The Matlock Paper

  “I’ll answer what I can. As I’m sure you’ve checked out, the girl was beaten severely.”

  “We know that. What puzzles us is the reluctance of anyone to say why. No one’s given that sort of beating for kicks. Oh, it’s possible, but that kind of case is generally handled quickly and efficiently by the police. There’s no need for us.… Obviously you have information the police don’t have.”

  “That’s true. I do.”

  “May I ask why you haven’t given it to them? Why you hired us?… The local police will gladly furnish protection if there’s sufficient cause, and far less expensively.”

  “You sound like you’re turning away business.”

  “We often do.” Blackstone smiled. “It’s never done happily, I can tell you that.”

  “Then why …”

  “You’re a highly recommended client,” interrupted Blackstone, “the son of a very prominent man. We want you to know your alternatives. That’s our reasoning. What’s yours?”

  “You’re plainspoken. I appreciate it. I assume what you’re saying is that you don’t want your reputation tarnished.”

  “That’s good enough.”

  “Good. That’s my reasoning, too. Only it’s not my reputation. It’s the girl’s. Miss Ballantyne’s.… The simplest way to put it is that she showed bad judgment in her choice of friends. She’s a brilliant girl with an exciting future, but unfortunately that intelligence didn’t carry over into other areas.” Matlock purposely stopped and took out a pack of cigarettes. Unhurriedly, he removed one and lit it. The pause had its effect. Blackstone spoke.

  “Did she profit financially from these associations?”

  “Not at all. As I see it, she was used. But I can understand why you asked. There’s a lot of money to be made on campuses these days, isn’t there?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Campuses aren’t our field.” Blackstone smiled again, and Matlock knew he was lying. Professionally, of course.

  “I guess not.”

  “All right, Mr. Matlock. Why was she beaten? And what do you intend to do about it?”

  “It’s my opinion she was beaten to frighten her from revealing information she doesn’t have. I intend to find the parties involved and tell them that. Tell them to leave her alone.”

  “And if you go to the police, her associations—past associations, I assume—become a matter of record and jeopardize this brilliant future of hers.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s a tight story.… Who are these parties involved?”

  “I don’t know them by name.… However, I know their occupations. The main line of work seems to be gambling. I thought you might be able to help me here. Naturally, I would expect an additional charge for the service.”

  “I see.” Blackstone got up and walked around his chair. For no particular reason, he fingered the dials on his inoperative air conditioner. “I think you presume too much.”

  “I wouldn’t expect names. I’d like them, of course, and I’d pay well for them.… But I’d settle for locations. I can find them myself, and you know I can. You’d be saving me time, though.”

  “I gather you’re interested in … private clubs. Private social organizations where members may meet to pursue activities of their choice.”

  “Outside the eye of the law. Where private citizens can follow their perfectly natural inclinations to place bets. That’s where I’d like to start.”

  “Could I dissuade you? Is it possible I could convince you to go to the police, instead?”

  “No.”

  Blackstone walked to a file cabinet on the left wall, took out a key, and opened it. “As I said, a tight story. Very plausible. And I don’t believe a word of it.… However, you seem determined; that concerns me.” He took a thin metal case from the file cabinet and carried it back to the desk. Selecting another key from his chain, he unlocked it and withdrew a single sheet of paper. “There’s a Xerox machine over there,” he said, pointing to a large gray copier in the corner. “To use it one places a page face down under the metal flap and dials the required duplicates. Records are kept of the numbers automatically. There’s rarely a reason for more than one.… If you’ll excuse me for approximately two minutes, Mr. Matlock, I must make a phone call in another office.”

  Blackstone held up the single sheet of paper, then placed it face down on top of Matlock’s file folder. He stood erect, and, with the fingers of both hands, tugged at the base of his jacket in the manner of a man used to displaying expensive suits. He smiled and walked around his desk toward the office door. He opened it and turned back.

