1972 - Just a Matter of Time

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘She told me she was leaving you a hundred thousand dollars a year for life.’

  Patterson drew in a hiss of breath and his hands turned into fists.

  This couldn’t be true! That was a fortune! She must have got it wrong!

  ‘Wait a minute, Sheila! You mean ten thousand dollars, don’t you? Ten thousand a year for life?’

  The gaff was in, she thought.

  ‘No, Chris. I know exactly what she said. One hundred thousand . . . it’s a lot of money, isn’t it? You should be pleased.’

  She got to her feet, threw off the bathrobe and, naked, walked to where she had tossed off her clothes. Patterson didn’t even see her. He was staring down at the carpet, his mind racing. God! If this were true! One hundred thousand dollars a year for life! He wouldn’t even have to work again! He could travel! The women he could have! The fun he could have! London! Paris! Rome! The world would be at his feet.

  He remained still, his mind in a whirl until Sheila touched him lightly on his shoulder. She was now dressed.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry? You’ve eaten nothing.’

  Looking at him, she decided the difference between him and Gerald was he was greedy and Gerald was stupid.

  Patterson stood up.

  ‘Sheila! You must understand . . . this is important to me,’ he said, ‘You really mean this? She really told you this?’

  She turned away, went to the bedside table and pulled the limpet microphone free. She put it in its box and the box into her bag. Patterson was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice what she was doing.

  ‘Let’s go back to the hotel, please,’ she said and walked to the door.

  She was sitting in the Wildcat by the time he had paid the check. He joined her, still in a daze. She noted with a wry smile that he hadn’t pressed her to stay. As he drove her fast and in silence along the broad highway, she thought that maybe money meant more to men than sex. Men were realistic animals. Sex lasted for only a few minutes, but money, with luck and judgment, could last forever.

  As they approached the lights of Seaview boulevard, he said, ‘Why did she tell you? That’s something I can’t understand. Just why did she tell you?’

  ‘Why do women confide in each other?’ Sheila said. ‘Maybe, women are insecure . . . even old women. They talk. They tell secrets. Perhaps she was so pleased to make you secure. She said how happy you had made her.’

  Patterson could accept this.

  ‘But why did she tell you?’

  Sheila made a movement of impatience.

  ‘Isn’t this becoming a bore, Chris? I’ve told you what she told me. Why should I lie to you? Surely you can read the will?’

  Could he? The will was with the Legal department of the bank. The legal man was Irving Fellows. He and Patterson didn’t hit it off. Fellows was married with two children, serious and nothing in common with Patterson. Often, Patterson felt this thin, sour-faced lawyer disapproved of him. To see the will, he would have to get authorization from Mrs. Morely-Johnson . . . that was out of the question. He could never see the will.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ he said.

  ‘Then you must be satisfied that I’m telling you the truth.’

  Why shouldn’t he be satisfied? Patterson asked himself. Why should she lie to him? One hundred thousand dollars a year for life! If only Abe Weidman, the old lady’s attorney had told him this, then he would believe it. Yet, now he wanted to believe it.

  But why should the old lady have told a new companion-help such a thing? The old girl was a little dotty. She might have confided to Sheila to boast. How can anyone read the mind of the rich and the dotty?

  He pulled up outside the Splendid Hotel. He had to force his mind away from the thought of all this money to get out of the car and open the offside door.

  Sheila slid out.

  ‘It was wonderful,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Chris.’

  His mind still far away, Patterson went through the motions.

  He touched her hand and turned on his charm.

  ‘The greatest,’ he said. ‘Then next Sunday?’

  ‘Yes . . . I’d love that.’ She took from her handbag the box containing the limpet microphone and put the box in his hand. ‘A little memento, Chris, for a lovely evening.’

  She touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips, then turning, she walked quickly along the brightly lit boulevard to the Plaza Beach Hotel.

  * * *

  The following morning, Patterson entered his office to find Vera Cross laying out his mail.

