1972 - Just a Matter of Time

by James Hadley Chase

  Gerald spent two years behind bars. During that time he brooded and finally came to the conclusion that he had been badly treated from childhood, that the world owed him a living and Mrs. Morely-Johnson should be made to pay. This was, of course, a deduction offered by Marks’s investigator and Bromhead was prepared to go along with it. In Gerald’s place, he would have felt the same way. When he was released, Gerald had gone to New York and to the Hippy scene, but he left drugs alone. He knew he was now a marked man and if the police had reason to arrest him again, he would go away for a long time.

  It was during this time when he was living in a vacuum that he met Veda Rayson. She was young, pretty and willing, and what was more important, she had a comfortable income from her father who was thankful not to have her living in his house.

  Gerald and she teamed up and she let him live with her in her two-room apartment, paid the bills and generally made his life comfortable. The four months he lived with her turned Gerald soft. He came to like this way of life. He hadn’t to get out of bed before eleven o’clock in the morning. He had his meals provided. When he needed clothes, he had only to ask. Also, Veda happened to be the most exciting lay he had had so far. So what could you want better, man? he asked himself.

  Then one morning as Gerald, waking, was turning Veda on her back, she gave a tiny, suppressed scream that frightened him. Then followed the commotion of telephoning, getting an ambulance, having her dragged down the spiral staircase in a hammock by two boozy-faced ambulance men with Gerald, shaking and panic in his heart, following them and offering useless advice.

  At the hospital the nurse had told him there was no hope. Marks’s investigator hadn’t wasted time going into details but it seemed Veda had been fighting cancer for the past year. The investigator had picked up gossip from the hospital receptionist.

  The nurse who had broken the news to Gerald had been Sheila Oldhill, and the receptionist said that this woman had no right to be a nurse.

  ‘She is a Tomcat,’ the receptionist said. ‘I know all about her. Show her any man and she’ll fall flat on her back.’

  The investigator sighed. If this was true then Sheila Oldhill was his dream woman, but he didn’t say this to the receptionist.

  Veda died within thirty-eight hours of being admitted to the hospital. Again it was Nurse Oldhill who had broken the news to Gerald who felt a pang of loss. Who was going to pay the rent, feed him, buy his clothes?

  ‘I was watching them,’ the receptionist told the investigator. ‘It was horrible. She was looking hungrily at him . . . that is the only word to describe it. How could she look at a dirty, hairy kid like that?’

  The investigator, a fat, middle-aged man had seen everything and heard everything. What the receptionist told him was so much grist to his mill.

  He investigated further and learned that Sheila Oldhill and Gerald had set up home together - a two-room apartment. Sheila continued to work at the hospital, providing the funds on which they lived. Gerald spent his days listening to pop music, going to movies and waiting for Sheila to return. At the conclusion of the report, they were still in New York: she was working at the hospital, he living on her.

  All this interested Bromhead. Before making a decision, he telephoned Marks, asking him for a breakdown on Sheila Oldhill. This took a further two weeks and cost Bromhead another I.O.U. for two thousand dollars, but when he read the report he considered he was getting value for money.

  He learned that Sheila’s father had been first violinist with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and referring to Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s dossier he learned at one time she had been a concert pianist - her professional name being Alice Lesson - and had played with the Philharmonic Orchestra a number of times.

  It was only when he studied Chris Patterson’s dossier and discovered how highly sexed he was and learned of the numerous affairs he was having out of town and the caution he used to prevent any gossip that Bromhead began to perfect his plan to take care of his future in comfort.

  After more thought, he decided he must meet Gerald and Sheila Oldhill. There was now a sense of urgency because Mrs. Morely-Johnson was without a companion-help. The old lady was waiting to hear from the doctors. Her companion who had been with her for fifteen years had been taken to hospital. Mrs. Morely-Johnson disliked change and was prepared to wait for her companion to recover rather than to look elsewhere, but Bromhead was sure the companion wouldn’t recover and he would have to act swiftly.

