Реджинальд Хилл - Matlock's System

“But what did they do here?” asked Francis.

“Faked things mainly, I think. Any well-run state needs all kinds of things if its security is to run smoothly. Passports, visas, paper money. And a well-run police state needs even more. Signatures, thumbprints, affidavits, wills, marriage and birth certificates.”

He pulled out a drawer and emptied it, then another and another. Francis looked at the piles of legal documents, the letterheads, the blank passports.

“And the machinery?”

“Oh, that’s an automatic press. That’s probably some kind of ager. Developer. Enlarger. All mod-cons. And that’s a radio telephone.”

“Why the hell did we come here, Matlock?”

“Perhaps you’d rather be outside with the Wagon? Listen, Brother, don’t have a conscience about this lot. I know they don’t go around torturing and terrorizing people. But they know what they’re doing. You’d have to be pretty stupid not to understand that you’re forging the evidence which is going to kill someone. Or cheat someone. Or discredit someone. No one’s that stupid. Anyway, more important to us is that my spotting this place gives us a chance to get out.”

“How?” asked Francis eagerly.

Matlock grinned.

“I see your priorities are surfacing again. Now, during a Curfew only two kinds of vehicle move around the streets, the Wagons and Official Reds. Unfortunately Official Reds are not easy to come by for the common man. But in a place like this, your Official Red is the only form of transport. These chaps wouldn’t be seen dead in anything else. Let’s see if we can find out how to summon one.”

But before Matlock could start looking, a green light above the ’phone began to flash on and off. Matlock studied the battery of dials and switches in front of him carefully. Finally he picked up the ’phone.

The noise which came out of it was near-gibberish. Matlock flicked a switch.

“Harper? Hello Harper.”

Matlock grunted inarticulately.

“Harper, you took your time. Listen. Is that Scottish job ready? The security boys are screaming for it.”

“Just finished.”

“Good oh. I’ll have a Red round for it in a couple of jiffs. Out.”

Matlock sat back with a smile.

“That’s saved us a lot of bother, hasn’t it?”

Francis peered down at the dials and switches.

“How did you know which was the descrambler?”

“I didn’t. I merely flicked the one which looked most used.”

“What do we do now?”

“Sit and wait. Perhaps you’d like to tell me now how you came to be in my shower this morning.”

Francis gingerly edged one of the dead forgers out of a chair and sat down.

“We heard about four this morning what was going on.”

“Heard? How?”

“Well, we rather inferred it. We got word from the Abbey about a sudden flurry of police activity up there — not at the Abbey itself, but in connected organizations.”

“My organizations, I suppose?”

“You could put it like that. Anyway, arrests were being made right, left and centre. Not just the mob, but key people. The Abbot saw at once what it must mean.”

“A clever man.”

“At any rate, he saw that you must be threatened. There was nothing much we could organize at such notice and as things were so vague. We had made all the agreed arrangements to get you and your friends out of London but we couldn’t bring the timing forward at all. To cut a long story short, I climbed out of my beard and into this uniform.”

“Which you just happened to have handy.”

“Which I just happened to have handy. And off I went round to your flat at a rate of knots. There I came across a dozen or so assorted policemen making a very silent entry. I merely tagged on the back and put myself in a dark corner. Later when the bathroom was cleared and the lock had been removed, I transferred in there.”

Matlock sat with furrowed brows for a while, then slowly nodded.

“I see. Tell me, Francis, how important am I?”

“I don’t understand.”

“This sudden activity on Browning’s part. Was this his plan all along, and his approach to me just a bluff? Or was this a snap plan caused by my decision to go to ground. In which case…”

“In which case, how did he know about it, you mean?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I knew about it. And the Abbot knew. I think I can vouch for us. That leaves you. And yours.”

“Yes. You’re a real comfort.”

Somewhere a sharp-edged buzzer cut through the air. They both started to their feet. Then Matlock laughed.

“It’s the internal ’phone.”

They went back into the outer office and Matlock picked up the telephone.

“Yes?” he said.

“Hall-porter here, sir. There’s a car from the Ministry of Education here. Says he’s come to collect something.”

“Thank you. Oh I wonder, could you step up here a moment and give us a hand, do you think?”

“Of course, sir.”

The ’phone went dead.

“Why did you say that?”

“It’s better to deal with him up here than in the vestibule when he realizes we’ve nothing to do with this office. The Ministry of Education! I love that!”

” “What do you think this job was, anyway? What did he call it? The Scottish job.”

“Who knows. We haven’t got time to look for it now,” said Matlock, tucking more securely into his pocket the small packet he had lifted from Harper’s desk within seconds of shooting the man. “That sounds like our man.”

A minute later they were on their way downstairs, leaving behind them, securely bound to a chair, the unfortunate porter.

In the vestibule waiting for them in the scarlet uniform of the Official Messenger Service were two men. They looked with some surprise when Matlock, instead of handing over the file he was carrying, headed for the door.

“We were told to collect. There was nothing said about you coming with us.”

Matlock shook his head as if in the presence of incredible stupidity. He held up the file.

“This is no use without me.”

“And him?” with a nod at Francis.

“There could be an attempt to remove this from me. I’ve had him looking after me for a couple of days now.”

“I might as well see the job through,” said Francis.

“All right. Come on.”

They marched outside to where the bright-red bullet-shaped messenger car was waiting. Matlock and Francis clambered in the back, the messengers in the front.

The driver spoke briefly into his radio link.

“Twenty-three. Returning to the House.”

Then they accelerated smoothly away through the deserted streets. Within a couple of blocks, they passed a Curfew Wagon, but this was the only moving thing they saw.

Neither of the messengers showed any inclination to talk. Matlock sat busy with his own thoughts, while Francis kept a close eye on the route. Suddenly a pressure from his knee told Matlock that this was where they had to get off.

“Stop the car,” he said in a peremptory tone.

The driver looked surprised but the car didn’t slow down at all.

“Official Reds never stop en route,” he explained kindly. “What’s the trouble?”

With a sigh, Matlock reached into the file he was holding on his knee and took out his gun. (He realized he was actually thinking of it as ‘his’ gun.)

“This,” he said.

“The trouble is,” said the driver unperturbed, “that you can’t take over an Official Red. Even if you shoot me, the thing keeps on going till it hits something. Then we all die.”

“A cool customer,” said Matlock. “Excuse me.”

He reversed his gun and struck the other messenger sharply behind the ear.He slumped forward without a sound.