Just a Matter of Time

Two

The following morning, Patterson arrived at his office at his usual time. He pulled a long face when he saw the pile of mail, arranged in two neat piles on his desk.

He had spent a restless night thinking about Sheila. She was certainly outspoken! Sex to me isn’t taking off my pants and pulling my dress up to my neck. No other woman he had known ever talked that way and it had shaken him. But this bluntness was, in a way, encouraging. No inexperienced woman would have said a thing like that. He was also uneasy that she had so quickly realized the way his mind was working. Obviously she knew he had the hots for her and this irritated him. Had he been so blatant? And another thing: she had been in control all the time, and this he wasn’t used to. This also irritated him. She was so goddamn calm. His charm had bounced off her. This had never happened before. But I pay my debts. That must mean, in her own time, when she was ready, she was prepared to go to bed with him... what else could it mean?

He sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette.

Most of the night, and while he was showering and shaving, he had asked himself again and again just why this woman had set him on fire. It wasn’t that she was beautiful, nor even pretty! He couldn’t understand it. Yet he was obsessed with her: the thought of having her lying naked by his side in bed made him sick with desire. This urgency was something that hadn’t happened to him before. He had lusted after many women, but not in this gut-tearing, obsessive way. There was something extra in her that sparked this violent desire that half frightened, half elated him. What was it? Damn it! What was it?

Vera Cross, his secretary, came in. She was a pretty, neatly dressed girl in her late twenties and extremely efficient. The sight of her bouncing breasts and slim legs always helped Patterson through the daily grind of the day’s routine. He had often wondered what she would be like in bed. This was something he wondered about when he looked at any attractive woman. He had an idea that she could be wildly enthusiastic, but he never went further than wondering. He was careful never to make a pass, although he was sure she wouldn’t have objected if he had squeezed her bottom from time to time. But he had heard about one or two of his colleagues who had had it off with their secretaries and the trouble they had run into. He was ambitious. One day he hoped to be Vice-President — even President — of the bank. He knew one false move like that would finish him so he and Vera were good friends and it was strictly no hands.

“Good morning, Chris. The mail’s heavy this morning,” Vera said, shutting the door. “I’ve sorted the men from the boys. The right hand pile is urgent.” She sat down, crossed one shapely leg over the other and flicked open her notebook.

With a suppressed groan, Patterson picked up the first letter. Driving himself, he disposed of the mail by 09.50. From time to time, as he read a letter, smoky blue eyes floated on the page, but he forced himself to concentrate. At 10.00, he had to attend the morning Board meeting which would last until 10.45.

“Any appointments, Vera?” he asked without hope.

“Every twenty minutes until lunchtime,” she said cheerfully. “Mr. Cohen is coming in at eleven. I’ve allotted him half an hour.”

Patterson clapped his hand to his forehead.

“But I haven’t had time to look at his portfolio,” he said in dismay, remembering the previous afternoon, he had only thought of Sheila.

“I guessed that,” Vera said. “I took it to Security. They’ve made suggestions. I told them you were too busy to cope.” She handed him two sheets of paper.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Patterson said and meant it. “Thanks a million.”

Vera smiled happily.

“I knew you were tied up with these women for Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Did you find anyone suitable?”

“I think so... I’ll know some time today. Thanks again, Vera,” and Patterson began to study the suggestions made by the Security department.

During the Board meeting which was pure routine, Patterson kept looking at his watch. By now Mrs. Morely-Johnson would be talking to Mrs. Fleming. The thought worried him. Suppose the old lady fell for this comfortable, elderly woman with fifteen years experience of being a companion? He had played her down, but with caution, pointing out that her educational background and her lack of musical knowledge might eventually become a bore. It had been gentle poison, but he thought it had made an impression on the old lady.

As he sat in his office, discussing with Bernie Cohen whether to shift half Cohen’s holdings into short term, high yielding bonds, he kept looking at his desk clock. The time was now 11.10. Sheila would be sitting in the big, luxuriously furnished living-room of the penthouse suite, talking to the old lady. He felt his hands grow clammy. Suppose this flopped. What would Sheila do? She had said she was on her way to Los Angeles. Would she disappear from his life? The thought dismayed him.

