Just a Matter of Time

Five

Patterson got through the rest of the morning only by sheer will power and by forcing his mind to work. He needed to think about the microphone, but that was impossible with continuous telephone calls, Vera popping in and out with papers for him to sign and then Mrs. Lampson bleating about her investments, but finally, lunch time arrived and he could escape from the bank.

He drove in the Wildcat to the end of Seaview boulevard to a small restaurant he knew was busy at night, but quiet during the day. He picked a corner table and ordered a whisky on the rocks and a beef sandwich. There were only five other people in the restaurant and they were sitting well away from him.

Now he began to think, and as he thought, a Siberian wind blew through his mind. He knew for certain that he had got himself into a trap. No woman gives her lover a highly sensitive microphone after making love unless this gift was the opening gambit to blackmail.

Patterson was no fool. He was certain all he and she had said in the motel bedroom was now on tape. She had given him the microphone to tell him just this. So now, he asked himself, how was she going to use the tape? How would the approach to blackmail begin? How much was she going to ask?

The whisky helped to steady his nerves. He thought back on the conversation they had had. She had been clever. He had put his signature to the tape. I, Christopher Patterson, think Sheila Oldhill... Yes, that had been clever and ruthless. Then she had encouraged him to talk about Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

If that tape got into the old lady’s hands, he would be finished: not only with her, but also with the bank. She was their most important customer. No woman could stomach what he had said about her in that motel bedroom and not come after his blood.

When the crunch came, would he submit to blackmail? If he could buy back the tape and be sure there wasn’t a copy, he would do it, but he was sure there would be a copy.

He finished the whisky and ignored the sandwich.

But Sheila, he told himself, must know he hadn’t much money. What could she hope to bleed him for — five thousand dollars? Maybe so much a month? Then he remembered she had told him the old lady was leaving him one hundred thousand dollars a year for life. He was sure now that the old lady hadn’t told Sheila this. She must have found out — if she had found it out — by going through the old lady’s papers when the old lady was out. She would see her chance of tapping a goldmine. He shook his head. No, he was thinking along the wrong lines because the money only came to him when the old lady was dead and once dead the tape would have no blackmailing power. No, it couldn’t be that. It must be a deeper and more cunning motive behind this.

He lit a cigarette as he thought.

Finally, he decided whatever the risk, he had to see Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will. That would give him a clue to Sheila’s thinking. If he really was to inherit this big income then he would know what to expect when she put the bite on him. He realized, if the money was to come to him and he told Sheila to go to hell, he would not only lose his job at the bank, but Mrs. Morely-Johnson would certainly cut him out of her will. The Siberian wind blew even harder as he realized this fact. It might be the only solution to pay blackmail money, but if only he knew for sure he was going to inherit from the old lady. He had to know!

Back at the bank, a half an hour later, he went to his office, took from his desk drawer a sheet of the Plaza Beach Hotel notepaper he kept handy on which to write letters for the old lady to sign. Using his portable typewriter, he wrote the following:

He dated the letter, studied it, decided it was the sort of letter the old lady would write and wouldn’t arouse Fellows’ suspicions. He then went to his filing cabinet and took out Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s portfolio.

It took him some twenty minutes to assemble papers for her signature. He placed the letter among these papers and then put them into his brief-case. Then he called the Plaza Beach Hotel.

The operator connected him with the penthouse suite and Sheila answered. The sound of her quiet, calm voice sent a chill through him, but he forced his voice to sound normal.

“This is Chris Patterson. Good afternoon, Miss Oldhill. Would you please ask Mrs. Morely-Johnson if I could see her for five minutes in about half an hour? I have papers for her to sign.”

“Will you hold a moment, Mr. Patterson?” Her voice was deadpan and impersonal.

There was a delay, then Sheila said, “Mrs. Morely-Johnson will be going out at half past four. If you can come right away...”

“I’ll do that,” Patterson said and hung up.

He paused, staring down at his blotter, his heart beating unevenly. Well, he was committed. He had to know. With this threat of blackmail hanging over him, the risk had to be taken. He had to know!

Twenty minutes later, he was ringing on the bell of the penthouse. Sheila opened the door. He stood for a moment, looking at her. He had himself under control and his warm, charming smile appeared as sincere and as genuine as it had always done. He regarded the calm, remote face, the glasses and the low dressed hair. Neither she nor he let the mask slip.

Sheila stood aside.

“Please come in, Mr. Patterson. Mrs. Morely-Johnson is on the terrace. She’s expecting you.”

Was this really the woman who had writhed so erotically under him not fifteen hours ago? Patterson thought as he walked into the vestibule, All right, you bitch, you can act... and so can I!

“Thank you. Is Mrs. Morely-Johnson well?”

“Yes,” Sheila didn’t look at him. “You know the way... please go ahead,” and she turned and went into her office.

Patterson stared after her, seeing the long, straight back, the curve of the buttocks and the long legs, remembering how those long legs had twined his body while he had gripped those sleek buttocks.

