The Matlock Paper (13 page)

“I’m sorry.”

Pat turned. “Will you remove him, please?”

“I can’t do that. I’ll tell him to be less obvious.”

“I see.” She took her purse from the dresser top and reached down to the floor, picking up her accordion briefcase. Without speaking further, the girl walked out of the bedroom. Several seconds later, the two men could hear the apartment door open and shut firmly.

“That is one very strong-willed young lady,” said Jason.

“There’s a good reason.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought you fellows were so familiar with the people you had to deal with.…”

“I’m still getting briefed. I’m the back-up, remember?”

“Then I’ll save you time. In the late fifties her father got McCarthyized out of the State Department. Of course, he was very dangerous. He was a language consultant. He was cleared for translating newspapers.”

“Shit.”

“That’s the word, brother. He never made it back. She’s had scholarships all her life; the cupboard’s bare. She’s a little sensitive to your type.”

“Boy, do you pick ’em!”

“You picked
me
, remember?”

Matlock opened the door to his apartment and walked into the foyer. Pat had done a good job putting the rooms in order—as he knew she would. Even the curtains were rehung. It was a little after three—most of the day wasted. Greenberg had insisted that the two of them drive over to Litchfield for a reexamination by the doctor. Shaken but operable, was the verdict.

They stopped for lunch at the Cheshire Cat. During
the meal, Matlock kept looking over at the small table where four days ago Ralph Loring had sat with his folded newspaper. The lunch was quiet. Not strained—the two men were comfortable in each other’s company—but quiet, as if each had too much to think about.

On the road back to Carlyle, Greenberg told him to stay in his apartment until he contacted him. Washington hadn’t issued any new instructions. They were evaluating the new information, and until they confirmed any further involvement, Matlock was to remain “OOS”—a term the English professor found hard to equate with grownups:
out of strategy
.

It was just as well, he thought. He had his own strategy to think about—Lucas Herron. The “grand old bird,” the campus elder statesman. It was time to reach him, to warn him. The old man was out of his element, and the quicker he retreated, the better for everyone—Carlyle included. Yet he didn’t want to telephone him, he didn’t want to arrange a formal meeting—he had to be subtler than that. He didn’t want to alarm old Lucas, have him talking to the wrong people.

It occurred to Matlock that he was acting as some sort of protector for Herron. That presumed Lucas was innocent of any serious involvement. He wondered if he had the right to make that assumption. On the other hand, by civilized standards, he had no right to make any other.

The telephone rang. It couldn’t be Greenberg, he thought. He’d just left him at the curb. He hoped it wasn’t Pat; he wasn’t ready to talk to her yet. Reluctantly he lifted the instrument to his ear. “Hello!”

“Jim! Where have you
been!?
I’ve been calling since eight this morning! I was so goddamn worried I
went over there twice. Got your key from maintenance.” It was Sam Kressel. He sounded as though Carlyle had lost its accreditation.

“It’s too involved to go into now, Sam. Let’s get together later. I’ll come over to your place after dinner.”

“I don’t know if it can wait that long. Jesus! What the hell got
into
you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“At Lumumba last night!”

“What are you talking about? What have you heard?”

“That black bastard, Adam Williams, handed in a report to my office accusing you of just about everything short of advocating slavery! He claims the only reason he’s not filing police charges is that you were blind drunk! Of course, the alcohol stripped you of your pretenses and showed clearly what a racist you are!”

“What?!”

“You broke up furniture, slapped around some kids, smashed windows.…”

“You know damned well that’s bullshit!”

“I figured as much.” Kressel lowered his voice. He was calming down. “But my knowing it doesn’t help, can’t you see that? This is the kind of thing we’ve got to
avoid
. Polarization! The government walks onto a campus, polarization follows.”

“Listen to me, Williams’ statement is a decoy—if that’s the word. It’s camouflage. They drugged me last night. If it hadn’t been for Greenberg, I don’t know where I’d be right now.”

“Oh, God!… Lumumba’s on your list, isn’t it? That’s all we
need!
The blacks’ll scream persecution. Christ knows what’ll happen.”

Matlock tried to speak calmly. “I’ll come over
around seven. Don’t do anything, don’t say anything. I’ve got to get off the phone. Greenberg’s supposed to call.”

