1972 - Just a Matter of Time

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘Steady, ole baby,’ the Mulatto whispered, pressing her body against his. ‘Watch it, baby.’

  Hank shifted his hand lower and squeezed her firm buttocks, but his ears were pricked as more police sirens sounded.

  ‘What’s cooking?’ he muttered as he saw the other Negro dancers coming to a stop as they stared out of the big windows into the street.

  ‘Should you care, ole baby?’ the Mulatto asked, her fingers caressing his thick neck.

  Hank looked across at the bar and saw the barman waving to him. Gripping the girl around her slim waist, he shoved his way across the dance floor to the bar.

  The barman knew Hank was one of Solly Marks’s men. Hank was a special customer in the bar and a heavy tipper, but not for nothing. The barman, an ex-boxer with scar tissue over his eyes, who had once gone six rounds with Joe Louis, kept Hank informed of anything within a mile radius of the bar that might be useful to Marks’s organization.

  ‘Deacon’s building is going up like a torch,’ the barman told Hank.

  Hank reacted to this information like a man goosed with a hot iron. His hand slid away from the girl’s body, his eyes grew round, then shoving the girl from him, he ran out of the bar and on to the street.

  At the far end of the waterfront he could see the flames and the smoke. Already the traffic had been stopped. Police were everywhere. He saw he couldn’t use his car. Cutting down a side alley, he ran with long, looping strides, making fast ground, until he came within a hundred yards of the burning tenement block. He stopped short as the scorching heat hit him. It was impossible to go further forward. The narrow street was covered with coils of hose-pipe. The barman’s description was no exaggeration. Flames and smoke poured from every window of the five storey building.

  Hank stood, staring. Maybe Joey had got the little bastard out, he was thinking. He had better get to a telephone and alert Marks. Then Joey Spick emerged out of the smoke. Hank realized that Joey was pretty drunk and also scared. He grabbed hold of him.

  ‘What’s cooking?’

  Joey choked and coughed. His eyes were red rimmed from smoke and he stared stupidly at Hank, for the moment not recognizing him, then when Hank shook him, he gulped and his

  eyes became less wild.

  ‘He’s gone!’ he said. ‘He set the room on fire! I couldn’t do nothing! The goddamn place went up like a goddamn bonfire!’

  ‘He’s gone?’ Hank snarled. ‘You mean you let him get away?’

  ‘No! He’s dead! I tried to get the door open. He was in there yelling . . . he’s dead!’

  Hank slapped Joey’s scarred face, sending him reeling.

  ‘You were sleeping, you sonofabitch!’

  Joey cringed away.

  ‘I guess I dozed off for a few moments. I tried to get him out . . . the door was red-hot.’ Joey snivelled. ‘It wasn’t my fault, Hank. I swear it wasn’t my fault. The punk set the room on fire!’

  Hank glared murderously at him.

  ‘Too bad for you, Joey,’ he said softly. ‘Solly won’t need you anymore. Get your skates on and start rolling out of town.’

  Leaving Joey, he walked around the side streets until he found one of the Negro tenants he knew. The Negro confirmed that there were ten dead: all from the top and fourth floors.

  Hank grimaced. Solly wouldn’t be pleased. He made his way back to the night club where he could use the telephone.

  The Mulatto girl was dancing with a young, thin Negro who, seeing Hank come into the club, released the girl as if she were red-hot and vanished through the emergency exit. Everyone who frequented the club knew that it was bad medicine even to look at Hank’s girl.

  Hank glared at the girl who smiled at him, then he shut himself in a telephone booth. He called Marks’s house. He was told Mr. Marks was on his way back from ‘Frisco and his plane wouldn’t arrive until 01.00. Hank said it was urgent and for Marks to call him as soon as he got in. He left the number of the night club. Then he joined the Mulatto.

  They danced until 03.00, then Hank decided he wasn’t going to wait any longer. Marks hadn’t called and Hank felt it was time he took the Mulatto to her bed.

  It wasn’t until 09.15 the following morning that Solly Marks learned that not only Bromhead’s problem child had gone up in flames but also that he had lost a tenement building that was underinsured.

