He lit a cigarette as he thought.
Finally, he decided whatever the risk, he had to see Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will. That would give him a clue to Sheila’s thinking. If he really was to inherit this big income then he would know what to expect when she put the bite on him. He realized, if the money was to come to him and he told Sheila to go to hell, he would not only lose his job at the bank, but Mrs. Morely-Johnson would certainly cut him out of her will. The Siberian wind blew even harder as he realized this fact. It might be the only solution to pay blackmail money, but if only he knew for sure he was going to inherit from the old lady. He had to know!
Back at the bank, a half an hour later, he went to his office, took from his desk drawer a sheet of the Plaza Beach Hotel notepaper he kept handy on which to write letters for the old lady to sign. Using his portable typewriter, he wrote the following: Dear Mr. Patterson, I am so forgetful these days, I can’t remember certain bequests I think I have made in my will. Would you please bring my will at your earliest convenience? It is, I believe, in an envelope in the bank.
Looking forward to seeing you.
Mrs. Morely-Johnson.
He dated the letter, studied it, decided it was the sort of letter the old lady would write and wouldn’t arouse Fellows’ suspicions. He then went to his filing cabinet and took out Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s portfolio.
It took him some twenty minutes to assemble papers for her signature. He placed the letter among these papers and then put them into his briefcase. Then he called the Plaza Beach Hotel.
The operator connected him with the penthouse suite and Sheila answered. The sound of her quiet, calm voice sent a chill through him, but he forced his voice to sound normal.
‘This is Chris Patterson. Good afternoon, Miss Oldhill. Would you please ask Mrs. Morely-Johnson if I could see her for five minutes in about half an hour? I have papers for her to sign.’
‘Will you hold a moment, Mr. Patterson?’ Her voice was deadpan and impersonal.
There was a delay, then Sheila said, ‘Mrs. Morely-Johnson will be going out at half past four. If you can come right away . . .’
‘I’ll do that,’ Patterson said and hung up.
He paused, staring down at his blotter, his heart beating unevenly.
Well, he was committed. He had to know. With this threat of blackmail hanging over him, the risk had to be taken.
He had to know!
Twenty minutes later, he was ringing on the bell of the penthouse.
Sheila opened the door. He stood for a moment, looking at her. He had himself under control and his warm, charming smile appeared as sincere and as genuine as it had always done.
He regarded the calm, remote face, the glasses and the low-dressed hair. Neither she nor he let the mask slip.
Sheila stood aside.
‘Please come in, Mr. Patterson. Mrs. Morely-Johnson is on the terrace. She’s expecting you.’
Was this really the woman who had writhed so erotically under him not fifteen hours ago? Patterson thought as he walked into the vestibule, All right, you bitch, you can act . . . and so can I!
‘Thank you. Is Mrs. Morely-Johnson well?’
‘Yes,’ Sheila didn’t look at him. ‘You know the way . . . please go ahead,’ and she turned and went into her office.
Patterson stared after her, seeing the long, straight back, the curve of the buttocks and the long legs, remembering how those long legs had twined his body while he had gripped those sleek buttocks.
He walked through the big living room and out on to the terrace.
‘You naughty boy!’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson exclaimed, obviously delighted to see him. ‘You’re always worrying me to sign some tiresome paper. Come and sit down.’
He sat beside her, then he stiffened and his body turned cold.
By her was a terrace table and on the table stood a tape recorder.
Patterson stared at the recorder as if he was staring at a coiled snake. His mouth turned dry.
‘You’re looking at my new toy,’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson said. ‘I’m utterly thrilled with it. I can’t think why I never thought of buying one before. It was Sheila’s idea. She said I should never play the piano without recording what I play. She said the tapes would go down to posterity . . . now isn’t that the sweetest thing to say? It’s given me so much interest. Just listen to this,’ and putting her beautiful, long finger on the playback button, she pushed it down.
By the time the Chopin Etude had been played, Patterson had absorbed the shock of the tape recorder.
My God! he thought. This bitch is smart. What a sucker punch! First the microphone . . . now the tape recorder. She is spelling it out in capital letters!
‘There are six tiresome papers for you to sign, then I must run,’ he said after praising the old lady’s playing. He produced his gold pen, folded back the papers, leaving space only for her signature and handed her the pen.
‘What are these papers, Chris?’ she asked, fumbling for her glasses.
‘They are stock transfers,’ Patterson told her. ‘I’m sorry to bother you with this, but I’m moving your holdings about quite a bit. You have a profit this month of forty thousand dollars. The market is tricky: you have to buy, then sell and take your profit.’
She had her glasses on now.
‘Forty thousand dollars!’ She beamed at him. ‘You are a clever boy!’ She put her dry, hot hand on his. ‘And you are very kind.’
‘It’s my pleasure.’ Patterson felt a trickle of sweat run down his face. ‘Just here . . .’
She signed with her sprawling, almost sightless signature. He turned another page and she signed again. He turned another page, his mouth turning dry, knowing the next page was the letter and not a transfer. Would she spot the difference? Briskly, he turned the page and he stiffened as he saw her pause.
‘What’s this, Chris?’
He was prepared for this.
