Just a Matter of Time

Six

Bromhead was watching the late night TV show in his room when the telephone bell rang. He picked up the receiver and as he listened to wheezy breathing, he knew Solly Marks was calling him.

“Jack?”

“That’s me,” Bromhead said.

“I’ll be at the Franklin at six tomorrow evening,” and the line went dead.

Bromhead replaced the receiver. He got to his feet and turned off the TV set. For a long moment he stood, thinking. This could mean either of two things. It was now three weeks and four days since Gerald had been removed from the scene so either Gerald could be causing trouble or Marks wanted more money.

Suddenly and for the first time, Bromhead felt uneasy. The last thing he wanted was pressure. This was, and had to be, a long term operation, but now he began to realize that circumstances beyond his control could force him to move quicker than was safe.

He wondered if he should consult Sheila but decided this was his own problem. Besides, he didn’t entirely trust her where Gerald was concerned. He was sure she would turn difficult if she knew just what was happening to Gerald. There would be time to talk to her when he had seen Marks.

The following evening, he found Marks in the Franklin lobby, smoking a cigar and sipping whisky. The two men shook hands and Bromhead sat beside Marks. At this hour the lobby was deserted. A Negro barman brought Bromhead a whisky on the rocks. When he had gone, Bromhead asked, “What is it? Trouble?”

“Your problem is acting up.”

Bromhead sipped his whisky.

“I paid you ten thousand to keep him happy.”

“That’s correct, but it is now twenty-nine days. That’s a long time to keep someone like your problem on ice. Hank is getting tired of it. Two days ago, your problem got away. Hank picked him up at the bus station as he was boarding a bus back here.”

“How did he get away?”

Marks shrugged.

“Hank can’t be with him every minute. Hank thinks there should be a second guard. He has a point. Hank has to sleep. Should I get a second guard?”

Bromhead finished his whisky. Here was the bite again. He had smelt it coming. Once committed, you had to pay, he thought wryly, but there would be plenty of money once the operation was completed.

“How much?”

Marks sipped his drink.

“This is getting tricky, Jack. If your problem turns nasty and it looks as if he could, he could have Hank on a snatch rap. I’d say another ten thousand.”

“Can’t you think in lesser figures than that?” Bromhead asked, an edge to his voice. “It’s always ten with you.”

Marks stared off into space.

“I said it could turn tricky. You want a good guard, don’t you?”

Bromhead knew he was caught. Now the pay-off would be upped to $32,000, but he still could afford that. There would be plenty left for him and Sheila even after paying that amount.

“Yes.” He took out his scratch pad and wrote an I.O.U. for ten thousand dollars and signed it. He handed it to Marks who studied it then looked at Bromhead.

“You’ve got yourself a big deal then?” he said, showing curiosity for the first time.

“It’s big enough,” Bromhead returned, his face wooden.

Marks nodded, then put the I.O.U. in his billfold.

“Okay, Jack, your problem will be taken care of but I must warn you, he doesn’t like it. I take no responsibility when we turn him loose. Hank tells me had had to smack him a number of times to keep him in line.”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we reach it.”

Marks shrugged.

“It’s your bridge... not mine.”

Bromhead didn’t have to be told. He got to his feet.

“Keep him cool for another week. I’ll handle him then.”

“How long will it take you to repay me, Jack?” Marks asked, looking up at him.

“I don’t know. This operation can’t be hurried. You get interest.”

“The interest goes up after three months,” Marks said quietly. “Forty per cent. Then fifty per cent after the next three months.”

“You look after yourself, don’t you?” Bromhead said.

“Yes... I also have a collecting service.” Marks sipped his drink while he stared at Bromhead. “I thought I’d remind you.”

“I know,” Bromhead said quietly. “I’ve heard about it.”

He had heard about the thugs who collected bad debts for Marks. They arrived with a lead pipe wrapped in a newspaper, made their request politely and then if it wasn’t met, turned the client into an idiot by beating him scientifically and repeatedly over the head.

Marks offered his moist, fat hand.

“Just so long as we understand each other, Jack... it’s a lot of money.”

