The Matlock Paper (22 page)

“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 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.

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.

Holden surpassed Matlock’s expectations. Several times he nearly laughed out loud as he watched Holden take hundred-dollar bills—rushed into Webster by a harassed, nervous Alex Anderson—and flick
them nonchalantly at a croupier, never bothering to count the chips but somehow letting everyone at whatever table he was at realize that he knew—to the dollar—the amount given him. Holden played intelligently, cautiously, and at one point was ahead of the house by nine thousand dollars. By the end of the evening, he had cut his winnings to several hundred and the operators of the Windsor Valley breathed grateful sighs of relief.

James Matlock cursed his second night of terrible luck and took his twelve-hundred-dollar loss for what it meant to him—nothing.

At four in the morning Matlock and Holden, flanked by Aiello, Bartolozzi, Sharpe, and two of their cronies, sat at a large oak table in the colonial dining room. They were alone. A waiter and two busboys were cleaning up; the gambling rooms on the third floor of the inn had closed.

The husky, Aiello and the short, fat Bartolozzi kept up a running commentary about their respective clientele, each trying to upstage the other with regard to their customers’ status; each allowing that “it might be nice” for the other to become “acquainted” with a Mr. and Mrs. Johnson of Canton or a certain Dr. Wadsworth. Sharpe, on the other hand, seemed more interested in Holden and the action in England. He told several funny, self-effacing stories about his visits to London clubs and his insurmountable difficulty with British currency in the heat of betting.

Matlock thought, as he watched Sammy Sharpe, that he was a very charming man. It wasn’t hard to believe that Sharpe was considered a respectable asset to Windsor Shoals, Connecticut. He couldn’t help comparing Sharpe to Jason Greenberg. And in the comparison, he found an essential difference. It was
told in the eyes. Greenberg’s were soft and compassionate, even in anger. Sharpe’s were cold, hard, incessantly darting—strangely in conflict with the rest of his relaxed face.

He heard Bartolozzi ask Holden where he was off to next. Holden’s offhand reply gave him the opportunity he was looking for. He waited for the right moment.

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss my itinerary.”

“He means where he’s going,” injected Rocco Aiello.

Bartolozzi shot Aiello a withering glance. “I just thought you should drop over to Avon. I got a real nice place I think you’d enjoy.”

“I’m sure I would. Perhaps another time.”

“Johnny’ll be in touch with me next week,” Matlock said. “We’ll get together.” He reached for an ashtray and crushed out his cigarette. “I have to be in … Carlyle, that’s the name of the place.”

There was the slightest pause in the conversation. Sharpe, Aiello, and one of the other two men exchanged looks. Bartolozzi, however, seemed oblivious to any deep meaning.

“The college place?” asked the short Italian.

“That’s right,” answered Matlock. “I’ll probably stay at Carmount or the Sail and Ski. I guess you fellows know where they are.”

“I guess we do.” Aiello laughed softly.

“What’s your business in Carlyle?” The unidentified man—at least no one had bothered to introduce him by name—drew deeply on a cigar as he spoke.

“
My
business,” said Matlock pleasantly.

“Just asking. No offense.”

“No offense taken.… Hey, it’s damned near four thirty! You fellows are too hospitable.” Matlock
pushed his chair back, prepared to stand.

The man with the cigar, however, had to ask another question.

“Is your friend going to Carlyle with you?”

Holden held up his hand playfully. “Sorry, no itineraries. I’m simply a visitor to your pleasant shores and filled with a tourist’s plans.… We really must go.”

Both men rose from the table. Sharpe stood, too. Before the others could move, Sharpe spoke.

“I’ll see the boys to their car and show them the road out. You fellows wait here—we’ll settle accounts. I owe you money, Rocco. Frank owes me. Maybe I’ll come out even.”

The man with the cigar, whose name was obviously Frank, laughed. Aiello looked momentarily perplexed but within seconds grasped the meaning of Sharpe’s statement. The men at the table were to remain.

Matlock wasn’t sure he’d handled the situation advantageously.

He had wanted to pursue the Carlyle discussion just enough to have someone offer to make the necessary calls to Carmount and the Sail and Ski. Holden’s refusal to speak about his itinerary precluded it, and Matlock was afraid that it also implied that he and Holden were so important that further introductions were unnecessary. In addition, Matlock realized that as his journey progressed, he banked more and more on the dead Loring’s guarantee that none of those invited to the Carlyle conference would discuss delegates among themselves. The meaning of “Omerta” was supposedly so powerful that silence was inviolate. Yet Sharpe had just commanded those at the table to remain.