Just a Matter of Time

Four

While Mrs. Morely-Johnson was playing bridge on the terrace with three of her friends, Bromhead opened the front door of the penthouse and, crossing the vestibule, entered Sheila’s office. He had come because, as she was getting into the Rolls with Mrs. Morely-Johnson that morning, she had whispered that she must see him.

He found her waiting for him, sitting at her desk. This day was. Saturday, close on a week since she had seen Patterson. Each time Patterson had come to the penthouse she had avoided him. It had been Bromhead who had opened the door.

Bromhead had had little chance of talking to Sheila until now, but looking at her as he stood in the doorway, he saw she was under a strain.

“Shut the door,” she said abruptly.

He did as he was told, then came over to the chair by the desk and sat down.

“Something wrong?”

“We can’t wait any longer,” she said. “Your bright idea of the wig and the dustcoat has come unstuck. Last night when I returned from seeing Gerald, the house detective stopped me and asked where I was going. I was lucky. The elevator doors were open. I pushed by him and shut the doors before he could reach me. Of course he knew by the indicator I had got out on the 19th floor. When I reached my room, I went to the elevator and saw it descend, then come up to the 19th floor. He had come up — looking for me. You will have to get rid of the wig and the coat, Jack. This could be dangerous.”

Bromhead grimaced. He saw that at once. Joe Handley, the night detective was smart — perhaps over smart. Bromhead should have thought of him. Bromhead knew there were only four elderly couples living in suites on the 19th floor — people who certainly wouldn’t be interested in a young, blonde woman at 02.00. Yet this blonde woman had gone up to the 19th floor and then had vanished. It was the kind of mystery that Handley would dig into: the kind of mystery he wouldn’t leave alone nor forget.

But fortunately he only came on duty at 21.00 and went off duty at 07.00 so he wasn’t likely to see Sheila without her wig. The day detective, Fred Lawson, who had been with the hotel for years was fat, lazy and stupid, but if ever Handley saw Sheila during the day, he might recognize her, blonde wig or no blonde wig. There were danger signals here.

“Gerald is driving me crazy,” Sheila went on. “He’s so demanding. Now he wants to see me every night. He is stupidly jealous of Patterson. He has nothing to do during the day. The money I give him doesn’t last a week. We can’t wait any longer. I intend to tell Patterson I’m ready.”

“But this is a long term operation,” Bromhead said uneasily. “I warned you about this. Rush it and we could spoil it.”

“It’s all right for you to talk.” Even under stress, Sheila remained calm. “You don’t have to handle Gerald nor Patterson... but I do. I am sure I can handle Patterson now. I’m sure of it... we can’t wait any longer.”

Bromhead hesitated, then shrugged.

“All right. Then tomorrow?”

“Yes.” She looked at her desk clock. “He could be in now,” and she dialled Patterson’s home number. There was a long pause while the ringing tone sounded, then just as she was about to hang up, she heard Patterson’s voice: querulous and sharp.

“Yes? Who is it?”

“You sound cross, Chris. Have I interrupted you?”

Bromhead nodded with approval. What an artist this woman was! he thought. The sensual caress in her soft voice had an effect even on him.

“Sheila?” Patterson’s voice became all charm. “I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I haven’t seen you all the week.” She could hear his breathing, quick, short and uneven. “I was just off for a round of golf. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Things...” She paused, then went on, “Can we meet tomorrow?”

“Of course. Would you like to go to the Coq d’Or again?”

Again she deliberately paused.

“I thought, Chris... something more intimate. A smoked salmon sandwich and you.”

She heard him draw in a sharp breath.

“You really mean that?”

“Chris... please...”

“I’ll fix it. Let’s meet at the same place and time.”

“Yes... and Chris, where will you be taking me?”

“There’s a motel I know. It’s nice and you’ll like it.” She looked at Bromhead.

“Would that be the Star motel, Chris?”

“You know it?” His voice sounded startled.

“We went for a drive yesterday and passed it. I thought it looked wonderful.”

“It is... you’ll love it. I’ll fix everything. Sheila...”

“No more now,” she said firmly. “Then at six.”

“Marvellous... wonderful... terrific!”

She replaced the receiver.

“The Star motel?” Bromhead asked.

She nodded.

“You did very well. I’ll be there at seven o’clock,” he said. “Hold him off until then... you understand?”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other.

