The Matlock Paper

  “Look,” said Michael Blackstone, leaning over his desk, staring at Matlock, “we ask a minimum of questions, but don’t for one minute think that means we give our clients blank checks!”

  “It seems to me you like that process reversed.”

  “Then take your money and go somewhere else. We’ll survive!”

  “Just hold it! You were hired to protect a girl, that’s all! That’s what I’m paying three hundred dollars a day for! Anything else is marginal, and I’m paying for that, too, I expect.”

  “There’ll be no extra charges. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Suddenly Blackstone bent his elbows, crouching forward. He whispered hoarsely. “Christ, Matlock? Two men! Two men on that goddamn list were murdered last night! If you’re a hopped-up maniac, I don’t want anything to do with you! That’s no part of any deal here! I don’t care who your old man is or how much money you’ve got!”

  “Now I don’t know what you’re talking about. Except what I read in the papers. I was at a motel in Fairfield last night. I was registered there at two this morning. According to the papers, those killings took place around five.”

  Blackstone pushed himself off the desk and stood up. He looked at Matlock suspiciously. “You can verify that?”

  “Do you want the name and number of the motel? Give me a phone book, I’ll get it for you.”

  “No!… No. I don’t want to know a thing. You were in Fairfield?”

  “Get the phone book.”

  “All right. All right, forget it. I think you’re lying, but you’ve covered yourself. As you say, we’re only hired to protect the girl.”

  “Any change from Sunday afternoon? Is everything all right?”

  “Yes.… Yes.” Blackstone seemed preoccupied. “I’ve got your Tel-electronic. It’s operative. It’s an additional twenty dollars a day.”

  “I see. Wholesale price.”

  “We never implied we were cheap.”

  “You couldn’t.”

  “We don’t.” Blackstone remained standing, pushed a button on his office intercom, and spoke into it. “Bring in Mr. Matlock’s Tel-electronic, please.”

  Seconds later an attractive girl came into the office carrying a metal device no larger than a pack of cigarettes. She put it on Blackstone’s desk and placed an index card beside it. She left as rapidly as she had entered.

  “Here you are,” Blackstone said. “Your code is Charger Three-zero. Meaning—Carlyle area, three-man team. The telephone number you call is five, five, five, six, eight, six, eight. We keep a list of numbers on reserve which we feel are easy to commit. The Tel-electronic will signal you by short beeps. You can shut it off by pushing this button here. When the signal is emitted, you are to call the number. A recording machine on that telephone will give you the message from the team. Often it will be to phone another number to make direct contact. Do you understand everything? It’s really very simple.”

  “I understand,” said Matlock, taking the small metal box. “What confuses me is why you don’t just have the men call this office and then you contact me. Outside of whatever profit there is, wouldn’t it be easier?”

  “No. Too much room for error. We handle a great many clients. We want our clients to be in direct contact with the men they’re paying for.”

  “I see.”

  “Also, we respect the privacy of our clients. We don’t think it’s such a good idea for information to be transmitted through third and fourth parties. Incidentally, you can reach the team by the same procedures. Each one has a machine. Just phone the number and record the message for them.”

  “Commendable.”

  “Professional.” And then Blackstone, for the first time since Matlock had entered the office, sat in his chair and leaned back. “Now I’m going to tell you something, and if you want to take it as a threat, you’d be justified. Also, if you want to cancel our services on the strength of what I say, that’s O.K., too.… We know that you’re being actively sought by agents of the Justice Department. However, there are no charges leveled against you, no warrants for your arrest. You have certain rights which the federal men often overlook in their zealousness—it’s one of the reasons we’re in business. However, again, we want you to know that should your status change, should there be charges or a warrant for your arrest, our services are terminated immediately, and we won’t hesitate to cooperate with the authorities regarding your where-abouts. Whatever information we possess will be held for your attorneys—it’s privileged—but not your whereabouts. Capiche?”

  “I do. That’s fair.”