Finally, he got rid of Bernie Cohen and then got involved with Mrs. Van Davis who had surplus cash to invest. It was 11.40 before he got rid of her and as he conducted her to the lobby, he saw Vera signalling to him. Leaving Mrs. Van Davis enveloped in his charm and warmth, he crossed quickly to Vera’s desk.

“I have Mrs. Morely-Johnson on the line.”

“Put her through,” he said and almost ran to his office. He shut the door, paused long enough to light a cigarette with unsteady fingers, then snatched up the telephone receiver.

“Is that you, Chris?” Mrs. Morely-Johnson had a twanging accent, and when using the telephone, she had a rooted idea that everyone she spoke to was deaf. The first blast of her voice always made Patterson wince. He held the receiver away from his ear as he said, “Good morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. How are you this morning?”

“I’m all right. Maybe I’m feeling a little tired.” She liked to emphasize she was no longer young. “It’s about this girl... Sheila Oldhill. I’ve talked to her. She seems a serious person, Chris.”

Patterson shifted in his chair. Careful to keep his voice casual, he said, “I think she is. She has excellent references. I’ve thoroughly investigated her (a lie). Did you like her?”

“Very much.” There was a pause, then the squawking voice went on. “But she is very young.”

Patterson gripped the receiver, his nails turning white.

“Yes... there is that. I hesitated whether to send her to you... her qualifications...”

“I liked the other woman. This girl wouldn’t have her experience.”

It’s going to flop! Patterson thought.

“I understand perfectly, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Should I tell Miss Oldhill to look elsewhere?”

“I didn’t say that!” Her voice rose a note and Patterson hurriedly shifted the receiver further from his ear. “Not at all. The girl interests me. I knew her father... he was a fine musician. It’s a shame she knows so little about him. She tells me he was disappointed not to have a son. She tells me he ignored her... men can be so stupid. I would like to tell her more about her father. You are too young to remember. I often played when he was the leader of the orchestra.”

Patterson began to relax.

“I am sure she would be most grateful, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.”

“I don’t know about being grateful. A girl should know about her father. I’ve decided to take her on trial.”

Patterson rubbed the side of his jaw, aware he was sweating slightly.

“How about Mrs. Fleming? Should I tell her to stand by?”

“Certainly not... tell her I am suited. I will have this girl for three months. I’ve told her so. Then if I want to change, I’ll consult you.”

Patterson drew in a long, slow breath, then said, “I think you’re being most wise. A three month trial will tell you if she is what you are looking for.”

“Yes... I thought that. And thank you very much, Chris, for being so helpful. I am sure it has taken up a lot of your time.”

“It is my pleasure.” Patterson put charm into his voice. “Well, then that’s settled for the moment. I have some transfers for you to sign. May I come about eleven tomorrow?”

“Of course.” There followed a girlish giggle that Patterson found gruesome. He had looked after her account now for the past four years and this old lady’s adoration for him was hard to stomach. Okay, he had often told himself, she’s old, a little dotty, lonely and she looks on me the way some old dears look on movie stars. She’s harmless, but I wish to God she wouldn’t try to be so goddamn girlish!

“Fine, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. When is Miss Oldhill starting with you?”

“She’s moving in right away.”

Patterson frowned. This wasn’t good news. Once Sheila was with the old lady, access to her — intimate access — could be difficult.

“Do you want me to pay her weekly or monthly?” he asked.

“The girl hasn’t any money. Her father left her nothing. She tells me he left his money to a home for old musicians. I am really surprised... but musicians can be eccentric. I admit it... sometimes I’m eccentric.” Again the girlish giggle that set Patterson’s teeth on edge. “I’ve decided I will pay her. I have given her some money to buy clothes. She is rather shabbily dressed. You know how snobby people are in this hotel. She is now out buying some clothes. I won’t worry you with her affairs, Chris. You have enough to do without that.”

Patterson’s eyes narrowed as he listened. Sheila had certainly worked fast, he thought. Suddenly, she was out of his control. He was sure she had talked the old lady into this new arrangement. For the past four years he had always paid the wages of the old lady’s companion.