As Bromhead left the Franklin hotel and began to walk along the crowded boulevard towards the Plaza Beach Hotel he knew he would now have to hurry up the operation. The red light was flashing. If only Gerald had been co-operative! Twenty thousand dollars would have been saved. When he had first met him and put up the proposition, he had felt that Gerald could prove tricky, but he had to use him. Sheila had assured him that she could control him. He had been impressed by Sheila. At the time, this seemed to Bromhead to be a fair gamble. When he had conceived the plan, it had seemed simple and straightforward.

You found a very rich old woman. (He had done that.) You forged her will. (He had done that.) You arranged to leave a large sum of money to this old woman’s nephew. (This too he had done.) You then sat back and waited until the old lady died and then you collected the money. As a theoretical operation it looked good, but now Bromhead wasn’t so sure. He realized he hadn’t taken into account that there were some people who didn’t care about money the way he did. He was getting old, he thought as he walked along the boulevard. He had lost touch with the young: the new generation. When he had been Gerald’s age, he would have done anything — repeat anything — to own a million dollars, and yet this dirty, little creep seemed indifferent to money such as this.

Bromhead began to do sums in his head. The take was one and a half million dollars. When the old lady died, this sum would be split up between the three of them, but first, Marks had to be repaid. Give and take, each of them would get just under five hundred thousand. With that kind of money, Bromhead had hoped to give up work, gain security and live decently. Sheila and Gerald would be sitting pretty. They would have a million between the two of them. He would be glad to get rid of them.

But now the operation had become complicated. Marks was threatening him. Fifty per cent interest after the next three months. This operation could go on for years. It depended on how long the old lady lived. Would Marks wait years? I have a collecting service. Bromhead now realized the weakness of his planning. If Gerald had co-operated he wouldn’t be in this financial hole and under pressure with Marks. This had to be thought about. Ahead of him was a café and he went in and sat at a corner table. He asked for a cup of coffee. When the coffee was served, he gave his mind to the problem.

After some five minutes of thought, he came to the reluctant conclusion that with this complication that Gerald had created he could no longer consider this operation as long term. The forged will was back in the bank. If Mrs. Morley-Johnson happened to die within the next few weeks, his problems would be solved. Thinking about this, he realized that all the time, at the back of his mind, there had been the possibility of accelerating her death. In fact, the more he thought about it, now the thought was admitted, he saw that to have hoped that this plan could have succeeded by just waiting for her to die was a fantasy.

Bromhead sipped his coffee.

But it was one thing to want the old lady dead and quite something else to arrange her death. He realized she was in an impregnable position; in a penthouse with Sheila always in attendance, guarded by the hall porter and when she went down to the restaurant, she was guarded by bowing waiters. When she went out in the Rolls she was guarded by himself. The one thing he had to be very sure of was not to get himself involved. If the police had any reason to look into his past, he would be a dead duck. He thought of Sheila. She was a trained nurse. Perhaps too many sleeping pills? He toyed with the idea, then shook his head. Sheila was an odd woman, but he had an instinctive feeling she wouldn’t touch murder. She wanted money. She was prepared to go along with forgery, but he was certain he couldn’t hint at murder to her... not even hint.

Yet there must be a solution. Success now depended on the old lady dying within a few weeks. He must have nothing to do with her death. Sheila, anyway, would have nothing to do with her death... then who could he call on to murder the old lady and murder her in such a way that he (Bromhead) and Sheila were without suspicion?

He finished his coffee and lit a cigarette.

Suppose he succeeded in finding someone? To hire someone to kill the old lady was dangerous. There was always the element of blackmail to be considered. But suppose he did find someone he could trust. How would this man get into the penthouse? How would he get by the hall porter and Fred Lawson? What reason could this hired killer give the hall porter to get up to the penthouse? How about Sheila? She would be with the old lady. Bromhead crossed and recrossed his legs as he thought. Suppose he found the solution and got his man up to the penthouse. The killer couldn’t just walk in, kill the old lady and walk out again. There had to be an acceptable motive... but what motive? If the police didn’t have a motive to work on, they would dig and this Bromhead knew had to be avoided. He must have a watertight alibi. He would also have to arrange for Sheila to be beyond suspicion.

He relaxed while he thought. Where to find a professional killer? It would be too dangerous to consult Solly Marks. Marks would certainly blackmail him for the rest of his days. He continued to think. Was there someone out of his past he could call on and trust? His mind moved back into the past years... then he remembered Harry Miller.

Harry Miller!

He thumped his fist into the palm of his hand.

