The Matlock Paper (28 page)

“I can’t help you.”

Matlock looked harshly at the southerner. “I think you can. Listen to me. In the morning, get on the phone and pass the word.
Carefully!
We don’t want panic. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t know and don’t use my name! Just say you’ve met someone who has the Corsican paper, the silver Corsican paper. He’s
got
to meet quietly with someone else who has it, too. We’ll start with one person if we have to. Have you got that?”

“I got it but I don’t like it! It’s none of
my business!
”

“Would you rather close down? Would you rather lose this magnificent relic of yours and stare out of a
cell window for ten or twenty years? I understand prison funerals are very touching.”

“All right!… All right. I’ll call my bag boy. I’ll say I don’t know nothin’! I’m just passin’ along a message.”

“Good enough. If you make a contact, tell whoever it is that I’ll be at the Sail and Ski tonight or tomorrow. Tell him to bring the paper. I won’t talk to anyone without the paper!”

“Without the paper.…”

“Now let me have my keys.”

Stockton called Mario back. Matlock got his keys.

He swung south on Route 72 out of Mount Holly. He didn’t remember precisely where, but he knew he’d passed several highway telephone booths on his way up from Hartford. It was funny how he was beginning to notice public telephones, his only connecting link with solidity. Everything else was transient, hit or miss, unfamiliar and frightening. He’d phone Greenberg as Charger Three-zero requested, but before he did, he was going to reach one of Blackstone’s men.

A rendezvous would have to be arranged immediately. He now had to have the Corsican paper. He’d put out the word; he’d have to keep his end of the bargain or he would learn nothing.
If
Stockton’s message got through and
if
someone
did
make contact, that someone would kill or be killed before breaking the oath of “Omerta” unless Matlock produced the paper.

Or was it all for nothing? Was he the amateur Kressel and Greenberg said he was? He didn’t know. He tried so hard to think things through, look at all sides of every action, use the tools of his trained, academic
imagination. But was it enough? Or was it possible that his sense of commitment, his violent feelings of vengeance and disgust were only turning him into a Quixote?

If that were so, he’d live with it. He’d do his goddamnedest and live with it. He had good reasons—a brother named David; a girl named Pat; a gentle old man named Lucas; a nice fellow named Loring; a confused, terrified student from Madison named Jeannie. The sickening whole
scene!

Matlock found a booth on a deserted stretch of Route 72 and called the inanimate receiver at the other end of 555-6868. He gave the number of the telephone booth and waited for Charger Three-zero to answer his call.

A milk truck lumbered by. The driver was singing and waved to Matlock. Several minutes later a huge Allied Van Lines sped past, and shortly after a produce truck. It was nearing five thirty, and the day was brightening. Brightening to a dull gray, for there were rain clouds in the sky.

The telephone rang.

“Hello!”

“What’s the problem, sir? Did you reach your friend in West Virginia? He said he’s not kidding anymore.”

“I’ll call him in a few minutes. Are you the fellow named Cliff?” Matlock knew it was not; the voice was different.

“No, sir. I’m Jim. Same name as yours.”

“All right, Jim. Tell me, did the other fellow do what I asked him to? Did he get the paper for me?”

“Yes, sir. If it’s the one on silver paper, written in Italian. I think it’s Italian.”

“That’s the one.…”

Matlock arranged for the pickup in two hours. It
was agreed that the Blackstone man named Cliff meet him at an all-night diner on Scofield Avenue near the West Hartford town line. Charger Three-zero insisted that the delivery be made rapidly, in the parking lot. Matlock described the car he was driving and hung up the phone.

The next call would have to be Jason Greenberg in Wheeling. And Greenberg was furious.

“Schmuck! It isn’t bad enough you break your word, you’ve got to hire your own army! What the hell do you think those clowns can do that the United States Government can’t?”

“Those clowns are costing me three hundred dollars a day, Jason. They’d better be good.”

“You ran out! Why did you do that? You gave me your word you wouldn’t. You said you’d work with our man!”

“Your man gave me an ultimatum I couldn’t live with! And if it was your idea, I’ll tell you the same thing I told Houston.”

