The Matlock Paper (2 page)

It was the early sixties, and by the simple expedient of agreeing to a six-month extension of service, Matlock could have sat comfortably behind a desk as a supply officer somewhere—most likely, with his family’s connections, in Washington or New York. Instead, his service file read like a hoodlum’s: a series of infractions
and insubordinations that guaranteed him the least desirable of assignments—Vietnam and its escalating hostilities. While in the Mekong Delta, his military behavior also guaranteed him two summary courts-martial.

Yet there appeared to be no ideological motivation behind his actions, merely poor, if any, adjustment.

His return to civilian life was marked by continuing difficulties, first with his parents and then with his wife. Inexplicably, James Barbour Matlock, whose academic record had been gentlemanly but hardly superior, took a small apartment in Morningside Heights and attended Columbia University’s graduate school.

The wife lasted three and a half months, opting for a quiet divorce and a rapid exit from Matlock’s life.

The following several years were monotonous intelligence material. Matlock, the incorrigible, was in the process of becoming Matlock, the scholar. He worked around the calendar, receiving his master’s degree in fourteen months, his doctorate two years later. There was a reconciliation of sorts with his parents, and a position with the English department at Carlyle University in Connecticut. Since then Matlock had published a number of books and articles and acquired an enviable reputation in the academic community. He was obviously popular—“mobile in the extreme” (silly goddamn expression); he was moderately well off and apparently possessed none of the antagonistic traits he’d displayed during the hostile years. Of course, there was damn little reason for him to be discontented, thought Loring. James Barbour Matlock II had his life nicely routined; he was covered on all flanks, thank you, including a girl. He was currently, with discretion, involved with a graduate student named Patricia Ballantyne. They kept separate residences,
but according to the data, were lovers. As near as could be determined, however, there was no marriage in sight. The girl was completing her doctoral studies in archeology, and a dozen foundation grants awaited her. Grants that led to distant lands and unfamiliar facts. Patricia Ballantyne was not for marriage; not according to the data banks.

But what of Matlock? wondered Ralph Loring. What did the facts tell him? How could they possibly justify the choice?

They didn’t. They couldn’t. Only a trained professional could carry out the demands of the current situation. The problems were far too complex, too filled with traps for an amateur.

The terrible irony was that if this Matlock made errors, fell into traps, he might accomplish far more far quicker than any professional.

And lose his life doing so.

“What makes you all think he’ll accept?” Cranston was nearing Loring’s apartment and his curiosity was piqued.

“What? I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“What’s the motive for the subject’s acceptance? Why would he agree?”

“A younger brother. Ten years younger, as a matter of fact. The parents are quite old. Very rich, very detached. This Matlock holds himself responsible.”

“For what?”

“The brother. He killed himself three years ago with an overdose of heroin.”

Ralph Loring drove his rented car slowly down the wide, tree-lined street past the large old houses set back beyond manicured lawns. Some were fraternity houses, but there were far fewer than had existed a
decade ago. The social exclusivity of the fifties and early sixties was being replaced. A few of the huge structures had other identifications now.
The House, Aquarius
(naturally),
Afro-Commons, Warwick, Lumumba Hall
.

Connecticut’s Carlyle University was one of those medium-sized “prestige” campuses that dot the New England landscape. An administration, under the guidance of its brilliant president, Dr. Adrian Sealfont, was restructuring the college, trying to bring it into the second half of the twentieth century. There were inevitable protests, proliferation of beards, and African studies balanced against the quiet wealth, club blazers, and alumni-sponsored regattas. Hard rock and faculty tea dances were groping for ways to coexist.

Loring reflected, as he looked at the peaceful campus in the bright spring sunlight, that it seemed inconceivable that such a community harbored any real problems.

Certainly not the problem that had brought him there.

Yet it did.

Carlyle was a time bomb which, when detonated, would claim extraordinary victims in its fallout. That it
would
explode, Loring knew, was inevitable. What happened before then was unpredictable. It was up to him to engineer the best possible probabilities. The key was James Barbour Matlock, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.