Here was the solution!

He sat thinking, then he got to his feet, paid his check and walked out into the hot night.

If you thought hard enough, he told himself as he walked towards the Plaza Beach Hotel, problems could always be solved, but you had to think and think and think and then remember.

He was whistling softly under his breath, now completely relaxed, as he walked up the steps to the hotel lobby. Making his way to the telephone booths, he found a New York telephone book. He flicked through the pages and finally came to the name:

with the address and the telephone number.

He slammed the book shut. It was as if he was slamming the life of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s life shut and opening a new life for himself.

On a hot humid morning in New York, a man known as Harry Miller received a bulky envelope: the first letter he had had for many months.

His landlady was so impressed that she climbed the four flights of stairs, panting, to deliver the letter in person. She waited hopefully to see if Harry would give her any information, but Harry took the letter without even a word of thanks and shut his room door in her face.

Harry hated receiving letters. To him, letters always meant trouble, but when this letter had arrived, he opened it. From it spilled an airline ticket, a one hundred dollar bill and a note which read:

Harry frowned as he stared into space.

Jack?

He nodded to himself. Jack... yes... Jack Bromhead, the master forger. Harry re-read the note, now interested. It was over five years since he and Bromhead had seen each other. If it hadn’t been for Bromhead...

Although it was five years ago, he remembered exactly what he had said to Bromhead after the event. He had said: I don’t forget. If ever you want me for anything, say so, and I’ll pay my debt.

Oddly enough, considering his character and his viciousness, Harry Miller was a man of his word. So now Bromhead wanted him. Again Harry nodded to himself. That was fine with him. He had had Bromhead on his conscience for five years, wanting to repay him. The only thing that really irked him in this modern world was to be in someone’s debt.

His mind moved back into the past. Even now, thinking about it, he flinched. Three of them had ganged up on him. He could have taken two of them, but not the third. It had happened in the prison yard. He had had a suspicion that the word had come into the prison to fix him. He had been serving a five year stretch for robbery with violence and that had been a mistake. At that time money ran through his fingers like water. He wasn’t a stick-up man: he was by profession a killer. He worked for various organizations and he made good money, but at that time, he had a weakness for playing the horses. He had had a good tip that looked certain, but his own trade was slack and he was suddenly without money, so stupidly, he had walked into a gas station, knocked the attendant cold, and as he was rifling the safe, a tough-looking cop had appeared, a .38 police special in his hairy hand.

The gas attendant had sustained a split skull and the Judge was told that he wouldn’t be of much use even though the surgeon had riveted his skull together so Harry was given five years.

Unluckily for him, some months previously he had done a job on a squealer, Toni Bianco. It had been a neat, quick job and Toni had died without knowing he was leaving this life forever. It so happened that Toni’s brother, Luigi, was serving twenty years, for killing a cop, in the prison to which Harry was sent. The word got over the prison walls that Harry was the man who had knocked off Toni Bianco. Luigi felt he had to do something about this but he knew Harry was a button man and he wasn’t taking any chances. He found two Italians who agreed to help out. The three of them isolated Harry in a distant corner of the prison yard. They had knives made from roof slates, lovingly filed into needle-like points. As they came at him, Harry realized he could take two of them, but the third one would get him and he began to kiss life goodbye. Then Bromhead appeared. While Harry took care of Luigi and the second man, Bromhead took care of the third man. It was all over in seconds.

Thinking about this, Harry again told himself that if it hadn’t been for Bromhead he wouldn’t now be breathing nor would his heart be beating. This was a debt that had to be repaid.

I need you.

Harry was pleased. This day was the sixteenth. He had plenty of time. Bromhead was acting big: the air ticket and the one hundred dollar bill. This also pleased Harry. He regarded Bromhead with respect. Bromhead was a craftsman: he could forge any goddamn signature and in a fight he was as good and as tough as Harry himself. So with the air ticket and the money, it looked as if Bromhead was doing well. The hundred dollar bill meant nothing to Harry. Ever since he was released from prison, he had given up playing the horses. During the following five years as a professional killer, he had salted away enough to bring him an invested income, tax free, of around three thousand dollars. Now retired, Harry preferred to live a simple life. His only extravagance was to release a pent-up viciousness every six months by hiring a special whore and thrashing her until the viciousness had drained out of him. Apart from this extravagance, Harry led a quiet life. He liked to watch television, go to the new movies and read books by authors like Harold Robbins. He had no friends... friends to him were dangerous and tricky. Friends always wanted something, always vomited out their troubles, always on the scrounge, but never gave anything in return. Long ago, he had learned he could do without friends.

