The Matlock Paper Read Free

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 sawthat 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 partwas 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 aregistered 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.