1972 - Just a Matter of Time

by James Hadley Chase

  ‘Oh, nonsense!’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s voice rose a note. ‘Mr. Fellows is always very kind to me. Put me through to him. Of course he will let you have my will!’

  Patterson shut his eyes. He knew Fellows wouldn’t hesitate to hand the will over if Mrs. Morely-Johnson asked him. Every Christmas the old lady sent his brats expensive presents and

  Fellows appreciated this.

  ‘Mr. Fellows isn’t in today,’ Patterson said, the lie bringing sweat beads to his face. ‘Is this all that urgent? You have given us the will for safe keeping . . . we do need your signature to release it, Mrs. Morely-Johnson . . . please may I ask you to understand?’

  There was a long pause, then she said, sounding disgruntled, ‘Oh, very well. I don’t want to upset your silly bank . . . then I must wait.’

  Patterson took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

  ‘That’s very understanding of you. I will bring the authorization at five. You will have the will tomorrow morning.’

  ‘How tiresome!’ She made no attempt to conceal her annoyance. ‘I wanted to read it this evening.’

  ‘You will have it without fail tomorrow morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.’

  ‘Oh, very well,’ and she hung up.

  Patterson grimaced and leaned back in his chair. The thought of a shrimp cocktail with a touch of curry mayonnaise, followed by rognons flambés now made him feel sick.

  * * *

  At 17.00, Patterson rang the bell of the penthouse. He had come armed with a plastic box containing four rare orchids. He knew from the tone of the old lady’s voice that she would need softening.

  Sheila opened the door and stood aside to let him in.

  ‘I must talk to Bromhead,’ Patterson, said, his voice low. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  He saw her flinch.

  ‘He will be here when you leave.’

  Patterson moved past her and out on to the terrace.

  Sheila heard Mrs. Morley-Johnson say, ‘I’m annoyed with you, dear Chris. Come here and be scolded.’

  She went into her office and called Bromhead. ‘Come to my room right away,’ she said and hung up.

  Patterson had guessed right. The orchids worked like a charm. Mrs. Morely-Johnson was so pleased she forgot to remain cross. After some chitchat that Patterson had to endure, she said, ‘Chris, dear . . . I’ve been thinking about Sheila. She is such a kind person, so considerate . . . you can’t imagine. I want to reward her . . . that’s why I want my will. I’m going to leave her a little money.’

  Patterson’s mind worked swiftly. The danger here was very real.

  ‘That’s no problem,’ he said. ‘A simple codicil will take care of that. I can arrange it for you. You don’t have to bother Mr. Weidman with this. I can add the codicil and have your signature witnessed. Absolutely no problem.’

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson put on her thick-lensed glasses and peered at him.

  ‘I think Mr. Weidman must do it, Chris. He always looks after my legal work.’

  Patterson shifted in his chair.

  ‘That’s as you wish, of course, but Mr. Weidman will charge a fee. I can arrange this for you at no expense.’ It was a last, desperate throw.

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson considered this. Had she been a greedy woman this would have been a telling point, but she wasn’t.

  Patterson, his heart hammering, felt a chill run through him.

  She shook her head.

  ‘That’s very considerate of you, Chris, but I don’t want to upset Mr. Weidman. I must consult him. Do you think fifteen thousand dollars would be the right amount to leave Sheila?’

  ‘That would be very generous,’ Patterson said in a low, strangled voice.

  ‘Good! Then give me this silly paper and I will sign it and I will call Mr. Weidman right away . . . then it will all be in order.’

  Patterson was desperate now. He must talk to Bromhead . . . he must gain time. As Mrs. Morely-Johnson scrawled her signature on the paper he gave her, he said, ‘Didn’t you know? Mr.

  Weidman left for New York this morning. I ran into him as he was leaving. He won’t be back until Monday.’

  Mrs. Morely-Johnson threw up her beautiful, old hands.

  ‘You see? Nothing is ever easy. Well, then I must wait, but bring me my will tomorrow, Chris, please.’ She beamed at him. ‘After all, as you said, it really isn’t urgent. It’s not as if I’m going to die tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Patterson said huskily.