He walked through the big living-room and out on to the terrace.

“You naughty boy!” Mrs. Morely-Johnson exclaimed, obviously delighted to see him. “You’re always worrying me to sign some tiresome paper. Come and sit down.”

He sat beside her, then he stiffened and his body turned cold.

By her was a terrace table and on the table stood a tape recorder.

Patterson stared at the recorder as if he was staring at a coiled snake. His mouth turned dry.

“You’re looking at my new toy,” Mrs. Morely-Johnson said. “I’m utterly thrilled with it. I can’t think why I never thought of buying one before. It was Sheila’s idea. She said I should never play the piano without recording what I play. She said the tapes would go down to posterity... now isn’t that the sweetest thing to say? It’s given me so much interest. Just listen to this,” and putting her beautiful, long finger on the play-back button, she pushed it down.

By the time the Chopin Etude had been played, Patterson had absorbed the shock of the tape recorder.

My God! he thought. This bitch is smart. What a sucker punch! First the microphone... now the tape recorder. She is spelling it out in capital letters!

“There are six tiresome papers for you to sign, then I must run,” he said after praising the old lady’s playing. He produced his gold pen, folded back the papers, leaving space only for her signature and handed her the pen.

“What are these papers, Chris?” she asked, fumbling for her glasses.

“They are stock transfers,” Patterson told her. “I’m sorry to bother you with this, but I’m moving your holdings about quite a bit. You have a profit this month of forty thousand dollars. The market is tricky: you have to buy, then sell and take your profit.”

She had her glasses on now.

“Forty thousand dollars!” She beamed at him. “You are a clever boy!” She put her dry, hot hand on his. “And you are very kind.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Patterson felt a trickle of sweat run down his face. “Just here...”

She signed with her sprawling, almost sightless signature. He turned another page and she signed again. He turned another page, his mouth turning dry, knowing the next page was the letter and not a transfer. Would she spot the difference? Briskly, he turned the page and he stiffened as he saw her pause.

“What’s this, Chris?”

He was prepared for this.

“You need a renewal order on the bank for the penthouse rent,” he said. “This takes care of it.”

“Do I?” She looked up and peered at him. “I thought...”

“The bank needs it... I’m sorry to bother you...”

“Don’t be sorry, Chris. I’m so grateful for your help.”

He watched her scrawl her signature, then he turned to the next page.

Well, it had worked, he thought, drawing in a deep breath. Now, he had to convince Fellows.

The signing over, Mrs. Morely-Johnson talked for a while as she held on to Patterson’s wrist with her old, dry hand. Patterson listened, smiled, said the right things and wondered when he could escape.

Then Bromhead came out on to the terrace.

“You have ten minutes, ma’am,” he said with a little bow.

“You see?” Mrs. Morely-Johnson tapped Patterson playfully on his arm. “I’m never left in peace. Dine with me tomorrow night at eight o’clock. I will be having a few friends.”

“Thank you... it will be my pleasure.” Patterson gathered up his papers and put them in his brief-case.

“Black tie, Chris,” she reminded him as he kissed her hand.

He nodded to Bromhead who inclined his head, then let himself out of the penthouse, thankful Sheila remained in her office.

He drove back to the bank. Then steeling himself, and armed with the letter, he went to the Legal department.

Luck was running his way. Irving Fellows had just left in a hurry as he had had news that his eldest son had fallen out of a tree and had broken his arm. Fellows’ secretary, a plain, fat woman who thought Patterson was the nearest thing to a movie star, gave him the sealed envelope containing Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will in exchange for Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s authorization.

It was as easy as that.

Gerald Hammett lay on his bed listening to the strident noises coming from the waterfront, to the car horns as the traffic got snarled up and to the chattering voices of the tarts as they came out of the rooming house across the way to begin the afternoon’s stint.

He felt lonely and utterly bored and sick of this thing he had agreed to do. If it wasn’t for Sheila he would have got on a bus and gone down to Miami. He had never known a woman like Sheila. All the women he had gone with had been hard and tough and had treated him the way a tart treats any man. But Sheila was different. She was the first woman he now could call his own. She was tricky, of course, but he had come to accept all women could be tricky. There were times when she was contemptuous of him. This he accepted as he was contemptuous of himself. If he was asked why this calm, remote woman, several years older than himself, should have had such a hold on him, he would have been hard pressed to explain. The ultimate thing, he thought, was that when they were together in bed, she gave herself in such a way that he knew he owned her and he had never felt that way with any other woman. Once it was over, she became remote again, but that didn’t worry him. He knew once she was in the mood, he would get her back. She was exciting to him. She was to him like rolling dice. You never knew what would come up and this way of life was important to him. He hated routine. He wanted his life to be uncertain. He didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and do something he had done the day before. Sheila was this kind of woman: they could wake up and she was remote: they could wake up and she was biting his shoulders, her fingernails clawing his back and there was this explosion that no other woman could ever or would ever give him.

