Jesus! he thought, now I really have stuck my neck out.
‘Not satisfied?’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s voice exploded against his eardrum. ‘Now, Chris, I won’t have you getting uppity with me! I’m an old woman and I won’t be bullied! Then come here at three o’clock. We’ll go into this . . . and please bring me my will,’ and she hung up.
Patterson sat back. Then this was the finish, he thought. He sat for a long moment, unable to think what he could do to save himself. Then slowly he got control of his panic. First, he must get the forged will from the legal department. He must get it and destroy it. With unsteady hands, he scrabbled through his papers and found the authorization Mrs. Morely-Johnson had signed, then bracing himself, he went along to the legal department.
Irving Fellows was at his desk: a tall, thin, dehydrated man with steely black eyes and a balding head.
‘Hi!’ Patterson said, forcing his voice to sound cheerful. ‘How’s the kid?’
Fellows made no attempt to conceal his disapproval of Patterson.
He lifted his shoulders.
‘He’s coming along, thank you. Do you want something?’
‘Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will,’ and Patterson laid the authorization on Fellows’ desk.
‘Her will?’ The heavy black eyebrows shot up. ‘She had that three weeks ago and returned it.’
Patterson had got beyond the point of no return. He was in no mood to take anything from Fellows.
‘So what? If she wants to look at her will every day for the next ten years that’s no skin off your nose, is it?’
Deliberately offensive, Fellows studied the authorization, then handed it to his dowdy secretary.
‘Get Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will, please, and give it to Mr. Patterson. Then looking at Patterson, he went on, ‘Is she troubled by her will?’
‘If you’re all that curious,’ Patterson said, ‘why don’t you call Mr. Weidman? We keep her will: Weidman is the man to worry about it.’
That broadside silenced Fellows who glared at Patterson, then pulled a document towards him and began to study it.
Three minutes later, Patterson was back in his office with the forged will. One step forward! But he couldn’t see how it would help him. Of course the old lady would have great difficulty in reading the will, but she would manage with the aid of her magnifying glass. She wouldn’t ask Sheila nor himself to read it to her. He looked at his desk clock. It was just on 12.00.
He had only three hours to come up with a solution. He sat, thinking. Finally, he decided there was only one way to get out of this mess. He would tell the old lady that his briefcase, containing the will, had been stolen from his car while he was having lunch. He felt sure she would accept this. Then a new will would have to be made. Then he thought of Abe Weidman. There came a tap on the door and Bailey, the bank messenger, looked in.
‘There’s a Mr. Bromhead asking to see you, Mr. Patterson.’
Patterson controlled his expression only with an effort.
‘I’ll see him, Joe.’
Bromhead came in, his cockaded hat under his arm, his lean face bland, his bearing dignified. Looking at him, no one could have guessed he had raced back along the highway, driving the Rolls at exactly sixty miles an hour which was the official speed limit, never going over the limit, but tempted to, knowing the cops on this stretch of road could delay him if he went faster.
When Bailey had gone, Bromhead came to the desk.
The two men looked at each other.
‘She’s yelling for the will,’ Patterson said, his voice unsteady. ‘You told me to do nothing! What the hell are you playing at? I’ve got to take the will to her by three o’clock?’
‘Here it is.’ Bromhead produced an envelope from inside his tunic. He laid it on the desk. ‘The original will, Mr. Patterson. I would like the other.’ He looked at the envelope lying on Patterson’s blotter. ‘Is that it?’
Patterson nodded.
‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘I’m afraid, Mr. Patterson, we are back to square A,’ Bromhead said. ‘Her nephew is dead.’
‘Dead?’ Patterson stared at him. His mind worked swiftly.
The nephew dead, there would be no money for Bromhead nor for Sheila. This didn’t bother him, but his own inheritance could still be in danger!
‘We’re not back to square A,’ he said, his voice harsh. ‘How about Weidman?’
Bromhead’s stare made Patterson cringe. It was a look of a man regarding a small boy.