  “It may be what you’re looking for, and then again, it may not. I wouldn’t know. I’ve simply left a confidential memorandum on my desk. The charge will be listed on your billing as … additional surveillance.”

  He went out the door, closing it firmly behind him. Matlock rose from the black leather chair and crossed behind the desk. He turned the paper over and read the typed heading.

  FOR SURVEILLANCE: HARTFORD—NEW HAVEN AXIS PRIVATE CLUBS: LOCATIONS AND CONTACTS (MANAGERS) AS OF 3—15. NOT TO BE REMOVED FROM OFFICE

  Beneath the short, capitalized paragraph were twenty-odd addresses and names.

  Nimrod was closer now.

  19

  The Luxor-Elite Rental Agency on Asylum Street, Hartford, had been cooperative. Matlock now drove a Cadillac convertible. The manager had accepted the explanation that the Lincoln was too funereal, and since the registration papers were in order, the switch was perfectly acceptable.

  So was the twenty-dollar tip.

  Matlock had analyzed Blackstone’s list carefully. He decided to concentrate on the clubs northwest of Hartford for the simple reason that they were nearer the Carlyle area. They weren’t the nearest, however. Two locations were within five and seven miles of Carlyle respectively—in opposite directions—but Matlock decided to hold them off for a day or so. By the time he reached them—if he did so—he wanted the managements to know he was a heavy plunger. Not a mark, just heavy. The network gossip would take care of that—if he handled himself properly.

  He checked off his first location. It was a private swimming club west of Avon. The contact was a man named Jacopo Bartolozzi.

  At nine thirty Matlock drove up the winding driveway to a canopy extending from the entrance of the Avon Swim Club. A uniformed doorman signaled a parking attendant, who appeared out of nowhere and slid into the driver’s seat the moment Matlock stepped onto the pavement. Obviously no parking ticket was to be given.

  As he walked toward the entrance, he looked at the exterior of the club. The main building was a sprawling, one-story white brick structure with a tall stockade fence extending from both ends into the darkness. On the right, quite far behind the fence, was the iridescent glow of greenish blue light and the sound of water splashing. On the left was a huge tentlike canopy under which could be seen the shimmering light of dozens of patio torches. The former was obviously an enormous pool, the latter some kind of dining area. Soft music could be heard.

  The Avon Swim Club appeared to be a very luxurious complex.

  The interior did nothing to dispel this observation. The foyer was thickly carpeted and the various chairs and odd tables against the damask walls seemed genuine antiques. On the left was a large checkroom, and further down on the right was a white marble counter not unlike a hotel information desk. At the end of the narrow lobby was the only incongruous structure. It was a black, ornate wrought-iron gate, and it was closed, obviously locked. Beyond the grilled enclosure could be seen an open-air corridor, subtly lit, with an extended covering supported by a series of thin Ionic pillars. A large man in a tuxedo was standing at attention behind the iron gate.

  Matlock approached him.

  “Your membership card, sir?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have one.”

  “Sorry, sir, this is a private swimming club. Members only.”

  “I was told to ask for Mr. Bartolozzi.”
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  The man behind the grill stared at Matlock, frisking him with his eyes.

  “You’d better check the front desk, sir. Right over there.”

  Matlock walked back to the counter, to be greeted by a middle-aged, slightly paunchy desk clerk who had not been there when he first came in.

  “May I help you?”

  “You may. I’m fairly new in the area. I’d like to become a member.”

  “We’re sorry. Membership’s full right now. However, if you’ll fill out an application, we’ll be glad to call you if there’s an opening.… Would that be a family application or individual, sir?” The clerk, very professionally, reached below the counter and brought up two application forms.

  “Individual. I’m not married.… I was told to ask for Mr. Bartolozzi. I was told specifically to ask for him. Jacopo Bartolozzi.”

  The clerk gave the name only the slightest indication of recognition. “Here, fill out an application and I’ll put it on Mr. Bartolozzi’s desk. He’ll see it in the morning. Perhaps he’ll call you, but I don’t know what he can do. Membership’s full and there’s a waiting list.”