“If it wasn’t for that little bastard,” Bromhead said, “I would be certain this is going to work out, but with him in the background, we can’t be too careful.”

“We can’t be too careful anyway. That detective worries me.”

“Forget him... it’s a natural hazard. It’s my fault. I should have remembered him.” Bromhead got to his feet. “Let’s fix Patterson first. Next week we’ll have to decide what to do with Gerald. You won’t be able to see him at night now,” Bromhead paused while he thought. “I hate wasting money but it could be the solution to get him out of town until we are ready to use him. We could send him to L.A. With five hundred dollars, he could keep himself amused, couldn’t he?”

“I’ve thought of that, but now, I don’t think he’ll go. He has this thing about me... this has built up. Now he’s jealous of Patterson. He talks about money meaning nothing and I’m all he wants. Anyway, where do we find five hundred dollars?”

“I’ll find it,” Bromhead said, thinking of Solly Marks. “I think I’d better talk to Gerald.” He looked up and for the first time since Sheila had known him, he slid out of character. His thin face tightened and his eyes turned into chips of grey ice. Suddenly this was a face of utter ruthlessness... a killer’s face and it sent a chill through Sheila.

“No! You must leave him to me,” she said. “You don’t know him as I do. He has to be persuaded... not forced. He’s like an obstinate child.”

The benign, kindly expression came back into Bromhead’s eyes. Once more he was the efficient, dignified chauffeur.

“Let’s fix Patterson first. You will leave here just before six tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Before then I’ll let you have the bug. It’s a limpet job and small. You can stick it on any flat surface... under the night table would do.”

She nodded.

“You’re doing fine,” he said, moving to the door. “You leave the worrying to me. Make a parcel of the wig and the coat. I’ll get rid of them tomorrow.”

As Bromhead crossed the hotel lobby to go to his room across the courtyard, Fred Lawson, the hotel detective, appeared from nowhere and rested his big, fat hand on Bromhead’s arm. Bromhead regarded him, his thin face expressionless, then said, “Hello, Fred... you want me?”

Lawson was a massively built man with thinning black hair, small cunning eyes and a mouth that could serve as a mousetrap.

“Got a moment, Jack?”

“Just going to watch the ball game on TV... what is it?”

“This won’t take long,” and Lawson steered him down a corridor and into his tiny office. “Just wanted to ask you something.” He sat down behind his desk and waved Bromhead to a chair. “You know anything about a tall, well-built woman, blonde, around thirty years of age who wears a fawn dustcoat?”

Bromhead felt his nerve ends prickle, but his benign expression merely shifted to a look of inquiry.

“I know a number of blondes,” he said and smiled, “but I don’t know about a dustcoat.” His mind was working swiftly. This was dangerous. Pretend ignorance and he was sure Handley wouldn’t leave it alone and would keep prodding Lawson to press for an inquiry. If this was reported to the Director of the hotel it could become dynamite. “Why ask me, Fred?”

Lawson scowled.

“It’s Handley... that guy will give me an ulcer if he goes on the way he goes on. He says he saw a woman use the elevator at two o’clock this morning, going up to the 19th floor. She was youngish, blonde and wearing a fawn dustcoat. He challenged her but she avoided him and beat him to the elevator. He went right up after her, but she’d vanished. I’ve checked the 19th and the 18th floors, but no one knows anything about her. So that could leave the penthouse. Handley wants me to talk to the old lady, but I thought I’d better have a word with you first. The old lady wouldn’t like it... would she?”

“You’re right.” Bromhead had already made up his mind, he went on. “I told her it was risky, but she wanted to be kind. I’m sorry, Fred. I should have stopped it, but at the time, I didn’t see anything really wrong...”

Lawson gaped at him.

“Told who? What are you talking about?”

“Miss Oldhill, of course. Now look, Fred, she’s new here and the old lady likes her and...”

Lawson waved his fat hand.

“Wait a minute. You mean the new companion... Oldhill? That her name?”

“Yes. She has a girlfriend... the one with the dustcoat. This girl was passing through on her way to L.A. and she dropped off to see Oldhill. The girl’s short of money... who isn’t? On the bus, she picked up a boy who wanted to show her the town. She asked Oldhill if she could share her bed for the night to save a hotel check. Oldhill asked me. I told her the hotel wouldn’t go for it, but if the girl slipped in and out... who would know? My mistake, Fred. I didn’t reckon on Handley being so sharp. Sorry about it... can’t say more, can I?”