  * * *

  At 07.00 on the morning of the twenty-first of the month, the Plaza Beach Hotel came to action stations like a warship signalled: Full ahead. The quiet, efficient dynamo that was the heart of the hotel abruptly switched into top gear.

  The four underchefs in the vast kitchen began preparing for the breakfast rush: each had his special duty. Eggs, grilled ham. grilled bacon, waffles, bread for toast, gallons of orange juice, coffee and tea, cold ham, devilled kidneys were in preparation.

  The night staff had already hosed down the drive and were changing with the day staff. Herman Lacey, the Director of the hotel, was in his office with the maître d’hôtel and the head chef planning the lunch and dinner menus. The night hall porter was gladly surrendering his office to the day hall porter, a large, fleshy-faced man known to the clients as George and who happened to own two hotels in Switzerland and a Bistro in Paris.

  George was a known character along the Pacific coast. He had an encyclopedic mind. No matter what question was thrown at him, he immediately came up with an answer. Time magazine had once done an interview on him, calling him ‘The Phenomenal George.’

  The cleaners had gone. The hotel was spick and span. Already the first telephone calls for breakfast were coming through to the service room. As usual, Fred Lawson, the hotel detective, was the last of the staff to put in an appearance and he found Joe Handley waiting impatiently. Lawson grunted a good morning, then picked up the telephone receiver and ordered his usual waffles, grilled ham, four eggs and toast.

  Handley reported that it had been a quiet night with only one drunk to cope with. Lawson grunted again.

  ‘I guess I’ll take a swim,’ Handley said. ‘It’s going to be hot today.’

  Lawson wasn’t interested. He settled his bulk behind his desk and opened the morning newspaper. Handley left him.

  Handley was a man who thrived on little sleep. Usually, he spent most of the morning on the beach, then after a light lunch, he went to bed and slept until 19.00 when he took over from Lawson. He went across to the staff quarters to change into swimming trunks.

  At 08.00 Mrs. Morely-Johnson was aroused by a gentle tap on her door. The bulky, smiling floor waitress, Maria, came in and set down the breakfast tray on the bedside table. Mrs. Morely-Johnson beamed on her. She had spent a disturbed night and she was now glad to see the sunshine again: the kind of night old people often have: stupid dreams, the need to get up to go to the toilet, thoughts of the past and feeling sad about living alone. She was glad to see Maria; this large woman soothed her with her flashing smile and her genuine kindness. She was also glad to have her breakfast. As she poured her tea, she looked with pleasure at the crisp toast and the lightly boiled egg. That she might die in two hours’ time never entered her head.

  In his apartment, Patterson also had slept badly. Do nothing, Bromhead had said. Well, he had done nothing, but his mind was in a torment. He couldn’t forget Bromhead’s cold, calm look as he had said: What makes you think she will call you?

  Patterson threw off the sheet and got out of bed. He began to pace around his bedroom. Of course she would call him, asking why he hadn’t brought her her will . . . unless . . . Patterson flinched. Had he got himself involved in a murder plot? His mind shied away from such a thought, but the writing was on the wall. Unless she died, she would call him. There could be no other solution. He had to face the stark fact: Bromhead and Sheila planned to murder the old lady! They were both ruthless enough to do it! They stood to gain one million, five hundred thousand dollars!

  He looked at the telephone. Call the police and tell them what he suspected? He thought of the t
ape. If he called the police and there was an investigation he would lose his inheritance and his job. He found he was so unnerved that he went into the living room and poured himself a large brandy. The effect of the spirit stiffened his nerves. After all, he told himself, she is very old. She can’t last more than a year or so and his life was before him. He was only guessing. There could be another solution. He must put this out of his mind. It was nothing to do with him. He must wait. He went into the kitchenette and plugged in the coffee percolator.

  At 08.10, Bromhead was dressed, wearing his immaculate Hawes & Curtis uniform. He had had a good breakfast and was now ready to take the Rolls to Los Angeles. Leaving his room, he walked over to the garage. The Negro attendant nodded and smiled. Bromhead was liked by all the hotel staff.

  ‘You’re up early, Mr. Bromhead,’ he said. ‘I’ve only just washed her.’

  ‘She needs tuning,’ Bromhead said, ‘and a new set of plugs. She’s not pulling as she should. I’m taking her to L.A. The Ace garage is the only one I know who can handle her.’