“It would have been no problem.” He had to force his voice to sound casual. “Well then, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Is there anything I can bring you?”

“That reminds me. I was going to ask.” A long pause, then she went on, “Will you please bring me five thousand dollars in cash?”

Patterson could scarcely believe what she was saying. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk, his fingers tightly gripping the receiver.

“Did you say five thousand, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?”

“Yes, please. I think I should have more cash here. I don’t always like paying by cheque.”

“I will happily bring it.”

He listened to more of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s yak and when she finally hung up, he stared thoughtfully at his blotter.

He didn’t like this new development. He felt he had been, suddenly and unexpectedly, deprived of some of his power. Had Sheila, in some clever way, persuaded the old lady to pay her and not to be paid by the bank? Maybe he was imagining this whereas the old lady had thought this up for herself. She is out buying clothes. Had this really been the old lady’s idea or had Sheila suggested it? He pressed his forefinger against his dimple as he thought. And now the old lady was asking for five thousand dollars in cash! This again made him feel uneasy. She had never asked for cash before. Thinking about the past, he realized how complete his control had been over her during the past four years. He had paid her tax, invested her money; every item she bought he had paid for: her hotel bills, her chauffeur’s wages, the car repairs, her gifts to charities and up to now, her companion’s wages and expenses had passed through his hands.

I’ve decided to pay her myself. I won’t worry you with her affairs.

He didn’t like this sudden change. He wondered if the old lady had been persuaded.

He lit a cigarette as he thought. He saw the calm, expressionless face, the smoky blue eyes, the firm mouth. Then he heard her quiet voice as she said: I pay my debts. He began to relax. He told himself that he was imagining something that didn’t exist. The old lady was a little eccentric. What did it matter if she paid Sheila herself? What was he worrying about? The important thing now was, sooner or later, Sheila would pay her debt.

Vera put her head around his door.

“Mr. Lessing is waiting.”

Patterson stubbed out his cigarette.

“Send him in, Vera,” he said and with an effort he switched his mind off his immediate problems and reached for a scratch pad and his gold pencil.

Jack Bromhead had been Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s chauffeur for the past five years. Although Mrs. Morely-Johnson was in awe of him, she was very proud to have such a man as her chauffeur. Aged fifty-five, Bromhead was tall, lean and dignified and his thick hair was the colour of burnished silver. Once, when sightseeing in Canterbury, England, Mrs. Morely-Johnson had seen a Bishop walking along the main street. His benign expression, his dignity, his snow white hair had made an impression on her. She had the same impression when Bromhead had come to her from an Agency to apply for the vacancy caused by the death of her previous chauffeur who had been far from dignified, too familiar and who thought a Cadillac the only car in the world.

Bromhead had impeccable references. He had only recently arrived in America, being British born. He had told her he had been chauffeur to the Duke of Sussex. His quiet, dignified manners, his references from the Duke, his appearance made him irresistible to Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

He told her in his quiet, beautifully modulated voice that he was used to driving only a Rolls-Royce. If Mrs. Morely-Johnson preferred the Cadillac, and here he paused, lifting his silver grey eyebrows, then he would regretfully have to look elsewhere.

Looking at this tall, stately man, Mrs. Morely-Johnson thought how her friends would envy her having such a personality working for her. She had never thought of buying a Rolls-Royce. All her friends had either Cadillacs or Mercedes. The idea delighted her. She told him to get a Rolls. He had inclined his head gravely and she was a shade disappointed that he wasn’t more pleased. He then told her that he would prefer to get his uniforms from Hawes & Curtis, London, who were the Duke of Edinburgh’s tailors. He thought American tailors didn’t have the style to which he was accustomed. Slightly bewildered, but enchanted, Mrs. Morely-Johnson told him to go ahead and make the necessary arrangements. Even when the check came in for over a thousand dollars, she paid it without flinching. She assured herself that so dignified and handsome a man had to be suitably dressed.

It was only when the gleaming plum coloured Rolls-Royce arrived at the entrance of the Plaza Beach Hotel plus Bromhead in an immaculate grey uniform with black piping, plus a cockade in his peaked cap that she realized she was getting value for money. The doorman of the hotel who had seen everything and appeared to be unimpressionable, was impressed, and that alone made Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s day.

