1972 - Just a Matter of Time

by James Hadley Chase

  He relaxed while he thought. Where to find a professional killer? It would be too dangerous to consult Solly Marks. Marks would certainly blackmail him for the rest of his days. He continued to think. Was there someone out of his past he could call on and trust? His mind moved back into the past years . . . then he remembered Harry Miller.

  Harry Miller!

  He thumped his fist into the palm of his hand.

  Here was the solution!

  He sat thinking, then he got to his feet, paid his check and walked out into the hot night.

  If you thought hard enough, he told himself as he walked towards the Plaza Beach Hotel, problems could always be solved, but you had to think and think and think and then remember.

  He was whistling softly under his breath, now completely relaxed, as he walked up the steps to the hotel lobby. Making his way to the telephone booths, he found a New York telephone book. He flicked through the pages and finally came to the name: Harry Miller with the address and the telephone number.

  He slammed the book shut. It was as if he was slamming the life of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s life shut and opening a new life for himself.

  * * *

  On a hot humid morning in New York, a man known as Harry Miller received a bulky envelope: the first letter he had had for many months.

  His landlady was so impressed that she climbed the four flights of stairs, panting, to deliver the letter in person. She waited hopefully to see if Harry would give her any information, but Harry took the letter without even a word of thanks and shut his room door in her face.

  Harry hated receiving letters. To him, letters always meant trouble, but when this letter had arrived, he opened it. From it spilled an airline ticket, a one-hundred dollar bill and a note

  which read: I need you. I’ll be at the airport on 20th. Jack.

  Harry frowned as he stared into space.

  Jack?

  He nodded to himself. Jack . . . yes . . . Jack Bromhead, the master forger. Harry reread the note, now interested. It was over five years since he and Bromhead had seen each other. If it hadn’t been for Bromhead . . .

  Although it was five years ago, he remembered exactly what he had said to Bromhead after the event. He had said: I don’t forget. If ever you want me for anything, say so, and I’ll pay my debt.

  Oddly enough, considering his character and his viciousness, Harry Miller was a man of his word. So now Bromhead wanted him. Again Harry nodded to himself. That was fine with him.

  He had had Bromhead on his conscience for five years, wanting to repay him. The only thing that really irked him in this modern world was to be in someone’s debt.

  His mind moved back into the past. Even now, thinking about it, he flinched. Three of them had ganged up on him. He could have taken two of them, but not the third. It had happened in the prison yard. He had had a suspicion that the word had come into the prison to fix him. He had been serving a five-year stretch for robbery with violence and that had been a mistake.

  At that time money ran through his fingers like water. He wasn’t a stick-up man: he was by profession a killer. He worked for various organizations and he made good money, but at that time, he had a weakness for playing the horses. He had had a good tip that looked certain, but his own trade was slack and he was suddenly without money, so stupidly, he had walked into a gas station, knocked the attendant cold, and as he was rifling the safe, a tough-looking cop had appeared, a .38 police special in his hairy hand.

  The gas attendant had sustained a split skull and the Judge was told that he wouldn’t be of much use even though the surgeon had riveted his skull together so Harry was given five years.

  Unluckily for him, some months previously he had done a job on a squealer, Toni Bianco. It had been a neat, quick job and Toni had died without knowing he was leaving this life forever.

  It so happened that Toni’s brother, Luigi, was serving twenty years, for killing a cop, in the prison to which Harry was sent. The word got over the prison walls that Harry was the man who had knocked off Toni Bianco. Luigi felt he had to do something about this but he knew Harry was a button man and he wasn’t taking any chances. He found two Italians who agreed to help out. The three of them isolated Harry in a distant corner of the prison yard. They had knives made from roof slates, lovingly filed into needle-like points. As they came at him, Harry realized he could take two of them, but the third one would get him and he began to kiss life goodbye. Then Bromhead appeared. While Harry took care of Luigi and the second man, Bromhead took care of the third man. It was all over in seconds.

