to Matlock’s anticipation. Jeff Kramer wanted to part company. With his
four hundred dollars.
Matlock said he would phone Kramer in less than a week and return the
automobile. Kramer insisted on paying for the drinks and rapidly left the
Hogshead Tavern. Matlock, alone, finished his drink and thought out his
next move.
The hunted and the hunter were n~w one.
24
He sped out Route 72 toward Mount Holly in Kramer’s white station wagon. He
knew that within the hour he would find another pay telephone and insert
another coin and make another call. This time to one Howard Stockton, owner
of the Carmount Country Club. He looked at his watch; it was nearly eight
thirty. Samuel Sharpe, attorney at law, should have reached Stockton several
hours ago.
He wondered how Stockton had reacted. He wondered about Howard Stockton.
The station wagon~s headlights caught the reflection of the road sign.
mouNT iaoLLT. nswom-,oRATED jL896
And just beyond it, a second reflection.
MOUNT HOLLY ROTARY
HARPER’S REST
TUESDAY NOON
ONE MILE
Why not? thought Matlock. There was nothing to lose. And possibly something
to gain, even learn.
TuE mATLocK P”ER 241
The hunter.
The white stucco front and the red Narragansett neons in the windows said
all there was to say about Harper’s cuisine. Matlock parked next to a
pickup truck, got out, and locked the car. His newly acquired suitcase with
the newly acquired clothes lay on the back seat. He had spent several
hundred dollars in Hartford; he wasn~t about to take a chance.
He walked across the cheap, large gravel and entered the bar area of
Harpees Restaurant
“I’m on my way to Carmount,” said Matlock, paying for his drink with a
twenty-dollar bill. “Would you mind telling me where the hell it is?”
“About two and a half miles west. Take the right fork down the road. You
got anything smaller than a twenty? I only got two fives and singles. I
need my singles.”
“Give me the fives and well flip for the rest. Heads you keep it, tails I
have one more and you still keep it.” Matlock took a coin from his pocket
and threw it on the formica, bar, covering it with his hand. He lifted his
palm and picked up the coin without showing it to the bartender. “It’s your
unlucky night You owe me a drink-the ten~s yours.”
His conversation did not go unheeded by the other customers-three men
drinking draft beer. That was fine, thought Matlock, as he looked around
for a tele. phone.
“Men~s roones in the rear around the comer,” said a rustic-looking drinker
in a chino jacket, wearing a baseball cap.
“Thanks. Telephone around?”
“Next to the men~s room.”
‘Thanks again.” Matlock took out a piece of paper
242 Robert Ludlum
on which he had written: Howard Stockton, Carmount C.C., #2o3-421-lioo. He
gestured for the bartender, who came toward him like a shot. Tm supposed to
phone this guy,” said Matlock quietly. “I think I got the name wrong. rm not
sure whether Ws Stackton or Stockton. Do you know him?”
The bartender looked at the paper and Matlock saw the instant reflex of
recognition. “Sure. You got it right. Ies Stockton. Mr. Stockton. Hes
vice-president of the Rotary. Last term he was president. Right, boys?” The
bartender addressed this last to his other customers.
‘Sure.”
‘OlUes it Stockton.”
‘Nice fella.”
The man in the chino jacket and baseball cap felt the necessity of
elaborating. “He runs the country club. That’s a real nice place. Real
nice.”
“Country club?’ Matlock implied the question with a trace of humor.
‘Thales right Swimming pool, golf course, dancing on the weekends. Very
nice.” It was the bartender who elaborated now.
*Tll say this, Ws highly recommended. This Stockton, I mean.” Matlock
drained his glass and looked toward the rear of the bar. “Telephone back
there, you say?'”
‘Thaes right, Mister. Around the comer.’
Matlock reached into his pocket for some change and walked to the narrow
corridor where the rest rooms and telephone were located. The instant he
rounded the comer, he stopped and pressed himself against the wall. He
listened for the conversation he knew would be forthcoming.
“Big spender~ huh?” The bartender spoke.
I MATLOCK PAPEMM
‘rhey all are. Did I tell you? My kid caddied there a couple of weeks
ago-some guy got a birdie and give the kid a fifty-dollar bill. Che-rystl
Fifty dollarsl”
“My old woman says all them fancy dames there are whoores. Real whoores.