On the first of every December, Bromhead had suggested politely but with steely firmness that she should trade in the Rolls for the new model. Every year, Mrs. Morely-Johnson happily agreed.

Mrs. Morely-Johnson had engaged Bromhead a year before Chris Patterson had taken over her affairs and this had been fortunate for Bromhead. Had Patterson engaged him, he would have investigated his references and he would have found there was no such person as the Duke of Sussex, and the elaborate crest as well as the reference, written in a spidery hand, were forgeries.

Jack Bromhead had spent ten years of his fifty-five years in prison for forgery. He was recognized by the British police as one of the most expert forgers in the country. He could not only forge any signature, but he was also expert in reproducing any document or currency notes, being a top class engraver.

Having spent a bleak ten years in prison due to a tip-off by a dissatisfied partner, Bromhead had decided that forgery was now too dangerous a career to pursue. At his age, he felt he wanted a calmer life, but a life with prospects. Released from prison, he decided to capitalize on his appearance by going to America. He was an expert driver and he felt with his English accent, his looks and his dignity, he couldn’t fail to make an impact on some rich American.

He arrived on the Pacific coast with enough money to last him for several weeks — money he had obtained by selling his stock of engraving plates to another of his colleagues who was willing to take any risk, and presented himself at the leading domestic agency.

He knew exactly what he wanted: to be a chauffeur to a rich, elderly woman and he was fortunate that Mrs. Morely-Johnson had that morning asked the Agency to find her a chauffeur.

During his years as a master forger, Bromhead had enjoyed an income of thirty thousand pounds sterling a year, but those heydays only lasted for less than three years before the police had caught up with him. But during that time, he had acquired the taste for luxury and the ten bleak years in prison had badly shaken him. When he had been released, he told himself that he must find a police-free method of taking care of his old age. He knew he would never be able to face another ten years in jail.

His thinking was thus: Give me a rich old woman, give me time, and if I don’t fix it so I live in comfort for the rest of my days, then I don’t deserve anything.

He was acutely aware that if he made one false move and gave the police any reason to investigate his past he would be in serious trouble. He was fifty-five years of age: there was time. As Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s chauffeur he led a comfortable, easy life. He had a good room with a shower and television, in a small block of apartments reserved for the chauffeurs of the rich Plaza Beach Hotel’s clients. Being the chauffeur of the only Rolls-Royce gave him a status symbol with the other chauffeurs which pleased him. He was paid one hundred dollars a week with everything found. Mrs. Morely-Johnson wasn’t exacting. Each morning at 11.00, she went shopping and Bromhead drove her, took her parcels and generally acted as a nursemaid, but this didn’t worry him. She seldom wanted to be taken for drives in the afternoon and she never went out at night. She preferred to play the piano or to give lunch and dinner parties on her terrace and the hotel staff took care of that. She also liked to sit in the sun, listening to her hi-fi set playing gramophone discs.

Bromhead had plenty of time. He spent some of this time writing to movie stars, authors and other celebrities asking for their autographs. Such is the delight of such people to be asked for their autographs, he received a steady supply and to keep his forging hand in, he perfected their signatures so that he could produce them without hesitation on any blank cheque should the need arise. But this, of course, was dangerous. Forging these signatures was purely an exercise and not to be capitalized.

When he had arrived for the first time at the Plaza Beach Hotel he knew nothing about Mrs. Morely-Johnson except that she was wealthy. How wealthy he didn’t know, but he was determined to find out. He invested in a highly sophisticated bugging device, the microphones of which he planted in Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s living-room, on the terrace and in her bedroom. These microphones, little bigger than grape seeds, were powerful enough to feed a tape recorder in Bromhead’s room across the courtyard.

He had accepted the fact that this was to be a long term operation and was prepared to be patient. A year passed without him gaining any information of value, except that he learned Mrs. Morely-Johnson was inclined to gush over men much, much younger than herself. It wasn’t until Chris Patterson appeared on the scene that the information that Bromhead wanted began to filter through on the tape.