  “Isn’t he here now? On such a busy night?” Matlock said the words with a degree of incredulity.

  “I doubt it, sir.”

  “Why don’t you find out? Tell him we have mutual friends in San Juan.” Matlock withdrew his money clip and removed a fifty-dollar bill. He placed it in front of the clerk, who looked at him sharply and slowly picked up the money.

  “San Juan?”

  “San Juan.”

  Matlock leaned against the white marble counter and saw the man behind the wrought-iron gate watching him. If the San Juan story worked and he got through the gate, he realized that he would have to part with another large-sized bill. The San Juan story should work, thought Matlock. It was logical to the point of innocence. He had spent a winter vacation in Puerto Rico two years ago, and although no gambler, he’d traveled with a crowd—and a girl—who made the nightly rounds of the casinos. He’d met a number of people from the Hartford vicinity, although he couldn’t for the life of him remember a single name.

  A foursome emerged from inside the grilled entrance, the girls giggling, the men laughing resignedly. The women had probably won twenty or thirty dollars, thought Matlock, while the men had probably lost several hundred. Fair exchange for the evening. The gate closed behind them; Matlock could hear the electric click of the latch. It was a very well-locked iron gate.

  “Excuse me, sir?” It was the paunchy desk clerk, and Matlock turned around.

  “Yes?”

  “If you’ll step inside, Mr. Bartolozzi will see you.”

  “Where? How?” There was no door except the wrought-iron gate and the clerk had gestured with his left hand, away from the gate.

  “Over here, sir.”

  Suddenly a knobless, frameless panel to the right of the counter swung open. The outline was barely discernible when the panel was flush against the damask wall; when shut, no border was in evidence. Matlock walked in and was taken by the clerk to the office of Jacopo Bartolozzi.

  “We got mutual friends?” The obese Italian spoke hoarsely as he leaned back in his chair behind the desk. He made no attempt to rise, gave no gesture of welcome. Jacopo Bartolozzi was a short, squat caricature of himself. Matlock couldn’t be sure, but he had the feeling that Bartolozzi’s feet weren’t touching the floor beneath his chair.

  “It amounts to the same thing, Mr. Bartolozzi.”

  “What amounts? Who’s in San Juan?”

  “Several people. One fellow’s a dentist in West Hartford. Another’s got an accounting firm in Constitution Plaza.”

  “Yeah.… Yeah?” Bartolozzi was trying to associate people with the professions and locations Matlock described. “What’s the names? They members here?”

  “I guess they are. They gave me your name.”

  “This is a swim club. Private membership.… Who are they?”

  “Look, Mr. Bartolozzi, it was a crazy night at the Condado casino. We all had a lot to drink and …”

  “They don’t drink in the Puerto Rican casinos. It’s a law!” The Italian spoke sharply, proud of his incisive knowledge. He was pointing his fat finger at Matlock.

  “More honored in the breach, believe me.”

  “What?”

  “We drank. Take my word for it. I’m just telling you I don’t remember their names.… Look, I can go downtown on Monday and stand all day outside the Plaza and I’ll find the CPA. I could also go out to West Hartford and ring every dentist’s doorbell. What difference does it make? I like to play and I’ve got the money.”

  Bartolozzi smiled. “This is a swim club. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “O.K.,” said Matlock with a disgruntled edge to his voice. “This place happened to be convenient, but if you want to show three lemons, there are others. My San Juan friends also told me about Jimmy Lacata’s down in Middletown, and Sammy Sharpe’s in Windsor Shoals.… Keep your chips, fink.” He turned to the door.

  “Hold it! Wait a minute!”

  Matlock watched the fat Italian get out of the chair and stand up. He’d been right Bartolozz’s feet couldn’t have been touching the floor.

  “What for? Maybe your limit’s too small here.”

  “You know Lacata? Sharpe?”

  “Know of them, I told you.… Look, forget it. You’ve got to be careful. I’ll find my CPA on Monday and we’ll both come back some other time.… I just felt like playing tonight.”