‘You need a renewal order on the bank for the penthouse rent,’ he said. ‘This takes care of it.’
‘Do I?’ She looked up and peered at him. ‘I thought . . .’
‘The bank needs it . . . I’m sorry to bother you . . .’
‘Don’t be sorry, Chris. I’m so grateful for your help.’
He watched her scrawl her signature, then he turned to the next page.
Well, it had worked, he thought, drawing in a deep breath.
Now, he had to convince Fellows.
The signing over, Mrs. Morely-Johnson talked for a while as she held on to Patterson’s wrist with her old, dry hand. Patterson listened, smiled, said the right things and wondered when he could escape.
Then Bromhead came out on to the terrace.
‘You have ten minutes, ma’am,’ he said with a little bow.
‘You see?’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson tapped Patterson playfully on his arm. ‘I’m never left in peace. Dine with me tomorrow night at eight o’clock. I will be having a few friends.’
‘Thank you . . . it will be my pleasure.’ Patterson gathered up his papers and put them in his briefcase.
‘Black tie, Chris,’ she reminded him as he kissed her hand.
He nodded to Bromhead who inclined his head, then let himself out of the penthouse, thankful Sheila remained in her office.
He drove back to the bank. Then steeling himself, and armed with the letter, he went to the Legal department. Luck was running his way. Irving Fellows had just left in a hurry as he had had news that his eldest son had fallen out of a tree and had broken his arm. Fellows’ secretary, a plain, fat woman who thought Patterson was the nearest thing to a movie star, gave him the sealed envelope containing Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will in exchange for Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s authorization.
It was as easy as that.
* * *
Gerald Hammett lay on his bed listening to the strident noises coming from the waterfront, to the car horns as the traffic got snarled up and to the chattering voices of the tarts as they came out of the rooming house acr
oss the way to begin the afternoon’s stint.
He felt lonely and utterly bored and sick of this thing he had agreed to do. If it wasn’t for Sheila he would have got on a bus and gone down to Miami. He had never known a woman like
Sheila. All the women he had gone with had been hard and tough and had treated him the way a tart treats any man. But Sheila was different. She was the first woman he now could call his own. She was tricky, of course, but he had come to accept all women could be tricky. There were times when she was contemptuous of him. This he accepted as he was contemptuous of himself. If he was asked why this calm, remote woman, several years older than himself, should have had such a hold on him, he would have been hard pressed to explain. The ultimate thing, he thought, was that when they were together in bed, she gave herself in such a way that he knew he owned her and he had never felt that way with any other woman. Once it was over, she became remote again, but that didn’t worry him. He knew once she was in the mood, he would get her back. She was exciting to him. She was to him like rolling dice. You never knew what would come up and this way of life was important to him. He hated routine. He wanted his life to be uncertain. He didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and do something he had done the day before. Sheila was this kind of woman: they could wake up and she was remote: they could wake up and she was biting his shoulders, her fingernails clawing his back and there was this explosion that no other woman could ever or would ever give him.
He hated the thought that this handsome banker should be having it off with her. The thought tormented him. He was uneasy that money apparently meant so much to her. He wished now he had never met Bromhead: never agreed to the plan.
Until Bromhead had arrived on the scene, Sheila was his whenever he wanted her: they had even been happy together. Then Bromhead had arrived and the scene changed.
Suppose this plan of Bromhead’s worked? he thought, staring up at the dirty ceiling. What would he do with all the money Bromhead had said would come to him? He didn’t want it! All he really wanted was Sheila, food, a couple of rooms and a car - not even a good car. It was more fun to have a wreck of a car.
To go to your car, get in and start it, knowing it would start and go was a drag. The fun with a car was not to know if it would start . . . to curse and kick it, to dig into its guts and finally persuade it to start: that was the kind of car he liked.
But with all this goddamn money Bromhead had promised him, he knew Sheila would insist that he had a reliable car, good meals, clean sheets, a clean shirt every day . . . things he despised. How sick he was of this luxurious, stinking town. There was nothing to do except spend money. You couldn’t move without spending money. Well, he had turned bitchy! He rubbed his sweating face and grinned. He had told Sheila she was to see him every night or he would quit. For once, he had seen something that could be worry come into her smoky blue eyes.
‘You come here every night or I’ll quit,’- he said to her. ‘And wear that wig . . . I dig for it. If you don’t come, I’m taking off. I’m sick of this. Every night or I quit!’
He felt safe talking to her this way. They were now hooked together and without him, she and Bromhead were sunk. For the first time since he had met her, he felt really safe to make demands on her. He was prepared to put up with the boredom of this stinking town only if he saw her every night.
He looked at his cheap wristwatch. The time was 16.40. At this time Bromhead was driving Mrs. Morely-Johnson in the Rolls to a bridge party. Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s bridge was always painful as she could scarcely see the cards, but her friends were patient and waited while she peered at the cards. Once she knew what she had in her hand she was as good as any of them.
Patterson was leaving the bank with Mrs. Morely-Johnsons’ will in his briefcase. Sheila was using the tape recorder, listening to Patterson’s voice. I, Christopher Patterson . . . and as she listened, her smoky, remote blue eyes lit up, knowing she was listening to a golden voice that could give her what she wanted.