Sitting in his comfortable room, listening to Patterson’s voice on his first visit to the penthouse, at long last, he heard details of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s financial affairs. He had a scratch pad on his knee and he made rapid notes. He learned that apart from her jewellery, her Rolls, her furs, her pictures and her real estate investments, she was worth around five million dollars. Looking at his notes when the interview was over, Bromhead realized if he played the right cards, he had found Eldorado.

Another year went by. The routine was always the same, but this suited Bromhead. Gradually, he increased his hold on the old lady. Nothing was too much trouble. Her every whim was dealt with with quiet, kindly dignity which delighted her. Bromhead was looking to the future. But during these passing months he became more and more aware that Patterson was making a much bigger impact on the old lady than he was. He was prepared for this. He now knew she was susceptible to the young and the handsome. He had often noticed her reaction to young men who served her in the luxury stores and how she sat on her terrace, before the cataract had made her half blind, with powerful field glasses, watching young men parade along the waterfront. So it came as no surprise that Patterson, remarkably handsome, young and well dressed, was giving the old lady a jolt like a massive shot of hormones.

Then one morning, she told Bromhead to go to her attorney’s office.

“I want you to bring Mr. Weidman back here, Bromhead,” she said, “and when we have finished our business talk to take him back to his office. He will like a little ride in the Rolls.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” Bromhead had said.

Business talk...

Before collecting Mr. Weidman, Bromhead arranged a large spool of tape on his recorder, set the time switch to begin recording at 11.00 when Mr. Weidman was due to arrive.

He sat in the Rolls outside the hotel, knowing every word between Mrs. Morely-Johnson and her attorney would be recorded while he waited for the attorney to reappear. He drove him back to his office. Then returning to his own room, he made himself a ham sandwich, opened a can of beer and settled down to listen to the play-back.

Mrs. Morely-Johnson was leaving two million dollars to the Cancer Research Fund. Two million dollars, plus 1,000 acres of building land to Oxfam. A million dollars to the blind. Her pictures were to be sold and the proceeds (perhaps two million dollars) to UNICEF.

Then followed the bequests:

An annuity of $100,000 to be paid to Christopher Patterson for his lifetime in recognition for his constant kindness and attention. An annuity of $15,000 to Jack Bromhead and the Rolls-Royce. An annuity of $20,000 to Miss May Lawson, her companion-help.

There had been a pause of silence on the tape, then her attorney’s voice asked, “How about your nephew, Gerald Hammett? Are you providing for him?”

“Gerald?” Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s voice shot up. “Certainly not! He’s a horrible boy! He will get nothing from me!”

There was a lot more, but it wasn’t important. Bromhead sat back and studied his notes.

An annuity of $15,000, plus the Rolls-Royce wasn’t what he expected. This must be readjusted... somehow. At the moment he didn’t know how.

Her nephew, Gerald Hammett? Who was he? This was the first time that Bromhead knew that Mrs. Morely-Johnson had a relative.

After some thought, he cleaned the tape and locked his notes away. There was time, he told himself. The nephew interested him. He now needed to make inquiries. A relative could upset a will... wills were tricky, and he had to be careful. One false move and the police would arrive. He flinched at the thought.

Then he remembered Solly Marks. Before he had been released from prison, he had been told by the man who shared his cell that if ever he needed anything when on the Pacific coast, the man to contact was Solly Marks. This man lived in Los Angeles, some hundred miles from where Bromhead was now living. Solly Marks was a shyster lawyer, a property owner, a moneylender and a man with his ear to the ground.

After some thought, Bromhead decided he had to have help and Solly Marks, seemed, on recommendation, to be the man to help him. He found his telephone number and called him. As soon as Bromhead had mentioned the name of the man with whom he had shared his cell and mentioned his own name, Marks had become extremely co-operative.

“I’ll come over,” he said. “Better not talk on the phone. You name the place and I’ll be there.”

“Book in at the Franklin Hotel,” Bromhead said. “I’ll meet you there at six o’clock tomorrow evening.”

