The cop leaned into the car and stared at Bromhead.
‘You Jack Bromhead?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Got a message for you. You’re to call Mr. Solly Marks. It’s urgent. There’s a callbox about a mile head.’
Bromhead felt the muscles in his face turn stiff. A sudden cold, empty feeling developed in the pit of his stomach.
‘Right . . . thanks,’ he said and engaged gear.
The cop went ahead, riding at sixty miles an hour and Bromhead kept up with him. The cop waited long enough to see Bromhead make his connection, then with a wave of his hand, he rode off.
‘Solly? What’s up?’ Bromhead asked.
‘There’s been a fire. Your problem went up in the flames,’ Marks said. ‘He’s deader than an amputated leg.’
Bromhead absorbed the shock. He knew Marks by now. If Marks said Gerald was dead . . . he was dead.
‘Okay, Solly,’ he said and hung up.
In an emergency, Bromhead was always able to think swiftly and act promptly. With Gerald dead, his plan was in pieces. There would be no one million five hundred thousand dollars to be divided. The time was 09.58. In two minutes time Harry would be arriving at the hotel. In ten minutes time, probably less, the old lady would be dead. He must alert Sheila. Dropping a coin in the box, he dialled the number of the Plaza Beach Hotel. As he listened to the ringing tone, he glanced at his watch. It was now 10.00 The hotel operator said: ‘The Plaza
Beach Hotel. Good morning. Can I help you?’
‘Connect me with Mrs. Morely-Johnson,’ Bromhead said.
‘Yes, sir. Hold a moment.’
There was a long pause. Bromhead watched the cars as they roared along the highway and he was aware of a trickle of sweat running down his face.
‘The line is busy, sir,’ the operator told him. ‘Will you hold on?’
Harry!
‘I’ll hold on,’ Bromhead said.
He stood tense. Harry had arrived! The hall porter would check with Sheila. She would say it was okay for Harry to come up. It took less than a minute for Harry to get up to the penthouse by the express elevator. He would ring the bell and Sheila would let him in.
Then Bromhead heard the dialling tone and realized that he had been cut off. The bitch of a girl had pulled the plug on him! He found another coin, dropped it into the box and with a shaking finger, dialled again.
‘The Plaza Beach Hotel. Good morning. Can I help you?’
Bromhead longed to get his fingers around this stupid bitch’s throat and strangle her.
‘You cut me off. I want Mrs. Morely-Johnson,’ he said, his voice a croak.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I’m putting you through now. Mrs. Morely-Johnson?’
‘Yes!’
‘Hold a moment, please.’
Eight
Joe Handley had enjoyed his swim and sunbathe. Now he walked up the steps to the hotel to pick up a copy of the Pacific Herald to catch up with the day’s news.
As he entered the lobby, he saw an undersized man wearing a shabby suit and carrying a small black bag leaving the hall porter’s desk. Two things immediately struck Handley’s police trained mind. One was the black, heavily dyed hair and the other was that although this man had a fat face, as he walked across the lobby to the elevator, turning his back on Handley, he revealed a thin, stringy neck. Also, Handley’s built-in cop instinct told him this was a man he didn’t like.
As the elevator door swished to, cutting the man from Handley’s sight, he walked over to George’s desk.
‘Who was that?’ he asked.
‘Some guy from Scholfield & Matthews to repair Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s piano,’ George told him.
‘Where’s Lawson?’
‘Where do you expect?’ George had a low opinion of Fred Lawson. ‘Taking a nap or stuffing his gut again.’
‘I didn’t like the look of that guy . . . did you?’
George scratched his jaw.
‘He can’t help his looks, can he? I checked with Miss Oldhill. She said it was okay for him to go up.’ George hesitated, then went on. ‘But you’re right, Joe . . . there was something about him.’
The two men looked at each other. Handley hesitated. This wasn’t his business. Lawson was in charge now.
‘Miss Oldhill said it was okay?’
