Just a Matter of Time

Seven

At one time, Joey Spick was considered the most efficient of Solly Marks’s debt collectors. He was a bulky man with tremendous shoulders and short, thick legs. He looked as amiable as an enraged orang-outang. But now, through a misjudgment of human nature, he had become what Marks called “deadwood”. He had been demoted to odd job man with a social status no higher than the man with the dustpan and brush who runs behind circus horses ready to take care of trouble.

At one time Joey could terrorize any debtor. He had a neat trick which really scared the crap out of people behind in their payments. He would stand before them making a growling noise, then expand his muscles and the seams of his jacket would split. He kept a scared little tailor busy sewing the seams together again after he had given his demonstration. It was a terrifying performance and more often than not it produced immediate payment. If, however, the debtor just didn’t have the money, then Joey would produce his length of piping.

Some five months ago, Joey had what seemed an easy assignment. He was told to collect two thousand dollars from a Chinese cook who was late in his payments. Joey was only cautious when he had to talk to men larger than himself, which was seldom, and this Chinese cook was old, brittle and apparently harmless. Joey looked forward to parting what was left of the old man’s hair with his stick of lead.

He arrived at the restaurant, made his request while he lovingly fingered his cosh. The Chinaman bowed and said the money was ready and Joey felt frustrated. He followed the old man into the kitchen. Joey was pretty dull witted. The saucepan on the stove half-full of boiling cooking fat meant nothing to him. The old man waved to the table where an envelope was lying. As Joey, off his guard, picked up the envelope, he received the hot fat in his unattractive face.

It took Joey some eight weeks in hospital to recover from this assault and by that time the Chinese cook had vanished into the blue, leaving Solly Marks minus two thousand dollars and minus his most reliable collector. It became obvious when Joey came out of hospital he wasn’t going to be the same man as when he went in. Not only was he disfigured — that in itself wouldn’t have been a bad thing because he now looked even more terrifying with white scars running down his puffy red face where the fat had caught him — but he had lost his morale. Although Marks started him off again as a debt collector, Marks quickly realized that Joey had lost his bite. Joey was now always looking for another saucepan of hot fat and he ran at any sign of opposition. Regretfully, Marks took him off debt collecting and made him an odd job man and a man who merely did odd jobs for Marks was very poorly paid.

Marks believed in economizing when he could. He now had another I.O.U. for ten thousand dollars from Bromhead and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t give Joey the chore of acting as second guard. He would only have to pay Joey forty bucks a week and the rest of the money would be profit and if there was anything Solly liked it was quick, large profits.

So Joey got the job of looking after Gerald during the night while Hank looked after him during the day. This was a chore that Joey found boring and hateful. For one thing he liked sitting in his favourite bar during the evening, tossing back cheap whisky; then he liked to go to bed: he was a great man for sleeping. To sit on an upright chair all the goddamn night outside Gerald’s door was the worst job Marks had so far given him.

For the past twenty-nine days, Gerald had been held prisoner in what is called a walk-up, cold water apartment. It was on the top floor of one of Marks’s tenement buildings, strictly reserved for poor Blacks. The apartment consisted of a reasonably large room with a beat-up bed, a beat-up armchair, a table, an upright chair and a rented TV set. Off this room was a kitchen no bigger than a closet equipped with a greasy electric grill and a dirty, cracked sink. On the other side of the room was a shower and an ancient toilet: the flush worked from time to time, but not often: the shower dribbled cold water. There was a threadbare carpet on the floor of the main room which produced puffs of dust When walked on. The only window was boarded up by two bits of wood that allowed the minimum of hot summer air to infiltrate. The room was always unbearably hot and the noise coming from the other apartments practically drowned the sound of the television set even with the sound right up.

Gerald was used to living rough, but not this rough. Had he been better housed, provided with a girl, he might have been prepared to accept his kidnapping, but because Marks was too mean and wished to make a profit and had imprisoned him in this stinking slum, Gerald, his suppressed rage vicious, was determined to break out.