  Until 04.00, Patterson had tossed and turned in bed, thinking about what Sheila had told him and wondering if it were true, then in desperation, knowing he wouldn’t sleep without a pill, he took two and overslept. There was such a scramble to get to the bank in time that he threw on the clothes he had worn the previous night, not caring if the bank raised eyebrows that he was in weekend clothes. In spite of doing without his morning coffee and driving too fast, he was still ten minutes late when he hurried into his office.

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ Vera said softly. ‘Someone’s had a thick weekend.’

  Patterson was in no mood for Vera’s good natured banter.

  ‘Let’s cut the cackle,’ he said curtly and sat down behind his desk. ‘I’m late . . . okay . . . so now . . . what’s important?’

  Startled by his tone, Vera patted the right hand pile of mail.

  ‘There are the men. Would you like me to cope with the boys?’

  ‘Do that.’ Patterson lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand.

  ‘And get me a cup of coffee, please. Have I any appointments?’

  ‘Mr. Cohen at ten. Mrs. Lampson at eleven-fifteen,’ Vera said. ‘There’s no Board meeting.’

  ‘I know that!’ he snapped. ‘There never is on Monday!’

  Behind his back, Vera rolled her eyes. Someone must have soured him, she thought. Yet he looked as if he had had it off.

  Men! She shrugged.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Patterson, sir,’ she said.

  ‘And cut that out!’ Patterson barked. ‘It’s not funny!’

  She was glad to leave the office.

  Patterson rubbed his hand over his badly shaven jaw. He looked across the office at the wall mirror and grimaced. God! He looked a mess! He was thankful he didn’t have to attend a Board meeting. He looked at the pile of mail and cursed under his breath. What a life to lead! he thought. He was nothing but a goddamn slave! Such a thought would never have entered his head had he not been obsessed by the thought of an income of one hundred thousand dollars a year.

  He stubbed out his cigarette. He immediately wanted another and put his hand in his pocket. He found the box Sheila had given him.

  When she had left the previous evening, he had opened the box. In the dim light, he had peered at what seemed to him to be a black button. Obviously it was of no value nor of importance and his thoughts were so busy, he had shrugged and dropped the box back into his pocket. Now he opened the box and this time regarded the black button more closely: to him, it was still a black button. He took it from the box and found the back was sticky with some powerful adhesive. What the hell was this? he wondered irritably, then as Vera came in with a cup of coffee, he put the button down on his desk and forgot it.

  After drinking the coffee, he became more relaxed. He settled down to dictate. In under an hour, he had cleared the mail. When Vera had gone he leaned back in his chair and stared at his blotter. If the old lady had really left him this income for life, he could make plans. She was seventy-eight. She could last for another ten years of course, but that was unlikely. Suppose she lasted another six years: by then he would be thirty-nine.

  How many men could give up work and retire with one hundred thousand dollars a year? Six years wasn’t so long to wait. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating hands. If only he knew for certain!

  The only way he could be certain was to read the will. Was this impossible? He sat, thinking. He knew the form. The Legal dep
artment, run by Irving Fellows, wouldn’t part with the will without authorization from Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Would that be so difficult to get? He lit a cigarette, got to his feet and began to pace around his office.

  The old lady was half blind. She signed any paper he put before her. He could include an authorization along with stock transfers. He felt sure she would sign it.

  Fellows?

  Patterson returned to his desk and sat down.

  Fellows was tricky, but if Patterson told him the old lady wanted to review her will and here was the authorization, how could he object?

  Again Patterson wiped his hands with his handkerchief. But if he slipped up! If the old lady wanted to know what she was signing! He could have an answer ready . . . he would have to have an answer ready! This didn’t present a problem, but suppose Fellows telephoned her to check that she wanted to see her will . . . the sonofabitch was so tricky he might do just that to curry favour. If that happened, then there would be an inquiry.

  Patterson flinched at the thought. No job . . . no one hundred thousand dollars a year for life! Patterson, thinking about this, lost his nerve. No! Wait! He told himself. He was young. Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous. When working in a bank, you don’t do stupid things. One slip . . . and you were out! And yet, he tormented himself, why couldn’t he know for certain? To have this hanging over his head until the old lady died! It might be ten years. Goddamn it! She might even outlive him!