Loring drove past the attractive two-story faculty residence that held four apartments, each with a separate entrance. It was considered one of the better faculty houses and was usually occupied by bright young families before they’d reached the tenure necessary for outlying homes of their own. Matlock’s quarters were on the first floor, west section.

Loring drove around the block and parked diagonally across the street from Matlock’s door. He couldn’t stay long; he kept turning in the seat, scanning the cars and Sunday morning pedestrians, satisfied that he himself wasn’t being observed. That was vital. On Sunday, according to Matlock’s surveillance file, the young professor usually read the papers till around noon and then drove to the north end of Carlyle where Patricia Ballantyne lived in one of the efficiency apartments reserved for graduate students. That is, he drove over if she hadn’t spent the night with him. Then the two generally went out into the country for lunch and returned to Matlock’s apartment or went south into Hartford or New Haven. There were variations, of course. Often the Ballantyne girl and Matlock took weekends together, registering as man and wife. Not this weekend, however. Surveillance had confirmed that.

Loring looked at his watch. It was twelve forty, but Matlock was still in his apartment. Time was running short. In a few minutes, Loring was expected to be at Crescent Street. 217 Crescent. It was where he would make cover-contact for his second vehicle transfer.

He knew it wasn’t necessary for him to physically watch Matlock. After all, he’d read the file thoroughly, looked at scores of photographs, and even talked briefly with Dr. Sealfont, Carlyle’s president. Nevertheless, each agent had his own working methods, and his included watching subjects for a period of hours before making contact. Several colleagues at Justice claimed it gave him a sense of power. Loring knew only that it gave him a sense of confidence.

Matlock’s front door opened and a tall man walked out into the sunlight. He was dressed in khaki trousers, loafers, and a tan turtleneck sweater. Loring saw
that he was modestly good looking with sharp features and fairly long blond hair. He checked the lock on his door, put on a pair of sunglasses, and walked around the sidewalk to what Loring presumed was a small parking area. Several minutes later, James Matlock drove out of the driveway in a Triumph sportscar.

The government man reflected that his subject seemed to have the best of a pleasant life. Sufficient income, no responsibilities, work he enjoyed, even a convenient relationship with an attractive girl.

Loring wondered if it would all be the same for James Barbour Matlock three weeks from then. For Matlock’s world was about to be plunged into an abyss.

Matlock pressed the Triumph’s accelerator to the floor and the low-slung automobile vibrated as the speedometer reached sixty-two miles per hour. It wasn’t that he was in a hurry—Pat Ballantyne wasn’t going anywhere—just that he was angry. Well, not angry, really; just irritated. He was usually irritated after a phone call from home. Time would never eliminate that. Nor money, if ever he made any to speak of—amounts his father considered respectable. What caused his irritation was the infuriating condescension. It grew worse as his mother and father advanced in years. Instead of making peace with the situation, they dwelled on it. They insisted that he spend the spring midterm vacation in Scarsdale so that he and his father could make daily trips into the city. To the banks, to the attorneys. To make ready for the inevitable, when and if it ever happened.

“… There’s a lot you’ll have to digest, son,” his father had said sepulchrally. “You’re not exactly prepared, you know.…”

“… You’re all that’s left, darling,” his mother had said with obvious pain.

Matlock knew they enjoyed their anticipated, martyred leave-taking of this world. They’d made their mark—or at least his father had. The amusing part
was that his parents were as strong as pack mules, as healthy as wild horses. They’d no doubt outlast him by decades.

The truth was that they wanted him with them far more than he wished to be there. It had been that way for the past three years, since David’s death at the Cape. Perhaps, thought Matlock, as he drew up in front of Pat’s apartment, the roots of his irritation were in his own guilt. He’d never quite made peace with himself about David. He never would.

And he didn’t want to be in Scarsdale during the midterm holidays. He didn’t want the memories. He had someone now who was helping him forget the awful years—of death, no love, and indecision. He’d promised to take Pat to St. Thomas.