‘That’s right . . . sounds as if she had a cold . . . very husky.’
Again, Handley hesitated, then shrugging, he wandered over to the newspaper kiosk and bought the Pacific Herald. While he glanced at the headlines, he thought of the man who had just gone up to the penthouse. Why was it his instinct told him this man should be investigated? Something in the walk? The slightly hunched shoulders as if he expected someone to call after him?
It might be an idea to go up and check. The old lady was their most valued client. Lawson would blow a fuse, of course, if he found out. Check? How could he check? Carrying the newspaper, Handley went over to a chair and sat down. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the lobby and go to his room. An instinctive alarm bell was ringing at the back of his mind.
It took him four minutes of hard thinking to solve the problem of his alarm. This man not only had a fat face and a thin neck, not only heavily dyed hair, but he was also wearing built-up shoes! Handley dropped the newspaper and got to his feet. He was going to check and to hell with Lawson!
* * *
Sheila listened to George’s fruity baritone voice. She was shaking and could scarcely hold the telephone receiver.
‘I understand, Miss Oldhill, that Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s piano needs repairing. Scholfield & Matthews have sent a man. Should I tell him to come up?’
This is it! she thought. Even at this moment, she couldn’t make up her mind what to do. She stood silent, hesitating. She had to think of Gerald! I have to do it! she told herself. I have to! The jewels were insured, but at the back of her mind, she had a feeling that there was more to this than taking the old lady’s jewel box. No one lives forever, Bromhead had said and she remembered the bleak coldness in his eyes.
‘Miss Oldhill?’ There was a note of impatience in George’s voice.
She had to do it!
She forced herself to say, ‘Yes . . . it’s all right . . . let him come up,’ and with a shaking hand, she replaced the receiver.
She closed her eyes.
He will gag and bind you. She would have to face a police investigation. This was madness. She couldn’t go through with it! Then again her mind switched to Gerald; held prisoner with his life threatened!
Then two things happened simultaneously. The front doorbell rang and the telephone bell rang.
She started violently. She looked wildly to the front door, then down at the telephone. Because the telephone was by her hand and because she knew there was a thief at the front door, she lifted the telephone receiver.
‘Yes?’
‘This is Jack.’
Strength went out of her legs and she had to sit down.
‘Sheila?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s off! I’ll explain when I get back. Tell Harry it’s off. We don’t go ahead . . . do you understand? Harry should be with you any second now . . . tell him to go away. Now listen, Sheila . . .’
Then the operator on the hotel switchboard repeated her mistake.
She pulled out the wrong plug and cut them off.
Standing before the front door of the penthouse, Harry had rung the bell. He waited. He heard no sound. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the elevator descend.
Ring once, Bromhead had said. Don’t keep ringing as it will alert the old lady. If she doesn’t answer, she’s lost her nerve. Walk down to the next floor. There’s a fire escape staircase . . . Harry waited another minute. Still the front door didn’t open. So the stupid bitch had. lost her nerve! He would make her sorry! A red cloud of viciousness filled his mind. Moving silently, he ran down the stairs to the 19th floor. As he disappeared around the bend in the staircase, Sheil
a replaced the telephone receiver and went to the front door.
She paused with her hand on the door handle. Suppose this man wouldn’t believe Bromhead’s message? Suppose he forced his way in? She slid the safety chain on the door into place, then she opened the door a few inches the chain would allow it to open. Her heart hammering, she looked around the door into the empty vestibule.
Was he standing against the wall . . . out of sight?
‘Is - is there anyone there?’ she asked huskily.
Only the faint hum of the ascending elevator answered her.
She drew in a long, slow breath of relief. He had waited, become uneasy and had gone, she thought. She closed the door, turned the key and took off the chain.
As she did so, Harry leaned against the steel fire door, pushed and felt it give. He slid into Sheila’s bedroom. He moved swiftly to the half-open door. He paused as he saw Sheila at the front door, her back turned to him. His thin lips came off his teeth in a snarl of viciousness. Silently he set down the little black bag.
