1972 - Just a Matter of Time

by James Hadley Chase

‘I’ll try to remember that.’ She got slowly to her feet.

  ‘You’re doing very well.’ Bromhead crossed to the fire door. ‘Think what it will mean to you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  When he had gone, Sheila ran off the tape, put it in a box and the box in her bedside table drawer. She undressed and got into bed. She thought of Gerald Where was he? What was happening to him? Was someone going around with him, watching him? Once Bromhead had the forged will and lodged it in the bank, then it was just a matter of time. She intended to leave the old lady, find work – a nurse could always find work - and she and Gerald would continue to live as they had done. They would wait until the old lady died. Bromhead had kept saying: No one lives forever. He had also said it would be a long term operation. A gamble. Sheila thought. The old lady could die tomorrow or she could live another five years. She flinched. In those five years, Gerald might find someone younger.

  It wasn’t until the grey light of dawn began to filter through the blinds that she fell asleep.

  * * *

  Lunch at the Lincoln Club was always an event. It was the most expensive and best restaurant in town, and the food was impeccable. Patterson was surprised that Abe Weidman had invited him to such a place. Obviously, he was pulling out all the stops. Patterson had never been to the Lincoln Club before and he was impressed by its massive richness and calm.

  He was also impressed that Weidman had his own special table in a far corner in the big crowded restaurant.

  ‘Mr. Patterson?’ The maître d’hôtel had bowed. ‘Of course, Mr. Weidman is already here at his table. Please, sir . . . follow me.’

  The maître d’hôtel looked like an Ambassador of some rich South American state. He led the way through the tables, his hand up in the air as if he was conducting a train over difficult crossings. Abe Weidman was already sipping a treble gin martini. He got up and clasped Patterson’s hand in his moist warm grip.

  A triple gin-martini appeared as if by magic for Patterson and Weidman toasted him.

  ‘Well, Chris, it’s good to see you. Let’s get the food ordered. The swill here isn’t so bad. How about a little smoked salmon and let’s split a pheasant between us?’

  ‘Anything you say.’ Patterson tried to conceal how impressed he was with Weidman’s genuine power. ‘Sounds fine to me.’

  Weidman looked at the maître d’hôtel.

  ‘Then smoked salmon with horseradish sauce . . . some buttered shrimps. How about a pheasant? I won’t have it if it hasn’t been properly hung . . . has it?’ The little beady eyes probed.

  ‘It’s perfect for you, Mr. Weidman.’

  ‘Okay . . . all the trimmings. Vodka with the salmon and the Haut Brion with the bird.’

  Patterson toyed with his drink, listening. This was a man who was living in a higher bracket than himself, but given time, he would be able to match him. He wondered when he could begin to talk business.

  He had seen the forged will. Bromhead had come to his apartment and had given it to him. He had read it through while Bromhead in his role of a servant, had stood respectfully by the door, watching him. He had made sure that his own bequest hadn’t been disturbed. The will stated that Mrs. Morely-Johnson felt she would like to give her nephew, Gerald Hammett, a second chance. As her only relative, she had decided to give him the sum of one and a half million dollars with which he could do exactly what he liked. The three Picassos, correctly identified, were left to Mr. Abe Weidman for services rendered. It was a well-constructed document and Patterson could find no flaw in it. The two witnesses of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s forged signature were Flo Mackintosh and Hilda Green.

  Patterson had queried these two women.

  ‘No trouble,’ Bromhead had said. ‘They work at the hotel, Mr. Patterson. Both of them are thieves. A word from me and they would be in jail . . . no trouble.’

  When Bromhead had gone, Patterson put the will in an envelope, sealed it, and in the morning had given it to Fellows’ secretary. She gave him a receipt to give to Mrs. Morely-Johnson and put the envelope in the safe. Back in his office, Patterson had destroyed the receipt. That stage of the operation as far as he was concerned was completed.

  Now he had to handle Abe Weidman.

  ‘You know something?’ Weidman said as they waited for the smoked salmon to be served. ‘You and I could do business together. I have a number of clients who don’t know what to do with their money. You know the market and you’re smart. Mrs. Lampson and that old bitch, Mrs. Van Davis - God! That woman gives me ulcers! - both say how smart you are. Come to that, I was talking to Bernie Cohen . . . he put in a good word for you.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Patterson said. ‘I’d be happy to do anything I can, Mr. Weidman.’