  ‘That’s correct, Mr. Bromhead . . . The Ace is sure good with top-class cars.’

  Bromhead got into the Rolls, waved to the attendant and drove from the garage. As he drove along the coast road to Los Angeles, he first thought of Sheila. He felt sure that she would do as he had told her. Then he thought of his future: five hundred thousand dollars would bring comfort, security and new horizons. Not once did he think of Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

  Sheila, knowing she wouldn’t sleep, had taken two sleeping pills and she woke, drowsy and languid. She had been dreaming of Gerald, of the time they had shared her small apartment in New York and with her eyes still closed, she reached out her hand to feel for him as she used to do, then opened her eyes to look around the comfortable bedroom and her mind jerked back to the present. Then she remembered this was the day.

  All you have to do is to let him in when he rings the bell.

  So simple!

  He will gag and bind you.

  She flinched. Then she thought of Gerald. She thought of Bromhead’s bleak eyes. A squirt of acid in your face. Your face is finished . . . if you’re unlucky, your eyes too. To be blind

  She thought of the old lady groping her way around, peering at things. She is so rich she can always replace her jewels . . . anyway they are insured.

  But it was a betrayal. She had come to like the old lady. She had been the first person who had really been kind to her. She lay still, trying to make up her mind. All you have to do is to let him in. She realized it was impossible at this moment to make a decision. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom. As she stood under the shower, letting the tepid water cool her feverish body, she wondered how she was going to endure the next long two hours ahead of her.

  Harry Miller slept peaceably until 08.00. After shaving and showering, he put on his make-up. While he gummed hairs to his upper lip, he hummed under his breath. Harry was completely relaxed. This was just another day’s work for him. It needed finesse, of course, but he had finesse. It amused him that a man like Bromhead seemed so anxious. There must be a lot of money involved. Harry was glad that money no longer meant anything to him. He was glad to be out of the rat race. He was glad too that he would be able to get out of Bromhead’s debt. He would return to New York and live out his life as he wanted to with nothing to bother his conscience. He regarded himself in the mirror . . . perfect. He nodded his satisfaction. He put on a shabby, lightweight grey suit, polished his black shoes, inspected the cuffs of his white shirt and decided he was part perfect. He then left the cabin, crossed to the restaurant, aware that it was going to be a hot, fine day. He took a corner table by the window and studied the menu. A killing job always give him an appetite. This interested him. He was aware that he was always ravenously hungry before doing a job. To the waitress’s surprise, he ordered a steak with french fried potatoes, waffles with syrup and a pint of milk.

  With plenty of time to spare, he lingered over the meal, then having paid his check, he packed his bag, took the piano tuner’s outfit with him and got into the Hertz rented car.

  He reached the Plaza Beach Hotel parking lot at 09.45. At this time in the morning there was plenty of space and he parked the car so he would have only a short distance to walk and could leave in a hurry if it was necessary.

  The Negro parking attendant came over and eyed him suspiciously.

  It was his job to make sure only people to do with the hotel used the parking lot.

  ‘You got business here, mister?’ he demanded.

  Harry nodded.

  ‘You bet I have. I’ve got to fix a piano, but I’m ahead of time. Okay for me to wait here?’

  ‘Sure, mister,’ and his curiosity satisfied, the Negro returned to his wooden hut.

  At three minutes to 10.00, Harry walked briskly up the steps and across the hotel lobby to the hall porter’s desk. At this time in the morning, the lobby was bare of clients. Only three bellhops were standing around, trying to look busy. George, the hall porter, was checking the stock market prices in the Pacific Tribune. He looked up as Harry came to the desk. His sharp, experienced eyes took in Harry’s shabby suit and his little black bag and he decided this was no one of importance.

  ‘Morning,’ Harry said and laid the business card that Bromhead had given him on the desk. ‘Mrs. Morely-Johnson, please.’

  George picked up the card and examined it. It told him that Mr. Tom Terring, representative of Scholfield & Matthews, suppliers of pianos, organs and harps, stood before him.

  George regarded Harry and what he saw he didn’t like. He didn’t like the heavily dyed black hair, nor the small recess eyes. He didn’t like the shabby suit.