“Wait a minute, Jim! One thing. This Greenberg … I don’t trust him. I don’t trust any of them. Just remember. Your loyalty’s to Carlyle.…” Kressel stopped, but he had not finished. Matlock realized he was at a loss for words.

“That’s a strange thing to say.”

“I think you know what I mean.”

“I’m not sure I do. I thought the idea was to work together.…”

“
Not at the expense of ripping this campus apart!
” The dean of colleges sounded nearly hysterical.

“Don’t worry,” Matlock said. “It won’t tear. I’ll see you later.” Matlock hung up the phone before Kressel could speak again. His mind needed a short rest, and Kressel never let anyone rest where his domain was concerned. Sam Kressel, in his own way, was as militant as any extremist, and, perhaps, quicker to cry “foul.”

These thoughts led Matlock to another consideration—two considerations. Four days ago, he had told Pat that he didn’t want to change their plans for St. Thomas. Carlyle’s midterm holiday, a short ten days at the end of April, would start after classes on Saturday, in three days. Under the circumstances, St. Thomas was out—unless Washington decided to retire him, and he doubted that. He’d use his parents as the excuse. Pat would understand, even be sympathetic. The other thought was his own classes. He had fallen behind. His desk was piled with papers—mostly themes and essay exams. He had also missed his two classes earlier in the day. He was not so much concerned for his students—his method was to accelerate
in the fall and winter and relax in the spring—but he didn’t want to add any fuel to such fires as Williams’ false complaint. An absentee associate professor was a target for gossip. His class load for the next three days was medium—three, two, and two. He’d organize the work later. Between now and seven o’clock, however, he had to find Lucas Herron. If Greenberg called while he was out, he’d blame it on a forgotten graduate conference.

He decided to shower, shave, and change clothes. Once in the bathroom, he checked the litter box. The Corsican paper was there—he knew it would be.

The shave and shower completed, Matlock walked into his bedroom, selecting clothes and a course of action. He didn’t know Herron’s daily schedule, although it would be a simple matter to find out if Lucas had any late afternoon classes or seminars. If he didn’t, Matlock knew Herron’s house; it would take about fifteen minutes to get there by car. Herron lived eight miles from the campus, on a rarely traveled back road in a section once a part of the old Carlyle family estate. Herron’s home had been a carriage house. It was out of the way, but as Lucas kept saying, “Once there, it’s worth it.”

The rapid tapping of the door knocker broke his concentration. It also frightened him—he felt himself gasping for breath; that was disturbing.

“Be right there,” he yelled, slipping a white sport shirt over his head. He walked barefoot to the front door and opened it. It was impossible for him to conceal his shock. In the doorframe stood Adam Williams—alone.

“Afternoon.”

“Jesus!… I don’t know whether to hit you in the
mouth right now or first call the police! What the hell do you want? Kressel’s already called me, if that’s what you’re checking on.”

“Please let me talk to you. I’ll be quick.” The black spoke with urgency, trying, thought Matlock, to conceal his fear.

“Come on in. And
make
it quick.” Matlock slammed the door as Williams passed by him into the foyer. The black turned and tried to smile, but there was no humor in his eyes.

“I’m sorry about that report. Truly sorry. It was an unpleasant necessity.”

“I don’t buy that and you can’t sell it! What did you want Kressel to do? Bring me up before the board and burn me out of here? Did you think I’d just sit down and play doormat? You’re a goddamn maniac!”

“We didn’t think
anything
would happen. That’s precisely why we did it.… We couldn’t be sure where you went. You disappeared, you know. You might say we had to take the offensive and then later agree that it was all a disagreeable misunderstanding.… It’s not a new tactic. I’ll send Kressel another report, backing off—but not entirely. In a couple of weeks, it’ll be forgotten.”

Matlock raged, as much against Williams’ attitude as his conscienceless pragmatism. But when he spoke he did not raise his voice. “Get out. You disgust me.”

“Oh, come off it, man! Haven’t we
always disgusted
you?!” Matlock had hit a nerve and Williams responded in kind. But just as suddenly, he took hold of himself. “Let’s not argue theoretical practicalities. Let me get to the point and leave.”