  There came a tap on the door and Vera looked in.

  ‘Mr. Cohen,’ she said.

  Patterson dragged his mind back to realities and got to his feet.

  Bernie Cohen owned a flourishing self-service store, an Amusement Park and a water skiing school He always had spare cash and was always looking for a quick turnover. The bulk of his money was safe in high yielding bonds, but with his spare cash, he liked to gamble for capital growth.

  Cohen was short, fat, balding, blue-jowled and always smiling. He dwelt behind a six-inch cigar and he had been heard to say: ‘If the greatest man of this century smoked cigars, why shouldn’t I?’ and he would give the V sign with his stubby fat fingers and grin.

  Cohen sank into the client’s chair and stared at Patterson.

  ‘Moses and Jacob!’ he exclaimed. ‘Have you had a weekend! What did she do to you?’

  Patterson was in no mood to take a ribbing from Cohen.

  ‘What’s your problem, Bernie?’ he asked, a snap in his voice. ‘I have a load of work, so let’s get down to it.’

  Cohen removed his cigar from his mouth, regarded the cigar, then leaning forward, he knocked the ash into the ashtray.

  ‘Like that, huh? Sore? That happened to me . . . once it was really bad . . . a Jap. Brother! Talk about getting caught in a vice.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ Patterson said, picking up his gold pencil.

  Cohen grimaced.

  ‘You’re in a hell of a mood, aren’t you, Chris?’

  ‘I’m okay . . . what’s the problem?’

  Cohen hesitated, then he lifted his fat shoulders. If it was going to be only business . . . then it was going to be only business.

  ‘How do you like Auto Cap Comp?’

  Patterson didn’t hesitate. He shook his head.

  ‘Not for you . . . too long term. Unless you’ve changed your thinking, you want something quick . . . or am I wrong?’

  ‘You’re right.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty big ones.’

  Patterson thought for a moment. He envied Cohen. This fat, ball of a man could afford to gamble. If he won, he smiled. If he lost, he still smiled. Thinking back on their association, Patterson couldn’t remember when Cohen had lost . . . he had gambler’s luck.

  ‘Ferronite,’ he said. ‘It stands now at $21. There’s a hint of a takeover. Could go to $29 . . . might go higher. It’s a quick in and out.’

  Cohen grinned.

  ‘That’s what my Jap said to me, but she was fooling.’

  Patterson put down his gold pencil with an irritable movement that told Cohen this kind of talk wasn’t with him this morning.

  ‘Mrs. Moses!’ Cohen was now worried. ‘You’re in a hell of a mood, Chris?’

  ‘I have a load of work, Bernie,’ Patterson said. ‘How about Ferronite?’

  Cohen felt deflated. Up to now, he always had enjoyed his sessions with Patterson. They kidded each other, swopped raw jokes, but this morning, Patterson was acting like the goddamn manager of the bank.

  ‘Well, okay . . . you say it . . . I buy it. Sure go ahead.’

  ‘Fifty thousand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Patterson made a quick note on his pad.

  ‘Fine, Bernie.’ He got to his feet. ‘Let’s have dinner together. How are you fixed . . . Friday any good to you?’

  Cohen began to smile again.

  ‘Yeah . . . will you lay on the girls or shall I?’

  Patterson only half heard this. He was again thinking of Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

  ‘Hey! How about the girls?’ Cohen asked, raising his voice.

  Patterson dragged his mind back and shrugged.

  ‘You fix them, Bernie.’

  Cohen got to his feet.

  ‘How that chick must have screwed you! Look, I’ll call you. You’re not in the mood right now. I know how it is. A good . . .’ He broke off and his smile vanished. ‘What’s this? What are you playing at?’

  The sudden snap in his voice startled Patterson. He stared at Cohen.

  ‘What is what? What do you mean?’

  ‘What’s the big idea - bugging me?’ Cohen demanded and he pointed to the desk.

  Patterson followed the direction of the fat finger and saw Cohen was pointing at the black button Sheila had given him.