She works a few parties there, my old woman does. Real whoores. . . ”
“I’d like to get my hands on some of them. jee. awl I swear to Christ most
of ’em got no brazzieresl”
‘Real whoores. . . ”
‘Who gives a shit? That Stocktods O.K. He’s O.K. in my book- Know what he
did? The Kings. You know, Artie King who had a heart attack–dropped dead
doin~ the lawns up there. Old Stockton not only give the family a lotta
dough-he set up a regular charge account for ’em at the A&P. No shit. Hes
O.K*
‘Real whoores. They lay for money. . . .”
“Stockton put most of the cash up for the grammar school extension, don’t
forget that. You’re fuckin7 right~ he’s O.K. I got two kids in that
schooll”
“Not only-y’know what? He give a pocketful to the Memorial Day picnic.”
“Real, honest-to-Christ whoores. . .
Matlock silently sidestepped his way against the wall to the telephone
booth. He closed the door slowly with a minimum of noise. The men at the
bar were getting louder in their appreciation of Howard Stockton,
proprietor of the Carmount Country Club. He was not concerned that they
might hear his delayed entrance into the booth.
What concerned him in an odd way was himself. If the hunted had
instincts-protective in naturethe hunter had them also-aggressive by
involvement. He understood now the necessity of tracking the scent,
following the spoor, building a fabric of
244 Robmt Ludluln
comprehensive habit It meant that the hunter had abstract tools to
complement his weapons. Tools which could build a base of entrapment, a pit
in which the hunted might fail.
He ticked them off in his mind.
Howard Stockton: former president, current vicepresident of the Mount Holly
Rotary; a charitable man, a compassionate man. A man who took care of the
family of a deceased employee named Artie King, who financed the extension
of a grammar school. The proprietor of a luxurious country club in winch
men gave fifty-dollar tips to caddies and girls were available for members
in good standing. Also a good American who made It possible for the town of
Mount Holly to have a fine Memorial Day picnic.
It was enough to start with. Enough to shake up Howard Stockton if–as
Sammy Sharpe had put it”It came-tD that” Howard Stockton was not the form-
less man he was fifteen minutes ago. Matlock still didnI know the maes
features, but other aspects, other factors were defined for him. Howard
Stockton had become a thing in Mount Holly, Connecticut.
Matlock inserted the dime and dialed the number of the Carmount Country
Club.
“It suhtainly is a pleasure, Mr. Matlockt” exclaimed Howard Stockton,
greeting Matlock on the marble steps of the Carmount Country Club. “The
boyl take your car. Heahl Boyl Doet wrap it up, nowl”
A Negro parking attendant laughed at his southern gentlemaes command.
Stockton flipped a half-dollar in the air and the black caught it with a
grin.
‘Thank you, suhl”
“Treat ’em good, they’ll treat you good. That right, boy? Do I treat you
good?1”
TnE MATLOCK PAPER 245
“Real good, Mister Howardl”
Matlock thought for a moment that he was part of an odious television
commercial until he saw that Howard Stockton was the real item. Right up to
his gTayish blond hair, which topped a sun-tanned face, which, in hum, set
off his white moustache and deep blue eyes surrounded by crov/s nests of
wrinkles belonging to a man who lived well.
“Welcome to Carmount, Mr. Matlock. les not Richmond, but on the other hand,
it ain’t the Okefenokee.”
rhank you. And the name is Jim-
“Jim? Like that name. les got a good, honest ring to itl My friends call me
Howard. You call me Howard.n
110 Carmount Country Club, what he could see of it, reminded Matlock of all
those pictures of anteo. bellum. architecture. And why not, considering the
owner? It was rife with potted palms and delicate chandeliers and light
blue toile wallpaper depicting rococo scenes in which cavorted prettified
figures in powdered wigs. Howard Stockton was a proselytizer of a way of
life which had collapsed in 1865, but he waset going to admit ft. Even the
servants, mostly black, were in liveries-honest-to-god liveries, knickers
and all. Soft, live music came from a large dining room, at the end of
which was a string orchestra of perhaps eight instruments gracefully
playing in -a fash. ion long since abandoned. There was a slowly winding