“What does that mean? What ultimatum?”

“You know goddamn well! Don’t play that game. And you listen to me.…” Matlock took a break before plunging into the lie, giving it all the authority he could summon. “There’s a lawyer in Hartford who has a very precise letter signed by me. Along the same lines as the letter I signed for you. Only the information’s a bit different: it’s straight. It describes in detail the story of my recruitment; how you bastards sucked me in and then how you let me hang. How you forced me to sign a lie.… You try anything, he’ll release it and there’ll be a lot of embarrassed manipulators at the Justice Department.… You gave me the idea, Jason. It was a damn good idea. It might even make a few militants decide to tear
up the Carlyle campus. Maybe launch a string of riots, with luck, right across the country. The academic scene’s ready to be primed out of its dormancy; isn’t that what Sealfont said? Only this time it won’t be the war or the draft or drugs. They’ll find a better label: government infiltration, police state … 
Gestapo
tactics. Are you prepared for that?”

“For Christ’s sake, cut it out! It won’t do you any good. You’re not that important.… Now, what the hell are you talking about?
I briefed him!
There weren’t any conditions except that you keep him informed of what you were doing.”

“Bullshit! I wasn’t to leave the campus; I wasn’t to talk to anyone on the faculty or the staff. I was restricted to student inquiries, and I gathered those were to be cleared
first!
Outside of those minor restrictions, I was free as a bird! Come on! You
saw
Pat! You saw what they did to her. You know what else they did—the word is
rape
, Greenberg! Did you people expect me to
thank
Houston for being so
understanding?
”

“Believe me,” said Greenberg softly, in anger. “Those conditions were added after the briefing. They should have told me, that’s true. But they were added for your own protection. You can see that, can’t you?”

“They weren’t part of our bargain!”

“No, they weren’t. And they should have told me.…”

“Also, I wonder whose protection they were concerned with. Mine or theirs.”

“A good question. They should have told me. They can’t delegate responsibility and always take away the authority. It’s not logical.”

“It’s not
moral
. Let me tell you something. This little
odyssey of mine is bringing me closer and closer to the sublime question of morality.”

“I’m glad for you, but I’m afraid your odyssey’s coming to an end.”

“Try it!”

“They’re going to. Statements in lawyers’ offices won’t mean a damn. I told them I’d try first.… If you don’t turn yourself over to protective custody within forty-eight hours, they’ll issue a warrant.”

“On what grounds?!”

“You’re a menace. You’re mentally unbalanced. You’re a nut. They’ll cite your army record—two courts-martial, brig time, continuous instability under combat conditions. Your use of drugs. And alcohol—they’ve got witnesses. You’re also a racist—they’ve got that Lumumba affidavit from Kressel. And now I understand, although I haven’t the facts, you’re consorting with known criminals. They have photographs—from a place in Avon.… Turn yourself in, Jim. They’ll ruin your life.”

Forty-eight hours! Why forty-eight hours? Why not twenty-four or twelve or immediately? It didn’t make sense! Then he understood and, alone in the booth, he started to laugh. He laughed out loud in a telephone booth at five thirty in the morning on a deserted stretch of highway in Mount Holly, Connecticut.

The practical men were giving him just enough time to accomplish something—if he
could
accomplish something. If he couldn’t, and anything happened, they were clean. It was on record that they considered him a mentally unbalanced addict with racist tendencies who consorted with known criminals, and they had given him warning. In deference to the delicate balance of dealing with such madmen, they allocated
time
in the hopes of reducing the danger. Oh, Christ! The manipulators!

He reached the West Hartford diner at six forty-five and ate a large breakfast, somehow believing that the food would take the place of sleep and give him the energy he needed. He kept glancing at his watch, knowing that he’d have to be in the parking lot by seven thirty.

He wondered what his contact at Charger Three-zero would look like.

The man was enormous, and Matlock had never considered himself small. Cliff of Charger Three-zero reminded Matlock of those old pictures of Primo Carnera. Except the face. The face was lean and intelligent and smiled broadly.