  Weidman waved his fat hand.

  ‘Let’s drop the Mister crap . . . call me Abe, Chris.’

  Patterson turned on his charm.

  ‘Glad to.’

  After the smoked salmon had been served and they had sipped their Vodka, Weidman said, ‘Strictly between you and me, Chris, the old lady is going to take care of you. This is in strictest confidence, you understand, but a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse as my old father used to say. I can’t tell you more, but you’re going to be all right.’

  Patterson kept his face expressionless.

  ‘It’s good of you, Abe, to tell me this,’ he said. ‘I had no idea. She’s always been kind to me, but. . .’

  ‘Put it away in the back of your mind.’ Weidman helped himself to horseradish sauce and then squeezed a lemon over the thick slices of smoked salmon. ‘Just thought I would give you a nudge.’

  This was the time, Patterson thought. He sat for a moment in silence, then he said, ‘I have something to tell you too, Abe, since we are exchanging confidences, but this is really strictly under your hat.’

  Weidman looked sharply at him.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I could lose my job telling you this, Abe . . . it goes no further?’

  Startled, Weidman nodded.

  ‘You have my word.’

  Patterson appeared to hesitate, then he said, lowering his voice, ‘Three days ago, the old lady asked for her will. I gave it to her. She told me she was making changes and she didn’t want you to know about it.’

  Weidman looked shocked. The smoked salmon on his fork was forgotten.

  ‘You mean she’s gone to another attorney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jesus! Who?’

  ‘She didn’t tell me.’

  Blood rushed into Weidman’s face, then it receded, leaving him white with anger.

  ‘Well, for God’s sake! How could she do this to me? Has she gone crazy? I’ve handled her affairs ever since her husband died!’

  ‘Wait a moment, Abe,’ Patterson said soothingly. ‘When she told me I pointed out how annoyed you would be. I said she was making a mistake . . . then because I really scolded her, she told me her reason. I think you should know although I’m betraying a confidence. She wants to surprise you: she’s leaving you something in her will.’

  Weidman put down his fork. His anger went away and now he looked quizzingly at Patterson.

  ‘She told you that?’ ‘

  ‘She had to. I was putting pressure on her. I said she just couldn’t go to another attorney.’

  Weidman nodded.

  ‘I’ll remember that, Chris. So the old girl’s leaving me something?’

  ‘Since we are going to work together, Abe, maybe I can give away a confidence. You’re getting her three Picassos.’

  Weidman stared at him and his little eyes opened wide. He seldom envied people anything but every time he visited the penthouse, he had stared longingly at the three early Picassos in the vestibule. He fancied himself as an amateur collector and he had already some good modern paintings, but no Picassos.

  ‘You really mean that?’

  ‘That was what she told me. She said you would get much more pleasure from them than the local mus
eum.’

  ‘Well!’ Weidman couldn’t conceal his excitement and happiness. He beamed at Patterson. ‘This is wonderful news.’

  ‘She told me something else,’ Patterson said, feeling he was now edging out on to thin ice. ‘She’s changed her mind about her nephew, Gerald Hammett. She’s leaving him a hell of a lot of money. She didn’t say how much, but I got the impression it was a lot.’

  This didn’t interest Weidman. He was thinking of the Picassos.

  ‘She is?’

  ‘That’s what she told me.’

  ‘Well, good luck to him.’ Weidman laid a fat hand on Patterson’s arm. ‘Sounds like you and me are going to benefit.’ He snapped his fingers at the wine waiter. ‘This calls for a celebration. We’re going to have with our bird, the best claret this swill house has got.’

  He ordered a Chateau Margaux 1929 that cost a little over one hundred dollars.

  Watching him, seeing the excited expression in the little eyes, Patterson knew there would be no trouble when the will was proved.

  Six

  Bromhead was watching the late night TV show in his room when the telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver and as he listened to wheezy breathing, he knew Solly Marks was calling him.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘That’s me,’ Bromhead said.