‘Surely, Mr. Patterson, you can handle Mr. Weidman? May I make a suggestion? Tell him the old lady has changed her mind about the pictures. Old ladies often change their minds. It’s not as if he can complain. The information you gave him was in confidence. I can’t see why you should worry about Mr. Weidman.’
Patterson drew in a long, slow breath.
‘You mean it’s all over . . . we really are back to square A?’
‘I think you, Mr. Patterson, can say it is over, depending on how you handle Mr. Weidman. If you handle him well, then I would say it is just a matter of time before you become a rich man.’
Patterson’s mind was darting this way and that. This sounded to him too good to be true.
‘I want that tape,’ he said.
Bromhead nodded.
‘That I can understand, but what one wants and what one gets are two different things. The tape doesn’t interest me. I don’t have it. Miss Oldhill has it . . . you should talk to her.’ He picked up the forged will and regarded it. ‘A pity: a lot of thought and work for nothing.’ He slid the envelope inside his tunic, then moved to the door. ‘Well, Mr. Patterson, let us hope you will eventually become a rich man.’
Patterson stared fixedly at him, his mind busy. He said nothing.
When Bromhead had left the office, Patterson snatched up the telephone receiver.
‘Vera get me Mr. Abe Weidman,’ he said.
* * *
In the private room of Chez Henri restaurant, Patterson waited impatiently for Abe Weidman to arrive. He kept looking at his watch as he toyed with his dry martini.
When he had called Weidman, Weidman had said it was impossible for him to have lunch. He already had a lunch date with a client.
‘This is extremely urgent, Abe,’ Patterson had said. ‘It’s something I must discuss with you. Couldn’t you break your date?’
‘What’s so urgent about it?’ Weidman had asked.
‘It concerns you. We’re talking over an open line.’
There was a pause, then Weidman had said, ‘Okay, Chris, I’ll be along at one-thirty . . . Chez Henri?’
‘That’s right . . . upstairs.’
During the drive to the restaurant, Patterson prepared his story. He now felt confident that he could handle Weidman, but he was worried about the tape that Bromhead had told him Sheila had. But one step at the time, he told himself. The tape would cost him money, but he was prepared to pay. He must try to do a deal with this woman.
Weidman came in.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said as he shook hands. ‘I’ve had a hell of a morning and now you’ve certainly snarled up my afternoon.’
‘I’m sorry, but this is important. What will you drink?’
‘Same as you . . . a double.’
Patterson gave the order.
As he sat down, Weidman looked searchingly at Patterson.
‘What’s it all about, Chris?’
‘Let’s order. Now you’re here we may as well eat.’
The maître d’hôtel came in with the menus, followed by the waiter with the dry martini.
Weidman said he had a heavy afternoon of work. He wanted something light. He accepted the suggestion of asparagus, cold poached salmon and a tossed salad. Patterson said he would have the same.
Patterson talked about the stock market while the asparagus was being served, then when the waiter had left, he said, ‘I’m worried about Mrs. Morely-Johnson.’
Weidman bit into a s
tick of asparagus, reached for another and dipped it into the piquant sauce.
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry to tell you, Abe, she has changed her mind about the new will.’
Weidman paused as he was about to convey the asparagus to his mouth.
‘Changed her mind?’
‘She has decided to revert back to her original will.’
Weidman sat back. His little black eyes were glazed with shock.
‘Her original will?’ His voice was strangled. ‘You mean . . .?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Patterson played with a stick of asparagus, not looking at Weidman. ‘I saw her yesterday. She told me she had decided the Picassos should go to the museum. She said she had been thinking this over. She said as she hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t know, but she felt that the people of this town and the tourists would be reminded of her husband if she gave the pictures to the museum.’
Weidman put his asparagus back on his plate. Patterson looked up. He saw disappointment, shock and anger flit across the fat face.
‘She’s asking for her original will,’ Patterson went on. ‘She wants to give her new companion, Miss Oldhill, some money. She wants to make a codicil, but on the original will. I have it, of course. She told me to destroy the new will . . . the one in which she left you the Picassos.’
