1972 - Just a Matter of Time

by James Hadley Chase

  Bromhead had impeccable references. He had only recently arrived in America, being British born. He had told her he had been chauffeur to the Duke of Sussex. His quiet, dignified manners, his references from the Duke, his appearance made him irresistible to Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

  He told her in his quiet, beautifully modulated voice that he was used to driving only a Rolls-Royce. If Mrs. Morely-Johnson preferred the Cadillac, and here he paused, lifting his silver grey eyebrows, then he would regretfully have to look elsewhere.

  Looking at this tall, stately man, Mrs. Morely-Johnson thought how her friends would envy her having such a personality working for her. She had never thought of buying a Rolls-

  Royce. All her friends had either Cadillacs or Mercedes. The idea delighted her. She told him to get a Rolls. He had inclined his head gravely and she was a shade disappointed that he wasn’t more pleased. He then told her that he would prefer to get his uniforms from Hawes & Curtis, London, who were the Duke of Edinburgh’s tailors. He thought American tailors didn’t have the style to which he was accustomed. Slightly bewildered, but enchanted, Mrs. Morely-Johnson told him to go ahead and make the necessary arrangements. Even when the check came in for over a thousand dollars, she paid it without flinching. She assured herself that so dignified and handsome a man had to be suitably dressed.

  It was only when the gleaming plum coloured Rolls-Royce arrived at the entrance of the Plaza Beach Hotel plus Bromhead in an immaculate grey uniform with black piping, plus a cockade in his peaked cap that she realized she was getting value for money. The doorman of the hotel who had seen everything and appeared to be unimpressionable, was impressed, and that alone made Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s day.

  On the first of every December, Bromhead had suggested politely but with steely firmness that she should trade in the Rolls for the new model. Every year, Mrs. Morely-Johnson happily agreed.

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson had engaged Bromhead a year before Chris Patterson had taken over her affairs and this had been fortunate for Bromhead. Had Patterson engaged him, he would have investigated his references and he would have found there was no such person as the Duke of Sussex, and the elaborate crest as well as the reference, written in a spidery hand, were forgeries.

  Jack Bromhead had spent ten years of his fifty-five years in prison for forgery. He was recognized by the British police as one of the most expert forgers in the country. He could not only forge any signature, but he was also expert in reproducing any document or currency notes, being a top-class engraver. Having spent a bleak ten years in prison due to a tip-off by a dissatisfied partner, Bromhead had decided that forgery was now too dangerous a career to pursue. At his age, he felt he wanted a calmer life, but a life with prospects. Released from prison, he decided to capitalize on his appearance by going to America. He was an expert driver and he felt with his English accent, his looks and his dignity, he couldn’t fail to make an impact on some rich American.

  He arrived on the Pacific coast with enough money to last him for several weeks - money he had obtained by selling his stock of engraving plates to another of his colleagues who was willing to take any risk, and presented himself at the leading domestic agency.

  He knew exactly what he wanted: to be a chauffeur to a rich, elderly woman and he was fortunate that Mrs. Morely-Johnson had that morning asked the Agency to find her a chauffeur.

  During his years as a master forger, Bromhead had enjoyed an income of thirty thousand pounds sterling a year, but those heydays only lasted for less than three years before the police had caught up with him. But during that time, he had acquired the taste for luxury and the ten bleak years in prison had badly shaken him. When he had been released, he told himself that he must find a police-free method of taking care of his old age. He knew he would never be able to face another ten years in jail.

  His thinking was thus: Give me a rich old woman, give me time, and if I don’t fix it so I live in comfort for the rest of my days, then I don’t deserve anything.

  He was acutely aware that if he made one false move and gave the police any reason to investigate his past he would be in serious trouble. He was fifty-five years of age: there was time.

  As Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s chauffeur he led a comfortable, easy life. He had a good room with a shower and television, in a small block of apartments reserved for the chauffeurs of the rich Plaza Beach Hotel’s clients. Being the chauffeur of the only Rolls-Royce gave him a status symbol with the other chauffeurs which pleased him. He was paid one hundred dollars a week with everything found. Mrs. Morely-Johnson wasn’t exacting.