  ‘I’ll be at the Franklin at six tomorrow evening,’ and the line went dead.

  Bromhead replaced the receiver. He got to his feet and turned off the TV set. For a long moment he stood, thinking. This could mean either of two things. It was now three weeks and four days since Gerald had been removed from the scene so either Gerald could be causing trouble or Marks wanted more money.

  Suddenly and for the first time, Bromhead felt uneasy. The last thing he wanted was pressure. This was, and had to be, a long term operation, but now he began to realize that circumstances beyond his control could force him to move quicker than was safe.

  He wondered if he should consult Sheila but decided this was his own problem. Besides, he didn’t entirely trust her where Gerald was concerned. He was sure she would turn difficult if she knew just what was happening to Gerald. There would be time to talk to her when he had seen Marks.

  The following evening, he found Marks in the Franklin lobby, smoking a cigar and sipping whisky. The two men shook hands and Bromhead sat beside Marks. At this hour the lobby was deserted. A Negro barman brought Bromhead a whisky on the rocks. When he had gone, Bromhead asked, ‘What is it? Trouble?’

  ‘Your problem is acting up.’

  Bromhead sipped his whisky.

  ‘I paid you ten thousand to keep him happy.’

  ‘That’s correct, but it is now twenty-nine days. That’s a long time to keep someone like your problem on ice. Hank is getting tired of it. Two days ago, your problem got away. Hank picked him up at the bus station as he was boarding a bus back here.’

  ‘How did he get away?’

  Marks shrugged.

  ‘Hank can’t be with him every minute. Hank thinks there should be a second guard. He has a point. Hank has to sleep. Should I get a second guard?’

  Bromhead finished his whisky. Here was the bite again. He had smelt it coming. Once committed, you had to pay, he thought wryly, but there would be plenty of money once the operation was completed.

  ‘How much?’

  Marks sipped his drink.

  ‘This is getting tricky, Jack. If your problem turns nasty and it looks as if he could, he could have Hank on a snatch rap. I’d say another ten thousand.’

  ‘Can’t you think in lesser figures than that?’ Bromhead asked, an edge to his voice. ‘It’s always ten with you.’

  Marks stared off into space.

  ‘I said it could turn tricky. You want a good guard, don’t you?’

  Bromhead knew he was caught. Now the payoff would be upped to $32,000, but he still could afford that. There would be plenty left for him and Sheila even after paying that amount.

  ‘Yes.’ He took out his scratch pad and wrote an I.O.U. for ten thousand dollars and signed it. He handed it to Marks who studied it then looked at Bromhead.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a big deal then?’ he said, showing curiosity for the first time.

  ‘It’s big enough,’ Bromhead returned, his face wooden.

  Marks nodded, then put the I.O.U. in his billfold.

  ‘Okay, Jack, your problem will be taken care of but I must warn you, he doesn’t like it. I take no responsibility when we turn him loose. Hank tells me had had to smack him a number of times to keep him in line.’

  ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we reach it.’

  Marks shrugged.

  ‘It’s your bridge . . . not mine.’

  Bromhead didn’t have to be told. He got to his feet.

  ‘Keep him cool for another week. I’ll handle him then.’

  ‘How long will it take you to repay me, Jack?’ Marks asked, looking up at him.

  ‘I don’t know. This operation can’t be hurried. You get interest.’

  ‘The interest goes up after three months,’ Marks said quietly. ‘Forty percent. Then fifty percent after the next three months.’

  ‘You look after yourself, don’t you?’ Bromhead said.

  ‘Yes . . . I also have a collecting service.’ Marks sipped his drink while he stared at Bromhead. ‘I thought I’d remind you.’

  ‘I know,’ Bromhead said quietly. ‘I’ve heard about it.’

  He had heard about the thugs who collected bad debts for Marks. They arrived with a lead pipe wrapped in a newspaper, made their request politely and then if it wasn’t met, turned the client into an idiot by beating him scientifically and repeatedly over the head.

  Marks offered his moist, fat hand.

  ‘Just so long as we understand each other, Jack . . . it’s a lot of money.’

