Carrying a shabby holdall, he had arrived at the hotel the previous evening. Sheila Oldhill had been in the lounge, but they had been careful not to look at each other. As he passed her, she traced with her finger on the open page of her novel the figure 3, telling him she was booked in on the third floor. The hotel was half-empty and he had no difficulty getting a room on the third floor. He engaged the room for a week and added he might need it longer. The reception clerk said it would be their pleasure and personally conducted him to the room.
Sheila and Hammett had agreed it wouldn’t be safe for them to be seen together. After midnight when the rest of the people staying at the hotel were asleep and only the Negro night porter dozed in the lobby, Hammett had slipped from his room, crossed the corridor and slid into Sheila’s room. There, they had sat on the bed and had talked in low whispers. Although he wanted to stay longer, she wouldn’t let him and this put him in a surly mood. He had spent an uneasy night wondering about this plan, if she would succeed and wishing he hadn’t agreed to go along with her. But he wanted her . . . he needed her and he knew if he wanted to keep her, he had to cooperate.
She had left the hotel when Hammett had come down to breakfast and he had spent the morning wandering around the town. It was a nice town, but it quickly bored him. He was short of money (when wasn’t he?) and it irked him not to be able to go into the Plaza Beach Hotel bar and having to make do with a Coke in a sleazy waterfront bar crammed with sweaty, loud-mouthed fishermen.
He had returned to the Franklin for a poor lunch and had now been sitting on the balcony for the past two hours. Sheila had said she would be back by 16.00. It was now 16.20 and there was still no sign of her.
He took from his hip pocket a thin roll of dollar bills and furtively counted them. They amounted to $55. Sheila had about the same amount. If she didn’t pull this off, he thought, they would have to move fast. With the prices as they were in this luxury tourist trap, a hundred dollars would last no time.
Then he saw her as she came along the wide sidewalk and he felt his heartbeat quicken. He couldn’t judge from her expression whether she had been successful or not. She always looked the same: calm, quiet and remote, and this often infuriated him. Even when she was angry with him, she always remained calm, only the tone of her voice sharpened and the smoky blue eyes became more alive.
Without hurrying, she came up the steps leading to the lobby and went past him without looking at him. He felt a surge of exasperated rage rush through him and he had to restrain himself from jumping to his feet and going after her. She was like an iceberg, he thought. Nothing ever moved her! She must know how the past hours had dragged for him! Couldn’t she have given him just a slight hint of success as she had gone by?
He looked around and through the dirty window and into the lobby. She was standing at the reception desk, waiting for the old Negro clerk to give her her key. Again Hammett had to restrain himself from getting up. He fumbled for a cigarette and with an unsteady hand he struck a match and lit the cigarette. He looked at his chewed fingernails and the yellow nicotine stains on his slender fingers and he grimaced.
He sat there for five long, nerve-tearing minutes, then forcing himself to act casually, he got to his feet and wandered into the lobby.
There were four or five elderly people sitting in ancient bamboo chairs, gossiping and he was aware the hum of their voices died as he crossed the lobby. Get stuffed, you old ruins, he thought. Go, climb into your goddam coffins!
‘Room thirty-two,’ he said, coming to rest at the reception desk.
‘Yes, sir. Thirty-two it is, sir.’
A gnarled black hand slid the key across the scratched surface of the desk.
‘Would you be in for dinner tonight, sir?’ The old Negro beamed at him. ‘It’s a good dinner. I’ve seen it. Soup, nice fried fish and ice cream.’ There was a yearning note in his voice as if he longed to have this for himself.
Hammett winced. He had no alternative but to take the dinner. He was there on full pension which offered the cheapest rates.
‘I’ll be there,’ he said and picking up his key, he made his way towards the ancient elevator.
He walked along the deserted corridor of the third floor, paused outside his room, looked right and left, then moved swiftly to Sheila’s room, two doors further down the corridor. He turned the handle, felt the door yield and slid into the room shutting the door softly behind him.
