Just a Matter of Time

One

Patterson looked up from a list of stock quotations lying on his desk as Bailey came in.

“What is it now, Joe?” he asked impatiently. “Not another one?”

“That’s it, Mr. Patterson... another one.” Bailey’s fat face lit up with a leering grin and he closed a heavy eyelid. “You won’t want to miss this one, Mr. Patterson,” and pursing his thick lips, he released a soft whistle.

Patterson leaned back in his padded leather chair. He was a tall, athletically built man in his early thirties and very aware of his good looks. His numerous girlfriends had told him that he reminded them of David Niven, the movie star when Niven had been young, and Patterson was inclined to agree, but he had resisted the urge to grow a pencil lined moustache now that the modern trend was all hair.

“What’s the wink for, Joe?” he demanded, his voice hostile.

“Wink, sir? No wink... I’ve got something in my eye.” Bailey stiffened at the snap in Patterson’s voice, remembering that although Patterson was all charm when dealing with the bank’s clients, he could be a sonofabitch with the staff. “Miss Sheila Oldhill waiting, sir.”

Patterson hesitated. He had promised Bernie Cohen an early analysis of his portfolio with suggestions for growth, but Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s need for a companion-help took precedence. After all, he thought, there were dozens of Bernie Cohens, but only one Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

“I’ll see her,” he said, pushing aside the papers littering his desk. As Bailey made for the door, Patterson went on, “And get that thing out of your eye. It could create a wrong impression.”

Bastard! Bailey thought as he said, “Yes, sir.”

Patterson pulled a file towards him, opened it and studied his scribbled notes. He had interviewed five elderly women this morning. Four of them had been unsatisfactory, but the fifth, Mrs. Madge Fleming, seemed acceptable. Aged fifty-three, she was a stout, cheerful, quietly spoken woman who was willing to please. She had impeccable references and had been for some fifteen years a companion-help to a wealthy widow who had recently died and now she was looking for another such appointment. Patterson, utterly bored with this chore, had almost decided to engage her, subject, of course to Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s approval, but he felt that he had to give Mrs. Morely-Johnson a second choice and he had told Mrs. Fleming to stand by in readiness for an interview.

He became aware that a woman had come into his office and he looked up, his head a little on one side, his left eyebrow raised, his right forefinger pressing on the dimple in his chin. He had cultivated this pose before his bathroom mirror and he now felt it gave him the confident, nonchalant air of an up-and-coming bank executive.

As Bailey closed the door behind her, the woman moved further into the room and Patterson, regarding her, felt a tingle creep up his spine. He got to his feet, immediately understanding Bailey’s leer and wink.

“Miss Oldhill?” He waved to a chair. “Please sit down.”

He watched her move to the chair and settle herself. Her movements were unhurried, graceful and calm. She was tall: her shoulders square and her raven black hair glossy. She was not what he would call pretty nor beautiful, but there was a compelling handsomeness in the Grecian nose, the big, smoky blue eyes and the large, firm mouth. But all this wasn’t what sent a hot wave of blood through him. This woman exuded a magnetic sensuality that was like a hundred watt lamp flimsily concealed by a Cashmere shawl. He could see this as Bailey had seen it, and yet by her calmness and by the way she was looking directly at him without any sign of self-consciousness he couldn’t be sure if she was aware of it or not: this intrigued him.

Looking at her as he sat down, he thought she was thirty or possibly thirty-two years of age. He looked swiftly at her clothes: inexpensive, in fashion and neat: the skirt an inch above the knee. He couldn’t see her legs from where he was sitting but he felt instinctively they would be exciting and good-looking.

He abruptly realized his examination was causing an awkward pause and he jerked his mind back to business.

“You have come in answer to our advertisement?” he asked, picking up his gold pencil, an expensive Christmas gift from Mrs. Morely-Johnson, and pulling a scratch pad towards him.

“Yes.”

By leaning forward slightly, he could see her knees were pressed together and her hands rested on a black leather handbag. He became aware of her hands. The long tapering fingers and the narrow back of her hands were, to him, sensual. The thought of those hands moving over his body made him shift in his chair.