There came a gentle tap on the door and Gerald frowned.
Who could this be? he wondered. Not Sheila . . . it was too early. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else so he remained quiet. The tap came again. Still he remained quiet. He saw the door handle turn and he grinned. He always kept the door locked. He watched the door handle turn full circle and then return. Again the tap came on the door. Gerald waited. Whoever it was would go away. The only person he wanted to see was Sheila and by now, she would have called out. Then he heard a searching sound which made him sit up, resting himself on his elbow. Then before he could get off the bed, the door opened and a man slid into the room, immediately closing the door.
This man was a mountain of black flesh and muscle. He was the biggest Negro Gerald had ever seen. He filled the small, hot room and his smile, gentle and wide, revealed teeth like piano keys. He wore a plum-coloured turtleneck sweater and black hipsters. His high-domed head was shaved. His bloodshot, black eyes moved restlessly from side to side. There was a knife scar running down the right side of his face from his ear to his chin: a ridge like a mountain chain on a relief map.
Gerald stared at him. The wide, gentle smile scared him more than if this huge ape had glared at him.
‘You’re in the wrong room,’ Gerald said, not moving. ‘Get out!’
The Negro continued to smile and he moved forward so he was standing by the bed, towering over Gerald who stared at him.
‘Come on, baby, you and me are travelling,’ he said. For a man of his size, his voice was high-pitched and soft. ‘Not much time, baby. The bus leaves in half an hour.’
‘You heard me . . . get out!’ Gerald swung his legs to the floor. ‘Get out . . . nigger!’
Something exploded inside his head. He didn’t even see the slap coming. He found himself flat on his back across the bed, dazed, with blinding lights flashing before his eyes, then he realized this monster of a man had cuffed him . . . not hit him, but just slapped him. Fury boiled up in him. He was not without courage. No one had ever hit him before and he wanted to hit back. He struggled off the bed and again found himself flat across the bed. The raging pain in his head turned him sick.
‘Come on, baby, you and me are travelling. Pack . . . the bus goes in half an hour,’ the Negro said gently.
Gerald shook his head, trying to get rid of the dancing lights.
He began to heave himself off the bed, then a black dry hand closed over his face and slammed him flat.
‘Look, baby . . . see what I’ve got for you.’
Gerald stared up at the enormous black fist held close to his eyes. Each finger, looking like a black banana, carried a ring and on each ring was fixed a sharp, cruel spike.
‘If I hit you, baby, in your generating system with this, you’ll be singing alto in the choir.’ The Negro smiled. ‘Do you want to sing alto in the choir, baby?’
Gerald cringed away. He had never seen such a terrible weapon and looking up into the black eyes, at the gleaming white teeth and at the scar, he knew this was no bluff and he also knew one violent punch with this spiked horror would emasculate him.
His fury and courage drained out of him.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, his voice trembling.
‘Pack, baby. You and me are travelling.’
Gerald, in spite of his terror, thought of Sheila.
‘Where are we going?’
‘L.A., baby. You and me are going to have a fine time. You’ve nothing to worry about . . . everything paid. I’m going to be your friend.’ The Negro widened his smile. ‘I’m Hank
Washington . . . you call me Hank . . . I call you Gerry . . . okay, baby?’
His face still aching, sick fear making him tremble, Gerald began to pack. He had few things and the packing was done in minutes. The Negro picked up the battered suitcase.
‘You see?’ he said, smiling his gentle smile. ‘I carry your bag. You and me are friends . . . you call me Hank . . . I call you Gerry.’
Gerald flinched. He saw the rings on the Negro’s hand had disappeared. He wondered if he should make a run for it and the Negro, watching him, seemed to know what was going on in his mind.
‘Look, baby, don’t let’s have any trouble. I’ve got something else.’ He put his hand inside his jacket and a long stabbing knife appeared in his black hand. The thin, menacing blade glittered. ‘Baby, I’m a real artist with this sticker.’ The knife disappeared. ‘It’s all going to be fine. Nothing to worry about . . . just don’t make trouble, Me and trouble never get along together. You make trouble . . . you sing alto . . . you go along with me . . . you have a fine time . . . okay, baby?’
‘Yes,’ Gerald said huskily and followed the Negro out of the room.
* * *
The telephone bell rang in Bromhead’s room and he lifted the receiver.
‘Jack?’
He recognized Solly Marks’s wheezing voice.
‘That’s me.’
‘Your problem’s taken care of.’
‘Thanks.’ Bromhead replaced the receiver. He sat for a long moment, thinking. It had to be done. Gerald was becoming a nuisance, but Bromhead now thought uneasily how much his operation was costing him. Solly Marks had agreed to take care of Gerald, have him under constant supervision, feed him and keep him occupied for the sum of ten thousand dollars. Marks didn’t seem to operate under a fee of ten thousand dollars.
Bromhead had signed yet another I.O.U., knowing he was in the red with Marks for $22,000. He also knew that Marks didn’t lend money unless he was certain of collecting. This operation had to succeed!
1972 - Just a Matter of Time Page 10