Bromhead had a slight shock when he saw Marks sitting in the lounge of the hotel, waiting for him. The man looked like an inflated toad: short, squat with tremendously wide shoulders, his face resembling a ping-pong ball with tufts of reddish hair glued to its sides. His features disappeared into fat. His small, black eyes, peering out from puffy bastions were like jet beads, sparkling, lively, cunning and shrewd.

Yet within minutes of talking, Bromhead knew this was the man he was looking for.

“You don’t have to know why,” he said as they began to talk business. “This is what I want: I want a complete breakdown on Mrs. Morely-Johnson who lives at the Plaza Beach Hotel. I want the same on Christopher Patterson, the assistant manager of the Pacific Traders Bank. When I say a breakdown, I want all details about him: especially about his sex life. Then I want details of Gerald Hammett, Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s nephew. Can you do this?”

Marks laid a small hand that looked like a lump of badly fashioned dough on Bromhead’s arm.

“I can do anything, but at a price. I don’t imagine you could pay just yet, but would you say you have good prospects?”

Bromhead stared into the tiny, black eyes.

“I have good prospects.”

Marks finished his drink.

“Then there is no problem. I will get the information for you. Could I ask what are your prospects?”

Bromhead allowed his stern features to relax in a smile.

“I collect autographs,” he said. “It is a little childish, but I have my reasons.” He took from his pocket a scratch pad and offered it to Marks. “Would you mind giving me yours?”

Marks stared at him, then his tiny mouth like a knife cut in a lump of dough moved slightly into what might be mistaken for a smile. He took the pad, produced a pen and scrawled his signature: a shapeless mess of squiggles.

Bromhead studied the signature for several minutes.

“Not easy,” he said under his breath, then he turned the sheet on to a fresh page, borrowed Marks’s pen and reproduced the signature. He tore off the two sheets from the pad, shuffled them and handed them to Marks.

“Which is the one you wrote?” he asked.

Marks looked at the two identical signatures, tore the sheets into little pieces and nodded at Bromhead.

“Impressive,” he said. “Very well, my friend, you have unlimited credit.”

“Fair enough,” Bromhead said. “What will it cost me?”

“Ten thousand dollars for the research.”

Bromhead shook his head.

“No... five thousand. It’s only worth five thousand.”

Marks leaned forward. He looked like an over-fed vulture.

“Mrs. Morely-Johnson is worth five million dollars. Never cut corners, my friend... ten thousand or we don’t do a deal.”

“Eight,” Bromhead said without any hope.

Marks gave a shrill little laugh.

“I said ten... I’ll be in touch with you,” and climbing to his feet, he waddled away towards the elevator.

Bromhead watched him go. This was a man after his own heart.

The dossier that Marks finally delivered was exactly what Bromhead required.

Before parting with the dossier, Marks had asked for an I.O.U. for $10,000, and this Bromhead had given him. He was so certain his plan would eventually succeed that he was confident that sooner or later he would be in the position to repay Marks. Even the 25 per cent interest charged by Marks didn’t make him hesitate for more than a second or so before he signed.

“If there’s anything else I can do for you,” Marks said, putting the I.O.U. away carefully in his billfold, “you know how to contact me. It will be my pleasure.”

At this rate of interest, Bromhead thought, this was an understatement, but he had what he wanted and he had long ago learned that if you wanted something important you had to expect to pay for it.

He settled down to study the dossier, beginning with the information concerning Gerald Hammett who he considered a danger spot being the only likely contestant of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will.

He learned that Gerald was the only child of Lawson Hammett, Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s brother, a reasonably successful mining engineer who had been killed in a mining accident some eight years ago. His wife had run off with Hammett’s best friend and he had obtained a divorce with the custody of the child, Gerald. Father and son hadn’t got along together. In spite of making efforts, Lawson Hammett found he had no point of contact with the boy who was lazy, dirty and had a vicious temper. When Gerald left school, instead of returning home, he disappeared. His father, relieved, had made no effort to find him.

On his twenty-second birthday, Gerald who by now had learned that if you don’t ask, you don’t get, called on his aunt, Mrs. Morely-Johnson at the Plaza Beach Hotel and he reminded her in no uncertain terms that he was her nephew and what was she going to do for him?