  He wrote to Gerald on the Plaza Beach Hotel notepaper, stating he was coming to New York on urgent business and he would like Gerald to meet him at the Kennedy Airport. Then he asked Mrs. Morely-Johnson if he could take the weekend off as his brother (non-existent) was arriving in New York and Mrs. Morely-Johnson was happy not only for him to meet his brother but to give him his fare there and back.

  Before leaving for New York, he contacted Solly Marks and told him he was in urgent need of $1,000. Marks sent him the money without hesitation for Marks now realized that Bromhead was planning something that could be big. Marks, like Bromhead, kept thinking of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s five million dollars. Marks didn’t want to know any details. He knew Bromhead was serious. When Bromhead made his kill, then Marks would move in, but not before. The police couldn’t touch him so long as he acted only as a moneylender and this Marks was willing to do.

  Bromhead was a little disappointed in Gerald Hammett, but he was philosophical enough to know that a good workman could use inferior tools if he had to. As soon as he had told Gerald he was Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s chauffeur, Gerald who had been eyeing him with suspicion became much more alive.

  Bromhead told him part of the plan, but gave no details. He then asked if Sheila Oldhill could be relied on to help.

  Gerald said she could.

  Bromhead then asked if he could meet her. As they drove in Gerald’s Volkswagen, which Sheila had bought him, to the two-room apartment, Bromhead thought of the possibilities. If this woman was a Tomcat, as the receptionist at the hospital had claimed, then she was the woman he wanted. Looking at Gerald as he drove, Bromhead decided this immature boy wouldn’t fall for a non-sexy woman. A woman so much older than he, had to be right.

  Bromhead was immediately impressed by Sheila. Although now, at his age, he no longer bothered with women, he was immediately aware of her sensuality, her calmness and her efficiency. With this woman, he told himself, he couldn’t go wrong.

  Having explained his plan, he warned them that until Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s companion either died or was proved unfit to resume her duties, the plan wasn’t on. He was a little worried about Gerald who sat away from them, listening and scowling. Whenever he began to speak, Sheila had raised her hand, stopping him and he had muttered a four-letter word under his breath, then kept silent.

  Bromhead looked directly at Sheila.

  ‘What do you say?’

  ‘It is worth a try,’ she said quietly.

  ‘This is a gamble,’ Bromhead said. ‘It may not come off. I want you both to think of it as a long term operation, but the payoff will be big.’

  Gerald, across the room, chewed his thumbnail.

  ‘What do you call long term for God’s sake?’

  Bromhead regarded him.

  ‘We will have to wait until the old lady dies.’ He paused, then went on, ‘But no one lives forever.’

  Three

  Gerald Hammett sat in his shabby room at the Franklin Hotel with the door ajar and waited anxiously for Sheila’s return. She had left the hotel at 10.45 and he reckoned she would be back with news by at least 12.30. At 13.00 he went down to the bar and bought a beef sandwich and a glass of beer. From his stool in the bar he could see the entrance of the hotel. He was growing impatient and worried. At 13.30, he returned to his room and again waited. The hands of his watch crept on. What had happened to her? She was the kingpin of this operation and without her, there would be no more money. Had she been knocked down by a car? He was angry and frustrated to
realize that although his own pan in the plan was of vital importance, he had such a small active part to play.

  Sheila and Bromhead were so goddamn efficient, he thought angrily. It seemed to him that they treated him the way movie stars would treat a bit player and this riled him.

  Around 16.00 when almost exasperated with waiting, he saw her come down the corridor, carrying three boxes and several parcels that told him she had been on a shopping spree.

  He waited until she had unlocked her door, then he came out into the corridor, looked right and left to assure himself there was no one to see him and then joined her as she entered her room.

  ‘What happened for God’s sake?’ he demanded as she closed the door.

  ‘You, shouldn’t be here, Gerry,’ she said as she dropped the boxes on the bed. ‘You’re taking too many risks.’