  As Bromhead left the Franklin hotel and began to walk along the crowded boulevard towards the Plaza Beach Hotel he knew he would now have to hurry up the operation. The red light was flashing. If only Gerald had been cooperative! Twenty thousand dollars would have been saved. When he had first met him and put up the proposition, he had felt that Gerald could prove tricky, but he had to use him. Sheila had assured him that she could control him. He had been impressed by Sheila. At the time, this seemed to Bromhead to be a fair gamble. When he had conceived the plan, it had seemed simple and straightforward.

  You found a very rich old woman. (He had done that.) You forged her will. (He had done that.) You arranged to leave a large sum of money to this old woman’s nephew. (This too he had done.) You then sat back and waited until the old lady died and then you collected the money. As a theoretical operation it looked good, but now Bromhead wasn’t so sure. He realized he hadn’t taken into account that there were some people who didn’t care about money the way he did. He was getting old, he thought as he walked along the boulevard. He had lost touch with the young: the new generation. When he had been Gerald’s age, he would have done anything - repeat anything - to own a million dollars, and yet this dirty, little creep seemed indifferent to money such as this.

  Bromhead began to do sums in his head. The take was one and a half million dollars. When the old lady died, this sum would be split up between the three of them, but first, Marks had to be repaid. Give and take, each of them would get just under five hundred thousand. With that kind of money, Bromhead had hoped to give up work, gain security and live decently.

  Sheila and Gerald would be sitting pretty. They would have a million between the two of them. He would be glad to get rid of them.

  But now the operation had become complicated. Marks was threatening him. Fifty percent interest after the next three months. This operation could go on for years. It depended on how long the old lady lived. Would Marks wait years? I have a collecting service. Bromhead now realized the weakness of his planning. If Gerald had cooperated he wouldn’t be in this financial hole and under pressure with Marks. This had to be thought about. Ahead of him
was a cafe and he went in and sat at a corner table. He asked for a cup of coffee. When the coffee was served, he gave his mind to the problem.

  After some five minutes of thought, he came to the reluctant conclusion that with this complication that Gerald had created he could no longer consider this operation as long term. The forged will was back in the bank. If Mrs. Morley-Johnson happened to die within the next few weeks, his problems would be solved. Thinking about this, he realized that all the time, at the back of his mind, there had been the possibility of accelerating her death. In fact, the more he thought about it, now the thought was admitted, he saw that to have hoped that this plan could have succeeded by just waiting for her to die was a fantasy.

  Bromhead sipped his coffee.

  But it was one thing to want the old lady dead and quite something else to arrange her death. He realized she was in an impregnable position; in a penthouse with Sheila always in attendance, guarded by the hall porter and when she went down to the restaurant, she was guarded by bowing waiters. When she went out in the Rolls she was guarded by himself. The one thing he had to be very sure of was not to get himself involved. If the police had any reason to look into his past, he would be a dead duck. He thought of Sheila. She was a trained nurse. Perhaps too many sleeping pills? He toyed with the idea, then shook his head. Sheila was an odd woman, but he had an instinctive feeling she wouldn’t touch murder. She wanted money. She was prepared to go along with forgery, but he was certain he couldn’t hint at murder to her . . . not even hint.

  Yet there must be a solution. Success now depended on the old lady dying within a few weeks. He must have nothing to do with her death. Sheila, anyway, would have nothing to do with her death . . . then who could he call on to murder the old lady and murder her in such a way that he (Bromhead) and Sheila were without suspicion?

  He finished his coffee and lit a cigarette.

  Suppose he succeeded in finding someone? To hire someone to kill the old lady was dangerous. There was always the element of blackmail to be considered. But suppose he did find someone he could trust. How would this man get into the penthouse? How would he get by the hall porter and Fred Lawson? What reason could this hired killer give the hall porter to get up to the penthouse? How about Sheila? She would be with the old lady. Bromhead crossed and recrossed his legs as he thought. Suppose he found the solution and got his man up to the penthouse. The killer couldn’t just walk in, kill the old lady and walk out again. There had to be an acceptable motive . . . but what motive? If the police didn’t have a motive to work on, they would dig and this Bromhead knew had to be avoided. He must have a watertight alibi. He would also have to arrange for Sheila to be beyond suspicion.