Had he approached the old lady with tact and politeness she would have done something for him, but he had no time for rich old women and he demanded financial aid in a way that shocked his aunt.

Marks’s investigator had talked to an eye-witness of the meeting. The doorman of the Plaza Beach Hotel remembered the incident, now five years ago and was prepared to describe it in detail for a $10 bill. Gerald had arrived at the hotel, dirty, shabby and bearded just as Mrs. Morely-Johnson was going out for her morning shopping. As the result of smoking a reefer to bolster his courage, Gerald was in an ugly and truculent mood. He had confronted his aunt in the hotel lobby and told her in a loud voice what he expected of her. The old lady listened to this dirty looking boy, scarcely able to believe her ears. She was aware that her so-called friends were also listening and staring. She felt helpless and she looked at the doorman who hadn’t seen Gerald’s entrance, waving her hands in a signal of distress.

The doorman, remembering many past favours, grabbed hold of Gerald and ejected him from the hotel with considerable violence but not before Gerald had yelled, “Okay, you stupid old cow... if you don’t want me, then up yours!”

It had been a scene that took Mrs. Morely-Johnson some time to live down. Had she not been worth five million dollars, the manager of this luxury hotel would have asked her to leave.

According to the dossier, Gerald had then gone to Los Angeles. He had joined up with a Hippy group and had spent the next three years living rough, scratching up some kind of living until he finally opted to become a drug pusher. This enterprise lasted less than two months before the Vice squad caught up with him. His father now dead, he had only Mrs. Morely-Johnson to turn to. A detective called on her and asked her if she was prepared to do anything for her nephew. The detective happened to be a handsome Negro. Mrs. Morely-Johnson had been born and raised in Georgia and couldn’t bear the sight of a black skin. Apart from loathing her nephew who had practically wrecked her way of living at the Plaza Beach Hotel, talking to a black detective was, to her, the uttermost end. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

Gerald spent two years behind bars. During that time he brooded and finally came to the conclusion that he had been badly treated from childhood, that the world owed him a living and Mrs. Morely-Johnson should be made to pay. This was, of course, a deduction offered by Marks’s investigator and Bromhead was prepared to go along with it. In Gerald’s place, he would have felt the same way. When he was released, Gerald had gone to New York and to the Hippy scene, but he left drugs alone. He knew he was now a marked man and if the police had reason to arrest him again, he would go away for a long time.

It was during this time when he was living in a vacuum that he met Veda Rayson. She was young, pretty and willing, and what was more important, she had a comfortable income from her father who was thankful not to have her living in his house. Gerald and she teamed up and she let him live with her in her two room apartment, paid the bills and generally made his life comfortable. The four months he lived with her turned Gerald soft. He came to like this way of life. He hadn’t to get out of bed before eleven o’clock in the morning. He had his meals provided. When he needed clothes, he had only to ask. Also, Veda happened to be the most exciting lay he had had so far. So what could you want better, man? he asked himself.

Then one morning as Gerald, waking, was turning Veda on her back, she gave a tiny, suppressed scream that frightened him. Then followed the commotion of telephoning, getting an ambulance, having her dragged down the spiral staircase in a hammock by two boozy faced ambulance men with Gerald, shaking and panic in his heart, following them and offering useless advice.

At the hospital the nurse had told him there was no hope. Marks’s investigator hadn’t wasted time going into details but it seemed Veda had been fighting cancer for the past year. The investigator had picked up gossip from the hospital receptionist. The nurse who had broken the news to Gerald had been Sheila Oldhill, and the receptionist said that this woman had no right to be a nurse.

“She is a Tom cat,” the receptionist said. “I know all about her. Show her any man and she’ll fall flat on her back.”

The investigator sighed. If this was true then Sheila Oldhill was his dream woman, but he didn’t say this to the receptionist.

Veda died within thirty-eight hours of being admitted to the hospital. Again it was Nurse Oldhill who had broken the news to Gerald who felt a pang of loss. Who was going to pay the rent, feed him, buy his clothes?

“I was watching them,” the receptionist told the investigator. “It was horrible. She was looking hungrily at him... that is the only word to describe it. How could she look at a dirty, hairy kid like that?”

