A rifle was being fired at him. A rifle with a silencer.
He dove off the porch into the shrubbery. The black car sped away.
5
He waited alone. The room was small, the window glass meshed with wire. The Carlyle Police Station was filled with officers and plainclothesmen called back on duty; no one could be sure what the killing signified. And none discounted the possibility that others might follow.
Alert. If was the particular syndrome of midcentury America, thought Matlock.
The gun.
He’d had the presence of mind after reaching the police to call Sam Kressel. Kressel, in shock, told him he would somehow contact the appropriate men in Washington and then drive down to the station house.
Until further instructions, they both agreed Matlock would restrict himself to a simple statement on finding the body and seeing the automobile. He had been out for a late night walk, that was all.
Nothing more.
His statement was typed out; questions as to time, his reasons for being in the vicinity, descriptions of the “alleged perpetrator’s vehicle,” direction, estimated speed—all were asked routinely and accepted without comment.
Matlock was bothered by his unequivocal negative to one question.
“Did you ever see the deceased before?”
“No.”
That hurt. Loring deserved more than a considered, deliberate lie. Matlock recalled that the agent said he had a seven-year-old daughter. A wife and a child; the husband and father killed and he could not admit he knew his name.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him, but it did. Perhaps, he thought, because he knew it was the beginning of a great many lies.
He signed the short deposition and was about to be released when he heard a telephone ring inside an office beyond the desk. Not on the desk, beyond it. Seconds later, a uniformed policeman emerged and said his name in a loud voice, as if to make sure he had not left the building.
“Yes, officer?”
“We’ll have to ask you to wait. If you’ll follow me, please.”
Matlock had been in the small room for nearly an hour; it was 2:45 A.M. and he had run out of cigarettes. It was no time to run out of cigarettes.
The door opened and a tall, thin man with large, serious eyes walked in. He was carrying Loring’s briefcase. “Sorry to detain you, Dr. Matlock. It is ‘Doctor,’ isn’t it?”
“ ‘Mister’ is fine.”
“My identification. Name’s Greenberg, Jason Greenberg. Federal Bureau of Investigation. I had to confirm your situation.… It’s a hell of a note, isn’t it?”
“ ‘A hell of a note’? Is that all you can say?”
The agent looked at Matlock quizzically. “It’s all I care to share,” he said quietly. “If Ralph Loring had completed his call, he would have reached me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget it. I’m out-briefed—that is, I know something but not much about the Nimrod situation; I’ll get filled in before morning. Incidentally, this fellow Kressel is on his way over. He knows I’m here.”
“Does this change anything?… That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? A man is killed and I ask you if it changes anything. I apologize again.”
“No need to; you’ve had a terrible experience.… Any change is up to you. We accept the fact that Ralph’s death could alter tonight’s decision. We ask only that you keep your own counsel in what was revealed to you.”
“You’re offering me a chance to renege?”
“Of course. You’re under no obligation to us.”
Matlock walked to the small, rectangular window with the wire-enclosed glass. The police station was at the south end of the town of Carlyle, about a half a mile from the campus, the section of town considered industrialized. Still, there were trees along the streets. Carlyle was a very clean town, a neat town. The trees by the station house were pruned and shaped.
And Carlyle was also something else.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said. “Does the fact that I found Loring’s body associate me with him? I mean, would I be considered a part of whatever he was doing?”
“We don’t think so. The way you behaved tends to remove you from any association.”
“What do you mean?” Matlock turned to face the agent.
“Frankly, you panicked. You didn’t run, you didn’t take yourself out of the area; you flipped out and started shouting your head off. Someone who’s programmed for an assignment wouldn’t react like that.”
“I wasn’t programmed for this.”
“Same results. You just found him and lost your head. If this Nimrod even suspects we’re involved …”
“Suspects!” interrupted Matlock. “They killed him!”
“Someone killed him. It’s unlikely that it’s any part of Nimrod. Other factions, maybe. No cover’s absolutely foolproof, even Loring’s. But his was the closest.”
