imperative to reach someone on the telephone.
Why? What?
THE MATLOM PAP= 71
Had the grand impersonation been so obvious? Had he blown his first
encounter?
If he had, the least he could do was try to find out who was on de other
end of the line., who it was that Beason ran to in his disjointed state of
anxiety.
One fact seemed clear: whoever it was had to be more important than Archer
Beeson. A man-even a dmg addict-did not panic and contact a lesser figure
on his own particular totenL
Perhaps the evening wasn7t a failure; or his failure –conversely-a
necessity. In Beeson7s desperation, he might let slip information he never
would have revealed if he hadiet been desperate. It vva&t prepostewus to
force it out of the frightened, drugged Instructor. On the other hand, that
was the least demrable method. if he failed in that, too, he was finished
before bed begun. Loring’s meticulous briefing would have been for nothing;
his death a rather macabre jok% ha terrible cover-so painful to his family,
so inhumn somehow-made fruitless by a bumbling amateur.
There was no other way, thought Matlock, but to try. Try to find out who
Beeson had reached and try to put the pieces of the evening back where
Beeson might accept him again. For some insane reason, he pictured Lorings
briefcase and the thin black chain dangling from the handle. For an even
crazier reason, it gave him confidence; not much, but some.
He assumed a stance as close to the appearance of collapse as he could
imagine, then moved his head to the door frame and slowly, quarter inch by
quarter Inch, pushed it inward. He fully expected to be met by Beesods
staring eyes. Instead, the instructor”s back was to him; he was hunched
over hke a small boy
7!s Robert Ludluts
trying to control his bladder, the phone clutched to his thin scrunched
neck, his head bent to the side. It was obvious that Beeson thought his
voice was muffled, indistinguishable beneath the sporadic crescendos of the
-Carmina Burana.” But the Seconal had played one of its tricks. Beeson’s ear
and his speech were no longer synchronizedL His words were not Only clear.
They were emphasized by being spaced out and repeated.
. . . You do not understand me. I want you to un
dmtand me. Please, understand. He keeps asking
questions. Hes not with it He is not U*h it. I swear
to Christ hes a plant Get hold of Herron. Tell Her6
ron to reach him for Gods sake. Reach him, Pleavet
I could lose everythingl … No. No, I can tell! I am
what I me, man/ When that bitch hums horny I have
probImns I mean there are appearances, old man…
Get Lucas…. For Christ’s sake get to him! rm in
trouble and I can’t … 0
madock let the door swing slowly back IntD the frame. His shock was such
that thought and feeling were suspended, he saw his hand still on the
kitchen door, yet he felt no wood against his fingers. What he had just
heard was no less horrible than the sight of Palph Lormes lifeless body in
the telephone booth.
Herron. Lucas Herrwd
A seventy-year-old legend. A quiet scholar who was as much revered for his
perceptions of the human condition as he was for his brilliance. A lovely
man, an honored man. There had to be a mistake, an aiplanation-
There was nD time to ponder the inexplicable.
Archer Beeson thought he was a “plant” And now, someone else thought so,
too. He couldn!t allow that. He had W dikk force himself to act.
THE MATLOM PAPER 73
Suddenly he understood. Beeson himself had told him what to do.
No infornier-no one not narcodzect-would attempt it
Matlock looked over at the girl lying face down on the living room floor He
crossed rapidly around the dining table and ran to her side, unbuckling his
beft as he did so. In swift movements, he took off his trousers; and
reached down, rolling her over on her back. He lay down beside her and
undid the remaining two buttons on her blouse, pulling her brassiere until
the hasp broke She moaned and giggled, and when he touched her exposed
breasts, she moaned again and lifted one leg over Matlock’s -hip.
Tinky groovy, pinky groovy. . ~* She began breathIng through her mouth,
pushing her pelvis into Matlock’s groin, her eyes half open, her hands
reaching down, stroking his le& her fingers clutching at his skhL
Matlock kept his eyes toward the kitchen door~ praying it would open.