  Each morning at 11.00, she went shopping and Bromhead drove her, took her parcels and generally acted as a nursemaid, but this didn’t worry him. She seldom wanted to be taken for drives in the afternoon and she never went out at night. She preferred to play the piano or to give lunch and dinner parties on her terrace and the hotel staff took care of that. She also liked to sit in the sun, listening to her hi-fi set playing gramophone discs.

  Bromhead had plenty of time. He spent some of this time writing to movie stars, authors and other celebrities asking for their autographs. Such is the delight of such people to be asked for their autographs, he received a steady supply and to keep his forging hand in, he perfected their signatures so that he could produce them without hesitation on any blank cheque should the need arise. But this, of course, was dangerous. Forging these signatures was purely an exercise and not to be capitalized.

  When he had arrived for the first time at the Plaza Beach Hotel he knew nothing about Mrs. Morely-Johnson except that she was wealthy. How wealthy he didn’t know, but he was determined to find out. He invested in a highly sophisticated bugging device, the microphones of which he planted in Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s living room, on the terrace and in her bedroom.

  These microphones, little bigger than grape seeds, were powerful enough to feed a tape recorder in Bromhead’s room across the courtyard.

  He had accepted the fact that this was to be a long-term operation and was prepared to be patient. A year passed without him gaining any information of value, except that he learned Mrs. Morely-Johnson was inclined to gush over men much, much younger than herself. It wasn’t until Chris Patterson appeared on the scene that the information that Bromhead wanted began to filter through on the tape.

  Sitting in his comfortable room, listening to Patterson’s voice on his first visit to the penthouse, at long last, he heard details of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s financial affairs. He had a scratch pad on his knee and he made rapid notes. He learned that apart from her jewellery, her Rolls, her furs, her pictures and her real estate investments, she was worth around five million dollars.

  Looking at his notes when the interview was over, Bromhead realized if he played the right cards, he had found Eldorado.

  Another year went by. The routine was always the same, but this suited Bromhead. Gradually, he increased his hold on the old lady. Nothing was too much trouble. Her every whim was dealt with with quiet, kindly dignity which delighted her.

  Bromhead was looking to the future. But during these passing months he became more and more aware that Patterson was making a much bigger impact on the old lady than he was. He was prepared for this. He now knew she was susceptible to the young and the handsome. He had often noticed her reaction to young men who served her in the luxury stores and how she sat on her terrace, before the cataract had made her half blind, with powerful field glasses, watching young men parade along the waterfront. So it came as no surprise that Patterson, remarkably handsome, young and well dressed, was giving the old lady a jolt like a massive shot of hormones.

  Then one morning, she told Bromhead to go to her attorney’s office.

  ‘I want you to bring Mr. Weidman back here, Bromhead,’ she said, ‘and when we have finished our business talk to take him back to his office. He will like a little ride in the Rolls.’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ Bromhead had said.

  Business talk . . .

&n
bsp; Before collecting Mr. Weidman, Bromhead arranged a large spool of tape on his recorder, set the time switch to begin recording at 11.00 when Mr. Weidman was due to arrive.

  He sat in the Rolls outside the hotel, knowing every word between Mrs. Morely-Johnson and her attorney would be recorded while he waited for the attorney to reappear. He drove him back to his office. Then returning to his own room, he made himself a ham sandwich, opened a can of beer and settled down to listen to the playback.

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson was leaving two million dollars to the Cancer Research Fund. Two million dollars, plus 1,000 acres of building land to Oxfam. A million dollars to the blind. Her pictures were to be sold and the proceeds (perhaps two million dollars) to UNICEF.

  Then followed the bequests: An annuity of $100,000 to be paid to Christopher Patterson for his lifetime in recognition for his constant kindness and attention. An annuity of $15,000 to Jack Bromhead and the Rolls-Royce. An annuity of $20,000 to Miss May Lawson, her companion-help.