“I don’t understand you.”
Greenberg leaned against the wall and folded his arms, his large, sad eyes reflective. “Ralph’s field cover was the best at Justice. For damn near fifteen years.” The agent looked down at the floor. His voice was deep, with faint bitterness. “The kind of goddamn cover that works best when it doesn’t matter to a man anymore. When it’s finally used, it throws everyone off balance. And insults his family.”
Greenberg looked up and tried to smile, but no smile would come.
“I still don’t understand you.”
“It’s not necessary. The main point is that you simply stumbled on the scene, went into panic, and had the scare of your life. You’re dismissible, Mr. Matlock.… So?”
Before Matlock could respond, the door swung open and Sam Kressel entered, his expression nervous and frightened.
“Oh, Christ! This is terrible! Simply terrible. You’re Greenberg?”
“And you’re Mr. Kressel.”
“Yes. What’s going to happen?” Kressel turned to Matlock, speaking in the same breath. “Are you all right, Jim?”
“Sure.”
“Well, Greenberg, what’s happening!? They told me in Washington that you’d let us know.”
“I’ve been talking to Mr. Matlock and …”
“Listen to me,” interrupted Kressel suddenly. “I called Sealfont and we’re of the same opinion. What happened was terrible … tragic. We express our sympathies to the man’s family, but we’re most anxious that any use of the Carlyle name be cleared with us. We assume this puts everything in a different light and, therefore, we insist we be kept out of it. I think that’s understandable.”
Greenberg’s face betrayed his distaste. “You race in here, ask me what’s happening, and before you give me a chance to answer, you tell me what must happen. Now, how do you want it? Do I call Washington and let them have your version or do you want to listen first? Doesn’t make a particle of difference to me.”
“There’s no reason for antagonism. We never asked to be involved.”
“Nobody does.” Greenberg smiled. “Just please let me finish. I’ve offered Matlock his out. He hasn’t given me his answer, so I can’t give you mine. However, if he says what I think he’s going to say, Loring’s cover will be activated immediately. It’ll be activated anyway, but if the professor’s in, we’ll blow it up a bit.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Kressel stared at the agent.
“For years Ralph was a partner in just about the most disreputable law firm in Washington. Its clients read like a cross section of a Mafia index.… Early this morning, there was the first of two vehicle transfers. It took place in a Hartford suburb, Elmwood. Loring’s car with the D.C. plates was left near the home of a well-advertised capo. A rented automobile was waiting for him a couple of blocks away. He used that to drive to Carlyle and parked it in front of 217 Crescent Street, five blocks from Sealfont’s place. 217 Crescent is the residence of a Dr. Ralston.…”
“I’ve met him,” interjected Matlock. “I’ve heard he’s ?
??”
“… an abortionist,” completed Greenberg.
“He’s in no way associated with this university!” said Kressel emphatically.
“You’ve had worse,” countered Greenberg quietly. “And the doctor is still a Mafia referral. At any rate, Ralph positioned the car and walked into town for the second transfer. I covered him; this briefcase is prime material. He was picked up by a Bell Telephone truck which made routine stops—including one at a restaurant called the Cheshire Cat—and finally delivered him to Sealfont’s. No one could have known he was there. If they had, they would have intercepted him outside; they were watching the car on Crescent.”
“That’s what he told me,” said Matlock.
“He knew it was possible; the trace to Crescent was intentionally left open. When he confirmed it, to his satisfaction, he acted fast. I don’t know what he did, but he probably used whatever stragglers he could find until he spotted you.”
“That’s what he did.”
“He wasn’t fast enough.”
“What in God’s name does this have to do with us? What possible bearing can it have?” Kressel was close to shouting.
“If Mr. Matlock wants to go on, Loring’s death will be publicized as an underworld killing. Disreputable lawyer, maybe a bag man; undesirable clients. The capo and the doctor will be hauled in; they’re expendable. The smoke screen’s so thick everyone’s off balance. Even the killers. Matlock’s forgotten. It’ll work; it’s worked before.”
