Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

There was only a second’s hesitation, but it was enough for Matlock.

“So we don’t know?”

“Well, yes and no. I know where I want to be, but as things have turned out, I don’t think we’ll have time to get there.”

“You mean because the alarm will have been raised by now?”

“Yes.”

Matlock thought a moment.

“Is there a deadline?”

“Midday.”

It was just after eleven.

“Distance.”

“About a mile and a half. Fifteen minutes walking.”

“Listen,” said Matlock.

In the distance they heard a bell slowly ring out. Then another, closer. Then another. Till the sonorous peel rang from nearly every building.

“Curfew. Fifteen minutes walking will get us at the bottom of a Curfew Wagon. We’ve got to get inside.”

There was no way of telling whether the Curfew bell was being tolled because of his escape or because of the shooting which had just taken place. But it didn’t matter. Once that bell sounded, everyone got off the streets. Anyone who didn’t was fair game for the Curfew Police.

The next step was a building-to-building search. Every building had its own Supervisor who would do his own preliminary Curfew check, but the real trouble started when the Search squad proper arrived.

It was a good efficient system.

“Come on then,” said Francis, trying to move Matlock into the nearest door.

“Wait a minute, Brother. I may not be able to beat you on the long-distance running, but there’s an old head on these old shoulders. Let’s see what we have here.”

The building was an office block, about fifty storeys high. Matlock moved his eyes rapidly up the outside list of firms who used the building, but he had only covered about two thirds of them when Francis seized his arm again.

“Look.”

Round a corner about two hundred yards away came the huge square bulk of a Curfew Wagon. Its bullet-proof steel casing gleamed dully in the sunlight. The four periscopes on top turned and turned in an angular square-dance. There were no armaments to be seen. The terror lay inside. And archaically, but most sinister of all, from the arch of metal above the great flat top of the vehicle hung the slowly tolling bell whose clang warned of its approach.

One leap took them through the doorway into the building.

“I hope to God they didn’t see us,” panted Francis.

“Why? They’d hardly have time to recognize us.”

“But you don’t usually see policemen hiding from the Curfew Wagon.”

“Is there anything I can do, officer?”

The new voice startled them and made them suddenly aware of their surroundings. They were in the vestibule area of the building. There was an elevator in the wall facing them, and beside it a staircase.

With a real shock Matlock discovered he was contemplating whether he should shoot this man or not.

“How easily the habit grows,” he said aloud.

“I beg your pardon?” said the porter, obviously still trying to work out what degree of deference Matlock deserved.

Brother Francis took over.

“We’re going upstairs. This gentleman has made a complaint against one of your firms. Come along, sir. Let’s look into this.”

They strode purposefully across into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, Matlock reached forward and punched the twelfth-floor button. The lift accelerated up rapidly, forcing their feet hard against the floor.

“Why the twelfth?” asked Francis.

“Because it is two past the tenth.”

The lift stopped.

Cautiously he peered out. The corridor was empty, but there were sounds of activity from the offices which lined it.

Francis looked around uncertainly. He obviously felt that in some way the initiative had been wrested from his grasp and he was not sure what to do about it.

“Why here?”

“Not here. The tenth.”

Matlock led the way swiftly to the staircase and started to descend.

“The porter will have watched which floor we got off at. I only hope he doesn’t check by ’phone.”

He checked that the eleventh floor corridor was empty before they swung rapidly over the landing and down the next flight of stairs.

At the bottom Matlock paused and held up his hand for silence. He had been cautious before, but now every move was as stealthy and silent as he could make it.

Again the corridor was empty, nor was there any sound of life coming through any of the closed doors.

The plaque on the wall credited all this inactivity to the Technical Education Recruitment Board. Brother Francis looked at this then turned to Matlock, his battered boxer’s face (which suited his present uniform much more than his monk’s robes) twisted into puzzled enquiry. Matlock pressed close to him and made a funnel of his hands at his ear. Down this he whispered, “The slightest move from anyone in there, start shooting. Anyone . Understand?”

Francis shrugged, then nodded. Matlock turned and led the way along the corridor to the door marked ‘Enquiries’. Here he pressed himself up against the wall and motioned Francis to knock.

Nothing happened for a full thirty seconds after the knock, but Francis had lived on his intuition long enough to know that he was being scrutinized. Finally a woman’s voice said, “Come in please”.

He opened the door and walked in. Seated at a table opposite the door was a middle-aged woman with a bright smile on her face.

“Good-day, officer. Can I help you?”

Then her face changed and he realized Matlock had appeared beside him. Ignoring the woman, Matlock moved rapidly across the room towards the further door. The woman leaned to one side. Francis remembered Matlock’s injunction but hesitated till her left hand came up with a gun in it. Then he fired. He had to shoot her twice.

Matlock meanwhile had crashed the inner door open and gone through, doubled low. Francis saw the doorway light up with the rapid brilliances of force-gun shots for a couple of seconds. Then all went dark.

A second later Matlock appeared at the door rubbing his left shoulder.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just bruised. I’m not accustomed to the acrobatics of evasion. What about you?”

Matlock looked quickly round the outer office and noted the two shot-marks on the woman. “Chivalry makes you inaccurate,” he observed.

But Francis didn’t hear. He was busy looking round the inner room. There had been three men in there. There still were, but all dead. All three had their guns out. Matlock must have moved fast and shot accurately.

“It would have been easier if you’d stopped the girl from ringing the alarm buzzer. But it’s my fault. I should have realized it might be a girl in there and that would slow you up.”

“Matlock,” asked Francis in bewilderment, “what is this place?”

“You mean you want to know who you’ve killed? A delicate piece of machinery is the human conscience. Well, let it rest, Brother Francis. Many years ago when I had some slight authority in this country, I made it my business to get to know as much about our various Security Services as I could. Even if I’d stayed long enough, I doubt if I’d have got to know the lot. But a myriad of little front organizations were known to me and I’ve kept a fatherly eye on them since. Many have disappeared in that time, of course, and I presume others have sprung up in their place. But this name I recognized outside. Either it was now legitimate and the inmates would be only too pleased to help a policeman or too scared to resist a gunman. Or it was working as before. They were a bit quick on the draw for technical education, don’t you think? And this though it looks technical, is probably not very educational. Except perhaps to you.”

He indicated the banks of machinery which lined the room.