  There had been a pause of silence on the tape, then her attorney’s voice asked, ‘How about your nephew, Gerald Hammett? Are you providing for him?’

  ‘Gerald?’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s voice shot up. ‘Certainly not! He’s a horrible boy! He will get nothing from me!’

  There was a lot more, but it wasn’t important. Bromhead sat back and studied his notes.

  An annuity of $15,000, plus the Rolls-Royce wasn’t what he expected. This must be readjusted . . . somehow. At the moment he didn’t know how.

  Her nephew, Gerald Hammett? Who was he? This was the first time that Bromhead knew that Mrs. Morely-Johnson had a relative.

  After some thought, he cleaned the tape and locked his notes away. There was time, he told himself. The nephew interested him. He now needed to make inquiries. A relative could upset a will . . . wills were tricky, and he had to be careful. One false move and the police would arrive. He flinched at the thought.

  Then he remembered Solly Marks. Before he had been released from prison, he had been told by the man who shared his cell that if ever he needed anything when on the Pacific coast, the man to contact was Solly Marks. This man lived in Los Angeles, some hundred miles from where Bromhead was now living. Solly Marks was a shyster lawyer, a property owner, a moneylender and a man with his ear to the ground.

  After some thought, Bromhead decided he had to have help and Solly Marks, seemed, on recommendation, to be the man to help him. He found his telephone number and called him. As soon as Bromhead had mentioned the name of the man with whom he had shared his cell and mentioned his own name, Marks had become extremely cooperative.

  ‘I’ll come over,’ he said. ‘Better not talk on the phone. You name the place and I’ll be there.’

  ‘Book in at the Franklin Hotel,’ Bromhead said. ‘I’ll meet you there at six o’clock tomorrow evening.’

  Bromhead had a slight shock when he saw Marks sitting in the lounge of the hotel, waiting for him. The man looked like an inflated toad: short, squat with tremendously wide shoulders, his face resembling a ping-pong ball with tufts of reddish hair glued to its sides. His features disappeared into fat. His small, black eyes, peering out from puffy bastions were like jet beads, sparkling, lively, cunning and shrewd.

  Yet within minutes of talking, Bromhead knew this was the man he was looking for.

  ‘You don’t have to know why,’ he said as they began to talk business. ‘This is what I want: I want a complete breakdown on Mrs. Morely-Johnson who lives at the Plaza Beach Hotel. I want the same on Christopher Patterson, the assistant manager of the Pacific Traders Bank. When I say a breakdown, I want all details about him: especially about his sex life. Then I want details of Gerald Hammett, Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s nephew. Can you do this?’

  Marks laid a small hand that looked like a lump of badly fashioned dough on Bromhead’s arm.

  ‘I can do anything, but at a price. I don’t imagine you could pay just yet, but would you say you have good prospects?’

  Bromhead stared into the tiny, black eyes.

  ‘I have good prospects.’

  Marks finished his drink.

  ‘Then there is no problem. I will get the information for you. Could I ask what are your prospects?’

  Bromhead allowed his stern features to relax in a smile.

  ‘I collect autographs,’ he said. ‘It is a little childish, but I have my reasons.’ He took from his pocket a scratch pad and offered it to Marks. ‘Would you mind giving me yours?’

  Marks stared at him, then his tiny mouth like a knife cut in a lump of dough moved slightly into what might be mistaken for a smile. He took the pad, produced a pen and scrawled his signature: a shapeless mess of squiggles.

  Bromhead studied the signature for several minutes.

  ‘Not easy,’ he said under his breath, then he turned the sheet on to a fresh page, borrowed Marks’s pen and reproduced the signature. He tore off the two sheets from the pad, shuffled them and handed them to Marks.

  ‘Which is the one you wrote?’ he asked.

  Marks looked at the two identical signatures, tore the sheets into little pieces and nodded at Bromhead.

  ‘Impressive,’ he said. ‘Very well, my friend, you have unlimited credit.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Bromhead said. ‘What will it cost me?’

  ‘Ten thousand dollars for the research.’

  Bromhead shook his head.