  Gerald said a four-letter word.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s all right. I’m on a three months’ trial.’ She crossed to the flyblown mirror and began to rearrange her hair which she had dressed low, making her look older and severe.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Gerald demanded, waving to the boxes on the bed.

  ‘Oh, clothes.’ Her voice was indifferent. ‘Your aunt wants me to dress better.’

  ‘Did she give you the money?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He stared at the boxes.

  ‘What’s she paying you?’

  ‘A hundred and forty a week.’

  ‘She is?’ Gerald whistled. ‘That’s not hay, man! The old cow must be rolling in the stuff.’

  ‘We know that.’

  Her cold tone made him stare at her.

  ‘And Patterson?’

  ‘I was able to persuade him.’

  ‘Just what the hell does that mean?’

  ‘Never mind. I must pack. She wants me there by six o’clock. I haven’t much time.’

  ‘You mean you are going to live with her right now?’

  ‘Yes . . . she is without anyone.’

  Gerald shifted uneasily.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

  She moved by him, took a suitcase from the closet, put it on the bed and opened it.

  He caught hold of her arm and swung her around to face him.

  ‘Did you hear me? What’s going to happen to me?’

  She regarded him with her calm, smoky blue eyes and this quiet calmness angered and frightened him.

  ‘You accepted the arrangement,’ she said and jerked her arm free. ‘Be careful . . . you will bruise me.’

  ‘I’ll do more than that!’ Gerald snarled and hooking his foot around her ankle, he upset her, sprawling her on her back across the boxes on the bed. As he dropped on her, his hand groping for her skirt, she struck him across his face. Water jumped into his eyes and he felt blood starting from his nose. Stunned by the force of the blow, he felt her move out from under him, then a Kleenex tissue was thrust into his hand. He sat up, the tissue held to his nose while he glared at her.

  ‘You bitch!’

  ‘Control yourself,’ she said curtly. ‘Get off the bed . . . you’re bleeding.’

  Trembling and now in despair, he got to his feet.

  ‘I know the signs, you bitch,’ he mumbled as he dabbed at his nose. ‘You’ve got the hots for this banker bastard. I don’t mean anything anymore to you.’

  ‘Stop talking,’ she said. This quiet, firm voice made him feel like a performing ape who answers to signals. He sat on the sagging chair and she went into the bathroom, returning with a wet sponge. With expert and completely impersonal hands, she wiped the blood off his nose and mouth. Then she returned to the bathroom, rinsed out the sponge while he sat there like a beaten child.

  ‘Gerry. . .’ She stood in the bathroom doorway, looking at him. ‘I haven’t much time, but we must talk. This is a big operation. You have to agree to it. Bromhead knows his business. I know my business. We could be rich for life and this is what I want. You must stop behaving like an idiot child. You ask what is going to happen to you. You are important to this plan, but you have a waiting part. If you can’t think what is going to happen to you, then I can make suggestions.’

  Gerald dabbed at his nose with the bloodstained tissue.

  ‘So what are your goddamn suggestions?’

  ‘I will give you seventy dollars a week: that is half what I’m being paid,’ Sheila said. ‘You must leave here . . . it’s too expensive. You must find a cheap room. With seventy dollars a week you should be able to manage. You could even get a job.’

  Gerald dropped the tissue on the floor. He sniffed, rubbing the back of his hand across his nose and then looked suspiciously to see if his hand was bloody.

  ‘Job? What are you talking about? What the hell could I do?’

  She regarded him.

  ‘All right . . . never mind. You must manage on seventy dollars a week . . . a lot of people do.’

  ‘And in the meantime this banker bastard will be screwing you?’

  ‘Gerry . . . will you please leave me? I have to pack. Tomorrow, you leave here. This is the beginning of an operation that could change our lives. Will you please try to act like an adult?’

  He glared at her.

  ‘Suppose I don’t want this money?’ he said. ‘Money can bring trouble. Get on that bed, baby, I want you.’

  Still the calm expression, but the smoky blue eyes came alive.