His first attempt had nearly succeeded, but he had been too confident. While Hank had been dozing in a room along the corridor, Gerald had managed to get the lock off the door with a knife he had found in the kitchen. Hank had checked the room twenty minutes later, found Gerald gone, raced down the stairs, got into his car and had had headed fast for the bus station. That had been Gerald’s mistake. Thinking about it later, he realized the bus station would be the first place Hank would come looking for him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

As he was boarding the bus, having spent his last few dollars on a ticket — dollars kept hidden in one of his shoes — Hank, beaming broadly had tapped him on his shoulder.

So great was Gerald’s fear of this huge Negro that he went with him without fuss to the car and back to his prison. There, he received four violent slaps across his face — the fourth one knocking him cold.

Gerald came to find that Hank had screwed a bolt on the outside of the door and further escape plans seemed frustrated until Joey Spick arrived.

Looking at Joey, knowing he was the night guard, Gerald’s hopes of escape returned. He could see Joey was not only dull witted, but also a lush. It took only three nights for Gerald to find out that Joey fell asleep soon after 22.00, lulled by the rot-gut whisky he had brought with him to pass the night hours. He could hear Joey snoring. He knew Hank either was out or sleeping in a room at the end of the corridor and he began to formulate a plan.

Then one night he heard Hank talking to Joey in the corridor. Listening, his ear against the door, he learned on the night of the twentieth, Hank was visiting his girl-friend.

He heard Hank say, “Watch this little bastard, Joey. I won’t be back until after two. You hear me? You keep awake!”

“Waja mean?” Joey sounded indignant. “When I do a job for Solly, I do it!”

“Okay... so you keep awake!”

Gerald decided the next night then was the now or never attempt to break out.

The following evening, around 20.00, Joey unbolted the door, came into the room and slapped down a paper sack containing two greasy hamburgers which had been Gerald’s staple diet for the past twenty-nine nights.

Gerald ignored him. He was watching television. There was a good western on, but Gerald scarcely noticed the action. He was very tense. Then Hank came to the open door. Hank was wearing a white suit, a black shirt with a pink tie with orange circles and an orange coloured straw hat. He stank of toilet water and after-shave and his black eyes glittered expectantly. He was going on the town with his girl who he knew would give out at the end of the evening.

“Sleep tight, baby,” he said to Gerald. “Dream of me. I’ll give you a blow-by-blow account tomorrow.”

Gerald didn’t look around. Shrugging, Hank left and Joey leaned against the wall to see the last moments of the film. The final gun battle didn’t impress him.

“Punks,” he muttered under his breath. “Actor punks,” and he went out, shutting the door and shooting the bolt.

Leaving the television on, Gerald ate the hamburgers. He now had no money and he didn’t know when he would get his next meal. Somehow he had to reach Sheila. She was the only one who would help him. He was smoulding with rage and viciousness. He was now determined to blow Bromhead’s smart money-making plan sky-high. Nothing now would please him more than to fix Bromhead for what he had done to him. He would see his goddamn aunt and tell the stupid old cow about Bromhead and Patterson, but he wouldn’t mention Sheila. He would see Sheila first, warn her what he was going to do so she could get out. When he had convinced his aunt, he would join Sheila and they would go back to New York together. Sheila would get her job back at the hospital and they would forget all this crap about having a million dollars. Who the hell wanted a million dollars? With the money Sheila made as a nurse, they could live all right together. He might even try to make some money himself — just how, he didn’t know, but he would think about it later.

The thing was to escape from this stinking room, get to the Plaza Beach Hotel, tell Sheila, then talk to his aunt.