  “We’re more than fair. That’s why I’m going to demand ten days’ advance payment from you—unused portion returnable.… In the event the situation changes and the federal men get a court order for you, you will receive—only once—the following message on the telephone recorder. Just these words.”

  Blackstone paused for emphasis.

  “What are they?”

  “ ‘Charger Three-zero is canceled.’ ”

  Out on Bond Street Matlock felt a sensation he knew wouldn’t leave him until his journey, his race was over. He thought people were staring at him. He began to think strangers were watching him. He found himself involuntarily turning around, trying to find the unseen, observing eyes. Yet there were none.

  None that he could distinguish.

  The Corsican paper now had to be gotten out of his apartment. And considering Blackstone’s statements, there was no point in his attempting to get it himself. His apartment would be under surveillance—from both camps, the seekers and the quarry.

  He would use the Blackstone team, one of them, putting to the test the sartorial Blackstone’s guarantee of privileged information. He would reach them—him—as soon as he placed one prior telephone call. A call that would make it clear whether the silver Corsican invitation was really necessary or not. A call to Samuel Sharpe, attorney at law, Windsor Shoals, Connecticut.

  Matlock decided to show Sharpe a temporary, more compassionate side of his acquired personality. Sharpe himself had displayed a momentary lapse of control. Matlock thought it was the moment to indicate that even such men as himself—men who had influential friends in San Juan and London—had feelings beyond personal survival.

  He walked into the lobby of the Americana Hotel and called him. Sharpe’s secretary answered.

  “Are you in an office where Mr. Sharpe can return your call momentarily?”

  “No, I’m in a telephone booth. I’m also in a hurry.”

  There was silence, preceded by the click of a hold button. The wait was less than ten seconds.

  “May I have the number you’re calling from, Mr. Matlock? Mr. Sharpe will get back to you within five minutes.”

  Matlock gave the girl the number and hung up.

  As he sat in the plastic seat, his memory wandered back to another telephone booth and another plastic seat. And a black sedan which raced past the dead man slouched in that booth, on that seat, with a bullet hole in his forehead.

  The bell sounded; Matlock lifted the receiver.

  “Matlock?”

  “Sharpe?”

  “You shouldn’t call me at the office. You should know better. I had to go down to the lobby here, to a pay phone.”

  “I didn’t think a respected attorney’s telephone would be any risk. I’m sorry.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Sharpe obviously never expected an apology. “I’m a cautious man, I told you. What is it?”

  “I just wanted to know how you were. How everything went. It was a terrible thing, last night.”

  “I haven’t had time for a reaction. There’s so much to do. Police, funeral arrangements, reporters.”

  “What are you saying? How are you handling it?”

  “There won’t be any major mistakes. In a nutshell—if it comes to that—I’m an innocent victim. Frank’s a victim, too, only he’s dead.… I’m going to miss Frank. He was a very good fellow. I’ll close d
own the upstairs, of course. The state police have been paid. By you people, I assume. It’ll be what the papers say it was. A bunch of Italian hoodlums shot up in a nice country restaurant.”

  “You’re a cool operator.”

  “I told you,” replied Sharpe sadly, “I’m a cautious man. I’m prepared for contingencies.”

  “Who did it?”

  Sharpe did not answer the question. He did not speak at all.

  “I asked you, who do you think did it?”

  “I expect you people will find out before I do.… Bartolozzi had enemies; he was an unpleasant person. Rocco, too, I suppose.… But why Frank? You tell me.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been in touch with anyone.”

  “Find out for me. Please. It wasn’t right.”

  “I’ll try. That’s a promise.… And, Sammy, make those calls to Stockton and Cantor, don’t forget.”

  “I won’t. I’ve got them listed on my afternoon calendar. I told you. I’m a methodical man.”

  “Thanks. My sympathies about Frank. He seemed like a nice guy.”

  “He was a prince.”

