“Oh yes. That,” said Matlock.
Lizzie looked at him quizzically.
“You knew?”
“Well, half-knew. Let me see.”
He glanced at the ornately printed card with the great red lion running along the top of it. On the back in writing just as ornate was the note. If he had not known the Ambassador’s name was Fergus McDonwald, he would never have guessed it from the signature.
“I suppose I must go,” he sighed.
“What’s he after, do you think?” asked Ernst, pausing on his way to the door.
“A chance to demonstrate his literacy, I shouldn’t wonder. Good-bye, Ernst, Colin.”
The door closed behind the two men and Matlock found himself in the situation he had hoped above all to avoid. Alone with Lizzie.
He strolled through into his bedroom and stood at the window moodily twisting the poro-control. The window changed from its normal translucency to utter blankness and the room darkened.
“Where did you go this afternoon, Matt? Something happened, didn’t it? What was it?”
He half turned. Lizzie was framed in the daylight of the living-room as she stood by the door.
“Nothing.”
She did not pursue the question but took a step into the room.
“Do you want me to stay, Matt?”
“No!”
The violence of his reply surprised him. At the same time he thought with alarm that perhaps the darkening of the room had seemed like an invitation.
“No thanks,” he said, gently trying to disown the previous negative and at the same time twisting the poro-switch to full transparency. As the light poured back into the room, he saw the effect of his denial on Lizzie’s face. It was as though he had struck her.
I will not believe she is a spy, he cried inwardly, and “Lizzie”, he began, stepping towards her.
Behind him the guaranteed shatterproof window blossomed violently into a multifaceted rose, and the wall beside Lizzie cracked crazily under the plastic paper even before the fragments of glass showered over his shoulders.
His loving move towards her turned into a terrified dive, his shoulder caught her in the stomach and they both tumbled through into the living-room as the wall trembled under another impact.
“Matt!” cried Lizzie, trying to struggle into a sitting position but unable to shift the downpressing weight of the man’s body. “Matt! Are you hurt?”
She managed to raise herself up on her elbows, but Matlock thrust her savagely back.
“Lie still,” he snapped.
He himself rose to a crouch, his right hand pressed painfully and obliviously to her breast. Then, his head held low, he scuttled around the room darkening each window in turn and pulling shut the bedroom door. His face was white as chalk, though whether for her or himself Lizzie did not know.
Finally when the room was in utter darkness he switched on a small table lamp and came across to where she lay.
“Are you hurt?” he asked abruptly.
“Well, I’ve probably got a few bruises and fingermarks. Matt, what was it?”
He helped her to her feet and for a moment she rested trembling in his arms. Then, without answering her question he went across to the ’phone and called the police on the emergency beam.
“It must have been a force-gun,” he said. “Those windows will resist up to a hundred pounds of pressure.”
Lizzie raised her hands to her face in the classic gesture of horror.
Is it just a gesture? Matlock asked himself. How can I tell?
Inside him a thousand nerve ends were jangling. Nothing that had happened so far that day had prepared him for this.
“They were trying to kill you!” gasped Lizzie.
Matlock looked at her in real surprise.
“You didn’t imagine it was merely a blown circuit, did you? A domestic accident?”
Lizzie’s head moved from side to side as though of its own volition. Her face belied the gesture.
“Who, Matt? Who?”
“I don’t know.”
He poured himself a long drink and disposed of it like a short one.
“Whoever it was seemed to have plenty of time. Time to fire another shot before packing up and going home. Where are the police?”
He strode up and down the long room. Inside he was almost back to normal, but this display of nervous anger postponed the reassertion of the old relationship.
I was going to tell her, he thought. I would have told her. But not now. Not now.
“Could it be Browning?”
That’s a good question, Lizzie my girl. It deserves a good answer.
“It might be. He’d like me dead, and it’s easier than having me in the Cabinet. More final.”
That’s an answer which would interest Browning if it ever reached him.
There was a short ring at the doorbell followed by a fusillade of knocks.
“That can only be the police,” said Matlock.
He flung open the door.
“You took your time,” he said.
An hour later they had gone. At first their attitude had been rather overbearing. They obviously had some official knowledge of Matlock and the implication of their casual approach to the case was that a trouble-maker must expect trouble. Matlock had wound himself up to give the Inspector in charge a tongue-lashing when the ’phone rang. It was for the Inspector. He did little talking, but a great deal of listening. When it was over, his whole attitude had changed to one of courteous, almost deferential efficiency. A full-scale investigation was initiated and by the time they had left, Matlock had been assured he would receive every protection the police could give.
Lizzie had noticed also.
“Who was behind that call, Matt?” she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders, as much for the benefit of the little man who was whispering caution in his head as for Lizzie.
“Browning. Who else?”
Who else indeed. She must have guessed as much herself if she did not know for certain. A report on his call must have gone straight to the Prime Minister. And Browning, if the Abbot was to be believed, had every reason to want him alive for a while.
Which meant that Browning could not have been behind the shooting.
“But why should he arrange protection if he wants you killed?”
A good question. Lizzie had a quick mind. He had lost his desire to tell her everything, but he was in no mood for further fencing.
“Look Lizzie,” he said, allowing his very real irritation to show through. “It’s nearly six. I’m going to have a long soak, a short sleep and then get myself ready for the McDonwald of McDonwald or whatever he calls himself. So let’s just add this to all the other problems we’ve got to sleep upon eh?”
She began gathering her things together with an attempt at a smile.
“All right, Matt. Don’t forget to brush up on your Bums.”
He did not feel he dared respond to her lightness, but watched her to the door in preoccupied silence.
She turned in the open doorway.
“Matt,” she said, “take care.”
Then she went leaving Matlock staring at the door wondering whether it was just concern he heard in her voice.
Or warning.
5
The Scottish Embassy was aggressively Scottish in everything from the décor up. Or down. Matlock saw the profusion of tartan hangings, stags’ heads, claymores and thistles for what it was — a very basic gesture at English ‘refinement’ and ‘taste’. He enjoyed the joke, especially as it was being washed down with such excellent whisky served in heavy hand-chiselled crystal glasses. But others didn’t.
He was surprised, in fact, to realize how much he was enjoying the evening. His long soak and short sleep had done the trick marvellously well. And the drink helped.
He was standing two thirds of the way down a long reception room brightly lit by three scintillating crystal chandeliers. Young girls in national costume were walking round with trays of drinks. Three of scotch for every one of anything else. A long table at the far end of the room was covered with a profusion of Scottish confections and produce, from smoked salmon to black bun.