At the age of forty-eight, Harry was under-sized and thin with hollow cheeks, quick steady green eyes, a pinched nose and an almost lipless mouth. He kept himself always in peak condition by morning work-outs with a pair of heavy Indian clubs. He had no more respect for a human life than he had for the life of a fly.

He was a man who killed with his hands. He considered a gun noisy and therefore dangerous, a knife messy and a length of lead piping unprofessional. He had studied the art of karate and he was now an expert. He could smash a brick with the side of either hand with one chopping, terrible blow. The sides of his hands were his weapons: safe and sure. Should some nosy cop stop and frisk him, the cop would never find on him any kind of weapon. The cop wouldn’t have the imagination to realize that the sides of Harry’s hands were far more lethal than any gun, knife or length of piping.

In his youth, Harry had been bitten by the theatre bug. He had shown a small talent and had acted in various corny plays, playing various corny roles out in the sticks. He had acquired a talent for make-up and this talent he carried into his life of crime. He became known to the F.B.I, and the police as “the thug with many faces.”

On the twentieth of the month, he arrived at the airport, carrying a small black handbag. He had decided to surprise Bromhead who had said he would be waiting to meet him.

Harry had taken considerable trouble to disguise himself. Rubber pads against his gums and up his pinched nose had fattened his face. The thick black moustache, each hair carefully and lovingly gummed into place, the black hair which was naturally blond, the horn-rimmed glasses made him someone that Bromhead couldn’t possibly recognize.

Bromhead waited at the exit of the arrival centre, his eyes scanning the passengers as they came out. He saw no one remotely resembling Harry Miller. It was only when steel-like fingers closed around his wrist, and a familiar voice said, “Hi, Jack! Long time no see,” that he realized Harry had arrived.

Twenty minutes later the two men were in the privacy of a motel cabin some two miles from the airport. They talked; or rather Bromhead talked and Harry listened.

For some moments, Harry couldn’t believe what Bromhead was telling him.

“Hey, Jack! An old bag of seventy-eight?” He stared at Bromhead. “You’re asking me to knock her off?”

“That’s the job, Harry,” Bromhead said. “It is important to me.”

Harry laughed.

“Well, for Pete’s sake! I thought I had something tough. Okay, Jack, boy, I’ll take care of it... just tell me how you want me to handle it.”

Bromhead had been sure this would be the answer, but he was relieved that his thinking had been right.

“I’m not asking you to do this for nothing, Harry,” he said. “The old lady always wears a mass of jewellery. It’s worth something like two hundred grand. There are days when she plasters herself with the stuff worth three hundred... you could be lucky. You can help yourself.”

Harry shook his head.

“No thanks... I’ve got all I want. At my age, Jack, I’ve got beyond bothering about money. I’ll do the job with pleasure but I don’t want anything out of it.”

Bromhead stared at him.

“You’ve got all you want?” He leaned forward. “Look, Harry, you could pick up at least a hundred grand out of this.”

He was thinking: at my age I’ve got beyond bothering about money. What the hell was happening to this goddamn world? How could anyone have too much?

Again Harry shook his head.

“I don’t want it, Jack. I’ve got all I want. I like a simple life... forget it. How do you want it done?”

Bromhead now became suspicious. He couldn’t imagine anyone doing anything as big as this for nothing unless he had a nut loose.

“There has to be a motive, Harry,” he said, trying to make his voice sound patient. “If there’s no motive, the cops will start digging and that’s something I don’t want... they could dig me up.”

Being a professional, Harry understood what Bromhead was saying.

“Okay... so we have a motive... keep talking...”

“When you hit the old lady, you take her rings, her bracelets and her pearls. Keep them... it’s your pay-off, Harry.”

Harry moved restlessly.

“Not for me. I’ve got beyond that caper. What would I do with them? I’ve kissed the creeps who handle stuff like that goodbye. I won’t want to be bothered. I have all the money I want. I’m doing this for you, Jack. I owe you and I pay my debts.”