  “I’m sure he was.… I’ll be in touch, Sammy. I haven’t forgotten what I said I’d do for you. You’ve really impressed me. I’ll …”

  The sound of coins dropping into the telephone receptacle at Windsor Shoals interrupted Matlock. The time limit was up, and there was no point in prolonging the conversation. He had found out what he needed to know. He had to have the Corsican paper now. The horror of the dawn massacre had not caused the methodical Sharpe to forget the telephone calls he’d promised to make. Why it hadn’t was a miracle to Matlock, but there it was. The cautious man had not panicked. He was ice.

  The telephone booth was stuffy, close, uncomfortable, filled with smoke. He opened the door and walked rapidly across the hotel lobby to the front exit.

  He rounded the corner of Asylum Street looking for an appropriate restaurant. One in which he could have lunch while awaiting the return call from Charger Three-zero. Blackstone had said that he should leave a number; what better than a restaurant?

  He saw the sign: The Lobster House. The kind of place frequented by business executives.

  He was given a booth to himself, not a table. It was nearly three; the luncheon crowd had thinned. He sat down and ordered a bourbon on the rocks, asking the waitress the whereabouts of the nearest telephone. He was about to get out of the booth to make his call to 555-6868 when he heard the muted, sharp, terrifying sound of the Tel-electronic from within his jacket. At first it paralyzed him. It was as if some part of his person, an hysterical organ perhaps, had gone mad and was trying to signal its distress. His hand shook as he reached inside his coat and withdrew the small metal device. He found the shut-off button and pressed it as hard as he could. He looked around, wondering if the sound had attracted attention.

  It had not. No one returned his looks. No one had heard a thing.

  He got out of his seat and walked quickly toward the telephone. His only thought was Pat—something had happened, something serious enough for Charger Three-zero to activate the terrible, insidious machine which had panicked him.

  Matlock pulled the door shut and dialed 555-6868.

  “Charger Three-zero reporting.” The voice had the once-removed quality of a taped recording. “Please telephone five, five, five; one, nine, five, one. There is no need for alarm, sir. There’s no emergency. We’ll be at this number for the next hour. The number again is five, five, five; one, nine, five, one. Out.”

  Matlock realized that Charger Three-zero took pains to allay his fears immediately, perhaps because it was his first experience with the Tel-electronic. He had the feeling that even if the town of Carlyle had gone up in thermonuclear smoke, Charger Three-zero’s words would have a palliative quality about them. The other reasoning, perhaps, was that a man thought more clearly when unafraid. Whatever, Matlock knew that the method worked. He was calmer now. He reached into his pocket and took out some change, making a mental note as he did so to convert some dollar bills into coins for future use. The pay telephone had become an important part of his life.

  “Is this five, five, five; nineteen fifty-one?”

  “Yes,” said the same voice he had heard on the recording. “Mr. Matlock?”

  “Yes. Is Miss Ballantyne all right?”

  “Doing very well, sir. That’s a good doctor you’ve got. She sat up this morning. A lot of the swelling’s gone down. The doctor’s quite pleased.… She’s asked for you a number of times.”

  “What are you telling her?”

  “The truth. That we’ve been hired by you to make sure she’s not bothered.”

  “I mean about where I am.”

  “We’ve simply said you had to be away for several days. It might be a good idea to telephone her. She can take calls starting this afternoon. We’ll screen them, of course.”

  “Of course. Is that why you contacted me?”

  “In part. The other reason is Greenberg. Jason Greenberg. He keeps calling for you. He insists that you get in touch with him.”

  “What did he say? Who talked to him?”

  “I did. Incidentally, my name’s Cliff.”

  “O.K., Cliff, what did he say?”

  “That I should tell you to call him the minute I reached you. It was imperative, critical. I’ve got a number. It’s in Wheeling, West Virginia.”

  “Give it to me.” Matlock withdrew his ballpoint pen and wrote the number on the wooden shelf under the telephone.

  “Mr. Matlock?”

  “What?”