He would teach her! He looked at her long, slim back turned to him. A quick chopping blow would stun her. Then tape across her mouth. Then his fingers would dig into her body to teach her women didn’t fool with him!
As he started towards her, Sheila turned and saw him. She saw his hands reaching for her. She saw the glitter in his little eyes. She knew something horrible was about to happen to her, yet she couldn’t scream. Her throat was paralysed. As Harry struck at her, she slid along the wall. The side of his hand scraped her face.
‘No!’ she managed to whisper. ‘You must listen!’
Harry snarled at her. He pulled himself together. His rage had upset his aim. This had never happened to him before. Always one chopping blow and he had had no further trouble.
He had acted like a fighter, goaded, who swings a wild, stupid punch. He steadied himself and started again towards her.
The front doorbell rang.
Harry froze. He looked at Sheila who was backing away from him. This was the unexpected that Bromhead had warned him about. He whirled around, caught up his black bag, slid past Sheila and into the living room.
Sheila hesitated. She was shaking. The front doorbell rang again. Somehow she got control of herself. She unlocked the front door and opened it. The sight of the big, powerfully built man in a lightweight grey suit came as a relief.
‘Miss Oldhill?’ The voice had a snap in it.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Handley, hotel detective,’ the man told her. ‘I’m just checking. Sorry to bother you. Is everything okay?’
She hesitated, then said, ‘Yes.’
Handley was staring at her.
Well, for God’s sake, he was thinking: the woman with the blonde wig! What the hell was going on up here? He was sure. Blonde wig or no blonde wig this was the woman who had disappeared on floor 19.
He moved forward and Sheila gave ground.
‘I understand, Miss Oldhill, you have a man here to repair the piano?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is he?’
Listening to all this, Harry realized this was now a question of bluff. He appeared in the living room doorway. Ignoring Handley, he approached Sheila.
‘I don’t understand it, miss,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the piano . . . all the wires are fine. Do you think madam made a mistake?’
‘I suppose she could have,’ Sheila said huskily.
Harry shook his head.
‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with it.’ He moved around Handley who was watching him to the front door. ‘Mr. Chapman will be along next month to tune it,’ and he was out into the vestibule.
Handley went after him.
‘Just a moment.’
Harry turned and stared inquiringly at the detective.
‘What is it?’
‘Let me look in that bag.’
‘And who are you?’ Harry asked mildly.
‘House detective,’ Handley said, aware that Sheila had shut the front door. He heard the key turn.
Harry opened the bag to reveal the tuning forks, the piano tuning keys and the piano wires.
Handley was suddenly unsure of himself. He realized he could be putting himself out on a limb.
‘Anything else, mister?’ Harry asked and thumbed the elevator call button.
‘What’s your name?’
Harry’s face hardened.
‘Okay, brother,’ he said. ‘If you want to play it rough, play it rough. Let’s you and me go talk to Mr. Lacey, your boss. Hotel dicks come a dime a dozen with me. So let’s you and me go talk to Mr. Lacey and I’ll put in a complaint to my people. How’s about that?’
The piano tuning equipment had thrown Handley. He knew he had no business being in the hotel at his hour. Lawson was on duty. Lacey would want to know what Lawson was doing. If this bastard got talking to Lacey, both Lawson and he could lose their jobs and he remembered this was the best job he had ever had.
The elevator arrived and the doors swished open.
‘Go ahead,’ Handley said. ‘Forget it.’
Harry gave him a sneering little smile and entered the case.
The doors swished to.
Handley turned and stared at the front door of the penthouse.
The woman with the blonde hair and the dustcoat! He was sure Lawson knew this woman was Sheila Oldhill and he had been bribed to keep his mouth shut. Handley decided he had better say nothing. He had been warned. Let Lawson handle this, he thought. Why walk into trouble?