This was something Bromhead couldn’t believe.

“But, Harry... for God’s sake! You can’t refuse more than a hundred big ones! You can’t!”

As Bromhead said this, he was watching Harry and he saw Harry was suddenly looking bored and this frightened him.

“Suppose we skip this?” Harry said, his voice cold. “Tell me how you want the job done and I’ll do it.”

Bromhead began to sweat. He now had to accept the fact that this man, sitting before him, couldn’t care less about money. To him, it was like looking at a man from the moon.

“Harry... there has to be a motive,” Bromhead said, trying to control the unsteadiness of his voice. “You must take her goddamn jewels.”

Harry shrugged.

“So, okay, I take her jewels. You can use them, can’t you? I hit her... that’s okay. I told you I’d fix anything or anyone for you for what you did for me... fine. So I take the jewels and I give them to you... but they’re not for me.”

Listening to the hard, impatient voice, Bromhead realized Harry meant what he was saying and to press him further could cause trouble.

He thought of Gerald. He had imagined it was only the young who didn’t care about money... now, for God’s sake... Harry was saying the same thing!

He gave up.

“Okay, Harry. Don’t ever say I didn’t make the offer. If that’s the way you want it... that’s the way you want it.”

“Let’s cut the crap,” Harry said. “Tell me how you want it done.”

Bromhead leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

“You have to get into the penthouse. It’s tricky. The hotel dick buzzes around. No one get up there without the hall porter giving his say-so. You’re good at impersonations... so, imagine you are a piano tuner...”

While this conversation was going on, Patterson was conducting Mrs. Van Davis from his office and to the revolving doors to where her sleek Cadillac was waiting. Her chauffeur had the door open.

Mrs. Van Davis had invested fifty thousand dollars on Patterson’s advice in I.B.M. She was happy and Patterson pleased. He was able to endure her yakking, smile warmly down at her fat, wrinkled face, knowing he had done a good morning’s work.

Once settled in the car, rather like a performing elephant settles on a stool, Mrs. Van Davis waved her fat fingers, glittering with diamonds and he waved back. When the Cadillac had moved into the traffic, he heaved a sigh of relief and walked back to his office. That was his last appointment before lunch. He looked at his gold Omega, yet another present from Mrs. Morely-Johnson, saw he had twenty-five minutes to clear his desk before lunching with Bernie Cohen.

It was now just under three weeks since he had handed Irving Fellows’ secretary the forged will. During the first week, Patterson had been guilt ridden, but by now, he had come to accept the fact that nothing could happen until the old lady died and this could be some time ahead.

He told himself he must put this affair out of his mind. He had been impressed by Bromhead. This had been a surprise, of course — Bromhead and Sheila working together, but thinking about it, he saw how easily he had walked into the trap. He had only himself to blame. If he hadn’t fallen for Sheila, this would never have happened. Patterson had a lot of resilience. It took him several days to recover from the shock, but now he had recovered. He had confidence in Bromhead. He admired the clever way Bromhead had suggested how he should take care of Abe Weidman who was, of course, the danger man. Bromhead had been right too when he had said the dead don’t care. By the time the will was proved, Mrs. Morely-Johnson would be cremated and the Cancer Research Fund, not knowing what they had missed, wouldn’t grieve. The main thing was his own inheritance would remain undisturbed. It was now a matter of patient waiting and at his age, Patterson felt he could afford to wait.

He settled down behind his desk to sign papers, and as he signed he thought what he would have for lunch. As Bernie Cohen was picking up the tab, Patterson felt he might indulge himself. Perhaps a prawn cocktail with a touch of curry mayonnaise and a rognons flambés. A little heavy, Patterson thought, but this was what he fancied.

Vera Cross looked in.

“Mrs. Morely-Johnson on the phone, Chris.”

Patterson grimaced.

“Okay... put her on.”

What did she want? he wondered as he listened to the clicking on the line, then Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s raucous voice hit his eardrum and he hurriedly held the receiver away.

“Chris?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. How are you?”

“I’m pretty well. I’m not getting any younger but I’m not complaining. I don’t like people who are always complaining so I don’t complain.”

“I agree with you.”

“And how are you?”

Patterson began to dig holes in his blotter with his paper knife.

“I’m fine, thank you. Was there something, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?”

“When you talk like that, Chris, I know you are busy. Have I interrupted something?”