Sheila was standing before the open window. She had on a transparent cotton wrap. With the light against her, he could see her long, shapely legs and the curve of her firm buttocks through the flimsy material. This sight always affected him, but this wasn’t the time for such feelings.
She looked around, then aware he was staring, she moved to a chair and sat down. It was the only chair in the room, a sagging thing that creaked under the weight of her body.
‘I asked you not to come here until after midnight,’ she said quietly. ‘Can’t you ever do what I ask?’
He sat on the bed.
‘It’s all right. There’s no one up here. What happened?’
‘We must wait and see. At least, I know now he is on my side.’
Hammett frowned.
‘You mean Jack was right? He’s got this creep lined up?’
‘I think so.’
The flat note in her voice made him look sharply at her.
‘What’s biting you? Why are you looking so goddamed depressed?’
‘Am I?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Is something wrong?’
She looked directly at him.
‘Not so far. It just isn’t settled yet. They want an elderly woman. He said he would try to persuade her, but that doesn’t mean he will.’
Hammett ran his fingers through his dirty hair.
‘So what? He’ll persuade her. Jack says she has the hots for him. Anything this creep says goes with her.’
‘An old woman of seventy-eight?’
Hammett grinned.
‘I know my aunt. She has always had the hots for men like this creep . . . suave, sexy and handsome. She has never been able to resist them. If Jack says she has the hots for this guy Patterson that’s what she’s got, so what Patterson says will be okay with her.’
Sheila leaned back in her chair.
‘How stupid can you be?’ she said quietly. She crossed her long legs, adjusting her wrap. ‘He sees a lot of her. A woman like that would want always to be the centre of attraction. She might not care to have a young woman around who might catch Patterson’s eye. Now, do you understand why I’m doubtful?’
Hammett began to chew his thumbnail.
‘So what? I keep telling you . . . I don’t like this. Let’s get out of this stinking town. Let’s go to L.A.’
‘Patterson said he would tell her I am thirty-eight,’ Sheila went on ignoring what he had said. ‘He knows the danger, but even thirty-eight could be too young. She could kill this stone dead.’
‘All right. . . so she kills it! I . . .’
‘Be quiet, Gerry!’
‘Oh, the hell with it! Let’s get out of here!’
Sheila glanced at her wristwatch.
‘Patterson is coming here when he has seen her. I want to take a shower. I think he is going to take me out to dinner. He said he would drop by whether the news was good or bad. Run along, Gerry. I have to dress.’
He stared sullenly at her, then moved to the door. As he turned the handle, he paused, looking at her.
‘Sometimes I think I’m crazy in the head to have hooked up with you,’ he said savagely. ‘Do you have to be so goddamn coldblooded . . . like a goddamn Mona Lisa?’
‘Run along, please. I want to change,’ she said after staring at him for a brief moment, then moving past him, she went into the shower room.
* * *
As Patterson pulled up outside the Franklin Hotel in his red Wildcat coupe, he saw Sheila Oldhill sitting on the veranda and he waved to her. She got to her feet an
d came down the steps as he slid out of the car, holding the offside door open. It was nearing 20.00 and everyone, including Hammett, was in the dining room.
Patterson’s eyes went over her as she crossed the sidewalk.
She wore a simple white dress with a gilt chain around her slim waist and she carried a white plastic handbag. He thought she looked terrific.
‘Hello,’ he said with his warm smile. ‘There’s lots to talk about. Will you please have dinner with me? I’m starving, and as I said . . . there’s lots to talk about.’
Her smoky blue eyes opened a trifle wider. She appeared to hesitate, then she nodded.
‘Thank you. Yes, I would like to.’
‘Then hop in. Do you like seafood?’
‘I like anything.’ She got into the car, careful with her skirt.
She showed Patterson only her knees as he closed the door.
Patterson got in beside her. Obviously, she thought, he had been home for he was freshly shaven and was wearing a dark suit and a fresh shirt. She could smell his aftershave lotion.
‘I think it’s going to be all right,’ he said as he edged the car into the heavy evening traffic. ‘There are things we have to talk about, but right now, it looks good. Everything will depend on you from now on.’