He crossed to the second elevator and pressed the call button.
* * *
Patterson returned from the Board meeting and dropped into his desk chair. The meeting had gone on longer than usual. He was aware that the other members of the Board hadn’t been impressed by his performance and he wasn’t surprised. How could anyone concentrate on bank business with this thing hanging over his head?
Vera Cross came in.
‘Chris . . . Mrs. Morely-Johnson has been on the telephone.’
Patterson stiffened. He felt himself turn hot, then cold.
‘What did she want?’ (As if he didn’t know!) ‘She sounded very cross. She said she was waiting for her will and you promised to bring it to her this morning.’
Patterson’s heart beat so violently it was a long moment before he said, ‘What did you say?’
‘You were tied up with the Board meeting.’
‘How did she take that?’
‘She said she wanted to speak to Mr. Fellows.’
Patterson flinched.
‘Well . . . go on!’
‘I explained that Mr. Fellows was also at the Board meeting. She said as soon as you were through to call her.’
Patterson eased his collar.
‘Okay, Vera . . . leave it for the moment. I have something to do.’
Vera looked at him, puzzled. She had never seen him look so pale or so worried.
‘Is there something wrong, Chris? Anything I can do?’
Patterson wanted to yell at her to go to hell, but somehow he controlled himself.
‘No . . . nothing’s wrong.’ Even to him, his voice sounded strangled. ‘On your way, honey.’
Bromhead had said: do nothing!
When she had gone, he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.
Now he had to do something! What the hell was Bromhead playing at? Patterson moved around his desk. Why wasn’t the damned old woman dead? What was happening? What was he going to say to her? If he didn’t call her, she would call Fellows, and Fellows would personally deliver the forged will to her. Do nothing! Patterson was now in a panic. His telephone bell buzzed. He stared at the telephone for a long moment, then he crossed to his desk and lifted the receiver.
‘Mrs. Morely-Johnson,’ Vera told him. ‘Shall I put her on?’
Patterson’s mind skidded around inside his skull. Tell her I’m out? Tell her I’m ill? But he knew she would then ask for Fellows who would
rush the forged will to her. Patterson knew he had to handle this. Somehow, he had to gain time.
‘Put her on.’
He sat down.
‘Chris?’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s voice was even more raucous than usual.
‘Good morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. How are you?’
‘Never mind how I am!’ God! he thought, she’s really in a mood! ‘I’ve been waiting! You said you would bring my will this morning! It is now eleven-thirty. I will not be kept waiting!’
Dare he take a tough line? he asked himself. He could think of no alternative. He braced himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said and he put steel in his voice. ‘I understood you to say the matter really wasn’t all that urgent. I had to attend an unexpected Board meeting. It’s because of these board meetings, Mrs. Morely-Johnson, that I am able to tum over your holdings so profitably.’
How would she take that? he wondered, dabbing sweat from his forehead.
‘When I ask for something, I expect to get it.’ He was quick to note a slightly hesitant, slightly less hostile note in her voice.
‘Of course. I do my best, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.’ Patterson realized he had made an impact. ‘If you were behind my desk I think you would be a little more understanding if you will excuse me saying so. You are my most important client, but I have many other clients. Blame me if you will, but it is impossible to give you a completely exclusive service, as much as I would like to do so.’
There was a pause, then she said, her voice softer, ‘That I understand. I know I am a demanding old woman. I guess I expect too much from you, Chris. My will is really nothing to do with you. I can’t think why I’m bothering you with this. Now, Chris, you get on with your work and I’ll talk to Mr. Fellows.’
Patterson felt himself shrivel.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘It is my privilege to look after your affairs. May I come to see you at three o’clock this afternoon? I feel we should have a straight talk. It seems to me, Mrs. Morely-Johnson, that you can’t be satisfied with what I do for you. May we please discuss it?’
1972 - Just a Matter of Time Page 17