“Certainly not.” Patterson put down the paper knife. He realized he had allowed an impatient note to come into his voice and the old lady had spotted it... that was bad tactics. “You know I like nothing better than to do something for you.”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson gave her shrill, girlish laugh that set Patterson’s teeth on edge.

“Dear Chris! How nice of you! But I know how busy you are so I won’t keep you. Could you come here at five o’clock? I want to consult you.”

Patterson glanced at his engagement book. He had an appointment with Jack Deakin at 16.00. Deakin, the director of the Splendid Hotel, wanted a loan. Patterson was sure he could get rid of him in half an hour, then he was free.

“It will be my pleasure,” he said.

“And Chris...” There was a long pause while Patterson, now reading a letter he had to sign, waited.

“Yes, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?”

“Please bring my will when you come.”

Patterson stiffened. The letter he was holding fluttered from his fingers to the floor. He couldn’t believe he was hearing aright.

“I’m sorry.” He was aware his voice had turned husky. “I didn’t get that. The line seems bad. What did you say?”

“I can hear you clearly... how odd. Please bring my will with you. I want to make changes.”

Patterson turned cold and his heart began to race.

“I am calling Mr. Weidman,” Mrs. Morely-Johnson went on. “I want him to make a new will for me. I’m sure he will come at five this evening and then you and he can settle everything.”

Blind panic hit Patterson. For a long moment, he sat motionless, his hand like a claw, gripping the telephone receiver.

“Chris?” The squawking voice aroused him. “Are you there?”

He willed himself to think.

“Yes... the line is very bad. I can’t think why.” His brain was racing. He was like a fighter who has walked into a crushing punch and now weaved, dodged and ducked to survive. “I’m afraid it can’t be done as quickly as that, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Don’t call Mr. Weidman. I’m sorry, but to bring you your will... there are formalities. When I come this evening I will bring you an authorization to sign. Our legal department won’t release your will without your signature.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s voice rose a note. “Mr. Fellows is always very kind to me. Put me through to him. Of course he will let you have my will!”

Patterson shut his eyes. He knew Fellows wouldn’t hesitate to hand the will over if Mrs. Morely-Johnson asked him. Every Christmas the old lady sent his brats expensive presents and Fellows appreciated this.

“Mr. Fellows isn’t in today,” Patterson said, the lie bringing sweat beads to his face. “Is this all that urgent? You have given us the will for safe keeping... we do need your signature to release it, Mrs. Morely-Johnson... please may I ask you to understand?”

There was a long pause, then she said, sounding disgruntled, “Oh, very well. I don’t want to upset your silly bank... then I must wait.”

Patterson took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

“That’s very understanding of you. I will bring the authorization at five. You will have the will tomorrow morning.”

“How tiresome!” She made no attempt to conceal her annoyance. “I wanted to read it this evening.”

“You will have it without fail tomorrow morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.”

“Oh, very well,” and she hung up.

Patterson grimaced and leaned back in his chair. The thought of a shrimp cocktail with a touch of curry mayonnaise, followed by rognons flambés now made him feel sick.

At 17.00, Patterson rang the bell of the penthouse. He had come armed with a plastic box containing four rare orchids. He knew from the tone of the old lady’s voice that she would need softening.

Sheila opened the door and stood aside to let him in.

“I must talk to Bromhead,” Patterson, said, his voice low. “It’s an emergency.”

He saw her flinch.

“He will be here when you leave.”

Patterson moved past her and out on to the terrace.

Sheila heard Mrs. Morley-Johnson say, “I’m annoyed with you, dear Chris. Come here and be scolded.”

She went into her office and called Bromhead. “Come to my room right away,” she said and hung up.

Patterson had guessed right. The orchids worked like a charm. Mrs. Morely-Johnson was so pleased she forgot to remain cross. After some chit-chat that Patterson had to endure, she said, “Chris, dear... I’ve been thinking about Sheila. She is such a kind person, so considerate... you can’t imagine. I want to reward her... that’s why I want my will. I’m going to leave her a little money.”

Patterson’s mind worked swiftly. The danger here was very real.

“That’s no problem,” he said. “A simple codicil will take care of that. I can arrange it for you. You don’t have to bother Mr. Weidman with this. I can add the codicil and have your signature witnessed. Absolutely no problem.”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson put on her thick lensed glasses and peered at him.