  ‘This you?’ he asked, tapping the card.

  ‘That’s me,’ Harry said. ‘Where do I find Mrs. Morely-Johnson . . . what floor?’

  ‘If you’re trying to sell her a piano you’re wasting your time.’

  Harry laughed.

  ‘Nothing like that. We had a call late yesterday. She has a broken piano wire. I’m here to fix it.’

  George frowned. There was something about this man that worried him.

  ‘You’re not the usual guy who comes . . . a fellow named Chapman.’

  ‘That’s right. Chapman tunes pianos . . . I mend them.’

  George shrugged. He picked up the telephone receiver and asked the operator to connect him with the penthouse.

  Her toilet completed, Mrs. Morely-Johnson wandered out on to the terrace. The time was 09.30. She had nothing to do now Bromhead had taken the Rolls to Los Angeles. She sat in the sun, looking across at the harbour and wondered how she could pass the next hours before going down to the grillroom where she had arranged lunch with friends.

  She decided to clean her rings. Since she was half blind, this chore was always badly done, but she liked to do it. She often said to Sheila: ‘I must never become a parasite. I have no patience with women who don’t do something for themselves.’

  ‘Sheila?’ the raucous voice made Sheila stiffen. She came out on to the terrace.

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.’

  ‘Will you be a dear and bring me my rings? I want to clean them.’

  Sheila felt her heart skip a beat. She looked furtively at her watch. Then she was suddenly glad. She knew the old lady loved her rings more than the rest of her jewellery. Her rings were kept in a special box. At least this man who was coming wouldn’t now get them. The diamond brooches, the strings of pearls, the diamond necklaces would satisfy him.

  She went into the old lady’s bedroom, got the ring box and collected the cleaning material. She laid these out on the terrace table.

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson peered at everything to make sure she could find what she needed and nodded her satisfaction.

  ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She opened the ring box, then looked up and peered at Sheila. ‘You are very quiet this morning. Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘I have a slight headache,’ S
heila said huskily and again looked at her watch. The time now was 09.56.

  ‘Wretched things . . . headaches. Go and lie down. Take an aspirin. When I was your age, I used to get a lot of headaches . . . it’s all part of a woman’s burden.’ She picked up a magnificent diamond and ruby ring and peered at it.

  ‘I think I will,’ Sheila said and returned to the living room.

  Her hands were damp and her heart was thumping. She looked with dread at the telephone. She must think of Gerald, she told herself. What a fool she had been to have ever listened to Bromhead! She was sure he wasn’t bluffing. How could a man bluff with a face like that? What did it matter if the old lady lost some of her jewels? And yet she felt ashamed. This was a betrayal of trust.

  The telephone bell rang.

  * * *

  When Solly Marks learned that Gerald Hammett had died in the tenement fire, he realized this was information that must be relayed immediately to Bromhead. Marks was a man of swift action. He called Bromhead’s room. Getting no answer, he called the hotel garage. The attendant told him that Bromhead was on his way to Los Angeles and had left around 08.20.

  Marks reckoned that Bromhead couldn’t reach Los Angeles for another two hours. He telephoned Sergeant Pete Jackson, the traffic control officer at Los Angeles. Marks had good contacts with the police and the key men always received a turkey and two bottles of Scotch on Thanksgiving Day: these presents paid off in an emergency.

  ‘Pete? This is Solly. Do me a favour?’

  ‘Name it and it’s yours.’

  ‘There’s a Rolls on the highway heading this way. No. P.C.M.J.1. Dark red,’ Marks said. ‘I want the chauffeur . . . Jack Bromhead . . . to get to the nearest telephone fast and call me. Top priority, Pete.’

  ‘Nothing to it,’ Jackson said. ‘One of my men will pick him up in five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, Pete,’ and Marks hung up.

  Bromhead had a nasty shock when a patrol officer on a powerful motorcycle cut in ahead of him and flagged him down. Bromhead had been driving at a sedate forty-five miles an hour so he knew he wasn’t being stopped for speeding. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It showed 09.45. Whatever the cop wanted, Bromhead decided it was a good thing he was being stopped. What better alibi than to be stopped by a cop some fifty miles or so from the scene of a murder?