  Thinking about this, Harry again told himself that if it hadn’t been for Bromhead he wouldn’t now be breathing nor would his heart be beating. This was a debt that had to be repaid.

  I need you.

  Harry was pleased. This day was the sixteenth. He had plenty of time. Bromhead was acting big: the air ticket and the one hundred dollar bill. This also pleased Harry. He regarded Bromhead with respect. Bromhead was a craftsman: he could forge any goddamn signature and in a fight he was as good and as tough as Harry himself. So with the air ticket and the money, it looked as if Bromhead was doing well. The hundred dollar bill meant nothing to Harry. Ever since he was released from prison, he had given up playing the horses. During the following five years as a professional killer, he had salted away enough to bring him an invested income, tax free, of around three thousand dollars. Now retired, Harry preferred to live a simple life.

  His only extravagance was to release a pent-up viciousness every six months by hiring a special whore and thrashing her until the viciousness had drained out of him. Apart from this extravagance, Harry led a quiet life. He liked to watch television, go to the new movies and read books by authors like Harold Robbins.

  He had no friends . . . friends to him were dangerous and tricky. Friends always wanted something, always vomited out their troubles, always on the scrounge, but never gave anything in return. Long ago, he had learned he could do without friends.

  At the age of forty-eight, Harry was undersized and thin with hollow cheeks, quick steady green eyes, a pinched nose and an almost lipless mouth. He kept himself always in peak condition by morning workouts with a pair of heavy Indian clubs.

  He had no more respect for a human life than he had for the life of a fly. He was a man who killed with his hands. He considered a gun noisy and therefore dangerous, a knife messy and a length of lead piping unprofessional. He had studied the art of karate and he was now an expert. He could smash a brick with the side of either hand with one chopping, terrible blow. The sides of his hands were his weapons: safe and sure. Should some nosy cop stop and frisk him, the cop would never find on him any kind of weapon. The cop wouldn’t have the imagination to realize that the sides of Harry’s hands were far more lethal than any gun, knife or length of piping.

  In his youth, Harry had been bitten by the theatre bug. He had shown a small talent and had acted in various corny plays, playing various corny roles out in the sticks. He had acquired a talent for make-up and this talent he carried into his life of crime. He became known to the F.B.I, and the police as ‘the thug with many faces.’

  On the twentieth of the month, he arrived at the airport, carrying a small black handbag. He had decided to surprise Bromhead who had said he would be waiting to meet him. Harry had taken considerable trouble to disguise himself. Rubber pads against his gums and up his pinched nose had fattened his face. The thick black moustache, each hair carefully and lovingly gummed into place, the black hair which was naturally blond, the horn—rimmed glasses made him someone that Bromhead couldn’t possibly recognize.

  Bromhead waited at the exit of the arrival centre, his eyes scanning the passengers as they came out. He saw no one remotely resembling Harry Miller. It was only when steel-like fingers closed around his wrist, and a familiar voice said, ‘Hi, Jack! Long time no see,’ that he realized Harry had arrived.

  Twenty minutes later the two men were in the privacy of a motel cabin s
ome two miles from the airport. They talked; or rather Bromhead talked and Harry listened. For some moments, Harry couldn’t believe what Bromhead was telling him.

  ‘Hey, Jack! An old bag of seventy-eight?’ He stared at Bromhead. ‘You’re asking me to knock her off?’

  ‘That’s the job, Harry,’ Bromhead said. ‘It is important to me.’

  Harry laughed.

  ‘Well, for Pete’s sake! I thought I had something tough. Okay, Jack, boy, I’ll take care of it . . . just tell me how you want me to handle it.’

  Bromhead had been sure this would be the answer, but he was relieved that his thinking had been right.

  ‘I’m not asking you to do this for nothing, Harry,’ he said. ‘The old lady always wears a mass of jewellery. It’s worth something like two hundred grand. There are days when she plasters herself with the stuff worth three hundred . . . you could be lucky. You can help yourself.’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘No thanks . . . I’ve got all I want. At my age, Jack, I’ve got beyond bothering about money. I’ll do the job with pleasure but I don’t want anything out of it.’