“By all means.”

“All right. Listen to me. Whatever Dunois wanted
from you,
give
it to him!… That is, give it to me and I’ll send it on. No forked tongue; it’s last-extremity language!”

“Too pat a phrase. No sale. Why would I have anything Brother Julian wanted? Did he say so? Why doesn’t he come over himself?”

“Brother Julian doesn’t stay long in any one place. His talents are in great demand.”

“Staging Mau Mau puberty rituals?”

“He really does that, you know. It’s a hobby.”

“Send him to me.” Matlock crossed in front of Williams and went to the coffee table. He reached down and picked up a half-empty pack of cigarettes. “We’ll compare notes on associative body movements. I’ve a hell of a collection of sixteenth-century folk dances.”

“Talk seriously. There’s no
time!
”

Matlock lit a cigarette. “I’ve got all the time in the world. I just want to see Brother Julian again; I want to put him in jail.”

“No chance! No chance. I’m here for
your
benefit! If I leave without it, I can’t
control
it!”

“Two pronouns signifying the same or different objects?”

“Oh, you’re too much! You’re really too much! Do you know who Julian Dunois
is?
”

“Part of the Borgia family? Ethiopian branch?”

“
Stop it, Matlock!
Do what he says! People could be hurt. Nobody wants that.”

“I
don’t
know who Dunois is and I don’t much give a damn. I just know he drugged me and assaulted me and is exercising a dangerous influence on a bunch of children. Beyond this, I suspect he had my apartment broken into and many of my personal belongings destroyed. I want him put away. From you
and
from me.”

“Be reasonable,
please!
”

Matlock walked swiftly to the curtains in front of his casement window and with a flourish, yanked them down, displaying the shattered glass and twisted lead.

“Is this one of Brother Julian’s calling cards?”

Adam Williams stared, obviously shocked, at the mass of destruction. “No, man. Absolutely, no. That’s not Julian’s style.… That’s not even my style. That’s someone else.”

The road to Lucas Herron’s house was dotted with the potholes of winter. Matlock doubted that the town of Carlyle would fill them in; there were too many other commercially traveled streets still showing the effects of the New England freeze. As he approached the old carriage house, he slowed his Triumph to barely ten miles an hour. The bumps were jarring, and he wanted to reach Herron’s house with little noise.

Thinking that Jason Greenberg might have had him followed, Matlock took the long route to Herron’s, driving four miles north on a parallel road and then doubling back on Herron’s street. There was no one behind him. The nearest houses to Herron’s were a hundred yards away on either side, none in front. There’d been talk of turning the area into a housing development just as there’d been talk of enlarging Carlyle University, but nothing came of either project. Actually, the first depended upon the second, and there was strong alumni opposition to any substantial physical change at Carlyle. The alumni were Adrian Sealfont’s personal cross.

Matlock was struck by the serenity of Herron’s home. He’d never really looked at the house before. A dozen times, more or less, he’d driven Lucas home
after faculty meetings, but he’d always been in a hurry. He’d never accepted Lucas’s invitations for a drink and, as a result, he had never been inside the house.

He got out of the car and approached the old brick structure. It was tall and narrow; the faded stone covered with thousands of strands of ivy heightened the feeling of isolation. In front, on the large expanse of lawn, were two Japanese willow trees in full spring bloom, their purple flowers cascading toward the earth in large arcs. The grass was cut, the shrubbery pruned, and the white gravel on the various paths was gleaming. It was a house and grounds which were loved and cared for, yet one had the feeling that they were not shared. It was the work of and for one person, not two or a family. And then Matlock remembered that Lucas Herron had never married. There were the inevitable stories of a lost love, a tragic death, even a runaway bride-to-be, but whenever Lucas Herron heard about such youthful romanticizing he countered with a chuckle and a statement about being “too damned selfish.”

Matlock walked up the short steps to the door and rang the bell. He tried practicing an opening smile, but it was false; he wouldn’t be able to carry it off. He was afraid.

The door swung back and the tall, white-haired Lucas Herron, dressed in wrinkled trousers and a half-unbuttoned, oxford-blue shirt, stared at him.