Soon after 23.30, he heard Joey’s strangled snoring. Sweating and tense, Gerald looked at his watch. In another hour he would start his escape plan. He wanted Joey to be in a deep, whisky sleep. He waited, lying on his bed and as he waited, he thought of Sheila. He was sure she didn’t know the way he was being treated. He was sure she wouldn’t stand for him being kept in a goddamn slum like this. She was tricky... he had to admit that. He had had nearly a month on his own to do nothing but watch television and think. He had come up with a lot of ideas and these ideas he would have to persuade Sheila to accept. He had to convince her that the people running this stinking world had to go. This system of living entirely for money, thinking only of money, living a blind rat-in-a-cage life for money had to go. The scene had to be changed. All these lying politicians, the rich, the people who had power to say this and that and make it stick had to go. The old, useless people who lived on dividends, they had to go too: the non-productive. He wanted to make a clean sweep of them all! Anyone over sixty years of age was so much waste of food. He wanted them all shoved into gas ovens. Imagine! No more old men, no more old women cluttering up the streets: just the young... what a marvellous world that could be! How marvellous to go into the streets and find no old people! The scene had to be changed. He was eager to talk to Sheila and to convince her.

But, first he had to get out of here.

At 23.40, he went silently into the kitchen, took a knife from a drawer and returned to his room. He stripped the bed until he reached the bare, lumpy mattress. He dug holes in the mattress, pulling out the kapok in small tufts. Then, satisfied, he moved to the door and listened. He could hear Joey snoring. Again he went silently into the kitchen, opened a cupboard and lifted out an iron frying-pan: it made a solid weapon. He balanced it in his hand, then returning to the room, he looked at his watch. He wouldn’t wait any longer. With his heart beating unevenly, he put the frying-pan on the floor by the door, took a box of matches from his pocket, struck a match and ignited one of the tufts of kapok. He ignited four other tufts, then stood back.

He had reasoned, when thinking up this plan of escape, that by setting fire to the kapok he would create a great deal of smoke. He would then yell for Joey who would come blundering into the smoke and Gerald, waiting against the wall would hit him on the head with the frying-pan, then bolt down the stairs and away. It seemed to him that this was pretty fool-proof, but it didn’t work that way. The kapok was years old and as dry as tinder. It certainly produced a lot of smoke, but also a terrifying sheet of flame. The flame leapt up, and in a moment or so, the wall by the bed was blazing.

Feeling the scorching heat, Gerald, choking from the smoke and in a panic, battered on the door, screaming to be let out.

Joey came awake. He had drunk a half bottle of whisky and he had been dreaming. When he drank too much he always dreamed of the Chinese cook. In his dream he again felt the hellish agony as the hot fat hit his face. He came awake with such a start that he fell off his chair and sprawled on the floor. He saw smoke billowing out from under the door. He heard the crackling of flames as they took hold of the dry, rotten walls. He felt the heat and terror gripped him. He heard Gerald screaming to be let out. Too drunk to think, feeling the heat, choking in the smoke, hearing people yelling to one another, realizing he was on the top floor and it was a long run down, Joey stumbled to his feet and not caring a damn for anyone or anything except his own safety, he went blindly down the five flights of stairs, kicking, hitting and cursing anyone who got in his way.

By the time he reached the street, the top floor of the tenement building was a furnace of flames.

Around 20.00 on the same evening Bromhead was giving Harry Miller his final instructions. They were together in the motel cabin. The shades were drawn and both men were drinking Vat 69.

Harry had shown Bromhead the piano tuner’s equipment he had bought which consisted of several tuning forks, a number of piano tuning keys, a selection of piano wire and so on.

“This is jumping the gun a little, Harry,” Bromhead said. “Her regular piano tuner isn’t due until next month, but Sheila will fix that. She can talk the old girl into anything. You have to be careful of the hall porter, he has a good memory. It wouldn’t surprise me if he knows when the piano tuner is due to come, so watch that. You have the card I gave you!”

“Don’t make so much of this,” Harry said a little irritably. “I can handle any goddamn hall porter.”

“I’m just warning you. I don’t want a last minute slip up.”

“When I say I’ll do something, you can consider it done.”

Bromhead nodded.

“Okay, Harry. All the same, I’d like to go over the routine again. You arrive at ten o’clock. You go to the desk, tell the hall porter who you are, show your card and cope with him if he turns tricky. He will call the penthouse. Sheila will answer. She’ll say it’s okay for you to come up. You go up. The old lady will be around, either on the terrace or in the living-room where the piano is. Sheila will let you in. You knock her out.” Bromhead paused and regarded Harry. “You can do this without hutting her? She won’t know it is going to happen, but I don’t want her hurt.”