The investigator, a fat, middle-aged man had seen everything and heard everything. What the receptionist told him was so much grist to his mill.

He investigated further and learned that Sheila Oldhill and Gerald had set up home together — a two room apartment. Sheila continued to work at the hospital, providing the funds on which they lived. Gerald spent his days listening to pop music, going to movies and waiting for Sheila to return. At the conclusion of the report, they were still in New York: she was working at the hospital, he living on her.

All this interested Bromhead. Before making a decision, he telephoned Marks, asking him for a break-down on Sheila Oldhill. This took a further two weeks and cost Bromhead another I.O.U. for two thousand dollars, but when he read the report he considered he was getting value for money.

He learned that Sheila’s father had been first violinist with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and referring to Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s dossier he learned at one time she had been a concert pianist — her professional name being Alice Lesson — and had played with the Philharmonic Orchestra a number of times.

It was only when he studied Chris Patterson’s dossier and discovered how highly sexed he was and learned of the numerous affairs he was having out of town and the caution he used to prevent any gossip that Bromhead began to perfect his plan to take care of his future in comfort.

After more thought, he decided he must meet Gerald and Sheila Oldhill. There was now a sense of urgency because Mrs. Morely-Johnson was without a companion-help. The old lady was waiting to hear from the doctors. Her companion who had been with her for fifteen years had been taken to hospital. Mrs. Morely-Johnson disliked change and was prepared to wait for her companion to recover rather than to look elsewhere, but Bromhead was sure the companion wouldn’t recover and he would have to act swiftly.

He wrote to Gerald on the Plaza Beach Hotel notepaper, stating he was coming to New York on urgent business and he would like Gerald to meet him at the Kennedy Airport. Then he asked Mrs. Morely-Johnson if he could take the week-end off as his brother (non-existent) was arriving in New York and Mrs. Morely-Johnson was happy not only for him to meet his brother but to give him his fare there and back.

Before leaving for New York, he contacted Solly Marks and told him he was in urgent need of $1,000. Marks sent him the money without hesitation for Marks now realized that Bromhead was planning something that could be big. Marks, like Bromhead, kept thinking of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s five million dollars. Marks didn’t want to know any details. He knew Bromhead was serious. When Bromhead made his kill, then Marks would move in, but not before. The police couldn’t touch him so long as he acted only as a moneylender and this Marks was willing to do.

Bromhead was a little disappointed in Gerald Hammett, but he was philosophical enough to know that a good workman could use inferior tools if he had to. As soon as he had told Gerald he was Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s chauffeur, Gerald who had been eyeing him with suspicion became much more alive. Bromhead told him part of the plan, but gave no details. He then asked if Sheila Oldhill could be relied on to help.

Gerald said she could.

Bromhead then asked if he could meet her. As they drove in Gerald’s Volkswagen, which Sheila had bought him, to the two room apartment, Bromhead thought of the possibilities. If this woman was a Tomcat, as the receptionist at the hospital had claimed, then she was the woman he wanted. Looking at Gerald as he drove, Bromhead decided this immature boy wouldn’t fall for a non-sexy woman. A woman so much older than he, had to be right.

Bromhead was immediately impressed by Sheila. Although now, at his age, he no longer bothered with women, he was immediately aware of her sensuality, her calmness and her efficiency. With this woman, he told himself, he couldn’t go wrong.

Having explained his plan, he warned them that until Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s companion either died or was proved unfit to resume her duties, the plan wasn’t on. He was a little worried about Gerald who sat away from them, listening and scowling. Whenever he began to speak, Sheila had raised her hand, stopping him and he had muttered a four letter word under his breath, then kept silent.

Bromhead looked directly at Sheila.

“What do you say?”

“It is worth a try,” she said quietly.

“This is a gamble,” Bromhead said. “It may not come off. I want you both to think of it as a long term operation, but the pay-off will be big.”

Gerald, across the room, chewed his thumbnail.

“What do you call long term for God’s sake?”

Bromhead regarded him.

“We will have to wait until the old lady dies.” He paused, then went on, “But no one lives forever.”