  Bromhead stared at him.

  ‘You’ve got all you want?’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, Harry, you could pick up at least a hundred grand out of this.’

  He was thinking: at my age I’ve got beyond bothering about money. What the hell was happening to this goddamn world? How could anyone have too much?

  Again Harry shook his head.

  ‘I don’t want it, Jack. I’ve got all I want. I like a simple life . . . forget it. How do you want it done?’

  Bromhead now became suspicious. He couldn’t imagine anyone doing anything as big as this for nothing unless he had a nut loose.

  ‘There has to be a motive, Harry,’ he said, trying to make his voice sound patient. ‘If there’s no motive, the cops will start digging and that’s something I don’t want . . . they could dig me up.’

  Being a professional, Harry understood what Bromhead was saying.

  ‘Okay . . . so we have a motive . . . keep talking. . .’

  ‘When you hit the old lady, you take her rings, her bracelets and her pearls. Keep them . . . it’s your payoff, Harry.’

  Harry moved restlessly.

  ‘Not for me. I’ve got beyond that caper. What would I do with them? I’ve kissed the creeps who handle stuff like that goodbye. I won’t want to be bothered. I have all the money I want. I’m doing this for you, Jack. I owe you and I pay my debts.’

  This was something Bromhead couldn’t believe.

  ‘But, Harry . . . for God’s sake! You can’t refuse more than a hundred big ones! You can’t!’

  As Bromhead said this, he was watching Harry and he saw Harry was suddenly looking bored and this frightened him.

  ‘Suppose we skip this?’ Harry said, his voice cold. ‘Tell me how you want the job done and I’ll do it.’

  Bromhead began to sweat. He now had to accept the fact that this man, sitting before him, couldn’t care less about money. To him, it was like looking at a man from the moon.

  ‘Harry . . . there has to be a motive,’ Bromhead said, trying to control the unsteadiness of his voice. ‘You must take her goddamn jewels.’

  Harry shrugged.

  ‘So, okay, I take her jewels. You can use them, can’t you? I hit her . . . that’s okay. I told you I’d fix anything or anyone for you for what you did for me . . . fine. So I take the jewels and I give them to you . . . but they’re not for me.’

  Listening to the hard, impatient voice, Bromhead realized Harry meant what he was saying and to press him further could cause trouble.

  He thought of Gerald. He had imagined it was only the young who didn’t care about money . . . now, for God’s sake . . . Harry was saying the same thing!

  He gave up.

  ‘Okay, Harry. Don’t ever say I didn’t make the offer. If that’s the way you want it . . . that’s the way you want it.’

  ‘Let’s cut the crap,’ Harry said. ‘Tell me how you want it done.’

  Bromhead leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

  ‘You have to get into the penthouse. It’s tricky. The hotel dick buzzes around. No one get up there without the hall porter giving his say-so. You’re good at impersonations . . . so, imagine you are a piano tuner . . .’

  While this conversation was going on, Patterson was conducting Mrs. Van Davis from his office and to the revolving doors to where her sleek Cadillac was waiting. Her chauffeur had the

  door open. Mrs. Van Davis had invested fifty thousand dollars on Patterson’s advice in I.B.M. She was happy and Patterson pleased.

  He was able to endure her yakking, smile warmly down at her fat, wrinkled face, knowing he had done a good morning’s work. Once settled in the car, rather like a performing elephant settles on a stool, Mrs. Van Davis waved her fat fingers, glittering with diamonds and he waved back. When the Cadillac had moved into the traffic, he heaved a sigh of relief and walked back to his office. That was his last appointment before lunch.

  He looked at his gold Omega, yet another present from Mrs. Morely-Johnson, saw he had twenty-five minutes to clear his desk before lunching with Bernie Cohen.