  ‘Would you like a drink? I think a little champagne would be nice. I’ll call Sheila.’

  Patterson couldn’t stand any more of this. He got to his feet.

  ‘Please excuse me. This is my busy period. I really must run along.’

  He kissed her old hand, listened to her thanks for the orchids again, then left her. As he walked into the living room, she turned on her tape recorder and sat back to listen to herself playing a Beethoven sonata.

  Sheila was waiting in the vestibule. She motioned Patterson to her bedroom. He went into the room and found Bromhead sitting in one of the lounging chairs.

  Sheila remained in the vestibule where she could watch Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

  Patterson closed the door.

  ‘She’s asking for her will,’ he said, trying to control the panic in his voice. ‘My legal department could become suspicious. To ask for the will twice in three weeks . . . it doesn’t make sense. The man in charge could telephone her.’

  Bromhead nodded. His calm expression did something to damp down Patterson’s panic.

  ‘Why is she asking for the will?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s leaving Sheila fifteen thousand. She insists Weidman handles it. I tried to talk her out of it, but she insists.’

  Bromhead absorbed this, then again he nodded.

  His calmness began to exasperate Patterson.

  ‘She was about to call Weidman, but I stalled her. I told her Weidman had gone to New York until Monday.’

  ‘Has he?’ Bromhead asked.

  Patterson shook his head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s dangerous.’

  Patterson slammed his fist into the palm of his hand.

  ‘What the hell else could I say?’ His voice shot up. ‘I had to stop her calling him until I had talked to you.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bromhead thought for a moment. Tomorrow was the twenty-first. He saw now he had timed the operation to the split second. ‘Don’t do anything . . . just wait.’

  ‘Don’t do anything?’ Patterson stared incredulously at Bromhead. ‘What are you saying? I’ve got to do something!’

  Bromhead waved his hand, signalling Patterson to keep his voice down.

  ‘You are going to inherit one hundred thousand dollars a year for life,’ he said quietly. ‘That is all you have to think about. Don’t do anything.’

  ‘But she wants her will by tomorrow morning!’

  ‘Do nothing. She won’t need it.’

  Patterson stared into the ice grey eyes and he felt a chill run through him.

  ‘She’ll expect it . . . She . . .’ Then he stopped.

  Bromhead got to his feet.

  ‘If you want your inheritance, Mr. Patterson, you won’t ask questions, but you will do what I suggest . . . nothing.’ He moved to the door, paused and stared at Patterson, ‘But, of course, if you don’t want one hundred thousand dollars a year for life then you will give the old lady the forged will, let her call Mr. Weidman and explain what has happened. In my turn, I will give her the tape. This is something you must decide for yourself.’

  Patterson felt the blood drain out of his face. He had a sudden presentiment that something was going to happen and this something was something he didn’t want to know about.

  ‘All right,’ he said, his voice unsteady, ‘if you really mean I’m to do nothing, then I’ll do nothing. But when she calls me, what am I to say?’

  ‘What makes you think she will call you?’ Bromhead asked, turned and left
the room.

  Patterson, cold and frightened, realized he was now involved in something far worse than forgery, but the fingers of gold beckoned to him: one hundred thousand dollars a year for life!

  He had to think of himself. He had to rely on Bromhead. He was in too deep a trap not to have to rely on Bromhead. He went into the vestibule and opened the front door. He saw Sheila on the terrace arranging the orchids in a vase. He crossed to the elevator and pressed the down button.

  As he descended in the elevator, his mind was in a whirl. In a situation like this you can’t just do nothing, he told himself and yet Bromhead had told him to do exactly that. Tomorrow morning, if he didn’t do something, he knew Mrs. Morely-Johnson would be telephoning asking him why he hadn’t come.

  If you want to keep your inheritance, Mr. Patterson . . . do nothing.