Lawson breathed heavily as he frowned at Bromhead.

“Dead against the rules, Jack. You could get me into trouble. You should know better.”

Bromhead knew his man. He knew Lawson lived by graft.

“You’re right. If you can forget it, Fred... I’ll remember it.” He paused, then went on, “I was talking to the old lady only yesterday. Believe it or not, she didn’t know there was a house detective in the hotel. She was asking what she should do about the staff — extra service. I told her I’d think about it.” Bromhead smiled at Lawson. “You forget... I remember... right?”

But Lawson frowned down at his fat hands. Bromhead could almost hear his brain creak as he thought. Finally, he said, “I don’t know, Jack. Handley’s a sonofabitch. How do I fix him?”

Bromhead had already solved that problem.

“Tell him you checked with the old lady and she told you the girl was her guest.”

Lawson’s fat face brightened.

“Yeah... that’s an idea. Okay, Jack, you see me right... I’ll see you right.”

“The old lady gives me the money for the staff. Why should you wait?” Bromhead took out his billfold, extracted a hundred dollar bill and slid it over to Lawson. “How’s this, Fred?”

The bill disappeared as Lawson’s fat fingers snapped it up.

“Sure, Jack, but tell this Oldhill broad not to do it again. That sort of thing could lose me my job.”

“She won’t. I’ll talk to her.”

“The other broad still up there?”

“She caught the 7.30 bus. Maybe you weren’t in the lobby.”

Lawson who had been eating a full scale breakfast in his office at that time, shook his head.

“That’s right... I wasn’t around.”

“Well, she’s gone.” Bromhead got to his feet. “See you, Fred and thanks. Christmas is coming. I’ll see you right with the old lady. She can be generous at Christmas.”

When Joe Handley reported for duty that evening, Lawson who was his superior tramped over him.

“Listen to me, Joe... you can act too smart,” he said, glaring at Handley. “Okay, so you keep your eyes open, but watch it... use your head. I checked with Mrs. Morely-Johnson. That woman you’ve been yelling about was a guest of hers. Mrs. Morely-Johnson didn’t like me checking. She’s touchy... so watch it in the future.”

Handley stared at Lawson.

“She went to the 19th floor,” he said quietly. “Why didn’t she go direct to the penthouse?”

Lawson hadn’t thought of this, but he was committed, so he blustered.

“Cut it out! I’ve talked to the old lady. If she’s happy, you be happy!”

“This woman went up the stairs to the fire door... is that it?”

“I said cut it out!” Lawson growled. “Get moving! You should be on duty!”

Then Handley knew someone had bribed Lawson. He filed the blonde woman away in his cop mind for future reference.

The light coming through the half-open door of the shower room faintly lit the comfortable furnished motel bedroom; the rest of the room was in darkness.

The big double bed was in the darkest part of the room and only the red gleam of two burning cigarettes told that two people lay on the bed. The noise of the heavy Sunday traffic on the highway just penetrated through the double glazing: the air conditioner hummed softly: there was no discordant sound.

Patterson lay limp and satiated. His mind dwelt on the past half hour. This woman, lying naked by his side, had been everything he had hoped for. No... that wasn’t true: she had been better than his most sensual expectations. This was an experienced woman who knew how to give and receive pleasure. In a drowsy stupor, he thought back on his many sexual encounters. Nothing he had known could be compared with the past half hour. He dragged hard on his cigarette, drawing smoke down into his lungs: his patient wait had been more than rewarded.

“Chris... what is the time?” Sheila asked out of the darkness.

This was a jarring note to Patterson. Who the hell cared about time right now? He peered at the luminous hands of his watch.

“Just after half past seven... why?”

“I must be back by eleven.”

Why must women talk at a moment like this? he thought. They always did. Women never seemed to know when to stop talking. Didn’t they ever realize that after a body shattering explosion like the one he had just experienced, a man wanted to rest, doze and dream it all over again?

“You’ll be back in time.” He stubbed out his cigarette, then closed his eyes. They had two and a half hours before they need to think of the hotel. If she would only let him doze for a while, in half an hour or so, he would then be able to show her what lovemaking really meant.

“Was it good for you, Chris?”

“It was marvellous.”

He remained quiet, his eyes closed. Maybe she would stop talking and doze too, but she didn’t.

“Was it the best ever, Chris? It was for me.”

