The Matlock Paper (20 page)

The driver was obviously confused. He slowed down, looking at the dozens of automobiles. Suddenly, behind the tan sedan, another car began blowing its horn. The driver was impatient; the tan sedan was blocking his progress. Reluctantly, the driver of the tan sedan started up; but before he did, he turned his face, craning his neck over his right shoulder in such a way that Matlock, now looking directly at the automobile, recognized him.

It was the patrolman. The police officer who’d been in his demolished apartment after the Beeson episode, the man who had covered his face with a towel and raced down the corridor of squash alley two days ago.

Greenberg’s “coincidence.”

Matlock was perplexed. He was also frightened.

The patrolman in mufti drove the tan sedan haltingly toward a parking lot exit, still obviously searching. Matlock saw the car turn into the flow of traffic and drive away.

The offices of Blackstone Security, Incorporated, Bond Street, Hartford, looked more like a wealthy,
sedate insurance company than an investigatory agency. The furniture was heavy colonial, the wallpaper a subdued, masculine stripe. Expensive hunting prints above the glow of brass table lamps. The effect was immediately one of strength, virility, and financial solidity. Why not? thought Matlock, as he sat in the Early American two-seater in the outer office. At three hundred dollars a day, Blackstone Security, Incorporated, probably rivaled Prudential in ratio of investment to profits.

When he was at last ushered into the office, Michael Blackstone rose from his chair and walked around the cherrywood desk to greet him. Blackstone was a short, compact man, neatly dressed. He was in his early fifties, obviously a physical person, very active, probably very tough.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “I hope you didn’t drive down here just for the papers. They could have waited. Just because
we
work seven days a week, doesn’t mean we expect the rest of the world to do so.”

“I had to be in Hartford, anyway. No problem.”

“Sit down, sit down. Can I offer you anything? A drink? Coffee?”

“No thanks.” Matlock sat in a huge black leather chair, the kind of chair usually found in the oldest, most venerated men’s clubs. Blackstone returned to his desk. “Actually, I’m in somewhat of a hurry. I’d like to sign our agreement, pay you, and leave.”

“Certainly. The file’s right here.” Blackstone picked up a folder on his desk and smiled. “As I mentioned on the phone, there are questions we’d like answered, of course. Beyond what you’ve instructed us to do. It would help us carry out your orders. Take just a few minutes.”

Matlock expected the request. It was part of his plan, why he wanted to see Blackstone. His assumption—once Blackstone entered the picture—was that Blackstone might be able to offer him shortcuts. Perhaps not willingly, but if it was a question of “an additional charge.” … It was for this reason that he had to meet Blackstone face to face. If Blackstone could be bought, a great deal of time could be saved.

“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.

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

Nimrod was closer now.

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.”

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.