“You couldn’t have read it very carefully,” he said and smiled. He was pleased with his smile, knowing his teeth were excellent and his smile radiated warmth. “We are advertising for an elderly woman, Miss Oldhill... you can scarcely call yourself that.”

She regarded him steadily, her chin up, her smoky blue eyes remote.

“I wouldn’t have thought, these days, being elderly is a qualification for any job,” she said quietly. “But if you really are looking for an elderly woman then I won’t take up any more of your time.”

They looked at each other and he noted she made no move to get up. He was thinking: She’s sensational! What a lay she would be! He looked down at his scratch pad suddenly uneasy that she might read from the expression in his eyes what was going through his mind.

“You could be right,” he said and began to dig holes in his blotter with the point of his pencil. “This is rather out of my field.” Feeling now in control himself, he looked up and smiled. “My client is used to an elderly companion. The woman she has had for the past ten years has died rather suddenly and my client is in urgent need of a replacement.” He paused, glancing at the still figure, then went on, “I don’t know how she would react to someone as young as you.”

Sheila Oldhill remained still, her eyes looking directly into his and he looked away. As she said nothing, he went on, “But it might be an idea. She might be glad to have someone around as young as you... it might be an idea.”

Again the polite silence: again the steady look.

Seeing he was spoiling the appearance of his blotter, he laid down his pencil.

“You’ve read the advertisement,” he said, leaning back and forcing himself to relax. “We want a capable woman to act as companion-help for one of our clients. You might think it odd for a bank to handle such a... a chore, shall I say? But this particular client is important and I do all kinds of chores for her.”

Sheila nodded. Still no body movement, still the faint, quizzing expression in the smoky blue eyes.

“What makes you think you would be suitable for such a job?” he asked, determined to make her talk.

“If you will explain what the duties would be, I would be able to give you an intelligent answer,” she said.

There was even a sensual caress in her voice, he thought, as he again picked up his pencil to dig holes in the blotter.

“My client is seventy-eight years old and proud of it,” he said. “She is very wealthy and lives in a penthouse suite at the best hotel here. She has a cataract on both eyes and is half blind. She has a horror of operations and refuses to have her eyes fixed. She needs a sympathetic type of woman to live with her to take care of her daily needs such as answering letters, reading the newspapers to her, helping her dress, going to the shops with her... that sort of thing. She is easy to live with, kind, considerate and in no way tiresome. The hotel staff look after the penthouse. She has a chauffeur. Apart from being half blind, she is in no way helpless.”

“Then I think I can be of use,” Sheila said without hesitation. “I am a trained nurse. I was at the Pendick Foundation Hospital, New York, for four years. Previously, I was nurse-secretary to Dr. Gordon Fosdick, a leading surgeon in Washington. I do fast shorthand and typing. I drive a car. I speak good French and I am musical.”

Patterson made notes.

“This sounds fine,” he said. “Not that Mrs. Morely-Johnson needs nursing, but one never knows at her age.” He leaned back in his chair and regarded her. “But surely, Miss Oldhill, if you are a trained nurse with these extra qualifications, you could get something more interesting than being a companion to an old lady?”

She stared down at her handbag for a brief moment, then looked at him.

“I suppose I could, but I am very tired. The last four years have been hard. I like this city. Perhaps you don’t realize how strenuous hospital life can be, Mr. Patterson.” So she had got his name, Patterson thought and was flattered. “If I could find something less strenuous, it would be helpful. You see I used to play the violin. I have a muscle condition in my bowing arm. I’ve been told that it will come right, providing I don’t do strenuous work, then I can begin playing again.”

Patterson lifted his left eyebrow.

“You are a violinist?”

“I was. I just wasn’t good enough to become a professional so I took up nursing, but the violin is my first love. My father was first violinist with the New York Philharmonic. Music runs in my family.”

Patterson drew in a long, slow breath.