He resigned himself. She was going to talk and he had to put up with it.

“Yes... the best ever.”

A pause, then she said, “Would you say something for me?”

“What?” He tried to control the impatience in his voice, but didn’t quite succeed.

“Please say this: I, Chris Patterson, consider Sheila Oldhill the best lay he has ever had.”

The ideas women get! he thought.

“Look, darling, I’d like to sleep a little. Then we can start this all over again. How about it?”

“Say it for me, please, Chris. I want to hear you say it, then we’ll sleep... I promise.”

God! Women! he thought, then for the sake of peace, he intoned without much enthusiasm, “I, Christopher Patterson, think Sheila Oldhill the most marvellous, wonderful and exciting woman I have ever slept with. How’s that?”

Thinking of Bromhead with his tape recorder, sitting in his Mini-Austin Cooper Mrs. Morely-Johnson had given him as a runabout, Sheila was satisfied.

“Thank you, darling. Maybe I’m a little stupid, but I did want to hear you say that... now go to sleep.”

Patterson drifted off into a light sleep while Sheila waited. She let him sleep for half an hour, then she got off the bed and took a shower. She thought of Bromhead waiting out there.

“Don’t rush anything,” he had said as he had given her the microphone. “Remember... this is a chance in a lifetime.”

As she came out of the shower room, leaving the door wide open so the light brightened the shadows of the bedroom, Patterson woke. He sat up.

“What are you up to?”

“I’ve had a shower.” She came across the room, naked with the light behind her and he felt desire for her rise in him.

“Come here.”

“Chris... I want to talk to you.”

“Not now... come here.”

She put on the bathrobe the motel supplied.

“Chris... do you realize how dangerous this is and do you realize it can’t happen again?”

“What do you mean... dangerous?”

“Dangerous to you.”

“Oh, come on, Sheila. You mean the bank? Nonsense. This place is a hundred per cent safe.”

“I don’t mean the bank. I mean Mrs. Morely-Johnson.”

“Dangerous? What’s all this, Sheila?”

“She’s in love with you.”

“Oh, nonsense. I know she’s a sexy old thing. In her heyday, she had lovers by the dozens, but now she’s seventy-eight, for God’s sake!” Patterson laughed. “Of course she regards me as her Prince Charming, but that means nothing... to me. I go along with her. I have to: it’s part of my job. I don’t mind telling you when she turns girlish she bores me sick.” He suddenly realized he was talking too much. “Come here, darling. We’re wasting time.”

“There’s time.” She came over to the bed and sat on it, keeping away from him. She wasn’t sure about the strength of the microphone although Bromhead had assured her that it would pick up every sound in the cabin. “If she ever found out about us, it would hurt her. You realize that, Chris?”

“How could she find out? This isn’t the time for this kind of talk.” He switched on the bedside lamp and half raised himself to stare at her. She had gone remote on him. Her quiet, calm expression had come back and he realized her barrier had come up again between them. For no reason he could quite put his finger on, he began to feel uneasy. “What’s the matter, Sheila?”

“I don’t understand you,” she said. “I have seen you with the old lady. Are you acting all the time? You are so nice to her... so charming... yet you say she bores you sick.”

“Do we have to discuss this stupid old woman right now?” Patterson demanded, losing patience. “Come here! I want you!”

“Do you think she’s stupid?”

“Well, don’t you?” Patterson was becoming exasperated. “Do you want me to spell it out? At the age of seventy-eight, she is vain, half blind, gushing and she can’t keep her eyes off young men. If you don’t call that stupid... then what do you call it?”

Sheila drew in a long breath. If she had written the script or if Bromhead had written it, it couldn’t have been more word perfect.

Listening in his car outside the motel cabin, Bromhead decided he had what he wanted. He snapped down the stop button on the recorder, started the car engine, sounded his horn three times, in short loud blasts, then drove rapidly back to the Plaza Beach Hotel.

Sheila heard the horn blasts and she stood up. The first stage of the operation had been successfully completed, now came the more difficult stage.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “Let’s eat.”

She went over to the plastic bag that Patterson had brought, opened it and took from it two neatly packed parcels.

Patterson watched her. Why was he feeling uneasy? This woman had become so impersonal, so different from the moaning, thrashing woman who had clung to him, uttering little cries of pleasure as her fingernails dug into his flesh.

