staircase in the center of the main hall which would have done honor to
Jefferson Davis–or David 0. Selznick. Attractive women were wandering
around, linked with not-so-attractive men.
The effect was incredible, thought Matlock, as he walked by his host’s side
toward what his host mod.
246 Robert Ludlum
estly claimed was his private library.
The southerner closed the thick paneled door and strode to a well-stocked
mahogany bar. He poured without asking a preference.
‘Sam Sharpe says you drink sour mash. You!re a man of taste, I tell you
that. Thaes my drink.” He carried two glasses to Matlock. “Take your pick.
A Virginian has to disarm a northerner with his complete lack of bias these
days.”
“Thank you,” said Matlock taking a glass and sitting in the armchair
indicated by Stockton.
711is Virginian,” continued Howard Stockton, sitting opposite Matlock,
“also has an unsouthern habit of getting to the point…. I don’t even know
if ies wise for you to be in my place. I’ll be honest. That’s why I ushered
you right in here.”
“I doet understand. You could have told me on the phone not to come. Why
the game?”
“Maybe you can answer that better than I can. Sammy says yoere a real big
man. You’re what they call … international. That’s just dandy by me. I
like a bright young fella who goes up the ladder of success. Very
commendable, that’s a fact…. But I pay my bills. I pay every month on the
line. I got the best combined operation north of Atlanta. I don1 want
trouble.”
‘Yoru won!t get it from me. Im a tired business mgking the rounds, thaes
all I am.”
“What happened at Sharpe’s? The papers are full of itl I don!t want nothin~
like thatl”
Matlock watched the southerner. The capillaries in the suntanned face were
bloodred, which was probably why the man courted a year-round sunburn. It
covered a multitude of blemishes.
TnE MATLOCK PAMM 247
‘I doift think you understand.” Matlock measured his words as he lifted the
glass to his lips. ‘I’ve come a long way because I have to be here. I don1
want to be here. Personal reasons got me into the area early, so I’m doing
some sightseeing. But ies only that. rm just looking around…. Until my
appointmene
“What appointment?”
‘An appointment in Carlyle, Connecticut’
Stockton squinted his eyes and pulled at his perfectly groomed white
moustache. -Youve got. to be in Carlyle?’
‘Yes. It’s confidential, but I don7t have to tell you that, do P”
‘You haven1 told me anything~” Stockton kept watching Matlocks face, and
Matlock knew the southerner was looking for a false note, a wrong word, a
hesitant glance which might contradict his information.
“Good…. By any chance, do you have an appointment in Carlyle, too?
Inabout a week and a half?”
Stockton sipped his drink, smacking his lips and putting the glass on a
side table as though it were some precious objet tfart. “I’m just a
southern cracker try& to make a dollar. Liv& the good life and makin’ a
dollar. Thaes alL I don1 know about any appointments in Carlyle.”
“Sorry I brought it up. It’s a … major mistake on my part. For both our
sakes, I hope you won1 mention it. Or me.”
‘Thaes the last thing Id do. Far as Im concerned, you7re a friend of Sammys
lookin’ for a little action … and a little hospitality.” Suddenly
Stockton leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands
folded. He looked like an earnest mini ter question.
248 Robert Ludium
ing a parishiones sins. “What in tarnation happened at Windsor Shoals? What
in hell was it?”
“As far as I can see, it was a local vendetta. BartDIo2zd had enemies. Some
said he talked too goddamn much. Aiello, too, I suppose. They were
show-offs…. Frank was just there, I thinlr-”
“Goddamn Eyetaliansl Mess up everythingl That level, of course, you know
what I mean?”
There it was again. The dangling interrogativebut in this southerners
version, it wasnI really a question. It was a statement
‘I know what you mean,” said Matlock wearily.
‘I’m afraid I got a little bad news for you, Jim. I closed the tables for
a few days. just plum scared as a jackrabbit after what happened at the
Shoals.-
‘Mat’s not bad news for me. Not the way my streak’s been going ”
“I heard. Sammy told me. But we got a couple of other diversions. You wont
find Carmount lacking in hospitality, I promise you that”
The two men finished their drinks, and Stockton, relieved, escorted his
guest into the crowded, elegant Carmount dining room. The food was
extraordinary, sexved in a manner befitting the finest and wealthiest
plantation of the antebellum South.