“That’s no problem,” Harry said. “A small bruise that’ll look good... she won’t know what hit her.”

“You strap her with tape and leave her in the vestibule. You then take care of the old lady. You take her jewellery. You wait in the penthouse for at least twenty minutes — you’re supposed to be fixing the piano — then you leave. You come back here, get rid of your disguise, put the jewels in the box I’ve given you and mail it to Solly Marks. You’ve got his address?”

Harry nodded.

“Unless, of course, Harry, you change your mind and want to keep the stuff. I’d like you to keep it.”

“I don’t want it.”

Bromhead shrugged.

“Okay, so you don’t want it. You have your return ticket?”

“Don’t fuss, Jack. I have the scene. It will be done. You didn’t fuss when you pulled me out of that gang-up.” Harry stared at him. “This makes us quits.”

“Okay, Harry, but it worries me you get nothing out of this.”

“I’m fine as I am.”

There was a long pause, then Bromhead said, “There is a little problem. I’d like to fill you in about Sheila. Like me, she’s money hungry. When I told her the possibilities she didn’t hesitate, but now, I get the feeling she is hesitating. The trouble is, Harry, the old girl has a way with her. If she was an old bitch like most of the rich old women in this town, it wouldn’t be so tough. You following me?”

Harry sipped his drink.

“Keep talking.” The cold flat note in his voice told Bromhead that Harry had no scruples. That was okay with Bromhead. This was a job for a man with no scruples.

“Sheila doesn’t know what is going to happen, but she’s no fool. I have an idea she suspects what is going to happen. You must watch this. She could lose her nerve.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“Possibly a complication. I’ve been thinking about it. No matter how carefully an operation is planned, something can turn up to hitch it. My thinking is this: suppose at the last moment, Sheila loses her nerve. What does she do? She gets a call from the hall porter telling her you have arrived. If her nerve holds, she will tell him to send you up. If her nerve doesn’t hold, she will say it isn’t convenient for you to come up and that will be that. There is no way for you to get up to the penthouse unless she says so. Don’t try it. She may say it’s okay for you to come up, then lose her nerve and not answer the door when you ring. Ring once: don’t keep ringing as that could alert the old lady. Just ring once and if Sheila doesn’t answer the door, walk down to the next floor. There’s a fire staircase on this floor. You go up the stairs and you can get into Sheila’s room. The door is bolted, but I have loosened the screws. All you have to do is to lean on the door and it will open. Take care of Sheila first, then go ahead with the job.”

Harry finished his drink. He sat for a long moment, thinking.

“It’s a damn funny thing,” he said, “you get an assignment that looks easy and suddenly it isn’t. Well, okay. So if this broad loses her nerve and doesn’t give the hall porter the green light, I do nothing... is that it?”

“There’s nothing else to do. You won’t get up to the penthouse without her say-so, but I’m looking for trouble, Harry. I’m pretty sure this won’t happen. I’m going back now and I’m talking to her. I’ve got a screw to turn and now’s the time to turn it. I just want you to be fully in the photo.”

“So if this flops... I go back home?”

“Stick around for a week, Harry... I could think up another idea. I’m not worried about this. It’ll work, but I believe in looking ahead and thinking of possible trouble.”

“Okay. I like it here... makes a change from New York. I’ll stick around.”

Bromhead got to his feet.

“Ten o’clock tomorrow then.”

“That’s it.”

The two men shook hands and Bromhead left. He drove back to the Plaza Beach Hotel, reached his room, then put through a call to the penthouse.

When Sheila answered, he said, “I want to talk. Can you come down to my room?”

“I can’t get away,” Sheila said, “but it’s all right for you to come up. She has friends.”

Bromhead let himself into the penthouse. He could hear voices on the terrace and caught a quick glimpse of four people playing cards. He went straight to Sheila’s bedroom.

“What is it?” Sheila asked as he came in. She was standing by the window and he could see she was nervous and strained.