He hated the thought that this handsome banker should be having it off with her. The thought tormented him. He was uneasy that money apparently meant so much to her. He wished now he had never met Bromhead: never agreed to the plan. Until Bromhead had arrived on the scene, Sheila was his whenever he wanted her: they had even been happy together. Then Bromhead had arrived and the scene changed.

Suppose this plan of Bromhead’s worked? he thought, staring up at the dirty ceiling. What would he do with all the money Bromhead had said would come to him? He didn’t want it! All he really wanted was Sheila, food, a couple of rooms and a car — not even a good car. It was more fun to have a wreck of a car. To go to your car, get in and start it, knowing it would start and go was a drag. The fun with a car was not to know if it would start... to curse and kick it, to dig into its guts and finally persuade it to start: that was the kind of car he liked. But with all this goddamn money Bromhead had promised him, he knew Sheila would insist that he had a reliable car, good meals, clean sheets, a clean shirt every day... things he despised.

How sick he was of this luxurious, stinking town. There was nothing to do except spend money. You couldn’t move without spending money. Well, he had turned bitchy! He rubbed his sweating face and grinned. He had told Sheila she was to see him every night or he would quit. For once, he had seen something that could be worry come into her smoky blue eyes.

“You come here every night or I’ll quit,” he said to her. “And wear that wig... I dig for it. If you don’t come, I’m taking off. I’m sick of this. Every night or I quit!”

He felt safe talking to her this way. They were now hooked together and without him, she and Bromhead were sunk. For the first time since he had met her, he felt really safe to make demands on her. He was prepared to put up with the boredom of this stinking town only if he saw her every night.

He looked at his cheap wristwatch. The time was 16.40. At this time Bromhead was driving Mrs. Morely-Johnson in the Rolls to a bridge party. Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s bridge was always painful as she could scarcely see the cards, but her friends were patient and waited while she peered at the cards. Once she knew what she had in her hand she was as good as any of them. Patterson was leaving the bank with Mrs. Morely-Johnsons’ will in his brief-case. Sheila was using the tape recorder, listening to Patterson’s voice. I, Christopher Patterson... and as she listened, her smoky, remote blue eyes lit up, knowing she was listening to a golden voice that could give her what she wanted.

There came a gentle tap on the door and Gerald frowned. Who could this be? he wondered. Not Sheila... it was too early. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else so he remained quiet. The tap came again. Still he remained quiet. He saw the door handle turn and he grinned. He always kept the door locked. He watched the door handle turn full circle and then return. Again the tap came on the door. Gerald waited. Whoever it was would go away. The only person he wanted to see was Sheila and by now, she would have called out. Then he heard a searching sound which made him sit up, resting himself on his elbow. Then before he could get off the bed, the door opened and a man slid into the room, immediately closing the door.

This man was a mountain of black flesh and muscle. He was the biggest Negro Gerald had ever seen. He filled the small, hot room and his smile, gentle and wide, revealed teeth like piano keys. He wore a plum coloured turtleneck sweater and black hipsters. His high domed head was shaved. His bloodshot, black eyes moved restlessly from side to side. There was a knife scar running down the right side of his face from his ear to his chin: a ridge like a mountain chain on a relief map.

Gerald stared at him. The wide, gentle smile scared him more than if this huge ape had glared at him.

“You’re in the wrong room,” Gerald said, not moving. “Get out!”

The Negro continued to smile and he moved forward so he was standing by the bed, towering over Gerald who stared at him.

“Come on, baby, you and me are travelling,” he said. For a man of his size, his voice was high pitched and soft. “Not much time, baby. The bus leaves in half an hour.”

“You heard me... get out!” Gerald swung his legs to the floor. “Get out... nigger!”

Something exploded inside his head. He didn’t even see the slap coming. He found himself flat on his back across the bed, dazed, with blinding lights flashing before his eyes, then he realized this monster of a man had cuffed him... not hit him, but just slapped him. Fury boiled up in him. He was not without courage. No one had ever hit him before and he wanted to hit back. He struggled off the bed and again found himself flat across the bed. The raging pain in his head turned him sick.

“Come on, baby, you and me are travelling. Pack... the bus goes in half an hour,” the Negro said gently.

Gerald shook his head, trying to get rid of the dancing lights.

He began to heave himself off the bed, then a black dry hand closed over his face and slammed him flat.

“Look, baby... see what I’ve got for you.”

Gerald stared up at the enormous black fist held close to his eyes. Each finger, looking like a black banana, carried a ring and on each ring was fixed a sharp, cruel spike.

“If I hit you, baby, in your generating system with this, you’ll be singing alto in the choir.” The Negro smiled. “Do you want to sing alto in the choir, baby?”

Gerald cringed away. He had never seen such a terrible weapon and looking up into the black eyes, at the gleaming white teeth and at the scar, he knew this was no bluff and he also knew one violent punch with this spiked horror would emasculate him.

His fury and courage drained out of him.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his voice trembling.

