NO. ALL WE REALLY NEED TO FEAR IS… ”
The sound ceased without preamble. The silence fell strangely on Matlock’s ears.
“The recorder must have been well hidden. It has taken us rather too long to find it,” said the neat man with a pleasant smile.
He moved forward along the corridor and stopped outside a room marked ‘Private’.
“After you, please.”
Matlock went in. Seated beside an electric fire, smoking a cigarette, was Lizzie.
“Thank God you’re safe!”
She rose and flung her arms around him.
“How are you?” asked Matlock. “How did you get out?”
“The Inspector kindly removed me.”
Matlock turned to the neat man. “
“Thank you for that.”
The Inspector smiled and nodded.
“It is our job. Now, Mr. Matlock let us get down to business. I have here…” The door burst open and Colin rushed in. His face was bloody and his tunic tom so that it flapped down behind him like a tailcoat.
“Matt,” he said, and staggered against the wall.
Matlock stepped forward and took his arm.
“OK Colin. Come and sit down.”
“No, Matt. It’s not me. It’s Percy. He’s been hurt — badly I think.”
Matlock left the room without a pause and ran down the corridor.
The hall was almost empty now except for the police and one or two casualties. But lying near the edge of the platform, his head cradled in Ernst’s lap, was Percy. His bald crown was a ruin of congealed blood but his face was relaxed and almost content.
Ernst looked up at Matlock and did not seem to see him for a moment.
Then, “He’s dead, Matt,” he said. “He’s dead.”
Matlock looked down at the face which had always seemed strangely old but now seemed strangely young.
“Leave him be, Ernst,” he said, then spun round to confront the Inspector.
The neat man had been handed a chair leg, brown with blood and a few white hairs sticking to it. He examined it unemotionally then returned it to the sergeant.
“I am sorry we could not prevent this, Mr. Matlock.”
“Prevent it?” said Matlock. “I believe you have caused it. Chair-legs, truncheons, they’re all the same, except that one used to go with an honourable profession.”
The neat man reddened, but his voice was still pitched on the same even key as he replied.
“As you will realize, however, this unfortunate death is merely the most serious of a succession of serious incidents, Mr. Matlock, most of which can be traced back directly to the deliberately provocative tone of your own meeting.” He opened his document case and extracted a typewritten sheet.
“I have here an order, signed by the Chief Constable and approved by the Watch Committee, for your removal from the area of his jurisdiction forthwith. Any subsequent visits must be notified within twelve hours to the Central Police Station and any request for permission to hold a further meeting within the area must be preceded by a written request at least three months before the date of the proposed meeting. It’s all in this.” He handed the paper to Matlock who received it wordlessly.
“Now if you please. Seats have been reserved for your party on the nine-thirty Autotrain for London. We must hurry.”
Matlock folded the paper carefully and put it into his pocket.
“Thank you, Inspector,” he said looking at him with emotionless eyes. In the doorway beyond he saw Lizzie’s pale face with Colin’s, still paler, beside.
“Come on, Ernst,” he said abruptly. “Let’s go.”
“Percy?” said Lizzie. “Is he… ? Oh, Christ.”
Matlock led her gently away and Ernst, with Colin leaning heavily on his arm, came behind. Matlock took one look back before he left the hall. Policemen were quietly picking up the overturned chairs and putting to one side those which were broken. On the walls, as he had forecast to himself, fresh scars had appeared in the plaster. The result of missiles. Chairs. Truncheons. Heads. Scrawled along the entire length of one wall were the words Matlock is getting old.
He went out into the night.
There was a hovercar waiting for them outside, as always, and a still corridor of police led them to the open door. Matlock looked up and down the street. Not a spectator in sight, not a face at á window.
They climbed into the hovercar, the door slid silently to behind them, the magnetic-lock clicked.
“Reporters, Colin?” said Matlock.
Tonight he had no interest in reporters but needed the normal political reactions to still his confusion of thought.
“I’ll let them know, Matt, of course.”
The strain in Colin’s voice told the same story.
The opaque glass sheet which separated them from the front compartment of the car filled with a pale blue light then slowly cleared. Sitting beside the driver, but facing them was an ornately uniformed figure.
“I’m afraid we had to declare this an early curfew area this evening. Part of the Watch Committee’s new Social Drive. So it wasn’t worth while letting any reporters in, was it?”
Matlock looked at the Chief Constable with a surprise he did not show.
“You honour us tonight. Why let the meeting start if an early curfew was in force?”
The Chief Constable laughed.
“You had been given permission, Mr. Matlock, and the Committee does not give its word lightly. But I’m afraid that even without the unfortunate interruption, we would have had to bring you to an early halt. About now, I should think.”
As if on a word of command they heard the slow bell of the Curfew Patrol quite close and a moment later the solid bulk of the Curfew Wagon moved majestically by. Matlock had never been in one but he felt his usual tremor of revulsion as he watched the great shape slide past them. He remembered the description given him by a friend who had been inside. A dungeon on wheels.
“Chief Constable,” he said, “we will soon be at the station. What do you have to say to me? You are not here just to keep us company.”
“Nor from choice, Mr. Matlock. Despite what you may think, I am non-political. Merely the instrument of law and order, the organization of which is the politician’s business. I have been particularly instructed to have you removed from my patch this evening. I am merely ensuring that this is done.”
“Your instructions must have been very particular to bring you out in person.”
There was a pause while the Chief Constable lit a cigarette. The hovercar turned onto the brightly lit ramp which coiled its way over the centre of Manchester to the A-Train station.
“Very particular, Mr. Matlock. I will say good-bye now. I am sorry about your friend’s death. That may be a weakness, but I do not anticipate seeing you again.”
“Hardly a weakness in a law-officer,” began Matlock, but the panel was already tinged with blue and in seconds had resumed its former dull opacity.
The hovercar drew to a halt so close to an open door of the A-Train that they stepped from one to another without touching the platform. The train door slid shut behind them and they moved forward into their comfortably appointed compartment. Their luggage was already there, neatly stacked in a corner. The train began to move as they sat down.
For a long time nothing was said. Matlock sat by Lizzie who had not spoken a word since they left the hall.He put his hand over hers and pressed it gently, but there was no response. Finally, Colin, obviously determined to break the silence, said, “I’m sorry they managed to keep the papers away, Matt. Shall I get in touch with the nationals in town?”
Matlock shook his head.
“It’s not worth it. They won’t be interested. Or if any of them are, the news will be stale by the time they get licence from the Committee. Or at best it’ll get a para. It’s not worth it.”