“We have to talk,” Bromhead said. “Your boy-friend has got us into trouble.”

She stiffened.

“Gerald? What’s happened?”

Bromhead sat on the bed and waved her to the lounging chair.

“Sit down.”

She hesitated, then obeyed.

“I told you this was a long term operation,” Bromhead said. “The way I figured it, it looked good and simple. Up to now, it has worked: you fixed Patterson: I fixed the will. All we had to do, the way I saw it, was to sit it out and wait for the old lady to die... that was the plan, but it is not working out like this because of Gerald. He had landed us both in serious trouble. I admit it is partly my fault. By the way he was behaving, I had to put him on ice. I had to get him out of the way where he couldn’t become a nuisance. I made a mistake. I went to a man who agreed to take care of Gerald. This man was well recommended. I thought he was safe, but he has found out that you and I work for the old lady and he knows how wealthy she is. He is putting on the bite. He has Gerald locked up somewhere. Now he is asking for thirty thousand dollars.”

Sheila leaned forward.

“You mean he has Gerald a prisoner?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. This man is dangerous. No thirty thousand dollars... no Gerald. This man won’t hesitate to knock Gerald on the head and dump him in the sea. I’m not being an alarmist. I’m stating facts.” As she began to speak, Bromhead held up his hand, stopping her. “I’ve done a deal with him. I had to... there was no other alternative. Now listen carefully... tomorrow morning at ten o’clock a man will arrive to repair the Steinway. The hall porter will ask you if he can come up and you will say it’s okay.” Bromhead paused and stared bleakly at Sheila. “When he rings the bell, you will let him in. That’s all you have to do. It’s not difficult, but I want to know now that you will do it.”

Her face white, her eyes wide, Sheila asked, “Where is Gerald?”

Bromhead made an impatient movement.

“Never mind about him. He’s all right now, but if you don’t do what I’m telling you... if you don’t let this man in... then Gerald won’t be all right.”

“Suppose I let this man in... what will he do?”

“He will take some of the old lady’s jewels. At ten o’clock, she is always on the terrace. She won’t even know he has come and gone. He will gag and bind you. You don’t have to worry... he won’t hurt you. He will go to her bedroom, take her jewel box and leave. It’s as simple as that. When the police arrive, they will question you. You will say you thought the old lady had called the piano people. It never occurred to you to check with her. The jewels will be sold and you and I will be out of hock and Gerald will be free. Then, later, you two can go off together and wait until the old lady dies.”

She regarded him for a long moment.

“Suppose she sees this man?”

“That’s not likely. You know as well as I do, she is always on the terrace at that time.”

Sheila shuddered.

“No! I’m not going to do it! I wish I had never met you! No!”

“I think you will have to,” Bromhead said, a sudden edge to his voice. “If you don’t care about Gerald, you might care what could happen to you. You’re in this thing too deep now to back out. If I tell this man you won’t play, he’ll fix you. A squirt of acid can do a lot of damage. It comes without warning. You’re walking along a street, in a Self-service store, getting into a taxi... then your face is finished, and if you’re unlucky, your eyes too.”

She shook her head.

“No!”

“Use your brains,” he went on. “The old lady is so rich if she loses some of her jewels, she can always replace them and they are insured anyway.” He got to his feet. “You now know the situation. Just remember at ten o’clock, you hold Gerald’s life in your hands. It sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? Like a bad TV movie, but it happens to be a fact. I have to pay this money. If you don’t mind acid in your face, you should think of him.”

He went from the room and closed the door behind him.

Hank Washington ran his great hand down the Mulatto’s slim back as his mind dwelt on what was going to happen in another hour. As the three piece band began turning on the heat, the sudden clanging of fire bells and police sirens made him miss a step.

“Steady, ole baby,” the Mulatto whispered, pressing her body against his. “Watch it, baby.”

Hank shifted his hand lower and squeezed her firm buttocks, but his ears were pricked as more police sirens sounded.

“What’s cooking?” he muttered as he saw the other Negro dancers coming to a stop as they stared out of the big windows into the street.