  ‘Bugging you?’ he said blankly, then as Cohen pulled the button off the desk, he felt a cold sensation move over his body.

  ‘That’s what I said. Why are you bugging me?’

  ‘But I’m not! I don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about!’

  ‘Then why is this on your desk?’ Cohen waved the button at Patterson.

  ‘It’s a button, isn’t it? I - I picked it up in the street . . . outside the bank.’

  Cohen’s little eyes were now like jet beads.

  ‘Do you pick up buttons in the street?’

  Stuck with the lie, Patterson said, ‘My mother was superstitious. Never pass a button on the street, she used to tell me when I was a kid. Do you walk under a ladder?’

  ‘You really mean to tell me you picked this up on the street?’

  ‘I’m telling you! What the hell is all this, Bernie?’

  Cohen suddenly relaxed and he clapped his fat hands down hard on his fat thighs.

  ‘Man! You may be good with money and women, but you’re certainly wet behind the ears. You mean you don’t know what this is?’

  Patterson had a presentiment of disaster, but he managed to keep his face expressionless.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘This is one of the most sophisticated microphones on the market: a Limpet special. You can stick it anywhere and it can feed a tape recorder a half a mile away: no wires - no nothing. It’s one of the most dangerous tools industrial spies are using. Every time I have a board meeting, I have the room checked against this. It’s the big ear. You mean you’ve never seen one before?’

  Patterson felt his heart beginning to hammer.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you’ve seen one now. Get rid of it. Every word we’ve said could have been taped . . . not that it matters.’

  Patterson looked so shaken and white that Cohen felt he would be doing him a kindness by leaving.

  ‘Well, so long, Chris . . . see you Friday.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cohen paused at the door.

  ‘Mothers are the salt of the earth, but I’d skip picking up buttons if I were you in the future.’

  He went out, closing the door behind him.

>   Five

  Patterson got through the rest of the morning only by sheer will power and by forcing his mind to work. He needed to think about the microphone, but that was impossible with continuous telephone calls, Vera popping in and out with papers for him to sign and then Mrs. Lampson bleating about her investments, but finally, lunch time arrived and he could escape from the bank.

  He drove in the Wildcat to the end of Seaview boulevard to a small restaurant he knew was busy at night, but quiet during the day. He picked a corner table and ordered a whisky on the rocks and a beef sandwich. There were only five other people in the restaurant and they were sitting well away from him.

  Now he began to think, and as he thought, a Siberian wind blew through his mind. He knew for certain that he had got himself into a trap. No woman gives her lover a highly sensitive microphone after making love unless this gift was the opening gambit to blackmail.

  Patterson was no fool. He was certain all he and she had said in the motel bedroom was now on tape. She had given him the microphone to tell him just this. So now, he asked himself, how was she going to use the tape? How would the approach to blackmail begin? How much was she going to ask?

  The whisky helped to steady his nerves. He thought back on the conversation they had had. She had been clever. He had put his signature to the tape. I, Christopher Patterson, think Sheila Oldhill . . . Yes, that had been clever and ruthless. Then she had encouraged him to talk about Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

  If that tape got into the old lady’s hands, he would be finished: not only with her, but also with the bank. She was their most important customer. No woman could stomach what he had said about her in that motel bedroom and not come after his blood.

  When the crunch came, would he submit to blackmail? If he could buy back the tape and be sure there wasn’t a copy, he would do it, but he was sure there would be a copy.

  He finished the whisky and ignored the sandwich.

  But Sheila, he told himself, must know he hadn’t much money. What could she hope to bleed him for - five thousand dollars? Maybe so much a month? Then he remembered she had told him the old lady was leaving him one hundred thousand dollars a year for life. He was sure now that the old lady hadn’t told Sheila this. She must have found out - if she had found it out - by going through the old lady’s papers when the old lady was out. She would see her chance of tapping a goldmine. He shook his head. No, he was thinking along the wrong lines because the money only came to him when the old lady was dead and once dead the tape would have no blackmailing power. No, it couldn’t be that. It must be a deeper and more cunning motive behind this.