Well, if she was hungry... there was still plenty of time. He looked at his watch: 19.45. Yes... it would be an idea to eat, then make love again. He too suddenly felt hungry.

She went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of Chablis he had brought. He had already half drawn the cork. She poured the wine into glasses.

He lay still, watching her, wished she wasn’t wearing the bathrobe.

“Take that off, Sheila,” he said. “I want to see you.”

“Later.” She opened the packets and put one of them beside him, then she sat away from him with the other packet on her knee. “Chris... have you seen the old lady’s will?” She began to eat the smoked salmon sandwich. “Her last will and testament... that’s what it’s called, isn’t it?”

He was reaching for a sandwich, but his hand paused.

“Will? Why bring that up?”

“I asked you a simple question: can’t I have a simple answer?”

God! he thought, how remote she’s become, and he became aware that he was lying naked on the bed. He shifted a little and pulled the sheet across him. Instinctively, he felt that there would be no more love making. He didn’t know why except perhaps her calm remoteness told him this, but he was sure of it.

“I know nothing about her will,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Does money mean anything to you?”

He began to get angry. There was a snap in his voice as he said, “Of course it does... doesn’t it to you?”

“Yes.” There was a slight pause, then she said. “You should know about her will.”

Patterson’s face hardened. He felt at a disadvantage lying on the bed, half-hidden by the sheet. He swung his legs off the bed and sat upright and looked directly at her.

He got no hint as to what was going on in her mind. She had this maddening remote look and she was eating the sandwich as if she were enjoying it.

“Sheila... just what are you getting at?”

“You don’t know she’s leaving you a lot of money?”

“Me?” He stiffened, staring at her. “A lot of money? How do you know?”

She finished the sandwich and reached for another. She could see he had become tense.

“She told me.”

“She told you she had left me money?” Patterson couldn’t believe this. Sheila had been with the old lady for only eight days. The old lady had never hinted she was leaving him anything... then why tell a new companion-help?

“Are you sure she told you, Sheila?”

“Why should I tell you if I wasn’t sure?” She took another bite at the sandwich while she looked at him: cool, remote, the smoky blue eyes impersonal. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Frankly... no!” He knew now for certain love making was finished. He wanted to get into his clothes. He didn’t feel he could control this unexpected situation while he was naked. “Wait a moment.”

Holding the sheet around him, he grabbed up his shirt, underpants and trousers and went into the shower room.

Sheila drank a little of the Chablis, then finished her second sandwich. Now, she told herself, she had to be careful. The fish was nibbling at the bait, but she had to judge the exact moment when to sink in the hook.

Patterson came out of the shower room. Sitting on the bed, he put on his socks and shoes. She watched him in silence.

When he had knotted his tie and had put on his jacket, she said, “Aren’t you hungry, Chris? These sandwiches are delicious.”

He regarded her angrily and suspiciously.

“Just what is all this? Do you really mean the old lady told you she is leaving me a lot of money?”

She nodded.

“If you don’t believe me... why bother? Wait until she is dead, then you’ll find out for yourself.”

He continued to stare at her, his mind busy. He hoped, of course, that Mrs. Morely-Johnson would remember him in her will. Maybe ten thousand dollars... something like that. But what did a lot of money mean? This old woman was worth five million dollars. She and he had always got along well together and he knew she was a bit sexy about him. If he could believe Sheila, this could mean real money. How he wanted that! Often, he had dreamed of leaving the bank and setting up as an independent broker. But he knew that was out of the question. You had to have substantial capital to set up on your own, but if he could be sure of getting a large sum...

“She actually told you?” he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

“Why not look at her will? Then I don’t have to convince you,” Sheila said quietly.

“Look at her will? I can’t do that! You don’t know what you are saying! Her will is with our Legal department! Of course, I can’t look at it!”

Sheila finished her drink.

“You don’t believe me and you can’t look at her will... then you must wait, mustn’t you?”

Patterson began to sweat. He knew there would be no rest in his mind until he did know.

“Just what did she tell you?”

Sheila studied him. She knew she had to be careful with him. She could goad him so far, but no further. He wasn’t like Gerald: this man was shrewd, nimble-minded and experienced in tough business dealings. She felt this was the moment to sink in the gaff.

“She told me she was leaving you a hundred thousand dollars a year for life.”

Patterson drew in a hiss of breath and his hands turned into fists.

This couldn’t be true! That was a fortune! She must have got it wrong!