“Should you care, ole baby?” the Mulatto asked, her fingers caressing his thick neck.

Hank looked across at the bar and saw the barman waving to him. Gripping the girl around her slim waist, he shoved his way across the dance floor to the bar.

The barman knew Hank was one of Solly Marks’s men. Hank was a special customer in the bar and a heavy tipper, but not for nothing. The barman, an ex-boxer with scar tissue over his eyes, who had once gone six rounds with Joe Louis, kept Hank informed of anything within a mile radius of the bar that might be useful to Marks’s organization.

“Deacon’s building is going up like a torch,” the barman told Hank.

Hank reacted to this information like a man goosed with a hot iron. His hand slid away from the girl’s body, his eyes grew round, then shoving the girl from him, he ran out of the bar and on to the street.

At the far end of the waterfront he could see the flames and the smoke. Already the traffic had been stopped. Police were everywhere. He saw he couldn’t use his car. Cutting down a side alley, he ran with long, looping strides, making fast ground, until he came within a hundred yards of the burning tenement block. He stopped short as the scorching heat hit him. It was impossible to go further forward. The narrow street was covered with coils of hose-pipe. The barman’s description was no exaggeration. Flames and smoke poured from every window of the five storey building.

Hank stood, staring. Maybe Joey had got the little bastard out, he was thinking. He had better get to a telephone and alert Marks. Then Joey Spick emerged out of the smoke. Hank realized that Joey was pretty drunk and also scared. He grabbed hold of him.

“What’s cooking?”

Joey choked and coughed. His eyes were red rimmed from smoke and he stared stupidly at Hank, for the moment not recognizing him, then when Hank shook him, he gulped and his eyes became less wild.

“He’s gone!” he said. “He set the room on fire! I couldn’t do nothing! The goddamn place went up like a goddamn bonfire!”

“He’s gone?” Hank snarled. “You mean you let him get away?”

“No! He’s dead! I tried to get the door open. He was in there yelling... he’s dead!”

Hank slapped Joey’s scarred face, sending him reeling.

“You were sleeping, you sonofabitch!”

Joey cringed away.

“I guess I dozed off for a few moments. I tried to get him out... the door was red hot.” Joey snivelled. “It wasn’t my fault, Hank. I swear it wasn’t my fault. The punk set the room on fire!”

Hank glared murderously at him.

“Too bad for you, Joey,” he said softly. “Solly won’t need you anymore. Get your skates on and start rolling out of town.”

Leaving Joey, he walked around the side streets until he found one of the Negro tenants he knew. The Negro confirmed that there were ten dead: all from the top and fourth floors. Hank grimaced. Solly wouldn’t be pleased. He made his way back to the night club where he could use the telephone.

The Mulatto girl was dancing with a young, thin Negro who, seeing Hank come into the club, released the girl as if she were red hot and vanished through the emergency exit. Everyone who frequented the club knew that it was bad medicine even to look at Hank’s girl.

Hank glared at the girl who smiled at him, then he shut himself in a telephone booth. He called Marks’s house. He was told Mr. Marks was on his way back from ’Frisco and his plane wouldn’t arrive until 01.00. Hank said it was urgent and for Marks to call him as soon as he got in. He left the number of the night club. Then he joined the Mulatto.

They danced until 03.00, then Hank decided he wasn’t going to wait any longer. Marks hadn’t called and Hank felt it was time he took the Mulatto to her bed.

It wasn’t until 09.15 the following morning that Solly Marks learned that not only Bromhead’s problem child had gone up in flames but also that he had lost a tenement building that was under-insured.

At 07.00 on the morning of the twenty-first of the month, the Plaza Beach Hotel came to action stations like a warship signalled: Full ahead. The quiet, efficient dynamo that was the heart of the hotel abruptly switched into top gear.

The four under-chefs in the vast kitchen began preparing for the breakfast rush: each had his special duty. Eggs, grilled ham. grilled bacon, waffles, bread for toast, gallons of orange juice, coffee and tea, cold ham, devilled kidneys were in preparation.