‘Yes.’ She leaned back in the comfortable seat. ‘It is very kind of you, Mr. Patterson, to take so much trouble.’
‘Oh, I’m an interested party.’ He laughed. ‘I have to see Mrs. Morely-Johnson quite a lot. There are certain chores I had to discuss with her late companion. It wasn’t much fun as she didn’t approve of me.’ He laughed again. ‘You and I, I hope, could get along together.’
‘Yes.’
He glanced at her. She was looking through the windshield at the red taillights of the cars ahead of them. The line of her throat stirred him. He imagined holding her, his mouth pressed against that lovely firm flesh. From past experiences he knew women reacted violently when he kissed their throats.
He slowed and turned off the boulevard.
‘We’re just here. This is my favourite restaurant. Not only is the food good but the doorman takes care of the car.’
He pulled up outside a doorway over which was a blue and gold canopy. The doorman, dressed in blue and gold, opened the offside door, lifting his peak cap.
‘Evening, Mr. Patterson. Evening, miss.’
‘Hi, Fred! Take her away, will you, please?’ Patterson got out of the car and came around as Sheila got out. He put his hand possessively on her arm and led her into the restaurant.
Ahead of them, down a short corridor, she could see the crowded restaurant, but Patterson guided her towards a narrow flight of stairs. ‘Up you go,’ he said. ‘We’re on the first floor.’
At the head of the stairs, a smiling maître d’hôtel was waiting, a bunch of leather menus under his arm.
‘Evening, Mr. Patterson . . . ma’am.’ Sheila was aware of his sharp scrutiny, then seeing his smile broaden, she knew he approved of her. ‘This way, please.’
He opened a door and ushered them into a small room containing a table set for two, two red and gilt plush chairs, the walls covered with red plush and before the curtained window a broad red plush settee.
‘Two champagne cocktails, Henry,’ Patterson said. ‘Right away.’
‘Certainly, Mr. Patterson,’ and the maître d’hôtel vanished.
Sheila looked around the room, eyed the settee, turned and looked at the door, noting there was a brass bolt to it.
‘I didn’t know such places still existed,’ she said.
Patterson pulled out one of the chairs from the table and waved her to it.
‘Not many . . . I use this place quite a bit for business.’ He smiled. ‘It always makes an impression and the bank pays.’
As she sat down, she looked directly at him.
‘Will the bank be paying tonight?’
He laughed as he sat down.
‘No . . . this is my pleasure. Do you like oysters?’
‘Yes . . . very much.’
The maître d’hôtel returned, followed by a waiter bearing two champagne cocktails.
She sat back and watched Patterson glance at the menu. He was quietly efficient and she could see he could quickly make up his mind. Without consulting her further, he ordered nine oysters each and the fish pie.
‘The usual white wine, Mr. Patterson?’ the maître d’hôtel asked.
Patterson nodded. When they were alone, he said, ‘Fish pie might sound dull, but here it is good . . . their specialty: lobster tails, mussels and shrimps in a white wine sauce, covered by the lightest pastry and served with fonds d’artichauts. Sound all right?’
‘It sounds wonderful.’
He raised his glass.
‘Here’s to your success.’
Without touching her glass, she looked directly at him.
‘Mr. Patterson, do you always treat companion-helps’ this way?’
Patterson lifted his left eyebrow, smiling.
‘This is the first time I’ve tried to engage a companion-help,’ he said. ‘So you have me at a disadvantage. The answer, I suppose, is that it depends on the companion-help.’
She picked up her glass, sipped, then put it down.
‘You think I have a chance?’
‘Yes . . . a good chance.’ He drank half his cocktail, then went on, ‘But when dealing with old people you can never be sure. In confidence, I have quite a time with the old lady when she is in the wrong mood, but she was in the right mood this evening . . . the snag is she could be in the wrong mood by tomorrow.’
The oysters arrived on a silver tray of crushed ice. While the waiter fussed with lemons, Tabasco and bread, they said nothing.