  ‘Get out!’ There was a sudden snap in her voice that scared Gerald. ‘I must pack!’

  He got reluctantly to his feet.

  ‘How am I to find a room?’ There was now a whine in his voice. ‘It’s fine for you, living in luxury with that old cow and having it off with that banker bastard . . . how do I find a room?’

  ‘Gerald! Will you get out!’ She looked around, caught up her handbag, opened it and tossed money on the bed. ‘There . . . seventy dollars! You won’t get any more until this day week!’

  He looked at the bills lying on the bed, hesitated, then picked them up and shoved them into his hip pocket.

  ‘The trouble with you is you only think of money,’ he said.

  ‘Is that what you think? You have to have money to live. The trouble with you is you don’t think of money - you rely on me to keep you.’

  ‘We were happy as we were,’ he said, moving to the door. ‘I hate this goddamn thing you’ve got mixed up with.’

  ‘Send me your new address at the Plaza Beach Hotel,’ she said not looking at him. ‘I’ll call you.’

  He stood by the door, hesitating, then he said, ‘Come on, baby, before I go . . . drop your pants.’

  She stared at him, calm and remote.

  ‘Please go, Gerry . . . I have to pack.’

  It was the coldness in her voice and the indifference in her smoky blue eyes that told him he could have lost her and he felt suddenly scared and insecure. Knowing it would be useless to try to persuade her when she was in this mood, he went out, slamming the door.

  She listened as he stamped down the corridor. When his door slammed, she sat on the edge of the bed, surrounded by the boxes of clothes she had bought, and pressed her hands to her eyes.

  * * *

  Around 11.00 the following morning, Patterson parked the Wildcat outside the Plaza Beach Hotel. He walked up the impressive flight of marble steps that led to the hotel lobby.

  The doorman saluted him. He was a big, red-faced man who had adapted himself to the whims of the rich old freaks - as he regarded them - who lived in the hotel.

  ‘Morning, Mr. Patterson.’

  ‘Hi, Tom.’ Patterson paused. He believed in being friendly with underlings. It cost him nothing and it paid dividends.

  ‘How’s the wife?’

  The doorman grimaced.

  ‘Like me, Mr. Patterson . . . getting no younger.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. Talking about getting ‘no younger, did you hear the one about. . .’ and he recounted the raw story he had heard from a client just be
fore leaving the bank. The doorman spluttered with laughter as Patterson entered the lobby.

  As he crossed to the elevators, he ran into Herman Lacey, the Director of the hotel. Lacey was tall and thin with a balding head, white sideboards and a hawk-like face that made him look like a successful senator.

  The two men shook hands.

  ‘How’s Mrs. Morely-Johnson?’ Patterson asked.

  Lacey took a personal interest in all his clients. He lifted his elegant shoulders.

  ‘Very blind now. I wish you would talk to her. An operation these days is so simple. Otherwise, I would say she is well. She seems pleased with her new companion. I would have thought a woman a little older . . . but Mrs. Morely-Johnson seems satisfied.’

  Again he shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I wish I could persuade her about the operation,’ Patterson said in all sincerity. ‘But that is a topic that doesn’t go down well. As for Miss Oldhill . . . I persuaded the old lady to take her. They are both musicians and I think it will give the old lady an extra interest.’

  ‘I didn’t know. Yes . . . I see . . . a musician? How interesting.’

  The door of the elevator swung open. Patterson shook hands and leaving Lacey, he was whisked to the 20th floor of the hotel and to the penthouse.

  As the elevator mounted, he again felt a rush of blood run through him at the thought of seeing Sheila again. He had been disappointed and irritated that she hadn’t contacted him. He had expected her to telephone him - he felt that was the least she could have done - to tell him that she had got the job which, after all, had been entirely due to his influence.

  He had had the news from Mrs. Morely-Johnson, but Sheila - he was thinking of her now as Sheila - surely could have found time to have told him herself and to have thanked him.