“Pack, baby. You and me are travelling.”

Gerald, in spite of his terror, thought of Sheila.

“Where are we going?”

“L.A., baby. You and me are going to have a fine time. You’ve nothing to worry about... everything paid. I’m going to be your friend.” The Negro widened his smile. “I’m Hank Washington... you call me Hank... I call you Gerry... okay, baby?”

His face still aching, sick fear making him tremble, Gerald began to pack. He had few things and the packing was done in minutes. The Negro picked up the battered suitcase.

“You see?” he said, smiling his gentle smile. “I carry your bag. You and me are friends... you call me Hank... I call you Gerry.”

Gerald flinched. He saw the rings on the Negro’s hand had disappeared. He wondered if he should make a run for it and the Negro, watching him, seemed to know what was going on in his mind.

“Look, baby, don’t let’s have any trouble. I’ve got something else.” He put his hand inside his jacket and a long stabbing knife appeared in his black hand. The thin, menacing blade glittered. “Baby, I’m a real artist with this sticker.” The knife disappeared. “It’s all going to be fine. Nothing to worry about... just don’t make trouble, Me and trouble never get along together. You make trouble... you sing alto... you go along with me... you have a fine time... okay, baby?”

“Yes,” Gerald said huskily and followed the Negro out of the room.

The telephone bell rang in Bromhead’s room and he lifted the receiver.

“Jack?”

He recognized Solly Marks’s wheezing voice.

“That’s me.”

“Your problem’s taken care of.”

“Thanks.” Bromhead replaced the receiver. He sat for a long moment, thinking. It had to be done. Gerald was becoming a nuisance, but Bromhead now thought uneasily how much his operation was costing him. Solly Marks had agreed to take care of Gerald, have him under constant supervision, feed him and keep him occupied for the sum of ten thousand dollars. Marks didn’t seem to operate under a fee of ten thousand dollars. Bromhead had signed yet another I.O.U., knowing he was in the red with Marks for $22,000. He also knew that Marks didn’t lend money unless he was certain of collecting. This operation had to succeed!

He continued to think. It looked set, but there could be snags. Things happened that you didn’t think of or couldn’t foresee, but the overall plan was working well. He had listened to the tape Sheila had played on the old lady’s recorder. What an artist Sheila was! If he had written the script for her, he couldn’t have done better. And this inspiration of buying the tape recorder for the old lady! This was something he wouldn’t have thought of. How this must have shaken Patterson when he had seen it! He was sure he had Patterson now where he wanted him. Now thanks to Solly Marks, Gerald had been removed from the scene and would be kept on ice until the time was ready to use him. Yes... the operation was going well!

He got to his feet and left his room. The time was 19.10. Mrs. Morely-Johnson would be having cocktails with friends on the terrace. He entered the hotel lobby and crossing to one of the telephone booths, he called the penthouse. Sheila answered.

“Jack,” Bromhead said.

“Come up,” she replied and replaced the receiver.

Bromhead nodded approvingly. No words wasted... like him... a professional.

He walked into her office, hearing the chatter of people on the terrace, sure it was safe for them to talk for at least half an hour.

“He’s gone to L.A.,” Bromhead said, standing by her desk. “You don’t have to worry about him now.”

Sheila stiffened.

“Gerry’s gone? What happened?”

“Don’t let’s waste time... he’s gone and he’s safe. You must now talk to Patterson.”

“I can’t believe it! You really mean Gerry’s gone?”

“Stop worrying about him... he’s gone.”

She drew in a long breath. Perhaps for the first time, she really realized she was dealing with a man who would let nothing stand between himself and money. She thought of Gerald. He wouldn’t have gone unless he had been under some kind of pressure. She looked at Bromhead who was regarding her thoughtfully. She got no clue from his expression as to what had happened.

“Patterson...” Bromhead said quietly.

“Yes.” She tried to dismiss a frightened Gerald from her mind.

“Don’t worry about Patterson,” Bromhead said. “He’s hooked. I bet by now he will have read the will. I don’t have to tell you what to do?”

“No.”

“He is having dinner with the old lady tomorrow. You’d better contact him. After dinner, he can come up to the 19th floor and you can have him in your bedroom to talk.”

“Yes.” She thought for a moment, then picked up the telephone receiver and dialled Patterson’s home number. The call was immediately answered.

“Chris?”

“Oh... Sheila! I was expecting to hear from you.” Patterson’s voice sounded bland.

“You will be dining with Mrs. Morely-Johnson tomorrow evening,” Sheila said. “When it is over, come to the 19th floor and walk up to the fire door on the 20th floor. You will find it open. I will be waiting for you.”

“I’ll do just that, Mata Hari,” Patterson said and hung up.

Sheila looked at Bromhead.

“He could be difficult.”

Bromhead shook his head.