  Since he had read Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will he had thought about nothing else during his leisure moments than how he would use this massive inheritance. He would of course resign from the bank. He would scrap all his clothes and buy himself a complete new wardrobe. He would book a passage on the Queen Elizabeth for Europe. First, he would savour London. He would play around there, staying at the Dorchester Hotel, then he would move on to Paris, staying at the Plaza Athene. He was sure he wouldn’t be lonely: with his looks and his money he would only have to lift an eyebrow and girls would materialize. Then two weeks at the Eden in Rome. By then he would have had enough of the city lights. He would head for Capri and relax in the sun. He would stay there during the season. Patterson loved the sun and from what he had heard, the Italian girls really know how to give out. From then on there would be time to make further plans, but this was the master plan to be put into operation immediately the inheritance was his.

  But as the elevator took him to the ground floor, he was sick with anxiety. Do nothing? It seemed to him that his dreams and plans were falling to bitter pieces. He thought of Bromhead.

  The man seemed so confident. Do nothing? Do nothing? The elevator doors swished silently open and he walked into the lobby.

  ‘Hi, Chris!’

  He came to an abrupt standstill, his heart skipping a beat. Advancing towards him, his fat face beaming was the last man he wanted to see: Abe Weidman. Somehow, he forced a smile, thrusting out his hand. As Weidman pumped it, he managed to say, ‘This is a surprise, Abe. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just thought I’d drop by and see the old lady . . . she likes attention.’ Weidman winked. ‘I wanted to take another look at those Picassos. Have you been to see her?’

  ‘Yes.’ For a long moment Patterson’s mind refused to work. It bounced around inside his skull like a terrified mouse getting away from a cat. Then he got himself under control. ‘Take my

  advice, Abe and skip it. She’s in one of her bad moods.’

  Weidman’s eyebrows shot up.

  ‘What’s biting her?’

  ‘God knows . . . I don’t have to tell you . . . every so often she gets like this. Old age, I guess.’ He caught hold of Weidman’s arm. ‘Come and have a drink with me.’

  Weidman hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Sure . . . if she’s like that.’ He allowed himself to be steered towards the bar. As they were walking together across the lush carpet, Bromhead came out of the elevator. He saw them go into the bar and his eyes narrowed. This was getting dangerous. He turned and reentered the elevator back to the penthouse.

  As the elevator took him upwards, he told himself that he must now make arrangements for an unbreakable alibi. He found Mrs. Morely-Johnson settling herself before the piano. She was taking off her beautiful rings, making a little pile of them on the side of the Steinway. She looked up as Bromhead approached.

  ‘Excuse me, madam.’

  She peered at him.

  ‘Is that you, Bromhead?’

  ‘Yes, madam.’

  She completed piling her rings and then struck C sharp. She smiled. Yes, she told herself, her touch remained constant. She struck E flat.

  ‘What is it, Bromhead?’

  ‘The Rolls needs servicing, madam. If you are agreeable, I would like to take it to Los Angeles early tomorrow morning. I will have it back by five o’clock.’

  ‘Los Angeles? Isn’t that a long way to go?’

  ‘It’s the only garage I trust,’ Bromhead said. ‘A Rolls is a very special car, madam.’

  ‘And you will be away all day? I can’t remember . . . have I any appointments, Bromhead?’

  ‘I asked Miss Oldhill . . . there are no appointments.’

  She played a quick scale.

  ‘Very well. Be sure you give yourself a good lunch, Bromhead.’

  ‘Yes . . . thank you, madam.’

  Bromhead regarded her as she began to play. Although he had no ear for music, instinct told him he was listening to a performer of great talent. He looked long and closely, because he liked the old lady and at this moment he sincerely wished she hadn’t so much money for he knew he was looking at her for the last time . . . this saddened him.

  Seven

  At one time, Joey Spick was considered the most efficient of Solly Marks’s debt collectors. He was a bulky man with tremendous shoulders and short, thick legs. He looked as amiable as an enraged orangutan. But now, through a misjudgment of human nature, he had become what Marks called ‘deadwood.’

  He had been demoted to odd-job man with a social status no higher than the man with the dustpan and brush who runs behind circus horses ready to take care of trouble.