‘Goddamn it!’ Weidman muttered. ‘So I’m not to have the Picassos?’
A waiter opened the door, saw neither of the men had touched the first course, raised his eyebrows and quietly withdrew.
‘Abe . . . I know the old lady. She’s a bit dotty,’ Patterson said. ‘She could change her mind. I’m seeing her this afternoon. I still have the new will . . . I haven’t destroyed it. I want to give her time to change her mind. I know how much you have done for her in the past. If anyone deserves to have those pictures, it’s you.’
Weidman rubbed his fat jaw.
‘Old women! As you say, you just don’t know what the hell gets into them. I . . .’ He broke off and raised his hands helplessly.
‘I have some influence with her,’ Patterson said. He leaned forward, looking directly at Weidman. ‘I want to gain time. With a little time, I think I can talk her into giving you those pictures. I’m going to try if you will cooperate.’
Weidman stiffened and stared quizzingly at Patterson.
‘What do you mean . . . cooperate?’
‘This is Friday. I’ve told her you are in New York until Monday,’ Patterson said. ‘This way I’ve gained time. She wanted to call you right away and get you to make the codicil. I’m sticking my neck out, Abe, but I feel confident this is an old woman’s whim and I can persuade her to change her mind. If I’ve done wrong, you say so and I’ll take the rap.’
Weidman began to speak, then stopped. He thought of the three magnificent Picassos on the walls of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s vestibule. These pictures were something to yearn for. The thought of them hanging in the goddamn local museum was gall to his mind.
Patterson went on, ‘She could still call your office. Give me a little time, Abe, and I think I can swing this your way.’
Weidman hesitated, but his sense of duty made him all attorney.
‘We can’t do this, Chris. I see you want to help and I appreciate it, but I can’t go along with it.’
‘Okay.’ Patterson shrugged. ‘I wanted to be helpful. Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it. But I’ve told her you are in New York. Are you going to pull the rug from under my feet?’
Weidman shifted uneasily.
‘I won’t do that,’ he said. ‘No, I won’t do that. Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve done, but the old lady has the right to do what she likes with her pictures. I don’t want to get involved in anything that could be . . .’ He stopped short, aware that Patterson was looking inquiringly at him. ‘I don’t want to get involved,’ he ended lamely.
‘I understand,’ Patterson said. ‘But I know the old lady. She blows hot . . . then cold. You deserve these pictures, Abe. Let me try to handle this. Keep out of the way. If the old lady calls, tell your secretary to tell her you are out of town. Leave it until Monday. What’s the harm?’
Weidman brooded over his untouched asparagus, his fat face dark with thought. He could only think of the three Picassos. Why not? It would mean only three days. Patterson might just swing it in his favour. It was worth a try. He gave an abrupt little nod and picked up a stick of asparagus. Seeing him do this, Patterson knew he had made yet another step forward.
* * *
Just after midday, Bromhead drove the Rolls into the hotel garage. The Negro attendant who was washing a 280 Mercedes suspended his work and came over as Bromhead got out of the Rolls.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve been to L.A., Mr. Bromhead,’ he said. ‘That sure would be moving.’
‘I got half way there,’ Bromhead said, ready with his story, ‘then I knew what was wrong . . . dirt in the carburetors. I stopped at a garage, they blew them out and she’s going like a dream.’
The Negro giggled happily.
‘What do you know, Mr. Bromhead? Ain’t that life?’
‘That’s it,’ Bromhead said. ‘I’ll get me some lunch.’
‘You do that, Mr. Bromhead.’ The Negro turned to admire the Rolls. ‘Sure is a beauty, ain’t she?’
‘That’s what she is.’