“Wait a minute, Sheila! You mean ten thousand dollars, don’t you? Ten thousand a year for life?”

The gaff was in, she thought.

“No, Chris. I know exactly what she said. One hundred thousand... it’s a lot of money, isn’t it? You should be pleased.” She got to her feet, threw off the bathrobe and, naked, walked to where she had tossed off her clothes. Patterson didn’t even see her. He was staring down at the carpet, his mind racing. God! If this were true! One hundred thousand dollars a year for life! He wouldn’t even have to work again! He could travel! The women he could have! The fun he could have! London! Paris! Rome! The world would be at his feet.

He remained still, his mind in a whirl until Sheila touched him lightly on his shoulder. She was now dressed.

“Aren’t you hungry? You’ve eaten nothing.”

Looking at him, she decided the difference between him and Gerald was he was greedy and Gerald was stupid.

Patterson stood up.

“Sheila! You must understand... this is important to me,” he said, “You really mean this? She really told you this?”

She turned away, went to the bedside table and pulled the limpet microphone free. She put it in its box and the box into her bag. Patterson was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice what she was doing.

“Let’s go back to the hotel, please,” she said and walked to the door.

She was sitting in the Wildcat by the time he had paid the check. He joined her, still in a daze. She noted with a wry smile that he hadn’t pressed her to stay. As he drove her fast and in silence along the broad highway, she thought that maybe money meant more to men than sex. Men were realistic animals. Sex lasted for only a few minutes, but money, with luck and judgment, could last forever.

As they approached the lights of Seaview boulevard, he said, “Why did she tell you? That’s something I can’t understand. Just why did she tell you?”

“Why do women confide in each other?” Sheila said. “Maybe, women are insecure... even old women. They talk. They tell secrets. Perhaps she was so pleased to make you secure. She said how happy you had made her.”

Patterson could accept this.

“But why did she tell you?”

Sheila made a movement of impatience.

“Isn’t this becoming a bore, Chris? I’ve told you what she told me. Why should I lie to you? Surely you can read the will?”

Could he? The will was with the Legal department of the bank. The legal man was Irving Fellows. He and Patterson didn’t hit it off. Fellows was married with two children, serious and nothing in common with Patterson. Often, Patterson felt this thin, sour-faced lawyer disapproved of him. To see the will, he would have to get authorization from Mrs. Morely-Johnson... that was out of the question. He could never see the will.

“It’s not possible,” he said.

“Then you must be satisfied that I’m telling you the truth.”

Why shouldn’t he be satisfied? Patterson asked himself. Why should she lie to him? One hundred thousand dollars a year for life! If only Abe Weidman, the old lady’s attorney had told him this, then he would believe it. Yet, now he wanted to believe it. But why should the old lady have told a new companion-help such a thing? The old girl was a little dotty. She might have confided to Sheila to boast. How can anyone read the mind of the rich and the dotty?

He pulled up outside the Splendid Hotel. He had to force his mind away from the thought of all this money to get out of the car and open the offside door.

Sheila slid out.

“It was wonderful,” she said. “Thank you, Chris.”

His mind still far away, Patterson went through the motions. He touched her hand and turned on his charm.

“The greatest,” he said. “Then next Sunday?”

“Yes... I’d love that.” She took from her handbag the box containing the limpet microphone and put the box in his hand. “A little memento, Chris, for a lovely evening.”

She touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips, then turning, she walked quickly along the brightly lit boulevard to the Plaza Beach Hotel.

The following morning, Patterson entered his office to find Vera Cross laying out his mail.

Until 04.00, Patterson had tossed and turned in bed, thinking about what Sheila had told him and wondering if it were true, then in desperation, knowing he wouldn’t sleep without a pill, he took two and overslept. There was such a scramble to get to the bank in time that he threw on the clothes he had worn the previous night, not caring if the bank raised eyebrows that he was in week-end clothes. In spite of doing without his morning coffee and driving too fast, he was still ten minutes late when he hurried into his office.

“Oh! Oh!” Vera said softly. “Someone’s had a thick week-end.”

Patterson was in no mood for Vera’s good natured banter.

“Let’s cut the cackle,” he said curtly and sat down behind his desk. “I’m late... okay... so now... what’s important?”

Startled by his tone, Vera patted the right hand pile of mail.

“There are the men. Would you like me to cope with the boys?”