Kressel seemed astonished at Greenberg’s assured glibness, his confidence, his calm professionalism. “You talk awfully fast, don’t you?”
“I’m very bright.”
Matlock couldn’t help but smile. He liked Greenberg; even in—perhaps because of—the sadly disagreeable circumstances. The agent used the language well; his mind was fast. He was, indeed, bright.
“And if Jim says he washes his hands of it?”
Greenberg shrugged. “I don’t like to waste words. Let’s hear him say it.”
Both the men looked at Matlock.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to, Sam. I’m still in.”
“You can’t be serious! That man was killed!”
“I know. I found him.”
Kressel put his hand on Matlock’s arm. It was the gesture of a friend. “I’m not an hysterical shepherd watching over a flock. I’m concerned. I’m frightened. I see a man being manipulated into a situation he’s not qualified to handle.”
“That’s subjective,” broke in Greenberg quietly. “We’re concerned, too. If we didn’t think he was capable, we never would have approached him.”
“I think you would,” said Kressel. “I don’t for a minute believe such a consideration would stop you. You use the word expendable too easily, Mr. Greenberg.”
“I’m sorry you think so. Because I don’t. We don’t.… I haven’t gotten the detailed briefing, Kressel, but aren’t you supposed to act as liaison? Because if that’s true, I suggest you remove yourself. We’ll have someone else assigned to the job.”
“And give you a clear field? Let you run roughshod over this campus? Not on your life.”
“Then we work together. As disagreeable as that may be for both of us … You’re hostile; perhaps that’s good. You’ll keep me on my toes. You protest too much.”
Matlock was startled by Greenberg’s statement. It was one thing to form an antagonistic coalition, quite another to make veiled accusations; insulting to use a literary cliché.
“That remark requires an explanation,” said Kressel, his face flushed with anger.
When Greenberg replied, his voice was soft and reasonable, belying the words he spoke. “Pound sand, mister. I lost a very good friend tonight. Twenty minutes ago I spoke with his wife. I don’t give explanations under those conditions. That’s where my employers and me part company. Now, shut up and I’ll write out the hours of contact and give you the emergency telephone numbers. If you don’t want them, get the hell out of here.”
Greenberg lifted the briefcase onto a small table and opened it. Sam Kressel, stunned, approached the agent silently.
Matlock stared at the worn leather briefcase, only hours ago chained to the wrist of a dead man. He knew the deadly pavanne had begun. The first steps of the dance had been taken violently.
There were decisions to make, people to confront.
6
The implausible name below the doorbell on the two-family faculty house read: Mr. and Mrs. Archer Beeson. Matlock had elicited the dinner invitation easily. History instructor Beeson had been flattered by his interest in coordinating a seminar between two of their courses. Beeson would have been flattered if a faculty member of Matlock’s attainments had asked him how his wife was in bed (and most wondered). And since Matlock was very clearly male, Archer Beeson felt that “drinks and din” with his wife wriggling around in a short skirt might help cement a relationship with the highly regarded professor of English literature.
Matlock heard the breathless shout from the second-floor landing. “Just a sec!”
It was Beeson’s wife, and her broad accent, over-cultivated at Miss Porter’s and Finch, sounded caricatured. Matlock pictured the girl racing around checking the plates of cheese and dip—very unusual cheese and dip, conversation pieces, really—while her husband put the final touches on the visual aspects of his bookcases—perhaps several obscure tomes carelessly, carefully, placed on tables, impossible for a visitor to miss.
Matlock wondered if these two were also secreting small tablets of lysergic acid or capsules of methedrine.
The door opened and Beeson’s petite wife, dressed in the expected short skirt and translucent silk blouse that loosely covered her large breasts, smiled ingenuously.
“Hi! I’m Ginny Beeson. We met at several mad cocktail parties. I’m so glad you could come. Archie’s just finishing a paper. Come on up.” She preceded Matlock up the stairs, hardly giving him a chance to acknowledge. “These stairs are horrendous! Oh, well, the price of starting at the bottom.”