The name of the country inn was the Cheshire Cat, and, as its title implied, it was Englishy and pubbish. The food was decent, the drinks generous, and those factors made it a favorite spot of Connecticut’s exurbia. They’d finished their second Bloody Mary and had ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. There were perhaps a dozen couples and several families in the spacious dining area. In the corner sat a single man reading
The New York Times
with the pages folded vertically, commuter fashion.

“He’s probably an irate father waiting for a son who’s about to splash out. I know the type. They take the Scarsdale train every morning.”

“He’s too relaxed.”

“They learn to hide tension. Only their druggists know. All that Gelusil.”

“There are always signs, and he hasn’t any. He looks positively self-satisfied. You’re wrong.”

“You just don’t know Scarsdale. Self-satisfaction is a
registered trademark. You can’t buy a house without it.”

“Speaking of such things, what are you going to do? I really think we should cancel St. Thomas.”

“I don’t. It’s been a rough winter; we deserve a little sun. Anyway, they’re being unreasonable. There’s nothing I want to learn about the Matlock manipulations; it’s a waste of time. In the unlikely event that they ever
do
go, others’ll be in charge.”

“I thought we agreed that was only an excuse. They want you around for a while. I think it’s touching they do it this way.”

“It’s not touching, it’s my father’s transparent attempt at bribery.… Look. Our commuter’s given up.” The single man with the newspaper finished his drink and was explaining to the waitress that he wasn’t ordering lunch. “Five’ll get you ten he pictured his son’s hair and leather jacket—maybe bare feet—and just panicked.”

“I think you’re wishing it on the poor man.”

“No, I’m not. I’m too sympathetic. I can’t stand the aggravation that goes with rebellion. Makes me self-conscious.”

“You’re a very funny man, Private Matlock,” said Pat, alluding to Matlock’s inglorious army career. “When we finish, let’s go down to Hartford. There’s a good movie.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. We can’t today.… Sealfont called me this morning for an early evening conference. Said it was important.”

“About what?”

“I’m not sure. The African studies may be in trouble. That ‘Tom’ I recruited from Howard turned out to be a beaut. I think he’s a little to the right of Louis XIV.”

She smiled. “Really, you’re terrible.”

Matlock took her hand.

The residence of Dr. Adrian Sealfont was imposingly appropriate. It was a large white colonial mansion with wide marble steps leading up to thick double doors carved in relief. Along the front were Ionic pillars spanning the width of the building. Floodlights from the lawn were turned on at sundown.

Matlock walked up the stairs to the door and rang the bell. Thirty seconds later he was admitted by a maid, who ushered him through the hallway toward the rear of the house, into Dr. Sealfont’s huge library.

Adrian Sealfont stood in the center of the room with two other men. Matlock, as always, was struck by the presence of the man. A shade over six feet, thin, with aquiline features, he radiated a warmth that touched all who were near him. There was about him a genuine humility which concealed his brilliance from those who did not know him. Matlock liked him immensely.

“Hello, James.” Sealfont extended his hand to Matlock. “Mr. Loring, may I present Dr. Matlock?”

“How do you do? Hi, Sam.” Matlock addressed this last to the third man, Samuel Kressel, dean of colleges at Carlyle.

“Hello, Jim.”

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” asked Matlock, looking at Loring. “I’m trying to remember.”

“I’m going to be very embarrassed if you do.”

“I’ll bet you will!” laughed Kressel with his sardonic, slightly offensive humor. Matlock also liked Sam Kressel, more because he knew the pain of Kressel’s job—what he had to contend with—than for the man himself.

“What do you mean, Sam?”

“I’ll answer you,” interrupted Adrian Sealfont. “Mr. Loring is with the federal government, the Justice Department. I agreed to arrange a meeting between the three of you, but I did not agree to what Sam and Mr. Loring have just referred to. Apparently Mr. Loring has seen fit to have you—what is the term—under surveillance. I’ve registered my strong objections.” Sealfont looked directly at Loring.

“You’ve had me
what?
” asked Matlock quietly.

“I apologize,” said Loring persuasively. “It’s a personal idiosyncrasy and has nothing to do with our business.”

“You’re the commuter in the Cheshire Cat.”