“No one is ever difficult when he wants money,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Abe Weidman, short, thickset, balding, walked with Patterson across the lobby of the hotel to the exit. The two men had been in the bar for a nightcap. As Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s attorney, Weidman imagined he and she were the only people to know that the old lady was leaving Patterson one hundred thousand dollars a year for life. He now regarded Patterson as one of his important people: a future client. He also liked this handsome man and he conveyed this by holding Patterson’s arm as they walked across the soft pile of the carpet to the revolving doors.

“An excellent dinner,” he said. “A first class claret. The old lady still knows how to entertain.”

“Yes,” Patterson said. In a few minutes, he was thinking, he would have to face Sheila. His mind was excited. He had read the will and knew for certain that he was to inherit this big income. But he had still to cope with Sheila. It needed will power to appear relaxed and interested as he walked by Weidman’s side.

“She looks well,” Weidman said, pausing at the top of the steps. “Of course, none of us are getting any younger. Still, she could last for years. Can I give you a lift?”

“Thanks... no. I have a telephone call to make.”

“You bankers...” Weidman patted Patterson’s arm. “You’re always busy.”

Patterson laughed.

“You know how it is.”

Weidman clasped his hand.

“Have lunch with me next week. I’ll get my girl to call your girl.”

“Sure. I’d like that... thanks.”

Weidman waved his cigar.

“Then next week.”

Patterson watched him walk heavily down to his glittering Cadillac. As the chauffeur held open the door, Weidman turned and waved again and Patterson waved back. He knew Weidman knew and this was the reason why he had been invited to lunch. Weidman was looking ahead: a future client. Well, it wasn’t in the bag yet, Patterson thought as he recrossed the lobby and entered the elevator which was now on automatic. He felt it was now safe to go up: the old lady would be in bed.

Joe Handley, the hotel detective, was in the lobby. He watched Patterson enter the elevator and decided Patterson who he knew had been dining with Mrs. Morely-Johnson, had forgotten something. He watched the indicator as it moved swiftly from floor to floor, then when it stopped at the 19th floor, Handley frowned. Why had Patterson got out on the 19th floor he asked himself. Handley kept a notebook in which he jotted unusual happenings that seemed to be of importance. There could be, of course, a straight forward explanation, but this puzzled him. None of the four old couples, living on the 19th floor, were likely to want to see an assistant bank manager at 22.15. Then remembering Lawson’s warning not to stick his nose into Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s guests’ affairs, he made a note in his book and left it like that.

As the elevator took Patterson, swiftly and smoothly, up to the 19th floor, he tried to relax. He knew for certain the dice was loaded against him. If he hadn’t walked into Sheila’s trap, he could be confident that when Mrs. Morely-Johnson died, he would be a wealthy man for life, but he had walked into the trap and now he had to negotiate. He was worth around thirty thousand dollars. At a pinch, he could pay Sheila fifteen hundred dollars a month out of his salary. But would she be content with that? He doubted it, but it was no use speculating until he had talked to her. She might have completely different ideas, but whatever her ideas, he had made up his mind, even if he had to pay outrageous blackmail, he would try to hang on to Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s legacy.

Arriving at the 19th floor, he walked up the stairs facing him to find the fire door standing ajar. He moved into Sheila’s bedroom and closed the door.

Sheila was sitting in a small lounging chair, an open book on her lap. She was wearing a white blouse and a black skirt: the same clothes she had worn when receiving Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s guests.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, her voice low. “Sit down.”

Patterson sat in the other lounging chair, facing her and regarded her. Her calm expression and her remote, smoky blue eyes bothered him. He remembered the woman clawing at him and gasping as he had thrust into her. She was an enigma to him and enigmas worried him.

“You have read the will?” she asked.

“I’ve read it.”

“Good. Then you know now I’ve been telling the truth.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want all this money?”

They stared at each other. Both kept their faces expressionless.

“I want it,” Patterson said.

“You would be stupid if you didn’t. Are you prepared to earn it?”

Here it comes, Patterson though. God! She’s a professional! Not one word wasted.

“That depends,” he said.

There was a long pause as she regarded him.

“Depends on... what?”

He resisted the urge to uncross and recross his legs. He forced himself to appear relaxed.

“On the conditions, of course,” he said and smiled at her. “You do realize this is blackmail, don’t you? You can go to jail for quite a while for blackmail.”

She nodded.

“Yes... I know.” She waved to the telephone standing on the bedside table. “Call the police... tell them.”

Again they stared at each other.

“You’re quite a woman,” Patterson said. “Okay, so what are the conditions?”

“You have the will?”

“Yes... it goes back to our legal department tomorrow.”

“I want it.”

This startled him and he stared at her.

“You want her will? What use is it to you?”

She opened a box by her side and took out a cigarette. Patterson left his chair to light the cigarette. Her soft, warm fingers touched his and he felt a stab of desire go through him. He returned to his chair and again they looked at each other.

“Would you like to hear the tape?” she asked. “I’ve borrowed the recorder.”

Patterson, uneasy that simply by touching her hand, his blood had become on fire, shook his head.