  “Greenberg also said to tell you … that ‘the cities weren’t dying, they were dead.’ Those were his words. ‘The cities were dead.’ ”

  23

  Cliff agreed without comment to retrieve the Corsican paper from Matlock’s apartment. A rendezvous would be arranged later by telephone. In the event the paper was missing, Charger Three-zero would alert him immediately.

  Matlock restricted himself to one drink. He picked at his lunch and left the Lobster House by three thirty. It was time to regroup his forces, resupply his ammunition. He had parked the Cadillac in a lot several blocks south of Blackstone’s office on Bond Street. It was one of those municipal parking areas, each slot with its own meter. It occurred to Matlock as he approached it that he hadn’t returned to insert additional coins since going to Blackstone’s. The meters were only good for an hour; he’d been there for nearly two. He wondered what rental-car businesses did with the slew of traffic violations which had to mount up with transients. He entered the lot and momentarily wondered if he was in the right aisle. Then he realized he was not. The Cadillac was two lanes over, in the fourth aisle. He started to sidle past the closely parked vehicles toward his own and then he stopped.

  In between the automobiles, he saw the blue and white stripes of a Hartford patrol car. It was parked directly behind his Cadillac. One police officer was trying the Cadillac’s door handle, a second patrolman was leaning against the police vehicle talking into a radio phone.

  They’d found the car. It frightened him, but some-how it didn’t surprise him.

  He backed away cautiously, prepared to run if he was spotted. His thoughts raced ahead to the problems to which this newest complication gave rise. First and most immediate was an automobile. Second was the fact that they knew he was in the Hartford vicinity. That ruled out other means of transportation. The railroad stations, the bus terminals, even the hack bureaus would be alerted. It came back to finding another car.

  And yet he wondered. Blackstone made it clear there were no charges against him, no warrants. If there were, he would have received the message from 555-6868. He would have heard the words: “Charger Three-zero is canceled.”

  He hadn’t. There’d been no hint of it. For a moment he considered going back to the patrol car, accepting a ticket for overtime.

  He dismissed the thought. These police were not meter maids. There had been a previous parking lot
beyond an alley, at the rear of an A&P. And another policeman—in civilian clothes—following him. A pattern was there, though it eluded definition.

  Matlock walked swiftly up Bond Street away from the municipal lot. He turned into the first side street and found himself beginning to break into a run. Instantly he slowed down. There is nothing in a crowded street more noticeable than a man running—unless it is a woman. He resumed a pace equal to the afternoon shoppers, doing his best to melt into the flow of human traffic. He even paused now and then to stare blankly into store-front windows, not really seeing the displays of merchandise. And then he began to reflect on what was happening to him. The primitive instincts of the hunted were suddenly working inside his brain. The protective antennae of the would-be trapped animal were thrusting, parrying with their surroundings and, chameleonlike, the body did its best to conform to the environment.

  Yet he wasn’t the hunted! He was the hunter! Goddamn it, he was the hunter!

  “Hello, Jim! How the hell are you? What are you doing in the big city?”

  The shock of the greeting caused Matlock to lose his balance. To actually lose his balance and trip. He fell to the sidewalk and the man who had spoken to him reached down and helped him up.

  “Oh! Oh, hello, Jeff! Christ, you startled me. Thanks.” Matlock got up and brushed himself off. He looked around wondering who else besides Jeff Kramer was watching him.

  “A long lunch, buddy?” Kramer laughed. He was a Carlyle alumnus with a graduate degree in psychology that had been impressive enough for an expensive public relations firm.

  “Lord, no! Just have something on my mind. My bumbling old professor bag.” And then Matlock looked at Jeff Kramer. Jeff Kramer was not only with an expensive firm, but he also had an expensive wife and two very expensive kids in extremely expensive prep schools. Matlock felt he should reemphasize his previous point. “For a fact, I had one unfinished bourbon.”

  “Why don’t we rectify that,” said Kramer, pointing at the Hogshead Tavern across the street. “I haven’t seen you in months. I read in The Courant you got yourself robbed.”