  At one time Joey could terrorize any debtor. He had a neat trick which really scared the crap out of people behind in their payments. He would stand before them making a growling noise, then expand his muscles and the seams of his jacket would split. He kept a scared little tailor busy sewing the seams together again after he had given his demonstration. It was a terrifying performance and more often than not it produced immediate payment. If, however, the debtor just didn’t have the money, then Joey would produce his length of piping.

  Some five months ago, Joey had what seemed an easy assignment. He was told to collect two thousand dollars from a Chinese cook who was late in his payments. Joey was only cautious when he had to talk to men larger than himself, which was seldom, and this Chinese cook was old, brittle and apparently harmless. Joey looked forward to parting what was left of the old man’s hair with his stick of lead.

  He arrived at the restaurant, made his request while he lovingly fingered his cosh. The Chinaman bowed and said the money was ready and Joey felt frustrated. He followed the old man into the kitchen. Joey was pretty dull-witted. The saucepan on the stove half-full of boiling cooking fat meant nothing to him. The old man waved to the table where an envelope was lying. As Joey, off his guard, picked up the envelope, he received the hot fat in his unattractive face.

  It took Joey some eight weeks in hospital to recover from this assault and by that time the Chinese cook had vanished into the blue, leaving Solly Marks minus two thousand dollars and minus his most reliable collector. It became obvious when Joey came out of hospital he wasn’t going to be the same man as when he went in. Not only was he disfigured - that in itself wouldn’t have been a bad thing because he now looked even more terrifying with white scars running down his puffy red face where the fat had caught him - but he had lost his morale.

  Although Marks started him off again as a debt collector, Marks quickly realized that Joey had lost his bite. Joey was now always looking for another saucepan of hot fat and he ran at any sign of opposition. Regretfully, Marks took him off debt collecting and made him an odd-job man and a man who merely did odd jobs for Marks was very poorly paid.

  Marks believed in economizing when he could. He now had another I.O.U. for ten thousand dollars from Bromhead and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t give Joey the chore of acting as second guard. He would only have to pay Joey forty bucks a week and the rest of the money would be profit and if there was anything Solly liked it was quick, large profits.

  S
o Joey got the job of looking after Gerald during the night while Hank looked after him during the day. This was a chore that Joey found boring and hateful. For one thing he liked sitting in his favourite bar during the evening, tossing back cheap whisky; then he liked to go to bed: he was a great man for sleeping. To sit on an upright chair all the goddamn night outside Gerald’s door was the worst job Marks had so far given him.

  For the past twenty-nine days, Gerald had been held prisoner in what is called a walk-up, cold-water apartment. It was on the top floor of one of Marks’s tenement buildings, strictly reserved for poor Blacks. The apartment consisted of a reasonably large room with a beat-up bed, a beat-up armchair, a table, an upright chair and a rented TV set. Off this room was a kitchen no bigger than a closet equipped with a greasy electric grill and a dirty, cracked sink. On the other side of the room was a shower and an ancient toilet: the flush worked from time to time, but not often: the shower dribbled cold water. There was a threadbare carpet on the floor of the main room which produced puffs of dust When walked on. The only window was boarded up by two bits of wood that allowed the minimum of hot summer air to infiltrate. The room was always unbearably hot and the noise coming from the other apartments practically drowned the sound of the television set even with the sound right up.

  Gerald was used to living rough, but not this rough. Had he been better housed, provided with a girl, he might have been prepared to accept his kidnapping, but because Marks was too mean and wished to make a profit and had imprisoned him in this stinking slum, Gerald, his suppressed rage vicious, was determined to break out.

  His first attempt had nearly succeeded, but he had been too confident. While Hank had been dozing in a room along the corridor, Gerald had managed to get the lock off the door with a knife he had found in the kitchen. Hank had checked the room twenty minutes later, found Gerald gone, raced down the stairs, got into his car and had had headed fast for the bus station. That had been Gerald’s mistake. Thinking about it later, he realized the bus station would be the first place Hank would come looking for him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.