“I’m sure it won’t be for long,” said Matlock.
“That’s what Archie keeps saying. He’d better be right or I’ll have muscles all over my legs!”
“I’m sure he is,” said Matlock, looking at the soft, unmuscular, large expanse of legs in front of him.
Inside the Beeson apartment, the cheese and dip were prominently displayed on an odd-shaped coffee table, and the anticipated showcase volume was one of Matlock’s own. It was titled Interpolations in Richard II and it resided on a table underneath a fringed lamp. Impossible for a visitor to miss.
The minute Ginny closed the door, Archie burst into the small living room from what Matlock presumed was Beeson’s study—also small. He carried a sheaf of papers in his left hand; his right was extended.
“Good-oh! Glad you could make it, old man!… Sit, sit. Drinks are due and overdue! God! I’m flaked out for one!… Just spent three hours reading twenty versions of the Thirty Years’ War!”
“It happens. Yesterday I got a theme on Volpone with the strangest ending I ever heard of. Turned out the kid never read it but saw the film in Hartford.”
“With a new ending?”
“Totally.”
“God! That’s marvy!” injected Ginny semihysterically. “What’s your drink preference, Jim? I may call you Jim, mayn’t I, Doctor?”
“Bourbon and a touch of water, and you certainly better, Ginny. I’ve never gotten used to the ‘doctor.’ My father calls it fraud. Doctors carry stethoscopes, not books.” Matlock sat in an easy chair covered with an Indian serape.
“Speaking of doctors, I’m working on my dissertation now. That and two more hectic summers’ll do the trick.” Beeson took the ice bucket from his wife and walked to a long table underneath a window where bottles and glasses were carelessly arranged.
“It’s worth it,” said Ginny Beeson emphatically. “Isn’t it worth it, Jim?”
“Almost essential. It’ll pay off.?
??
“That and publishing.” Ginny Beeson picked up the cheese and crackers and carried them to Matlock. “This is an interesting little Irish fromage. Would you believe, it’s called ‘Blarney? Found it in a little shop in New York two weeks ago.”
“Looks great. Never heard of it.”
“Speaking of publishing. I picked up your Interpolations book the other day. Damned fascinating! Really!”
“Lord, I’ve almost forgotten it. Wrote it four years ago.”
“It should be a required text! That’s what Archie said, isn’t it, Archie?”
“Damned right! Here’s the poison, old man,” said Beeson, bringing Matlock his drink. “Do you work through an agent, Jim? Not that I’m nosy. I’m years from writing anything.”
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Ginny pouted vocally.
“Yes, I do. Irving Block in Boston. If you’re working on something, perhaps I could show it to him.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t … that’d be awfully presumptuous of me.…” Beeson retreated with feigned humility to the couch with his drink. He sat next to his wife and they involuntarily, thought Matlock exchanged satisfied looks.
“Come on, Archie. You’re a bright fellow. A real comer on this campus. Why do you think I asked you about the seminar? You could be doing me the favor. I might be bringing Block a winner. That rubs off, you know.”
Beeson’s expression had the honesty of gratitude. It embarrassed Matlock to return the instructor’s gaze until he saw something else in Beeson’s eyes. He couldn’t define it, but it was there. A slight wildness, a trace of panic.
The look of a man whose mind and body knew drugs.
“That’s damned good-oh of you, Jim. I’m touched, really.”
The cheese, drinks, and dinner somehow passed. There were moments when Matlock had the feeling he was outside himself, watching three characters in a scene from some old movie. Perhaps on board ship or in a sloppily elegant New York apartment with the three of them wearing tightly fitted formal clothes. He wondered why he visualized the scene in such fashion—and then he knew. The Beesons had a thirties quality about them. The thirties that he had observed on the late night television films. They were somehow an anachronism, of this time but not of the time. It was either more than camp or less than puton; he couldn’t be sure. They were not artificial in themselves, but there was a falseness in their emphatic small talk, their dated expressions. Yet the truth was that they were the now of the present generation.