  It was now just under three weeks since he had handed Irving Fellows’ secretary the forged will. During the first week, Patterson had been guilt ridden, but by now, he had come to accept the fact that nothing could happen until the old lady died and this could be some time ahead.

  He told himself he must put this affair out of his mind. He had been impressed by Bromhead. This had been a surprise, of course - Bromhead and Sheila working together, but thinking about it, he saw how easily he had walked into the trap. He had only himself to blame. If he hadn’t fallen for Sheila, this would never have happened. Patterson had a lot of resilience. It took him several days to recover from the shock, but now he had recovered. He had confidence in Bromhead. He admired the clever way Bromhead had suggested how he should take care of Abe Weidman who was, of course, the danger man. Bromhead had been right too when he had said the dead don’t care. By the time the will was proved, Mrs. Morely-Johnson would be cremated and the Cancer Research Fund, not knowing what they had missed, wouldn’t grieve. The main thing was his own inheritance would remain undisturbed. It was now a matter of patient waiting and at his age, Patterson felt he could afford to wait.

  He settled down behind his desk to sign papers, and as he signed he thought what he would have for lunch. As Bernie Cohen was picking up the tab, Patterson felt he might indulge himself. Perhaps a prawn cocktail with a touch of curry mayonnaise and a rognons flambés. A little heavy, Patterson thought, but this was what he fancied.

  Vera Cross looked in.

  ‘Mrs. Morely-Johnson on the phone, Chris.’

  Patterson grimaced.

  ‘Okay . . . put her on.’

  What did she want? he wondered as he listened to the clicking on the line, then Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s raucous voice hit his eardrum and he hurriedly held the receiver away.

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. How are you?’

  ‘I’m pretty well. I’m not getting any younger but I’m not complaining. I don’t like people who are always complaining so I don’t complain.’

  ‘I agree with you.’

  ‘And how are you?’

  Patterson began to dig holes in his blotter with his paperknife.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. Was there something, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?’

  ‘When you talk like that, Chris, I know you are busy. Have I interrupted something?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ Patterson put down the paperknife. He realized he had allowed an impatient note to come into his voice and the old lady had spotted it . . . that was bad tactics. ‘You know I like nothing better than to do something for you.’

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson gave her shrill, girlish laugh that set Patterson’s teeth on edge.

  ‘Dear Chris! How nice of you! But I know how busy you are so
I won’t keep you. Could you come here at five o’clock? I want to consult you.’

  Patterson glanced at his engagement book. He had an appointment with Jack Deakin at 16.00. Deakin, the director of the Splendid Hotel, wanted a loan. Patterson was sure he could get rid of him in half an hour, then he was free.

  ‘It will be my pleasure,’ he said.

  ‘And Chris . . .’

  There was a long pause while Patterson, now reading a letter he had to sign, waited.

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?’

  ‘Please bring my will when you come.’

  Patterson stiffened. The letter he was holding fluttered from his fingers to the floor. He couldn’t believe he was hearing aright.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He was aware his voice had turned husky. ‘I didn’t get that. The line seems bad. What did you say?’

  ‘I can hear you clearly . . . how odd. Please bring my will with you. I want to make changes.’

  Patterson turned cold and his heart began to race.

  ‘I am calling Mr. Weidman,’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson went on. ‘I want him to make a new will for me. I’m sure he will come at five this evening and then you and he can settle everything.’

  Blind panic hit Patterson. For a long moment, he sat motionless, his hand like a claw, gripping the telephone receiver.

  ‘Chris?’ The squawking voice aroused him. ‘Are you there?’

  He willed himself to think.

  ‘Yes . . . the line is very bad. I can’t think why.’ His brain was racing. He was like a fighter who has walked into a crushing punch and now weaved, dodged and ducked to survive. ‘I’m afraid it can’t be done as quickly as that, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Don’t call Mr. Weidman. I’m sorry, but to bring you your will . . . there are formalities. When I come this evening I will bring you an authorization to sign. Our legal department won’t release your will without your signature.’