1972 - Just a Matter of Time

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Why should I? You never asked. Go away!’

  Bromhead thought of the forged will he had destroyed. He felt so frustrated he could have killed this woman sitting on the bed with her hands covering her face. His mind worked swiftly. There was still time. They still had Patterson in a trap. Harry was still in town. He could forge another will.

  ‘Don’t you realize, you fool,’ he snarled, ‘if you can prove you are Gerry’s wife, you are his next of kin and all this money will come to you?’

  She looked up. The dead expression in her eyes alarmed him.

  ‘I don’t want it!’ she said. ‘He’s dead . . . I thought I could make something of him . . . with money. That’s why I married him . . . to have a hold on him . . . I could have moulded him.

  He pretended money meant nothing to him, but I know better. He didn’t understand its power. I could have taught him. Now . . . he’s dead . . . I’m not interested in money.’

  Bromhead controlled himself with an effort.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying!’ He couldn’t keep his frustrated anger out of his voice. ‘Forget him! You can always find some other boy . . . what made that little creep so special? If you must have a lover half your age, you can always find one.’ He knew he was saying things he would regret later, but he was so angry, he couldn’t control himself. ‘We can still swing this thing. I’ll talk to Patterson. We’ll try again. The money will go to Gerry’s next of kin . . . you! One million, five hundred thousand dollars! We can begin again!’

  ‘Get out!’

  The viciousness and the hatred in her voice shocked Bromhead. He stared at her, seeing the contempt and the hatred in her eyes and he realized further attempts to persuade her were useless, but he couldn’t let so much money escape him without a supreme effort.

  ‘Sheila! Pull yourself together! Listen to me. . .’

  ‘Get out!’

  The snap in her voice told him nothing he could say would make any impression. He wanted to hit her, but he controlled himself.

  ‘All right . . . then that’s it.’ He moved away from her. He couldn’t resist hurting her. ‘Gerry talked to me about you. He said you had a mother complex and you were a nut. He didn’t give a damn about you, except when he had you in bed. That was all you were good for, he said. You are a nut, and you’ll regret this when you’re old - and that won’t be long – unwanted and without money.’

  ‘Get out!’

  Bromhead accepted defeat. He left the room and made his way to the elevator. The living room was alive with sound as Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s old fingers flew over the keyboard.

  Left alone, Sheila sat motionless, her hands gripped between her knees. Mother complex? A nut? Yes, Bromhead was right. She had married Gerald because she wanted to be sure that when they got the money he wouldn’t leave her for someone younger. He had been reluctant to marry. ‘Why bother with this jazz?’ he had demanded. ‘Aren’t we happy as we are?’ But she knew she had to have a hold on him. With all that money involved, she had been confident she could have made something of him, but not if she hadn’t some hold on him. He had been dependent on her for money. He had been happy to lounge about while she had provided for him. That had been her hold on him then. Bromhead’s proposition had seemed to her then to offer the release she longed for: to be able to be with Gerry instead of slaving in the hospital, wondering all the time what he was doing: coming back tired, forcing herself to go out with him, trying all the time to be gay. Why had she done this? A nut? Yes . . . there was this thing in her for the younger man. A nut was as good a description as anything. Now he was dead. She must be a nut, she thought, even to have thought of teaming up with a man like Bromhead. She supposed the thought of owning a million dollars had sent her off balance.

  Well, now Gerry was dead. She thought back on her life.

  Doors opened, then closed. This was another door that had closed. She felt it was impossible to stay here any longer. She wasn’t going to give up the rest of her life to wait on an old woman.

  Then she thought of Patterson. He would remain smug, waiting for the old lady to die, sure of his inheritance. He was a man who thought only of himself. Suddenly she had a hatred for this man with his good looks, his confidence and his two-faced servility with the old lady. He mustn’t get away with this! Why should he? Gerry was dead. She had nothing. Bromhead had nothing. Why should Patterson have anything?

  ‘Sheila?’

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson was calling her. She got to her feet and went into the living room.