“I can imagine.” He pulled himself together. “Let’s get this right. The theory is if I don’t do what you want — whatever it is you want — you play the tape to the old lady and I lose my job at the bank and get cut out of the will... that’s it, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“Yes.”

His mind working swiftly, Patterson asked, “You want the will... and what else?”

“Will you give me the will?”

“I could do. Look, Sheila, you have me in a trap. I admit it. I want the old lady’s money. I admit that. It could change my life. I’m ready to go along with you because I have to. Wouldn’t it be better for both of us if you put your cards on the table and told me just what this is all about?”

As Sheila hesitated, the fire door opened and Bromhead came in. He was wearing a charcoal grey suit, a white shin and a grey tie. He looked like a bishop attending a committee meeting.

Patterson stared at him. His quick mind immediately saw the connection between these two. Even as Bromhead quietly closed the door, Patterson had recovered from the shock.

“Perhaps I had better explain,” Bromhead said, looking at Sheila. “We must take Mr. Patterson into our confidence.”

“Yes.” Sheila relaxed back in her chair.

Bromhead came further into the room and moving around Patterson, he sat on the bed.

“You ask us to put our cards on the table, Mr. Patterson,” he said. “Let me do this. You have read Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will. There are several million dollars involved. With your assistance I propose to alter the will so that her nephew receives a million and a half dollars. Your bequest, of course, won’t be disturbed. You will still receive one hundred thousand dollars a year for life which represents a considerable capital outlay. But the money is there. You might say, Mr. Patterson, that I am acting on behalf of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s nephew who has been excluded from the old lady’s will. I feel people who give large sums of money to charities, even if they are such worthy charities as the Cancer Research Fund should first consider their relations.”

Listening to the quiet voice, absorbing what he was told, Patterson was also thinking.

“I had no idea the old lady had a nephew,” he said.

“Yes... she has a nephew: not what you could call a success. He has had trouble with the police. Mrs. Morely-Johnson doesn’t approve of him. But to me, that is neither here nor there. I like the young man. Sheila likes him. We have decided to help him by re-arranging the old lady’s will so that he gets a million and a half. It will be arranged with your help in such a way that the old lady won’t know.” Bromhead regarded Patterson and he smiled his benign smile. “I think it would be a fair statement if I said, the dead don’t care... but the living do.”

Patterson considered this, then he nodded.

“Yes. You’re not being entirely philanthropic about this?” He regarded Bromhead. “The nephew won’t get all this money?”

“No, Mr. Patterson, there will be a division,” Bromhead said in his bishop’s voice.

“So what do you expect me to do?”

“You have admitted that if you are unco-operative, you will lose your inheritance,” Bromhead said. “I don’t want you to think I’m bluffing. With so much money involved, bluff is dangerous. Would you be patient please? I think you should hear the quality of the tape we have.” He looked at Sheila. “Would you please?”

Sheila leaned down. The tape recorder was on the floor out of sight by her chair. She pressed the playback button.

Patterson heard his voice saying: I, Christopher Patterson think Sheila Oldhill... and so on. Then he listened to the real damning thing he had said: 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.

He listened to the rest of the tape with indifference. He was trapped and he knew it. If the old lady ever heard this... no job... no one hundred thousand dollars a year for life.

“It’s impressive, isn’t it?” Bromhead said quietly. “A nice recording. I have a copy of course.”

Patterson produced his gold cigarette case, selected a cigarette and lit it with his gold lighter.

“I asked you what you expected me to do?”

“First, I want the will.”

“You can have it, but I don’t see what good it will do you. You’re not telling me you hope to forge her signature, are you?”

Bromhead nodded.

“That’s what I intend to do.”

“You may think you can,” Patterson said impatiently, “but Weidman, her attorney, won’t be fooled. Weidman and I know her signature backwards. That’s something you won’t get away with.”

Bromhead took from his hip pocket a scratch pad and he produced a Parker pen.

“Mr. Patterson, allow me to give you a little demonstration. Would you sign your name on this pad, please?”

Patterson hesitated, then taking the pad he scrawled his signature and handed back the pad. He watched Bromhead study the signature.

“This is, of course, a little more complicated than Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s signature,” Bromhead said. “Still...”

He tore off the sheet, then without hesitation reproduced Patterson’s signature, shuffled the two pieces of paper quickly and handed them back to Patterson.

“Which is yours?”

Patterson studied the two signatures, then he felt a tingle crawl up his spine. In spite of his years of experience checking signatures while working in the bank, he could not tell which was his signature nor which was the one Bromhead had forged.

“It’s an art,” Bromhead said. “You see that now? You realize now, Mr. Patterson, I would have no trouble in reproducing the old lady’s signature.” He took up the pad and scrawled, then handed the pad to Patterson. “I have studied her signature. Look...”

Patterson studied the signature, then slowly tore up the three pieces of paper. He put the bits in the ash tray.

“So... you can forge the old lady’s signature. I go along with that, but there are the witnesses.”