When he had gone, Patterson went on, ‘The trouble is, Miss Oldhill, she’s a bit worried about your age . . . I warned you about this.’
‘I understand.’
‘Yes.’ Patterson speared an oyster and conveyed it to his mouth. ‘But this problem can be solved if you are willing to go along.’
She ate an oyster before asking, ‘What does that mean?’
Patterson leaned towards her, looking directly at her, his warm smile enveloping her.
‘Has anyone told you how attractive you are?’
She stared down at the empty oyster shell, then looked up, meeting his gaze, her smoky blue eyes remote.
‘Yes . . . Dr. Fosdick among others.’
Patterson freed another oyster from its shell.
‘Yes . . . I had forgotten Dr. Fosdick. Well, the old lady is half blind, but not all that blind. I suggest when you see her tomorrow you should make yourself less attractive.’
‘Am I to see her tomorrow?’
‘At eleven o’clock, and please be punctual. She has a thing about time.’
They ate in silence. Patterson kept glancing at her. He could tell nothing from her calm expression of what was going on in her mind. The oysters finished, the waiter came to remove the plates. Patterson was growing uneasy. Could she be frigid? He didn’t believe this: not with this sensuality that oozed out of her. She couldn’t be, and yet she wasn’t reacting to his charm.
He felt that. She was cool, undisturbed by his smile. His smile had gained him so many easy conquests in the past. He moved restlessly as the waiter served the fish pie.
When he had gone, they ate for a moment in silence, then she said, ‘This really is delicious.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’ He moved a morsel of pastry with his fork. ‘I’ve told her about you. The fact you are Henry Oldhill’s daughter made a big hit with her as I knew it must. But once the enthusiasm was over, she said: “She must be quite a child.” I told her you were thirty-eight, serious, and I told her about your bowing arm. Then she said, “Why should a girl like that want to look after an old woman like me?” I got a bit of an inspiration.’ Patterson sat back, smiling. He looked very pleased with himself. ‘I told her you had always admired her playing, that you thought she w
as even greater than Myra Hess, and you would consider it a privilege to be of help.’
‘Then you were telling the truth,’ Sheila said quietly. ‘It would be a privilege for me to do something for her and to hear her play again.’
Patterson cut into a lobster tail. He was becoming baffled by this woman. Was she serious or was she conning him? Didn’t she realize that this whole operation was to be repaid by her getting into his bed? Or did she really imagine that a busy bank executive like himself would go to all this trouble, buy her an expensive dinner and then expect nothing in return except a polite thanks?
‘Yes.’ He ate for a moment, then decided to sink in a barb. ‘She liked that of course. So she wants to see you. She did ask if I had found an alternative, and I have, just in case she still thinks, after she has met you, that you are too young.’ He glanced to see her reaction, but her face remained calm and she seemed to be enjoying the fish pie as if he hadn’t made the half-concealed threat. ‘You see, Miss Oldhill, this is a little tricky for me. I mustn’t lose Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s confidence. That’s important to me and to the bank. I had to get another candidate lined up. In some ways, she is more suitable than you. She has had a lot of experience and she is around fifty-five. Mrs. Morely-Johnson will be seeing her at ten o’clock tomorrow; you at eleven. Then she will make her decision.’
Sheila nodded.
‘Of course,’ she said in that quiet, controlled voice that always infuriated Hammett. ‘I understand.’
They finished the fish pie and Patterson touched a bell to call the waiter.
‘They have some marvellous desserts here. There’s a strawberry sorbet . . .’
‘I’d rather have just coffee, please.’
‘Me too.’ He told the waiter as he cleared the table to bring coffee, then he took out his heavy gold cigarette case, another gift from Mrs. Morely-Johnson and offered it. When they had lit up and when the coffee had been served and the waiter gone, she said, ‘Could you suggest, Mr. Patterson, how I’m to make myself less attractive as you call it?’
He studied her.
‘Alter your hair style. Make it more severe. No make-up. Wear something dark. Lower your hem line and wear flat-heel shoes.’
1972 - Just a Matter of Time Page 2