  ‘I’m going down to the grillroom,’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson said. ‘I’ve just made another recording. Be a dear and label the box: Beethoven: Appassionata Sonata.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson peered at her.

  ‘Is your headache better?’

  ‘It’s gone.’

  ‘I’m so glad.’ She put her hand on Sheila’s arm. ‘Have a good lunch. Are you having something sent up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have something nice. Mr. Patterson is coming at three o’clock. I intend to scold him. He’s been quite cross with me.’ She started slowly towards the front door. ‘Would you see me to the elevator?’

  Sheila looked at her, knowing this was the last time she would see her. She felt a pang of regret. The old, half-blind woman was not only a great artist, but she was kind. Kindness was something Sheila felt was without price. Until she had come to the penthouse, kindness to her was just a word in a dictionary.

  She went with the old lady to the elevator. The attendant took charge of the old lady. He was an elderly man who would have given service even without Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s presents. As soon as the doors swished to, Sheila went quickly to her bedroom. She opened the closet and took from it her two shabby suitcases. She packed quickly. Finished, she looked around the room, making sure she had left nothing behind that belonged to her, then satisfied, she opened a drawer in her dressing table and took out the box, containing the I, Christopher Patterson tape.

  She went into her office, found a biro and printed on the label of the box: Appassionata Sonata: Beethoven.

  She went into the living room. On one of the shelves of the bookcase were some thirty boxes of tape: all neatly labelled. She lifted some of them and inserted the box she had just labeled between them. Then she rewound the tape that Mrs. Morely-Johnson had just recorded and put that in another box and left it unlabelled.

  She went to her office. Sitting at her desk she wrote a brief note. Taking the note to her bedroom, she put it on her bare dressing table. She looked around the comfortable room with regret, then shrugging, she put on a light dust coat, picked up the two suitcases and left the penthouse, leaving the key in the door.

  As she was driven in a taxi to the bus station, she opened her handbag and checked her money. She had $95. She smiled a little bitterly. When she had arrived in this city, she had had $55 . . . not a lot of profit, she thought.

  At the bus station, she bought a ticket to Los Angeles. The driver stowed her two bags into the luggage compartment. The bus was half empty and she found a window seat. She planned to spend the night in Los Angeles and then take another bus to San Francisco. She was sure she would get a job easily enough at the Masonic hospital . . . they were always short of staff. As she took a pack of cigarettes from her bag a young man sat down heavily by her side.

  ‘Have you a cigarette to spare?’ he asked as he squeezed a dirty duffle bag between his knees.

  She looked at him: another Gerry, she thought, with hair reaching to his shoulders. His suntanned face, pinched as if he ate badly. As he took the cigarette she saw his hands were dirty and his fingernails black. She could smell his stale sweat.

  They began to talk. After a while, when he began to loosen up, he sounded just like Gerry. He had the same stupid, youthful phrases: the scene must be changed! We have to get rid of the rich! There were too many old people! Gerry all ov
er again. The usual destructive rant without suggesting anything constructive.

  As the bus roared along the highway, she relaxed and listened. She thought: He only needs a bath and some decent food. Maybe I could make something of him. He has good eyes.

  When they reached Los Angeles, she suggested they should go to a hotel together. He stared at her, then grinned. She felt her blood move through her body as he looked at her with youthful lust.

  As they walked together to the reception desk of a rundown, shabby hotel near the bus terminal, Gerry’s ghost left her mind forever.

  * * *

  Bromhead returned to his room. He opened a can of beer, poured the contents into a glass and then sat down.

  Back to square A, he thought.

  It could be worse. He would now have to accept a restricted future. The dream of the cottage in Carmel was just another dream. The old lady could last for years. When she died, he would have $15,000 a year. He must now be careful and save for the future.

  Then suddenly he remembered Solly Marks. The thought of Marks brought him upright in his chair. He owed Marks $32,000. This sum could now never be repaid. He remembered Marks, staring at him as he said: ‘I have a collecting service . . . I thought I’d remind you.’