Bromhead walked to his room. He took the forged will from his tunic and put it on the table. He felt old and frustrated. It had been a good idea. It could have worked if that stupid
Gerald had behaved himself and had stayed alive. Her only relative! He paused to look into his future. He would remain now the old lady’s chauffeur. A cottage in Carmel was a dream like any dream. You woke up and found your dream was a puff of smoke. When she died, he would inherit $15,000 a year and the Rolls. With the high cost of living creeping up every year this sum would allow him to just tick over. It was a bleak prospect.
He picked up the envelope containing the will and tore it into small pieces, then carrying the pieces into the bathroom, he flushed them down the toilet. Returning to the living room, he called the penthouse.
When Sheila answered, he said, ‘Jack . . . how are you fixed?’
‘She’s recording,’ Sheila told him. ‘Come to my room.’
He took the elevator to the penthouse and let himself in with his key. He could hear Mrs. Morely-Johnson playing . . . Mozart? Beethoven? He didn’t know. The notes had a liquid quality . . . beautifully phrased. He went into Sheila’s bedroom and found her standing at the window, waiting.
He closed the door.
‘What happened?’
Briefly, she told him. She didn’t tell him the whole truth. She said Harry had arrived and she had let him in, then the hotel detective had arrived. She said Harry had been clever in diverting the detective’s suspicions.
So the unexpected had happened, Bromhead thought. Seeing it in perspective, he realized it was lucky the way it had turned out. He wouldn’t have wanted the old lady to die if he couldn’t profit by her death. Now he had to break the news of Gerald’s death. He had thought, how best to do this. He wasn’t sure how she would react. He had a growing suspicion that this dirty drop-out meant more to her than she had revealed. He didn’t want a scene.
‘Well, there it is,’ he said. ‘Things go wrong.’ He paused, then went on, lowering his voice, ‘I’m sorry . . . I have bad news.’
She looked sharply at him.
‘Bad news?’
‘Gerald.’
Take it slowly, he told himself, break it gently. He saw her hands turn into fists.
‘What about Gerald?’
‘There’s been an accident. I don’t know how much Gerald meant to you . . . I’m sorry . . . he’s dead.’
She recoiled.
‘Dead?’
All the colour went out of her face and he was alarmed to see how shocked she was.
‘I’m afraid so . . . he died in a fire.’
‘Yo
u killed him!’ The sudden viciousness in her voice warned him how dangerous she could be unless he controlled her.
‘No . . . it was an accident.’ He kept his voice low and calm. ‘It was his fault.’ His mind groped frantically for an inspiration to stop the scene he saw was coming. ‘He was with a girl. They were on the top floor of a tenement building . . . you know Gerry. He was fooling around. The girl got scared and resisted him . . . she was only a kid. He knocked over a lamp. The place went up in flames. They were both trapped.’
Watching her, he saw this was the right tactic. Her anger went away and she stared unbelievingly at him.
‘A girl?’
‘A teenager . . . sixteen.’ He dug in the dagger. ‘You didn’t expect Gerry to remain alone for so long without a woman, did you? He picked on this kid . . . she was sixteen.’
Sheila flinched and turned away. She walked slowly to the window and rested her forehead against the pane.
‘They both died,’ Bromhead went on. ‘That’s why I called you. With him dead, there’s no relative for the old lady to leave her money to . . . we’re back to square A.’
There was a long pause. Through the closed door came the magic sound of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s piano playing.
After waiting several moments, Bromhead began to lose patience.
‘I’m sorry, but after all he wasn’t much.’
She turned, her smoky blue eyes alight and he knew he had said the wrong thing.
‘Much? Who are you to judge? Do you think you’re anything but a cheap crook?’ The bitterness in her voice jolted him. ‘To me, he was . . . he was my husband!’
For a moment, Bromhead couldn’t believe he had heard what she had said.
‘What was that? He was your husband?’
‘Go away!’ She moved listlessly from the window and sat on the bed. She put her hands to her face.
Bromhead gaped at her.
‘Yes . . . we got married before we came here.’
‘Gerry was your husband?’
Bromhead felt sweat break out on his face.
1972 - Just a Matter of Time Page 18