“Do that.” Patterson lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand. “And get me a cup of coffee, please. Have I any appointments?”

“Mr. Cohen at ten. Mrs. Lampson at eleven-fifteen,” Vera said. “There’s no Board meeting.”

“I know that!” he snapped. “There never is on Monday!”

Behind his back, Vera rolled her eyes. Someone must have soured him, she thought. Yet he looked as if he had had it off.

Men! She shrugged.

“Yes, Mr. Patterson, sir,” she said.

“And cut that out!” Patterson barked. “It’s not funny!”

She was glad to leave the office.

Patterson rubbed his hand over his badly shaven jaw. He looked across the office at the wall mirror and grimaced. God! He looked a mess! He was thankful he didn’t have to attend a Board meeting. He looked at the pile of mail and cursed under his breath. What a life to lead! he thought. He was nothing but a goddamn slave! Such a thought would never have entered his head had he not been obsessed by the thought of an income of one hundred thousand dollars a year.

He stubbed out his cigarette. He immediately wanted another and put his hand in his pocket. He found the box Sheila had given him.

When she had left the previous evening, he had opened the box. In the dim light, he had peered at what seemed to him to be a black button. Obviously it was of no value nor of importance and his thoughts were so busy, he had shrugged and dropped the box back into his pocket. Now he opened the box and this time regarded the black button more closely: to him, it was still a black button. He took it from the box and found the back was sticky with some powerful adhesive. What the hell was this? he wondered irritably, then as Vera came in with a cup of coffee, he put the button down on his desk and forgot it.

After drinking the coffee, he became more relaxed. He settled down to dictate. In under an hour, he had cleared the mail. When Vera had gone he leaned back in his chair and stared at his blotter. If the old lady had really left him this income for life, he could make plans. She was seventy-eight. She could last for another ten years of course, but that was unlikely. Suppose she lasted another six years: by then he would be thirty-nine. How many men could give up work and retire with one hundred thousand dollars a year? Six years wasn’t so long to wait. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating hands. If only he knew for certain!

The only way he could be certain was to read the will. Was this impossible? He sat, thinking. He knew the form. The Legal department, run by Irving Fellows, wouldn’t part with the will without authorization from Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Would that be so difficult to get? He lit a cigarette, got to his feet and began to pace around his office.

The old lady was half blind. She signed any paper he put before her. He could include an authorization along with stock transfers. He felt sure she would sign it.

Fellows?

Patterson returned to his desk and sat down.

Fellows was tricky, but if Patterson told him the old lady wanted to review her will and here was the authorization, how could he object?

Again Patterson wiped his hands with his handkerchief. But if he slipped up! If the old lady wanted to know what she was signing! He could have an answer ready... he would have to have an answer ready! This didn’t present a problem, but suppose Fellows telephoned her to check that she wanted to see her will... the sonofabitch was so tricky he might do just that to curry favour. If that happened, then there would be an inquiry. Patterson flinched at the thought. No job... no one hundred thousand dollars a year for life!

Patterson, thinking about this, lost his nerve. No! Wait! He told himself. He was young. Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous. When working in a bank, you don’t do stupid things. One slip... and you were out!

And yet, he tormented himself, why couldn’t he know for certain? To have this hanging over his head until the old lady died! It might be ten years. Goddamn it! She might even outlive him!

There came a tap on the door and Vera looked in.

“Mr. Cohen,” she said.

Patterson dragged his mind back to realities and got to his feet.

Bernie Cohen owned a flourishing self-service store, an Amusement Park and a water skiing school He always had spare cash and was always looking for a quick turnover. The bulk of his money was safe in high yielding bonds, but with his spare cash, he liked to gamble for capital growth.

Cohen was short, fat, balding, blue jowled and always smiling. He dwelt behind a six inch cigar and he had been heard to say: “If the greatest man of this century smoked cigars, why shouldn’t I?” and he would give the V sign with his stubby fat fingers and grin.

Cohen sank into the client’s chair and stared at Patterson.

“Moses and Jacob!” he exclaimed. “Have you had a week-end! What did she do to you?”

Patterson was in no mood to take a ribbing from Cohen.

“What’s your problem, Bernie?” he asked, a snap in his voice. “I have a load of work, so let’s get down to it.”

Cohen removed his cigar from his mouth, regarded the cigar, then leaning forward, he knocked the ash into the ashtray.