And then it did, and he shut his eyes.
Archie Beeson stood in the dining area looking down at his wife and guest.
Matlock, at the sound of Beesoes footsteps, snapped his head back and
feigned terrified confusion. He rose from the floor and immediately fell
back down agam. He grabbed his trousers and held them in front of his
shorts, rising once more unsteadily and finally falling onto the couch.
‘Oh, jesusl Oh, sweet Jesus, Archief ChrK young fella! I didet think I was
this fi-eaked outl … rm far out, Archiel What the hell, what do I do? rin
gone, nun, rm sorryl Christ, rm sorryl*
Beeson approached the couch, his half-naked wife at his feet. From his
expression it was impossible to
74 Robert Ludlum
tell what he was thinking. Or the extent of his anger.
Or was it anger?
His audible reaction was totally unexpected: he Started to laugh. At first
soffly, and then with gathering momentum, until he became nearly hystericaL
‘Oh, God, old maul I said itt I said she was a minxf … DonI worry. No
tattle tales. No rapes, no dirty-old-man-on-the-faculty. But well have our
seminar. Oh, Christ, yesf That’ll be some senainwf And youll teU them aU
you picked mef Won’t you? Ob, yesl That’s what you’ll tell them, isi* it?”
Matlock looked into the wild eyes of the addict above him.
‘Sure. Sure, Archie. Whatever you say.”
‘You better believe it, old manl And don’t apologim No apologies are
necessaryl The apologies are minel” Archer Beeson collapsed on the floor in
laughter. He reached over and cupped his wifes left breast; she-moaned and
giggled her maddening, high-pitched giggle-
And Matlock kiiew he had won.
7
He was exhausted, both by the hour and by the tensions of the night It was
ten minutes past three and the choral strains of the “Carnima Burana” were
still hammering in his ears. The image of the bare. breasted wife and the
jackal-sorunding husband-both writhing on the floor in front of him-added
revulsion to the sickening taste in his mouth.
But what bothered him most was the knowledge that Lucas Herrons name was
used within the context of such an evening.
It was inconceivable.
Lucas Herron. The “grand old bird,” as he called. A reticent but obvious
fixture of the Carlyle campus. The chairman of the Romance languages de-
partment and the embodiment of the quiet scholar with a deep and abiding
compassion. There was always a glint in his eyes, a look of bemusement
mixed with tolerance.
To associate him-regardless of how remotelywith the narcotics world was
unbelievable. To have heard him sought after by an hysterical addict-4or
essentially, Archer Beeson um an addict, psychologically if not
chemically-as though Lucas were some sort of power under the circumstances
was beyond rational comprehension.
76 Robert Ludlum
The explanation had to he somewhere In Lucas HerroWs immense capacity for
sympathy. He was a friend to many, a dependable refuge for the troubled,
often the deeply troubled. And beneath his placid, aged, unruffied surface,
Herron was a strong man, a leader. A quarter of a century ago, he had spent
countless months of hell in the Solomon Islands as a middle-aged infantry
officer. A lifetime ago, Lucas Herron had been an authentic hero in a
vicious moment of time during a savage war in the Pacific. Now over
seventy, Herron was an institution.
Matlock rounded the comer and saw his apartment half a block away. The
campus was dark; aside from the street lamps, the only light came from one
of his rooms. Had he left one on? He couldn’t remember.
He walked up the path to his door and inserted his key. Simultaneously with
the click of the lock, there was a loud crash from within. Although it
startled him, his first reaction was amusement His clumsy, long-haired
house cat had knocked over a stray Oass or one of those pottery creations
Patricia Ballantyne had inflicted on him. Then he realized such a tbought
was ridiculous, the product of an exhausted mtad. The crash was too loud
for pottery, the shattesing of glass too violent
He rushed into the small foyer, and what he saw pushed fatigue out of his
brain. He stood immobile in disbelief.
Ilie entire room was in shambles. Tables were overturned; books pulled from
the shelves, their pages torn from the bindings, scattered over the floor;