Bromhead nodded.

“Of course. That has been arranged. I have two witnesses who, for a small sum, if questioned will swear they witnessed the old lady’s signature.”

Patterson shook his head.

“No... that won’t work. Her attorney would never stand for that. No, he would start an inquiry.”

“Mr. Patterson, you must give me credit for thinking this out. You have read the will. You will have seen that Mr. Weidman, her attorney, gets nothing. Now, I will arrange it that the old lady has changed her mind. Mr. Weidman is going to inherit her three Picasso paintings. I know he wants them. I have often observed him looking at them when calling on the old lady. I can tell by his expression these are really what he covets. It is very simple. She wants to surprise him. So she makes a new will, using a new attorney. She gives her nephew a million and a half dollars and her attorney three Picassos worth maybe five hundred thousand. Do you imagine Mr. Weidman would contest such a will?”

Patterson stubbed out his cigarette as he thought.

“So what do you expect me to do?” he asked.

“You will give me the will so I can redraft it, and you will tell Mr. Weidman that the old lady has drafted a new will and she has used another attorney because she wants Mr. Weidman to be surprised. You will also tell him she has had a change of heart about her nephew and is leaving him a considerable sum. We want Mr. Weidman to be prepared and not to make difficulties.”

“You talk as if the old lady is dying,” Patterson said, staring at Bromhead.

“This is a long term operation, Mr. Patterson,” Bromhead smiled his benign smile, “but no one lives forever.”

“And if I do this,” Patterson said, “I get the tape?”

“No, you don’t get the tape, but you can be sure we won’t use it. This is a long term operation: give me the will, convince Mr. Weidman and you can forget the tape. It certainly wouldn’t be in our interest to let the old lady hear it... you can forget it.”

Patterson lit another cigarette. He was in a trap. If he went to the police he would lose his job and this glittering inheritance. The dead don’t care. That was right. Why should he care so long as he got his inheritance? Why should he care if the Cancer Research Fund lost a million and a half dollars?

“Okay,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll talk to Mr. Weidman. I’ll leave the will in a sealed envelope addressed to Miss Oldhill with the hall porter.”

“Thank you, Mr. Patterson,” Bromhead said.

There was a long pause while Bromhead and Sheila listened as the elevator descended, then Bromhead smiled.

“You see? It worked. You must never worry.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” She got slowly to her feet.

“You’re doing very well.” Bromhead crossed to the fire door. “Think what it will mean to you.”

“Yes.”

When he had gone, Sheila ran off the tape, put it in a box and the box in her bedside table drawer.

She undressed and got into bed. She thought of Gerald Where was he? What was happening to him? Was someone going around with him, watching him? Once Bromhead had the forged will and lodged it in the bank, then it was just a matter of time. She intended to leave the old lady, find work — a nurse could always find work — and she and Gerald would continue to live as they had done. They would wait until the old lady died. Bromhead had kept saying: No one lives forever. He had also said it would be a long term operation. A gamble. Sheila thought. The old lady could die tomorrow or she could live another five years. She flinched. In those five years, Gerald might find someone younger.

It wasn’t until the grey light of dawn began to filter through the blinds that she fell asleep.

Lunch at the Lincoln Club was always an event. It was the most expensive and best restaurant in town, and the food was impeccable. Patterson was surprised that Abe Weidman had invited him to such a place. Obviously, he was pulling out all the stops. Patterson had never been to the Lincoln Club before and he was impressed by its massive richness and calm.

He was also impressed that Weidman had his own special table in a far corner in the big crowded restaurant.

“Mr. Patterson?” The maître d’hôtel had bowed. “Of course, Mr. Weidman is already here at his table. Please, sir... follow me.”

The maître d’hôtel looked like an Ambassador of some rich South American state. He led the way through the tables, his hand up in the air as if he was conducting a train over difficult crossings. Abe Weidman was already sipping a treble gin-martini. He got up and clasped Patterson’s hand in his moist warm grip.

A triple gin-martini appeared as if by magic for Patterson and Weidman toasted him.

“Well, Chris, it’s good to see you. Let’s get the food ordered. The swill here isn’t so bad. How about a little smoked salmon and let’s split a pheasant between us?”

“Anything you say.” Patterson tried to conceal how impressed he was with Weidman’s genuine power. “Sounds fine to me.”

Weidman looked at the maître d’hôtel.

“Then smoked salmon with horse-radish sauce... some buttered shrimps. How about a pheasant? I won’t have it if it hasn’t been properly hung... has it?” The little beady eyes probed.

“It’s perfect for you, Mr. Weidman.”

“Okay... all the trimmings. Vodka with the salmon and the Haut Brion with the bird.”

Patterson toyed with his drink, listening. This was a man who was living in a higher bracket than himself, but given time, he would be able to match him. He wondered when he could begin to talk business.