“Like that, huh? Sore? That happened to me... once it was really bad... a Jap. Brother! Talk about getting caught in a vice.”

“What’s your problem?” Patterson said, picking up his gold pencil.

Cohen grimaced.

“You’re in a hell of a mood, aren’t you, Chris?”

“I’m okay... what’s the problem?”

Cohen hesitated, then he lifted his fat shoulders. If it was going to be only business... then it was going to be only business.

“How do you like Auto Cap Comp?”

Patterson didn’t hesitate. He shook his head.

“Not for you... too long term. Unless you’ve changed your thinking, you want something quick... or am I wrong?”

“You’re right.”

“How much?”

“Fifty big ones.”

Patterson thought for a moment. He envied Cohen. This fat, ball of a man could afford to gamble. If he won, he smiled. If he lost, he still smiled. Thinking back on their association, Patterson couldn’t remember when Cohen had lost... he had gambler’s luck.

“Ferronite,” he said. “It stands now at $21. There’s a hint of a takeover. Could go to $29... might go higher. It’s a quick in and out.”

Cohen grinned.

“That’s what my Jap said to me, but she was fooling.”

Patterson put down his gold pencil with an irritable movement that told Cohen this kind of talk wasn’t with him this morning.

“Mrs. Moses!” Cohen was now worried. “You’re in a hell of a mood, Chris?”

“I have a load of work, Bernie,” Patterson said. “How about Ferronite?”

Cohen felt deflated. Up to now, he always had enjoyed his sessions with Patterson. They kidded each other, swopped raw jokes, but this morning, Patterson was acting like the goddamn manager of the bank.

“Well, okay... you say it... I buy it. Sure go ahead.”

“Fifty thousand?”

“Yes.”

Patterson made a quick note on his pad.

“Fine, Bernie.” He got to his feet. “Let’s have dinner together. How are you fixed... Friday any good to you?”

Cohen began to smile again.

“Yeah... will you lay on the girls or shall I?”

Patterson only half heard this. He was again thinking of Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

“Hey! How about the girls?” Cohen asked, raising his voice.

Patterson dragged his mind back and shrugged.

“You fix them, Bernie.”

Cohen got to his feet.

“How that chick must have screwed you! Look, I’ll call you. You’re not in the mood right now. I know how it is. A good...” He broke off and his smile vanished. “What’s this? What are you playing at?”

The sudden snap in his voice startled Patterson. He stared at Cohen.

“What is what? What do you mean?”

“What’s the big idea — bugging me?” Cohen demanded and he pointed to the desk.

Patterson followed the direction of the fat finger and saw Cohen was pointing at the black button Sheila had given him.

“Bugging you?” he said blankly, then as Cohen pulled the button off the desk, he felt a cold sensation move over his body.

“That’s what I said. Why are you bugging me?”

“But I’m not! I don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about!”

“Then why is this on your desk?” Cohen waved the button at Patterson.

“It’s a button, isn’t it? I... I picked it up in the street... outside the bank.”

Cohen’s little eyes were now like jet beads.

“Do you pick up buttons in the street?”

Stuck with the lie, Patterson said, “My mother was superstitious. Never pass a button on the street, she used to tell me when I was a kid. Do you walk under a ladder?”

“You really mean to tell me you picked this up on the street?”

“I’m telling you! What the hell is all this, Bernie?”

Cohen suddenly relaxed and he clapped his fat hands down hard on his fat thighs.

“Man! You may be good with money and women, but you’re certainly wet behind the ears. You mean you don’t know what this is?”

Patterson had a presentiment of disaster, but he managed to keep his face expressionless.

“Should I?”

“This is one of the most sophisticated microphones on the market: a Limpet special. You can stick it anywhere and it can feed a tape recorder a half a mile away: no wires — no nothing. It’s one of the most dangerous tools industrial spies are using. Every time I have a board meeting, I have the room checked against this. It’s the big ear. You mean you’ve never seen one before?”

Patterson felt his heart beginning to hammer.

“No.”

“Well, you’ve seen one now. Get rid of it. Every word we’ve said could have been taped... not that it matters.”

Patterson looked so shaken and white that Cohen felt he would be doing him a kindness by leaving.

“Well, so long, Chris... see you Friday.”

“Yes.”

Cohen paused at the door.

“Mothers are the salt of the earth, but I’d skip picking up buttons if I were you in the future.”

He went out, closing the door behind him.