Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

After a cut like this, thought Matlock, they’ll need a general Curfew for a while. I should have foreseen it. Browning’s been a step ahead of everyone as usual.

He had viewed the news briefly. The main item had naturally been the emergency Budget. But there had also been a lot about the arrests in the North. No details were given, just references to a pool of insurrection. The implication was clear, however; only rapid action by the police had prevented extremists from full-scale outbreaks of violence. Things were under control at the moment, but close surveillance of the situation would be necessary for several days. Citizens were asked to go about their normal business, but to avoid going out more than was strictly necessary. God save the King.

It was good, decided Matlock. It was very good. Just how many important arrests had been made, he didn’t know, but probably enough to throw a sizeable spanner in the works. But the masterstroke was to use this threat of violence from extremists as a way of getting the man-in-the-street to accept the Budget without too much outcry. Anything was better than bloodshed. The Brownings of the world had thrived on this credo ever since the capitalist system had burped up the middle classes.

Matlock was hardly at all disturbed to discover he had left it lying around somewhere in the debris of the past few days. What had happened this morning merely confirmed what was already certain in his mind — he had reached the point where he had to stop and say, “No further — no matter what”, or be swept into oblivion.

He left the bedroom and walked into the living-room. The Inspector ironically waved him ahead through the door. Matlock did not respond to the humour.

The number of policemen in the room had been reduced to three, with a further two stationed outside. The inside three were sitting at a table playing cards, but he was not deceived by their casualness. The drawn guns resting on their knees were not there to settle gambling quarrels in the old Western tradition. They were for him.

He indicated them with a gesture slight in itself, but enough to send three hands sliding under the table.

“Am I expected to feed them as well?”

“Don’t you think the State can afford to feed its loyal servants?”

“I doubt if this State can afford any kind of loyalty.”

The Inspector sank luxuriantly into Matlock’s favourite chair.

“I adore epigrammatic conversations. I’m going to enjoy these five weeks.”

“Five weeks?”

“Oh yes. I’ve been instructed to afford you every protection. No one is going to harm you, Mr. Matlock, be sure of that. But after five weeks you’re not going to need me any more. Unless there’s a boom. That’s the thing. You must put your hopes in greater productivity.”

Matlock moved across the room. The card-players stiffened again. The Inspector sighed.

“It would be more comfortable for us all and cut down the chances of an unfortunate accident if you would announce your proposed movements in advance.”

Matlock shrugged his shoulders.

“If you wish. I am going into the bathroom. I would prefer to be alone.”

The Inspector raised an eyebrow at the oldest looking of the three card-players who nodded. Matlock took this to mean the bathroom had been searched and declared safe. No hidden weapons. No escape route. He could have told them that himself. But he felt the need to be alone, to think.

“Of course,” said the Inspector.

Matlock was not surprised to find the lock had been removed. Nor did he mind much. He was too old to be modest. If the Inspector wanted to make a lightning check, let him. For the sake of authenticity he undid his trousers and sat.

The seat was warm.

There was only the bath and the shower cubicle. He arose, pulled up his pants and moved silently across to the cubicle.

The sliding panel was open a fraction. He put his eye to the crack and peered in.

Squatting uncomfortably up against the soap rack was a policeman.

Matlock’s first impulse was to roar with rage, then go screaming to the Inspector. This lasted only a moment. His second was to roar with laughter at the ludicrous excess of zeal in this superficially so suave and world-weary Inspector. But he checked the noise in his throat.

The policeman was staring straight up at what to him must have been a mere sliver of eye, and was pressing his forefinger to his pursed lips.

Matlock moved the panel further open. It squeaked slightly. The policeman shook his head and produced a piece of soap from behind his back. Then he bent forward and rubbed it gently along the panel’s running track. Finally he was satisfied and when he nodded permission to Matlock, the panel slid fully open in complete silence.

Next the man reached into his tunic pocket and produced a notebook. From it he took a loose sheet and handed it over. He was smiling broadly and familiarly. Matlock felt he ought to know him.

He read the piece of paper.

‘About time. I will give you a handgun. When you go back, pretend you are going into the kitchen. As you pass the card table, start shooting.’

Matlock found himself mouthing questions like a goldfish, but quickly restrained himself. The man’s familiarity still scratched at some small window in his mind. He took the proffered gun, nodded twice, turned and made his way towards the door. He was only a yard from it when a sudden noise burst out behind him.

Startled, he turned violently.

The policeman had pulled the plug.

He stood there shaking his head gently as if reprimanding a small boy’s misdemeanour. Then he held up his right hand and gently waved the gun he was holding.

Matlock stood puzzled for a second before realizing he was clutching his own gun with no effort at concealment. Sheepishly he slipped it into his pocket. The man nodded with approval, then motioned to the door.

As he did so, Matlock recognized him. The nose was unmistakable, but something was missing.

The beard!

It was a clean-shaven Brother Francis.

But there was no time to display his knowledge further than a raising of the eyebrows, as Francis was waving him more urgently to the door. He realized why as he moved back into the living-room. The Inspector was out of his chair and moving towards the bathroom door. Brother Francis obviously had keen ears.

“You weren’t going to peep, were you, Inspector?” he asked lightly, keeping his hand out of his pocket only by an effort of will.

“Perhaps. But only in the way of duty, Mr. Matlock.”

“The things men do for duty. Now, gentlemen, I am moving across to the kitchen where I shall make myself some coffee.”

The Inspector made a negative gesture.

“Oh, no, Mr. Matlock. That would not be right. You must take some advantage of us. Sit down and we’ll take coffee together. Andrews!”

One of the card-players half rose from his seat. There was no time to work out the possible advantages of this new arrangement of personae, and in any case Matlock had keyed himself up to deal with the old.

“No. I prefer to make my own.”

He spoke more brusquely than he had intended, but in the event this had the desired effect. The Inspector shrugged and waved him by with a repeat of his former ironic little bow. Andrews sat down and picked up his cards.

Matlock started to move across the room.

The three policemen watched him steadily as he moved. Andrews, he noticed, still had both his hands occupied with his cards. The other two had their right hands under the table. The eldest had put his cards down, but the other still held them in his left hand.

The Inspector also, he sensed, was standing behind him watching every step. This was good, he tried to reassure himself. They could not watch him and the bathroom door at the same time. But those eight eyes coldly drilling into him left him very little room for reassurance.