  ‘No . . . five thousand. It’s only worth five thousand.’

  Marks leaned forward. He looked like an overfed vulture.

  ‘Mrs. Morely-Johnson is worth five million dollars. Never cut corners, my friend . . . ten thousand or we don’t do a deal.’

  ‘Eight,’ Bromhead said without any hope.

  Marks gave a shrill little laugh.

  ‘I said ten . . . I’ll be in touch with you,’ and climbing to his feet, he waddled away towards the elevator.

  Bromhead watched him go. This was a man after his own heart.

  The dossier that Marks finally delivered was exactly what Bromhead required.

  Before parting with the dossier, Marks had asked for an I.O.U. for $10,000, and this Bromhead had given him. He was so certain his plan would eventually succeed that he was confident that sooner or later he would be in the position to repay Marks. Even the 25 percent interest charged by Marks didn’t make him hesitate for more than a second or so before he signed.

  ‘If there’s anything else I can do for you,’ Marks said, putting the I.O.U. away carefully in his billfold, ‘you know how to contact me. It will be my pleasure.’

  At this rate of interest, Bromhead thought, this was an understatement, but he had what he wanted and he had long ago learned that if you wanted something important you had to expect to pay for it.

  He settled down to study the dossier, beginning with the information concerning Gerald Hammett who he considered a danger spot being the only likely contestant of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will.

  He learned that Gerald was the only child of Lawson Hammett, Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s brother, a reasonably successful mining engineer who had been killed in a mining accident some eight years ago. His wife had run off with Hammett’s best friend and he had obtained a divorce with the custody of the child, Gerald. Father and son hadn’t got along together. In spite of making efforts, Lawson Hammett found he had no point of contact with the boy who was lazy, dirty and had a vicious temper. When Gerald left school, instead of returning home, he disappeared. His father, relieved, had made no effort to find him.

  On his twenty-second birthday, Gerald who by now had learned that if you don’t ask, you don’t get, called on his aunt, Mrs. Morely-Johnson at the Plaza Beach Hotel and he reminded her in no uncertain terms that he was her nephew and what was she going to do for him?

  Had he approached the old lady with tact and politeness she would have done something for him, but he had no time for rich old women and he demanded financial aid in a way that shocked his aunt.

  Marks’s investiga
tor had talked to an eyewitness of the meeting.

  The doorman of the Plaza Beach Hotel remembered the incident, now five years ago and was prepared to describe it in detail for a $10 bill. Gerald had arrived at the hotel, dirty, shabby and bearded just as Mrs. Morely-Johnson was going out for her morning shopping. As the result of smoking a reefer to bolster his courage, Gerald was in an ugly and truculent mood.

  He had confronted his aunt in the hotel lobby and told her in a loud voice what he expected of her. The old lady listened to this dirty-looking boy, scarcely able to believe her ears. She was aware that her so-called friends were also listening and staring.

  She felt helpless and she looked at the doorman who hadn’t seen Gerald’s entrance, waving her hands in a signal of distress. The doorman, remembering many past favours, grabbed hold of Gerald and ejected him from the hotel with considerable violence but not before Gerald had yelled, ‘Okay, you stupid old cow . . . if you don’t want me, then up yours!’

  It had been a scene that took Mrs. Morely-Johnson some time to live down. Had she not been worth five million dollars, the manager of this luxury hotel would have asked her to leave.

  According to the dossier, Gerald had then gone to Los Angeles. He had joined up with a Hippy group and had spent the next three years living rough, scratching up some kind of living until he finally opted to become a drug pusher. This enterprise lasted less than two months before the Vice squad caught up with him. His father now dead, he had only Mrs. Morely-Johnson to turn to. A detective called on her and asked her if she was prepared to do anything for her nephew. The detective happened to be a handsome Negro. Mrs. Morely-Johnson had been born and raised in Georgia and couldn’t bear the sight of a black skin. Apart from loathing her nephew who had practically wrecked her way of living at the Plaza Beach Hotel, talking to a black detective was, to her, the uttermost end. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.