Although pleasant-even relaxing, In a way-the dinner was pointless to
Matlock. Howard Stockton would not discuss his “operation” except in the
vaguest terms and with the constant reminder that he catered to the “best
class of Yankee.” His speech was peppered with descriptive anachronisms, he
was a walking contradiction in time. Halfway through the meal, Stockton
excused himself to say good-bye to an important member.
THE MATLOCK P”EM 249
It was the first opportunity Matlock had to look at Stockton’s “best class
of Yankee clientele.
The term applied, thought Matlock~ if the word clan was interchangeable
with money, which he wasdt willing to concede. Money screamed from every
table. The first sign was the proliferation of suntans in the beginning of
a Connecticut May. These were people who jetted to the sun-drenched .
islands at will. Another was the easy, deep-throated laughter echoing
throughout the room; also the glittering reflection of Jewelry. And the
clothes-softly elegant suits, raw silk jackets, Dior ties. And the bottles
of sparkling vintage wines, standing majestically in sterling silver stands
upheld by cherrywood tripods.
But something was wrong, thought Matlock. Something was missing or out of
place, and for several minutes he couldn1 put his finger on what it was.
And then he did.
The suntans, the laughter, the wrist jewelry, the jackets, the Dior
ties-the money, the elegance, the aura was predominantly male.
The contradiction was the women-the girls. Not that there weren’t some who
matched their partners, but in the main, they didn’t They were younger.
Much, much younger. And different
He wasiret sure what the difference was at flrst. Then, abstractly, it came
to him. For the most part, the girls-and they were girls-had a look about
them he knew very well. Hed referred to it often in the past. It was the
campus look–as differentiated from the office look the secretary look. A
slightly more careless attitude in conversation. The look of girls not
settling into routines, not welded to file cabinets or typewriters. It was
definable because it was
25o Robert Ludlum
real. Matlock had been exposed to that look for over a decade-it was
unmistakable.
Then he realized that within this contradiction there was
another-minor-discrepancy. The clothes the girls wore. They weren’t the
clothes he expected to find on girls with the campus look. They were too
precisely cut, too designed, if that was the word. In this day of unisex,
simply too feminine.
They wore costumesl
Suddenly, in a single, hysterically spoken sentence from several tables
away, he knew he was right
“Honest, I mean it-its too groovyl”
That voicel Christ, he knew that voicel
He wondered if he was meant to bear it.
He had his hand up to his face and slowly turned
toward the direction of the giggling speaker. The girl
was laughing and drinking champagne, while her es
cort—a much older man — stared with satisfaction at
her enormous breasts.
The girl was Virginia Beeson. The “pinky groovy’ perennial undergraduate
wife of Archer Beeson, Carlyle Universitys history instructor.
The man in an academic hurry.
Matlock tipped the black who carried his suitcase up the winding staircase
to the large, ornate room Stockton had offered him. The floor was covered
with a thick wine-colored carpet, the bed canopied, the walls white with
fluted moldings. He saw that on the bureau was an ice bucket, two bottles
of Jack Daniels, and several glasses. He opened the suitcase, picked out
his toilet articles, and put them on the bedside ta, ble. He then removed
a suit, a lightweight jacket, and two pairs of slacks, and carried them to
the closet. He
THE MATLOCK PAPER 251
returned to the suitcase, lifted it from the bed, and laid it across the two
wooden arms of a chair.
There was a soft tapping on his door. His first thought was that the caller
was Howard Stockton, but he was wrong.
A girl, dressed in a provocative deep-red sheath, stood in the frame and
smiled. She was in her late teens or very early twenties and terribly
attractive.
And her smile was false.
OYesr
‘Compliments of Mr. Stockton.” She spoke the words and walked into the room
past Matlock.
Matlock closed the door and stared at the girl, not so much bewildered as