“I think Mr. Weidman must do it, Chris. He always looks after my legal work.”

Patterson shifted in his chair.

“That’s as you wish, of course, but Mr. Weidman will charge a fee. I can arrange this for you at no expense.” It was a last, desperate throw.

Mrs. Morely-Johnson considered this. Had she been a greedy woman this would have been a telling point, but she wasn’t.

Patterson, his heart hammering, felt a chill run through him.

She shook her head.

“That’s very considerate of you, Chris, but I don’t want to upset Mr. Weidman. I must consult him. Do you think fifteen thousand dollars would be the right amount to leave Sheila?”

“That would be very generous,” Patterson said in a low, strangled voice.

“Good! Then give me this silly paper and I will sign it and I will call Mr. Weidman right away... then it will all be in order.”

Patterson was desperate now. He must talk to Bromhead... he must gain time. As Mrs. Morely-Johnson scrawled her signature on the paper he gave her, he said, “Didn’t you know? Mr. Weidman left for New York this morning. I ran into him as he was leaving. He won’t be back until Monday.”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson threw up her beautiful, old hands.

“You see? Nothing is ever easy. Well, then I must wait, but bring me my will tomorrow, Chris, please.” She beamed at him. “After all, as you said, it really isn’t urgent. It’s not as if I’m going to die tomorrow.”

“That’s right,” Patterson said huskily.

“Would you like a drink? I think a little champagne would be nice. I’ll call Sheila.”

Patterson couldn’t stand any more of this. He got to his feet.

“Please excuse me. This is my busy period. I really must run along.”

He kissed her old hand, listened to her thanks for the orchids again, then left her. As he walked into the living-room, she turned on her tape recorder and sat back to listen to herself playing a Beethoven sonata.

Sheila was waiting in the vestibule. She motioned Patterson to her bedroom. He went into the room and found Bromhead sitting in one of the lounging chairs.

Sheila remained in the vestibule where she could watch Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

Patterson closed the door.

“She’s asking for her will,” he said, trying to control the panic in his voice. “My legal department could become suspicious. To ask for the will twice in three weeks... it doesn’t make sense. The man in charge could telephone her.”

Bromhead nodded. His calm expression did something to damp down Patterson’s panic.

“Why is she asking for the will?” he asked.

“She’s leaving Sheila fifteen thousand. She insists Weidman handles it. I tried to talk her out of it, but she insists.”

Bromhead absorbed this, then again he nodded.

His calmness began to exasperate Patterson.

“She was about to call Weidman, but I stalled her. I told her Weidman had gone to New York until Monday.”

“Has he?” Bromhead asked.

Patterson shook his head.

“No.”

“That’s dangerous.”

Patterson slammed his fist into the palm of his hand.

“What the hell else could I say?” His voice shot up. “I had to stop her calling him until I had talked to you.”

“That’s right.” Bromhead thought for a moment. Tomorrow was the twenty-first. He saw now he had timed the operation to the split second. “Don’t do anything... just wait.”

“Don’t do anything?” Patterson stared incredulously at Bromhead. “What are you saying? I’ve got to do something!”

Bromhead waved his hand, signalling Patterson to keep his voice down.

“You are going to inherit one hundred thousand dollars a year for life,” he said quietly. “That is all you have to think about. Don’t do anything.”

“But she wants her will by tomorrow morning!”

“Do nothing. She won’t need it.”

Patterson stared into the ice grey eyes and he felt a chill run through him.

“She’ll expect it... She...” Then he stopped.

Bromhead got to his feet.

“If you want your inheritance, Mr. Patterson, you won’t ask questions, but you will do what I suggest... nothing.” He moved to the door, paused and stared at Patterson, “But, of course, if you don’t want one hundred thousand dollars a year for life then you will give the old lady the forged will, let her call Mr. Weidman and explain what has happened. In my turn, I will give her the tape. This is something you must decide for yourself.”

Patterson felt the blood drain out of his face. He had a sudden presentiment that something was going to happen and this something was something he didn’t want to know about.

“All right,” he said, his voice unsteady, “if you really mean I’m to do nothing, then I’ll do nothing. But when she calls me, what am I to say?”

“What makes you think she will call you?” Bromhead asked, turned and left the room.

