The Matlock Paper by Robert Ludlum Page A

Crescent.”
    “That’s what he told me,” said Matlock.
    “He knew it was possible; the trace to Crescent was intentionally left open. When he confirmed it, to his satisfaction, he acted fast. I don’t know what he did, but he probably used whatever stragglers he could find until he spotted you.”
    “That’s what he did.”
    “He wasn’t fast enough.”
    “What in God’s name does this have to do with
us?
What
possible
bearing can it have?” Kressel was close to shouting.
    “If Mr. Matlock wants to go on, Loring’s death will be publicized as an underworld killing. Disreputable lawyer, maybe a bag man; undesirable clients. The capo and the doctor will be hauled in; they’reexpendable. The smoke screen’s so thick everyone’s off balance. Even the killers. Matlock’s forgotten. It’ll work; it’s worked before.”
    Kressel seemed astonished at Greenberg’s assured glibness, his confidence, his calm professionalism. “You talk awfully fast, don’t you?”
    “I’m very bright.”
    Matlock couldn’t help but smile. He liked Greenberg; even in—perhaps because of—the sadly disagreeable circumstances. The agent used the language well; his mind was fast. He was, indeed, bright.
    “And if Jim says he washes his hands of it?”
    Greenberg shrugged. “I don’t like to waste words. Let’s hear him say it.”
    Both the men looked at Matlock.
    “I’m afraid I’m not going to, Sam. I’m still in.”
    “You can’t be serious! That man was killed!”
    “I know. I found him.”
    Kressel put his hand on Matlock’s arm. It was the gesture of a friend. “I’m not an hysterical shepherd watching over a flock. I’m concerned. I’m
frightened
. I see a man being manipulated into a situation he’s not qualified to handle.”
    “That’s subjective,” broke in Greenberg quietly. “We’re concerned, too. If we didn’t think he was capable, we never would have approached him.”
    “I think you would,” said Kressel. “I don’t for a minute believe such a consideration would stop you. You use the word
expendable
too easily, Mr. Greenberg.”
    “I’m sorry you think so. Because I don’t. We don’t.… I haven’t gotten the detailed briefing, Kressel, but aren’t you supposed to act as liaison? Because if that’s true, I suggest you remove yourself. We’ll have someone else assigned to the job.”
    “And give you a clear field? Let you run roughshod over this campus? Not on your life.”
    “Then we work together. As disagreeable as that may be for both of us … You’re hostile; perhaps that’s good. You’ll keep me on my toes. You protest too much.”
    Matlock was startled by Greenberg’s statement. It was one thing to form an antagonistic coalition, quite another to make veiled accusations; insulting to use a literary cliché.
    “That remark requires an explanation,” said Kressel, his face flushed with anger.
    When Greenberg replied, his voice was soft and reasonable, belying the words he spoke. “Pound sand, mister. I lost a very good friend tonight. Twenty minutes ago I spoke with his wife. I don’t give explanations under those conditions. That’s where my employers and me part company. Now, shut up and I’ll write out the hours of contact and give you the emergency telephone numbers. If you don’t want them, get the hell out of here.”
    Greenberg lifted the briefcase onto a small table and opened it. Sam Kressel, stunned, approached the agent silently.
    Matlock stared at the worn leather briefcase, only hours ago chained to the wrist of a dead man. He knew the deadly pavanne had begun. The first steps of the dance had been taken violently.
    There were decisions to make, people to confront.

6
    The implausible name below the doorbell on the two-family faculty house read: Mr. and Mrs. Archer Beeson. Matlock had elicited the dinner invitation easily. History instructor Beeson had been flattered by his interest in coordinating a seminar between two of their courses. Beeson