“Don’t get out, Mr. Matlock.” He reached in and shook Matlock’s hand. “Here’s the paper; I put it in an envelope. By the way, we had Miss Ballantyne laughing last night. She’s feeling better. Encephalograph’s steady, metabolism’s coming back up to par, pupil dilation’s receding. Thought you’d like to know.”

“I imagine that’s good.”

“It is. We’ve made friends with the doctor. He levels.”

“How’s the hospital taking your guard duty?”

“Mr. Blackstone solves those problems in advance. We have rooms on either side of the subject.”

“For which, I’m sure, I’ll be charged.”

“You know Mr. Blackstone.”

“I’m getting to. He goes first class.”

“So do his clients. I’d better get back. Nice to meet you.” The Blackstone man walked rapidly away and got into a nondescript automobile several years old.

It was time for Matlock to drive to New Haven.

He had no set plan, no specific individuals in mind; he wasn’t leading, he was being led. His information was, at best, nebulous, sketchy, far too incomplete to deal in absolutes. Yet perhaps there was enough for someone to make a connection. But whoever made it, or was capable of making it, had to be someone with
an overall view of the university. Someone who dealt, as did Sam Kressel, with the general tensions of the campus.

However, Yale was five times the size of Carlyle; it was infinitely more diffuse, a section of the New Haven city, not really isolated from its surroundings as was Carlyle. There
was
a focal point, the Office of Student Affairs; but he didn’t know anyone there. And to arrive off the street with an improbable story of college girls forming—or being formed into—a prostitution ring reaching, as so far determined, the states of Connecticut, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire, would create havoc if he was taken seriously. And he wasn’t sure he
would
be taken seriously, in which case he’d learn nothing.

There was one possibility; a poor substitute for Student Affairs, but with its own general view of the campus: the Department of Admissions. He knew a man, Peter Daniels, who worked in Yale’s admissions office. He and Daniels had shared a number of lecterns during prep school recruitment programs. He knew Daniels well enough to spell out the facts as he understood them; Daniels wasn’t the sort to doubt him or to panic. He’d restrict his story to the girl, however.

He parked on Chappel Street near the intersection of York. On one side of the thoroughfare was an arch leading to the quadrangle of Silliman College, on the other a large expanse of lawn threaded with cement paths to the Administration Building. Daniels’s office was on the second floor. Matlock got out of the car, locked it, and walked toward the old brick structure with the American flag masted next to the Yale banner.

“That’s preposterous! This is the age of Aquarius and then some. You don’t pay for sex; it’s exchanged freely.”

“I know what I saw. I know what the girl told me; she wasn’t lying.”

“I repeat. You can’t be sure.”

“It’s tied in with too many other things. I’ve seen them, too.”

“May I ask the obvious question? Why don’t you go to the police?”

“Obvious answer. Colleges have been in enough trouble. What facts I have are isolated. I need more information. I don’t want to be responsible for indiscriminate name-calling, any widespread panic. There’s been enough of that.”

“All right, I’ll buy it. But I can’t help you.”

“Give me several names. Students
or
faculty. People you know … you’re certain are messed up, seriously messed up. Near the center. You’ve got those kinds of names, I know you do; we do.… I swear, they’ll never know who gave them to me.”

Daniels got out of his chair, lighting his pipe. “You’re being awfully general. Messed up how? Academically, politically … narcotics, alcohol? You’re covering a wide territory.”

“Wait a minute.” Daniels’s words evoked a memory. Matlock recalled a dimly lit, smoke-filled room inside a seemingly deserted building in Hartford. Rocco Aiello’s Hunt Club. And a tall young man in a waiter’s jacket who had brought over a tab for Aiello to sign. The veteran of Nam and Da Nang. The Yalie who was
making contacts, building up his nest egg
 … the
business administration
major. “I know who I want to see.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.… But he’s a veteran—Indochina, about twenty-two or three; he’s pretty tall, light brown hair … majoring in business administration.”

“A description which might fit five hundred students. Except for premed, law, and engineering, it’s all lumped under liberal arts. We’d have to go through every file.”

“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.…”