“Being a musician is a better qualification than being a trained nurse, Miss Oldhill. Before she married, Mrs. Morely-Johnson was Alice Lesson, the concert pianist. You have probably heard of her?”

Sheila Oldhill nodded.

“Of course. She was as good as Myra Hess. She once played with my father.”

“Quite a coincidence. You understand as she is half blind she plays the piano a lot. It’s her way of passing the time. She might welcome you as a fellow musician.” He regarded her calm face. “You say she played with your father?”

“It was twenty-five years ago. She played the Beethoven Emperor. It was my first concert, and the first time I had seen my father on a concert platform.”

“What was your father’s name?”

“Henry Oldhill.”

“Is he alive? Mrs. Morely-Johnson is certain to ask.”

“He died three years ago.”

“Have you been here long, Miss Oldhill?”

“I arrived two days ago. I was on my way to Los Angeles, but I liked this city and decided to stop off for a few days. I am staying at the Franklin Hotel and saw your advertisement. I wondered...” She paused.

Patterson knew the Franklin Hotel. It was sedate and reasonably cheap: not the kind of place he would have liked to stay in, but then he had high standards.

“This is very interesting,” he said. “I would like to take up your references. You understand, of course, I have the responsibility of finding someone suitable for Mrs. Morely-Johnson. I don’t know you... as you don’t know me.” He gave her his warm smile. “Have you a reference...” he paused to look at his notes “...from Dr. Fosdick?”

She looked directly at him. Her smoky blue eyes opened a little and he found her even more exciting.

“No, but I have a reference from the Pendick Foundation Hospital.” She opened her handbag and took from it an envelope which she put on the desk.

He read the reference. It was impersonal and signed by one of the Hospital Governors. It said that Sheila Oldhill, a qualified nurse, had been with them for four years and had always been a hard worker, honest, trustworthy and good with patients. It wasn’t a rave reference, but it was adequate.

“Could I call Dr. Fosdick if you haven’t a reference from him?” Patterson asked.

“Dr. Fosdick wouldn’t give me a reference,” she said as she looked directly at him.

Patterson lifted his left eyebrow.

“He wouldn’t? Why not?”

“He would be prejudiced.” She hesitated, then went on, “He tried to become familiar with me. There was an unpleasant scene and I had to leave.”

Patterson picked up his pencil and began to dig more holes in his blotter. He could imagine the situation: a doctor working under pressure, closeted all day with this sexy woman. He, himself, would have tried a pass if he had been in the same position. He couldn’t imagine any normal man not doing so. But she had walked out and that told him she was no pushover, but then he hadn’t seen Fosdick. He could be old, fat and ugly.

“I understand.” He was now a little dubious. This was his responsibility. He mustn’t make a mistake. Yet he wanted this woman to get the job. He wanted to see her again. At least three times a week, he had to visit Mrs. Morely-Johnson and that would mean he would be able to see Sheila Oldhill at least three times a week, and this, he realized, was what he wanted. There was this sensual thing in this woman who was sitting so quietly that set him on fire. Compared to the other women he had known, loved and forgotten, she was like a 1929 Claret compared to a Coke.

Women played an important role in Patterson’s life. Being assistant manager of the bank and living in this small, gossip ridden city, he was always careful and selective. Most of the women he went with lived in the adjacent town, some fifteen miles from his hometown and all of them were married. They had to be as careful as he. His thoughts were so far away that for a moment he had forgotten her when he was aware she had said something. He looked up.

“Sorry... I was thinking... what did you say?”

“Perhaps you don’t think I am suitable?” she repeated.

They looked at each other.

“I think you are, but I just don’t know how Mrs. Morely-Johnson will react when I tell her you are so young. How old are you, if I may ask?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Would you mind if I told her you are thirty-eight?” He smiled. “It could make a difference and you see... she doesn’t see very well.”

“I don’t mind.”

He wished she would smile. She was so serious, quiet and calm.

“I tell you what I will do. I have to see her this afternoon. I’ll explain who you are and so on. If she’s interested, I’ll arrange for you to see her some time tomorrow. How’s that?”

