He knew it wasn’t necessary for him to physically watch Matlock. After all, he’d read the file thoroughly, looked at scores of photographs, and even talked briefly with Dr. Sealfont, Carlyle’s president. Nevertheless, each agent had his own working methods, and his included watching subjects for a period of hours before making contact. Several colleagues at Justice claimed it gave him a sense of power. Loring knew only that it gave him a sense of confidence.
Matlock’s front door opened and a tall man walked out into the sunlight. He was dressed in khaki trousers, loafers, and a tan turtleneck sweater. Loring saw that he was modestly good looking with sharp features and fairly long blond hair. He checked the lock on his door, put on a pair of sunglasses, and walked around the sidewalk to what Loring presumed was a small parking area. Several minutes later, James Matlock drove out of the driveway in a Triumph sportscar.
The government man reflected that his subject seemed to have the best of a pleasant life. Sufficient income, no responsibilities, work he enjoyed, even a convenient relationship with an attractive girl.
Loring wondered if it would all be the same for James Barbour Matlock three weeks from then. For Matlock’s world was about to be plunged into an abyss.
2
Matlock pressed the Triumph’s accelerator to the floor and the low-slung automobile vibrated as the speedometer reached sixty-two miles per hour. It wasn’t that he was in a hurry—Pat Ballantyne wasn’t going anywhere—just that he was angry. Well, not angry, really; just irritated. He was usually irritated after a phone call from home. Time would never eliminate that. Nor money, if ever he made any to speak of—amounts his father considered respectable. What caused his irritation was the infuriating condescension. It grew worse as his mother and father advanced in years. Instead of making peace with the situation, they dwelled on it. They insisted that he spend the spring midterm vacation in Scarsdale so that he and his father could make daily trips into the city. To the banks, to the attorneys. To make ready for the inevitable, when and if it ever happened.
«… There’s a lot you’ll have to digest, son,» his father had said sepulchrally. «You’re not exactly prepared, you know…»
«… You’re all that’s left, darling,» his mother had said with obvious pain.
Matlock knew they enjoyed their anticipated, martyred leave-taking of this world. They’d made their mark—or at least his father had. The amusing part was that his parents were as strong as pack mules, as healthy as wild horses. They’d no doubt outlast him by decades.
The truth was that they wanted him with them far more than he wished to be there. It had been that way for the past three years, since David’s death at the Cape. Perhaps, thought Matlock, as he drew up in front of Pat’s apartment, the roots of his irritation were in his own guilt. He’d never quite made peace with himself about David. He never would.
And he didn’t want to be in Scarsdale during the midterm holidays. He didn’t want the memories. He had someone now who was helping him forget the awful years—of death, no love, and indecision. He’d promised to take Pat to St. Thomas.
The name of the country inn was the Cheshire Cat, and, as its title implied, it was Englishy and pubbish. The food was decent, the drinks generous, and those factors made it a favorite spot of Connecticut’s exurbia. They’d finished their second Bloody Mary and had ordered roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. There were perhaps a dozen couples and several families in the spacious dining area. In the corner sat a single man reading The New York Times with the pages folded vertically, commuter fashion.
«He’s probably an irate father waiting for a son who’s about to splash out. I know the type. They take the Scarsdale train every morning.»
«He’s too relaxed.»
«They learn to hide tension. Only their druggists know. All that Gelusil.»
«There are always signs, and he hasn’t any. He looks positively self-satisfied. You’re wrong.»
«You just don’t know Scarsdale. Self-satisfaction is a registered trademark. You can’t buy a house without it.»
«Speaking of such things, what are you going to do? I really think we should cancel St. Thomas.»
«I don’t. It’s been a rough winter; we deserve a little sun. Anyway, they’re being unreasonable. There’s nothing I want to learn about the Matlock manipulations; it’s a waste of time. In the unlikely event that they ever do go, others’ll be in charge.»
«I thought we agreed that was only an excuse. They want you around for a while. I think it’s touching they do it this way.»
«It’s not touching, it’s my father’s transparent attempt at bribery… Look. Our commuter’s given up.» The single man with the newspaper finished his drink and was explaining to the waitress that he wasn’t ordering lunch. «Five’ll get you ten he pictured his son’s hair and leather jacket—maybe bare feet—and just panicked.»
«I think you’re wishing it on the poor man.»
«No, I’m not. I’m too sympathetic. I can’t stand the aggravation that goes with rebellion. Makes me self-conscious.»
«You’re a very funny man, Private Matlock,» said Pat, alluding to Matlock’s inglorious army career. «When we finish, let’s go down to Hartford. There’s a good movie.»
«Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. We can’t today… Sealfont called me this morning for an early evening conference. Said it was important.»
«About what?»
«I’m not sure. The African studies may be in trouble. That ‘Tom’ I recruited from Howard turned out to be a beaut. I think he’s a little to the right of Louis XIV.»
She smiled. «Really, you’re terrible.»
Matlock took her hand.
The residence of Dr. Adrian Sealfont was imposingly appropriate. It was a large white colonial mansion with wide marble steps leading up to thick double doors carved in relief. Along the front were Ionic pillars spanning the width of the building. Floodlights from the lawn were turned on at sundown.
Matlock walked up the stairs to the door and rang the bell. Thirty seconds later he was admitted by a maid, who ushered him through the hallway toward the rear of the house, into Dr. Sealfont’s huge library.
Adrian Sealfont stood in the center of the room with two other men. Matlock, as always, was struck by the presence of the man. A shade over six feet, thin, with aquiline features, he radiated a warmth that touched all who were near him. There was about him a genuine humility which concealed his brilliance from those who did not know him. Matlock liked him immensely.
«Hello, James.» Sealfont extended his hand to Matlock. «Mr. Loring, may I present Dr. Matlock?»
«How do you do? Hi, Sam.» Matlock addressed this last to the third man, Samuel Kressel, dean of colleges at Carlyle.
«Hello, Jim.»
«We’ve met before, haven’t we?» asked Matlock, looking at Loring. «I’m trying to remember.»
«I’m going to be very embarrassed if you do.»
«I’ll bet you will!» laughed Kressel with his sardonic, slightly offensive humor. Matlock also liked Sam Kressel, more because he knew the pain of Kressel’s job—what he had to contend with—than for the man himself.
«What do you mean, Sam?»
«I’ll answer you,» interrupted Adrian Sealfont. «Mr. Loring is with the federal government, the Justice Department. I agreed to arrange a meeting between the three of you, but I did not agree to what Sam and Mr. Loring have just referred to. Apparently Mr. Loring has seen fit to have you—what is the term—under surveillance. I’ve registered my strong objections.» Sealfont looked directly at Loring.
«You’ve had me what?» asked Matlock quietly.