  The possibility of some thug catching him when he was off guard and smashing his skull now became very real, but Bromhead never allowed himself to panic. This was something that had to be handled. He sat for some time, sipping his beer, while he thought, then coming to a decision, he reached for the telephone receiver. He caught Solly Marks just as he was leaving for a late lunch.

  ‘Jack here,’ Bromhead said. ‘It’s okay to talk. I’m on an outside line.’

  He listened to Marks’s wheezing breathing.

  ‘I’m sorry about your problem,’ Marks said. ‘He set fire to the place. You can’t blame me. I’ve lost a valuable tenement building.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that too.’ Bromhead paused, then went on. ‘With my problem dead, Solly, the operation is dead. I’m calling to tell you to tear up those I.O.U.s I gave you.’

  ‘That’s something I never do,’ Marks said, his voice turning hard. ‘You pay or I’ll have to collect and you know what that means.’

  ‘You won’t, because I have now an insurance policy covering me,’ Bromhead said quietly.

  There was a long pause while the line hummed and Bromhead listened to Marks’s wheezy breathing. Then Marks said, ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means you tear up those I.O.U.s and you write off your loss as I am writing off my loss.’

  ‘You think so?’ There was now a snarl in Marks’s voice.

  ‘I know so, Solly, and I’ll tell you why. Do you remember Harry Miller?’

  ‘Harry Miller?’ A startled note came into Marks’s voice. ‘I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ Bromhead reached for his beer and took a sip. ‘Harry happens to be a good friend of mine . . . I once saved his life. He wants to square things with me. He’s funny that way. I’ve told him about your collecting service, Solly. He doesn’t approve of it. If anything ever happens to me, Harry says it will be his pleasure to square it . . . do I have to spell it out?’

  There was a long pause, then Marks said, a slight quaver in his voice, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack. Who said anything was going to happen to you?’

  ‘Things can happen,’ Bromhead said. ‘Are you going to tear up those I.O.U.s, Solly?’

  ‘Well if you haven’t the money there’s no point in keeping them, is there?’

  ‘That’s right. Okay, Solly . . . better luck next time if there’s a next time,’ and Bromhead hung up.

  As Mrs. Morely-Johnson didn’t expect him back until 17.00, he decided to take Harry Miller out to lunch. It wasn’t safe to bluff with Marks.

  As he was driving to meet Harry, he considered his future.

  He, Harry and Marks were all around the same age. If Harry died first, he (Bromhead) would be in trouble for Bromhead knew Marks would never forget. If Marks died first, he (Bromhead) would have no more cares. If he died first, he would have even less cares.

  It seemed to him his future now depended on how long Harry kept alive. It wasn’t a very satisfactory outlook, but it was an outlook he had to accept.

  * * *

  At a few minutes to 15.00, Patterson entered the lobby of the Plaza Beach Hotel. He had come armed with a large box of marrons glacés which he knew Mrs. Morely-Johnson adored. As he walked towards the elevator, George, the hall porter, intercepted him.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr. Patterson . . . Mr. Lacey would like a word with you.’

  ‘Later,’ Patterson said curtly. ‘I have an appointment with Mrs. Morely-Johnson.’

  ‘It is to do with Mrs. Morely-Johnson,’ George said.

  Patterson hesitated, then nodding, he went down the corridor leading to the Director’s office.

  Lacey got to his feet and shook hands.

  ‘I felt you had better be warned,’ he said. ‘Mrs. Morely-Johnson is very upset. Her companion-help has left.’

  Patterson stiffened. He stared at Lacey.

  ‘Left?’

  ‘While Madam was lunching in the grillroom, Miss Oldhill packed and left. She left a note.’ Lacey handed a folded piece of paper to Patterson.

  Putting down the box with its gay wrapping, Patterson unfolded the paper, aware his hands were unsteady.

  He read:

  Dear Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

  Forgive me for leaving like this. Please be understanding. Thank you for all your kindness. I won’t be returning. Please don’t think badly of me.