A faint sparkle came into the smoky blue eyes and the firm lips curved into something Patterson thought was a smile: whatever it was he liked it.

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson,” she said and got to her feet.

He looked at the tall, firmly built body and again he felt the surge of blood run through him.

“I hope I can fix it. I think I can.” He got to his feet. “You haven’t asked what the pay would be.”

She began to move slowly to the door.

“I am sure it will be adequate. I’d rather not be told until I know the job is mine.” She reached the door and put her hand on the doorknob. “That way I won’t be disappointed.”

He came around the desk and approached her.

“As soon as I know I’ll tell you,” he said. “Will you be at your hotel say around seven o’clock?”

“I could be.”

“I pass your hotel on my way home... suppose I look in?”

“If you haven’t any good news for me then I won’t expect you.”

“I’ll drop by... good or bad news. I think it will be good.”

She studied him in her calm remote way, nodded, turned, opened the door and walked out into the busy stream of people passing up and down the broad aisle of the bank.

Patterson closed the door. He stood for a long moment staring down at the thick green pile of the carpet, pressing his forefinger against his dimple, then he walked back to his desk, sat down and drew Bernie Cohen’s portfolio towards him.

The long list of securities and bonds meant nothing to him. He could only see the smoky blue eyes and that firm mouth floating on the page. He sat there for half an hour doing nothing but thinking of her, then seeing the time, he shoved the portfolio into a drawer in his desk, got to his feet and left the bank.

He drove fast towards the Plaza Beach Hotel.

Seaview Boulevard began in luxury and slowly deteriorated as it wound its way along the coast to mediocrity and then finally to slum conditions. The boulevard was two miles long. It began with the Plaza Beach Hotel with its own private beach, gay sun umbrellas, a thatched roof bar and restaurant, its boutiques and a jeweller’s shop whose windows blazed with diamonds. Several yards further on, past an ornamental public garden with tropical flowers and graceful palm trees was the Splendid Hotel, not quite so grand as the Plaza Beach but still expensive and with a smaller private beach. Further on still was the Ambassador Hotel which had no private beach and its frontage needed a coat of paint. Then came the tourist shops and also further deterioration. A mile from the Plaza Beach was the Franklin Hotel, strictly a family hotel, inexpensive, shabby but comfortable. Beyond the Franklin was the harbour and the fishermen’s huts, bars, cheap sea-food restaurants, and still further on were the tenement blocks housing those who scratched up some kind of living along the waterfront.

Gerald Hammett sat on the balcony that ran the length of the Franklin Hotel and watched the fishing boats and the bustle of the harbour with bored indifference. From time to time he glanced at his cheap wristwatch with an impatient frown.

Gerald Hammett was twenty-six years of age, slimly built, his blond hair resting on the collar of his red and white striped shirt, open at the neck. His carefully cultivated sideboards like right angle triangles with the peaks at his ears and the bases reaching the corners of his mouth linked up with a thick, droopy moustache, gave him a slightly sinister appearance. His eyes were small, steel grey and restless; his mouth thin, his nose short and blunt. He looked what he was: a typical product of instability, dissatisfied with his way of life, groping, not knowing what he wanted, unsure of himself but with a latent viciousness that could be sparked off should he encounter any kind of opposition or criticism.

Carrying a shabby hold-all, 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 co-operate.

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 and came down the steps as he slid out of the car, holding the off-side 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 after-shave 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 off-side 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 was 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.”

She looked startled.

“You are quite an expert. I’ll follow your suggestions.”

He took from his breast pocket a pair of spectacles, severe, oblong shaped frames and put them on the table.

“I’d like you to wear these,” he went on. “I got them after I talked to Mrs. Morely-Johnson. They’re plain glass. You won’t need to wear them all the time, of course, but just put them on when you see her. They’ll alter your appearance a lot.”

The waiter came with the coffee. When he had gone, she put the spectacles on, left her chair and looked at herself in the wall mirror. She returned to the table.

“You are quite right, Mr. Patterson... how clever of you, and thank you. You couldn’t have been more helpful.”

