.

  There couldn’t be a second wasted. Sealfont had certainly told Kressel that he, Matlock, had Lucas Herron’s diaries, and that was all Kressel would need to know. All Nimrod needed to know.

  Nimrod had to get possession of both the Corsican paper and the diaries; now he knew where they were. His private army would be told that this was its moment of triumph or disaster. They would be waiting for him at Sealfont’s; Sealfont’s mansion was the trap they expected him to enter.

  Matlock swung west at the next corner. In his trouser pocket were his keys, and among them was the key to Pat’s apartment. To the best of his knowledge, no one knew he had such a key, certainly no one would expect him to go there. He had to chance it; he couldn’t risk going to a public telephone, risk being seen under a street lamp. The patrol cars would be searching everywhere.

  He heard the roar of an engine behind him and felt the sharp pain in his stomach. A car was following him—closing in on him. And the ’62 Chevrolet was no match for it.

  His right leg throbbed from the pressure he exerted on the pedal. His hands gripped the steering wheel as he turned wildly into a side street, the muscles in his arms tensed and aching. Another turn. He spun the wheel to the left, careening off the edge of the curb back into the middle of the road. The car behind him maintained a steady pace, never more than ten feet away, the headlights blinding in the rear-view mirror.

  His pursuer was not going to close the gap between them! Not then. Not at that moment. He could have done so a hundred, two hundred yards ago. He was waiting. Waiting for something. But what?

  There was so much he couldn’t understand! So much he’d miscalculated, misread. He’d been out-maneuvered at every important juncture. He was what they said—an amateur! He’d been beyond his depth from the beginning. And now, at the last, his final assault was ending in ambush. They would kill him, take the Corsican paper, the diaries of indictment. They would kill the girl he loved, the innocent child whose life he’d thrown away so brutally. Sealfont would be finished—he knew too much now! God knew how many others would be destroyed.