  “O.K. O.K. Like you said, we gotta be careful.” Bartolozzi opened his top drawer and pulled out some papers. “C’mere. Sign ’em. You got an itch. Maybe I’ll take your money. Maybe you’ll take mine.”

  Matlock approached the desk. “What am I signing?”

  “Just a couple of forms. Initiation’s five hundred. Cash. You got it? No checks, no credit.”

  “I’ve got it. What are the forms?”

  “The first is a statement that you understand that this is a nonprofit corporation and that any games of chance are for charitable purposes.… What are you laughing at? I built the Church of the Blessed Virgin down in Hamden.”

  “What’s this other? It’s a long one.”

  “That’s for our files. A certificate of general partnership. For the five hundred you get a classy title. You’re a partner. Everybody’s a partner.… Just in case.”

  “In case?”

  “In case anything good happens to us, it happens just as good to you. Especially in the newspapers.”

  The Avon Swim Club was certainly a place for swimming, no doubt about it. The enormous pool curved back nearly two hundred feet, and scores of small, elegant cabanas bordered the far side. Beach chairs and tables were dotted about the grassy edges beyond the tiled deck of the pool, and the underwater floodlights made the setting inviting. All this was on the right of the open-air corridor. On the left, Matlock could see fully what was only hinted at from the outside. A huge green-and-white-striped tent rose above dozens of tables. Each table had a candled lantern in the center, and patio torches were safely placed about the whole enclosure. At the far end was a long table filled with roasts, salads, and buffet food. A bar was adjacent to the long table; scores of couples were milling about.

  The Avon Swim Club was a lovely place to bring the family.

  The corridor led to the rear of the complex, where there was another sprawling, white-bricked structure similar to the main building. Above the large, black-enameled double doors was a wooden sign, in old English scroll:

  The Avon Spa

  This part of the Avon Swim Club was not a lovely place to bring the family.

  Matlock thought he was back in a San Juan casino—his only experience in gambling rooms. The wall-to-wall carpet was sufficiently thick to muffle sound almost completely. Only the click of the chips and the low-keyed but intense mutterings of the players and the board men were heard. The craps tables were lined along the walls,
the blackjack counters in the center. In between, in staggered positions to allow for the flow of traffic, were the roulette wheels. In the middle of the large room, raised on a platform, was the cashier’s nest. All of the Avon Spa’s employees were in tuxedos, neatly groomed and subservient. The players were less formal.

  The gate man, pleased with Matlock’s crisp fifty-dollar bill, led him to the half-circle counter in front of the cashier’s platform. He spoke to a man counting out slips of paper.

  “This is Mr. Matlock. Treat him good, he’s a personal friend.”

  “No other way,” said the man with a smile.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Matlock,” muttered the gate man quietly. “No markers the first time around.”

  “Naturally.… Look, I’m going to wander about.…”

  “Sure. Get the feel of the action.… I tell you, it ain’t Vegas. Between you and me, it’s Mickey Mouse most of the time. I mean for a guy like you, you know what I mean?”

  Matlock knew exactly what the gate man meant. A fifty-dollar bill was not the ordinary gratuity in Avon, Connecticut.

  It took him three hours and twelve minutes to lose $4,175. The only time he felt panic was when he had a streak at the craps table and had built up his reserves to nearly $5,000. He had begun the evening properly—for his purposes. He went to the cashier often enough to realize that the average purchase of chips was $200 to $300. Hardly “Mickey Mouse” in his book. So his first purchase was $1,500. The second was $1,000; the third, $2,000.

  By one in the morning, he was laughing with Jacopo Bartolozzi at the bar underneath the green-and-white-striped tent.

  “You’re a game one. Lots’a creeps would be screaming ‘ice pick’ if they went for a bundle like you did. Right now I’d be showing them a few papers in my office.”

  “Don’t you worry, I’ll get it back. I always do.… You said it before. My itch was too much. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow.”