  In sincere admiration.

  Sheila Oldhill.

  Patterson stared at the note, then making an effort to keep his face expressionless, he looked at Lacey.

  ‘How extraordinary. So . . . she’s left?’

  ‘Yes. She has taken all her things. Madam is very upset.’

  ‘I’ll go straight up.’ Patterson put the note in his pocket. ‘I’ll have to find someone else to look after her. In the meantime, is there anyone . . .?’

  ‘Of course. Maria has already been told. She’s with her now.’

  Picking up the box of marrons glacés, Patterson hurried to the elevator and was whisked to the penthouse. As the elevator rode smoothly up to the 20th floor, his mind was busy.

  He could think only of the damaging tape. What had happened to it? Why had Sheila run off like this? Had she taken the tape with her? Was she planning to blackmail him? The Siberian wind was whistling through his mind.

  Maria, the fat, kindly floor waitress, opened the front door.

  She looked worried.

  ‘How is she?’ Patterson asked as he entered the vestibule.

  ‘Not too good, sir. She’s on the terrace.’

  Patterson braced himself and walked through the living room and on to the terrace.

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson sat under a red and blue sun umbrella, staring sightlessly across the harbour. She sat with her hands folded in her lap and for the first time, Patterson realized how really old she was. She looked up, peering at him through her thick glasses, then she smiled.

  ‘I don’t know what I would do without you, Chris,’ she said and held out her wrinkled, beautiful hand.

  Patterson felt a stab of conscience. He bent over her hand and brushed it with his lips.

  ‘Mr. Lacey told me,’ he said, putting the box on the table. ‘This is the most extraordinary thing. She seemed so happy with you. I don’t understand it . . . it’s extraordinary.’

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson lifted her hands and let them drop in her lap.

  ‘I can understand it,’ she said. ‘She was too young. I think she was wise to leave. The old take strength from the young. It’s just the way she left that has hurt me.’

  ‘Yes.’ Patterson sat down. ‘I’m truly sorry. Shall I see if Mrs. Fleming is still available . . . you liked her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes . . . I did. The old fo
r the old.’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson again lifted her hands and again let them drop into her lap. It seemed to Patterson a gesture of defeat. ‘Would you do that for me, Chris?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There was something about that girl I liked so much,’ she went on. ‘You read her note. In sincere admiration. I think she really meant that.’

  Patterson shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘I’m sure she did.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson took off her glasses. ‘She was kind to me. I will miss her.’

  ‘I’ve brought you a little present . . . marrons glacés.’

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson put on her glasses, leaned forward and peered at the box.

  ‘And you are too kind, Chris.’ Her hand patted his arm. ‘Kindness is so rare. Thank you . . . you will be rewarded . . . you’ll see.’ She smiled at him.

  Patterson felt himself shrivel.

  ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he said huskily. ‘I’ve brought your will.’

  She waved her hands.

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, Chris. I’m sorry I was so tiresome about that. I wanted to reward her . . . now she’s left me. Take it back to the bank.’

  Patterson thought of Abe Weidman. He would have to break the news to him that he wasn’t going to get the Picassos. This didn’t worry him. There was nothing Weidman could do about that. He would tell Weidman that he had tried hard, but he couldn’t persuade the old lady to change her mind.

  ‘I had better go at once to Mrs. Fleming,’ he said. ‘If she is still free, I’ll ask her to come this evening.’

  ‘Would you do that? I’d be so grateful. I liked her. We should have chosen her in the first place . . . Sheila was too young.’

  ‘Yes.’ Patterson got to his feet.

  ‘Oh, Chris . . .’

  He paused. What now? His nerves were jumping.

  ‘Yes, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?’

  ‘Would you be a dear and put on a tape for me? I’m feeling a little sad and my music helps me. Any tape will do. You will find them on the bookshelf.’

  He looked at her, sitting under the sun umbrella, rich, old and lonely. These were the people he had to deal with, he thought. Old people! People who had the money!