Patterson, cold and frightened, realized he was now involved in something far worse than forgery, but the fingers of gold beckoned to him: one hundred thousand dollars a year for life! He had to think of himself. He had to rely on Bromhead. He was in too deep a trap not to have to rely on Bromhead.

He went into the vestibule and opened the front door. He saw Sheila on the terrace arranging the orchids in a vase. He crossed to the elevator and pressed the down button.

As he descended in the elevator, his mind was in a whirl. In a situation like this you can’t just do nothing, he told himself and yet Bromhead had told him to do exactly that. Tomorrow morning, if he didn’t do something, he knew Mrs. Morely-Johnson would be telephoning asking him why he hadn’t come.

If you want to keep your inheritance, Mr. Patterson... do nothing.

Since he had read Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will he had thought about nothing else during his leisure moments than how he would use this massive inheritance. He would of course resign from the bank. He would scrap all his clothes and buy himself a complete new wardrobe. He would book a passage on the Queen Elizabeth for Europe. First, he would savour London. He would play around there, staying at the Dorchester Hotel, then he would move on to Paris, staying at the Plaza Athene. He was sure he wouldn’t be lonely: with his looks and his money he would only have to lift an eyebrow and girls would materialize. Then two weeks at the Eden in Rome. By then he would have had enough of the city lights. He would head for Capri and relax in the sun. He would stay there during the season. Patterson loved the sun and from what he had heard, the Italian girls really know how to give out. From then on there would be time to make further plans, but this was the master plan to be put into operation immediately the inheritance was his.

But as the elevator took him to the ground floor, he was sick with anxiety. Do nothing? It seemed to him that his dreams and plans were falling to bitter pieces. He thought of Bromhead. The man seemed so confident. Do nothing? Do nothing?

The elevator doors swished silently open and he walked into the lobby.

“Hi, Chris!”

He came to an abrupt standstill, his heart skipping a beat. Advancing towards him, his fat face beaming was the last man he wanted to see: Abe Weidman. Somehow, he forced a smile, thrusting out his hand. As Weidman pumped it, he managed to say, “This is a surprise, Abe. What are you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d drop by and see the old lady... she likes attention.” Weidman winked. “I wanted to take another look at those Picassos. Have you been to see her?”

“Yes.” For a long moment Patterson’s mind refused to work. It bounced around inside his skull like a terrified mouse getting away from a cat. Then he got himself under control. “Take my advice, Abe and skip it. She’s in one of her bad moods.”

Weidman’s eyebrows shot up.

“What’s biting her?”

“God knows... I don’t have to tell you... every so often she gets like this. Old age, I guess.” He caught hold of Weidman’s arm. “Come and have a drink with me.”

Weidman hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure... if she’s like that.” He allowed himself to be steered towards the bar. As they were walking together across the lush carpet, Bromhead came out of the elevator. He saw them go into the bar and his eyes narrowed. This was getting dangerous. He turned and re-entered the elevator back to the penthouse.

As the elevator took him upwards, he told himself that he must now make arrangements for an unbreakable alibi.

He found Mrs. Morely-Johnson settling herself before the piano. She was taking off her beautiful rings, making a little pile of them on the side of the Steinway. She looked up as Bromhead approached.

“Excuse me, madam.”

She peered at him.

“Is that you, Bromhead?”

“Yes, madam.”

She completed piling her rings and then struck C sharp. She smiled. Yes, she told herself, her touch remained constant. She struck E flat.

“What is it, Bromhead?”

“The Rolls needs servicing, madam. If you are agreeable, I would like to take it to Los Angeles early tomorrow morning. I will have it back by five o’clock.”

“Los Angeles? Isn’t that a long way to go?”

“It’s the only garage I trust,” Bromhead said. “A Rolls is a very special car, madam.”

“And you will be away all day? I can’t remember... have I any appointments, Bromhead?”

“I asked Miss Oldhill... there are no appointments.”

She played a quick scale.

“Very well. Be sure you give yourself a good lunch, Bromhead.”

“Yes... thank you, madam.”

Bromhead regarded her as she began to play. Although he had no ear for music, instinct told him he was listening to a performer of great talent.

He looked long and closely, because he liked the old lady and at this moment he sincerely wished she hadn’t so much money for he knew he was looking at her for the last time... this saddened him.