He had seen the forged will. Bromhead had come to his apartment and had given it to him. He had read it through while Bromhead in his role of a servant, had stood respectfully by the door, watching him. He had made sure that his own bequest hadn’t been disturbed. The will stated that Mrs. Morely-Johnson felt she would like to give her nephew, Gerald Hammett, a second chance. As her only relative, she had decided to give him the sum of one and a half million dollars with which he could do exactly what he liked. The three Picassos, correctly identified, were left to Mr. Abe Weidman for services rendered. It was a well constructed document and Patterson could find no flaw in it. The two witnesses of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s forged signature were Flo Mackintosh and Hilda Green.

Patterson had queried these two women.

“No trouble,” Bromhead had said. “They work at the hotel, Mr. Patterson. Both of them are thieves. A word from me and they would be in jail... no trouble.”

When Bromhead had gone, Patterson put the will in an envelope, sealed it, and in the morning had given it to Fellows’ secretary. She gave him a receipt to give to Mrs. Morely-Johnson and put the envelope in the safe. Back in his office, Patterson had destroyed the receipt. That stage of the operation as far as he was concerned was completed.

Now he had to handle Abe Weidman.

“You know something?” Weidman said as they waited for the smoked salmon to be served. “You and I could do business together. I have a number of clients who don’t know what to do with their money. You know the market and you’re smart. Mrs. Lampson and that old bitch, Mrs. Van Davis — God! That woman gives me ulcers! — both say how smart you are. Come to that, I was talking to Bernie Cohen... he put in a good word for you.”

“That’s fine,” Patterson said. “I’d be happy to do anything I can, Mr. Weidman.”

Weidman waved his fat hand.

“Let’s drop the Mister crap... call me Abe, Chris.”

Patterson turned on his charm.

“Glad to.”

After the smoked salmon had been served and they had sipped their Vodka, Weidman said, “Strictly between you and me, Chris, the old lady is going to take care of you. This is in strictest confidence, you understand, but a wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse as my old father used to say. I can’t tell you more, but you’re going to be all right.”

Patterson kept his face expressionless.

“It’s good of you, Abe, to tell me this,” he said. “I had no idea. She’s always been kind to me, but...”

“Put it away in the back of your mind.” Weidman helped himself to horse-radish sauce and then squeezed a lemon over the thick slices of smoked salmon. “Just thought I would give you a nudge.”

This was the time, Patterson thought. He sat for a moment in silence, then he said, “I have something to tell you too, Abe, since we are exchanging confidences, but this is really strictly under your hat.”

Weidman looked sharply at him.

“What’s that?”

“I could lose my job telling you this, Abe... it goes no further?”

Startled, Weidman nodded.

“You have my word.”

Patterson appeared to hesitate, then he said, lowering his voice, “Three days ago, the old lady asked for her will. I gave it to her. She told me she was making changes and she didn’t want you to know about it.”

Weidman looked shocked. The smoked salmon on his fork was forgotten.

“You mean she’s gone to another attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus! Who?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

Blood rushed into Weidman’s face, then it receded, leaving him white with anger.

“Well, for God’s sake! How could she do this to me? Has she gone crazy? I’ve handled her affairs ever since her husband died!”

“Wait a moment, Abe,” Patterson said soothingly. “When she told me I pointed out how annoyed you would be. I said she was making a mistake... then because I really scolded her, she told me her reason. I think you should know although I’m betraying a confidence. She wants to surprise you: she’s leaving you something in her will.”

Weidman put down his fork. His anger went away and now he looked quizzingly at Patterson.

“She told you that?”

“She had to. I was putting pressure on her. I said she just couldn’t go to another attorney.”

Weidman nodded.

“I’ll remember that, Chris. So the old girl’s leaving me something?”

“Since we are going to work together, Abe, maybe I can give away a confidence. You’re getting her three Picassos.”

Weidman stared at him and his little eyes opened wide. He seldom envied people anything but every time he visited the penthouse, he had stared longingly at the three early Picassos in the vestibule. He fancied himself as an amateur collector and he had already some good modern paintings, but no Picassos.

“You really mean that?”

“That was what she told me. She said you would get much more pleasure from them than the local museum.”

“Well!” Weidman couldn’t conceal his excitement and happiness. He beamed at Patterson. “This is wonderful news.”

“She told me something else,” Patterson said, feeling he was now edging out on to thin ice. “She’s changed her mind about her nephew, Gerald Hammett. She’s leaving him a hell of a lot of money. She didn’t say how much, but I got the impression it was a lot.”

This didn’t interest Weidman. He was thinking of the Picassos.

“She is?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Well, good luck to him.” Weidman laid a fat hand on Patterson’s arm. “Sounds like you and me are going to benefit.” He snapped his fingers at the wine waiter. “This calls for a celebration. We’re going to have with our bird, the best claret this swill house has got.”

He ordered a Chateau Margaux 1929 that cost a little over one hundred dollars.

Watching him, seeing the excited expression in the little eyes, Patterson knew there would be no trouble when the will was proved.