Patterson pressed the dimple in his chin with his forefinger.

“I just want you to get the job. Look, I’m willing to bet you will get the job so we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other in the future. Could we drop the Mr. Patterson — Miss Oldhill routine? My name’s Chris, Sheila.”

“Of course.” She suddenly smiled. It was the first real smile he had had from her and in spite of the spectacles it made her even more attractive to him.

“For God’s sake, take those glasses off... they make you look like a school marm.”

She laughed and removed the glasses.

“Better?” She pushed the sugar bowl towards him. “I don’t take it.”

“Nor do I. Well, that’s settled then. You go to the Plaza Beach Hotel at eleven tomorrow morning. Ask the reception clerk for Mrs. Morely-Johnson and tell him your name. I’ve already alerted him. There’ll be no fuss.”

“How very efficient you are, Chris.”

“You could say that.” Patterson leaned back and smiled. He looked very sure and pleased with himself. “Oh, there’s your salary. I pay it from petty cash I handle for the old lady. I pay all her bills. The last one got a hundred a week... everything found of course. You’ll live in the penthouse. Your room is nice... really luxe... TV... everything. I suggested she should pay you a hundred and forty. She agreed. Okay?”

“Thank you. It’s most generous.”

He had hoped for more than this. After all a hundred and forty with all found was damn good money, but she didn’t react. He had had quite a tussle with the old lady to get her to agree.

They finished their coffee. There was a slight pause, then Sheila turned and looked pointedly at the red plush settee. Patterson followed the direction of her eyes.

“That interest you?” he said, trying to sound casual.

“I was just thinking it was convenient.” She looked at him and her eyes were again remote. “Also the bolt on the door.”

He felt his heartbeat quicken.

“The bolt’s unnecessary.” He was aware his voice was unsteady. “After coffee is served the staff never intrude.”

She regarded him. The probing stare made him feel uncomfortable.

“You know that from experience?”

His warm smile now was a little forced.

“You could say that.”

“Chris...” She paused as she crushed out her cigarette, then she looked up and her lips moved into a half smile. “I believe in paying my debts, but not this way.”

“Way? Sheila!” He pretended to be shocked. “This means nothing... there are no strings... I wouldn’t want you...”

“Please!” She held up her hand. “I take sex seriously. I think it is the most God-given experience and that it should never be abused. Sex to me is not taking off my pants and pulling my dress up to my neck and lying on a plush settee in an expensive restaurant where waiters don’t intrude after the coffee has been served. But I always pay my debts. Could we talk about this when I have the job?”

For the first time since he could remember Patterson felt embarrassed. He also knew he was flushing and sweat beads had broken out on his forehead. He had never believed it would be an easy conquest, but this veiled promise of a future payment left him breathless.

“You don’t have to talk like that,” he said unsteadily. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea...”

She pushed back her chair.

“I will telephone you as soon as I know.”

He looked up at her as she got to her feet.

“Do you want to go?” He began to feel bewildered by the way she was controlling not only the conversation but now, the evening.

“I have to. I have letters to write before I go to bed and it is getting late.”

He knew now this was no ordinary woman and that his charm was a blunted weapon. But he wanted her as he had never wanted any other woman. He was shrewd enough to know that he had to give her free rein. I pay my debts.

Patience, he told himself.

“That’s all right.” He got up and followed her to the door. While he was signing the check, she went down to the street.

He joined her.

“I can’t thank you enough, Chris,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed it so much and thank you again for...”

“Let’s hope it will work out,” he said. He was still thinking of what she had said. I take sex seriously. I think it is a God-given experience... The thought of having her in his bed made him incoherent.

The doorman brought the Wildcat to the kerb. They drove in silence back to the Franklin Hotel. As Patterson pulled up, Sheila leaned towards him and brushed his cheek with her lips. Before he could reach for her, she was out of the car.

“Good night, Chris... and again thanks.”

She ran up the steps and into the hotel lobby where Hammett was impatiently waiting.