The night staff had already hosed down the drive and were changing with the day staff. Herman Lacey, the Director of the hotel, was in his office with the maître d’hôtel and the head chef planning the lunch and dinner menus. The night hall porter was gladly surrendering his office to the day hall porter, a large, fleshy-faced man known to the clients as George and who happened to own two hotels in Switzerland and a Bistro in Paris. George was a known character along the Pacific coast. He had an encyclopedic mind. No matter what question was thrown at him, he immediately came up with an answer. Time magazine had once done an interview on him, calling him “The Phenomenal George”.

The cleaners had gone. The hotel was spick and span. Already the first telephone calls for breakfast were coming through to the service room. As usual, Fred Lawson, the hotel detective, was the last of the staff to put in an appearance and he found Joe Handley waiting impatiently. Lawson grunted a good morning, then picked up the telephone receiver and ordered his usual waffles, grilled ham, four eggs and toast.

Handley reported that it had been a quiet night with only one drunk to cope with. Lawson grunted again.

“I guess I’ll take a swim,” Handley said. “It’s going to be hot today.”

Lawson wasn’t interested. He settled his bulk behind his desk and opened the morning newspaper. Handley left him.

Handley was a man who thrived on little sleep. Usually, he spent most of the morning on the beach, then after a light lunch, he went to bed and slept until 19.00 when he took over from Lawson. He went across to the staff quarters to change into swimming trunks.

At 08.00 Mrs. Morely-Johnson was aroused by a gentle tap on her door. The bulky, smiling floor waitress, Maria, came in and set down the breakfast tray on the bedside table. Mrs. Morely-Johnson beamed on her. She had spent a disturbed night and she was now glad to see the sunshine again: the kind of night old people often have: stupid dreams, the need to get up to go to the toilet, thoughts of the past and feeling sad about living alone. She was glad to see Maria; this large woman soothed her with her flashing smile and her genuine kindness. She was also glad to have her breakfast. As she poured her tea, she looked with pleasure at the crisp toast and the lightly boiled egg. That she might die in two hours time never entered her head.

In his apartment, Patterson also had slept badly. Do nothing, Bromhead had said. Well, he had done nothing, but his mind was in a torment. He couldn’t forget Bromhead’s cold, calm look as he had said: What makes you think she will call you? Patterson threw off the sheet and got out of bed. He began to pace around his bedroom. Of course she would call him, asking why he hadn’t brought her her will... unless... Patterson flinched. Had he got himself involved in a murder plot? His mind shied away from such a thought, but the writing was on the wall. Unless she died, she would call him. There could be no other solution. He had to face the stark fact: Bromhead and Sheila planned to murder the old lady! They were both ruthless enough to do it! They stood to gain one million, five hundred thousand dollars!

He looked at the telephone. Call the police and tell them what he suspected? He thought of the tape. If he called the police and there was an investigation he would lose his inheritance and his job. He found he was so unnerved that he went into the living-room and poured himself a large brandy. The effect of the spirit stiffened his nerves. After all, he told himself, she is very old. She can’t last more than a year or so and his life was before him. He was only guessing. There could be another solution. He must put this out of his mind. It was nothing to do with him. He must wait. He went into the kitchenette and plugged in the coffee percolator.

At 08.10, Bromhead was dressed, wearing his immaculate Hawes & Curtis uniform. He had had a good breakfast and was now ready to take the Rolls to Los Angeles. Leaving his room, he walked over to the garage. The Negro attendant nodded and smiled. Bromhead was liked by all the hotel staff.

“You’re up early, Mr. Bromhead,” he said. “I’ve only just washed her.”

“She needs tuning,” Bromhead said, “and a new set of plugs. She’s not pulling as she should. I’m taking her to L.A. The Ace garage is the only one I know who can handle her.”

“That’s correct, Mr. Bromhead... The Ace is sure good with top class cars.”

Bromhead got into the Rolls, waved to the attendant and drove from the garage. As he drove along the coast road to Los Angeles, he first thought of Sheila. He felt sure that she would do as he had told her. Then he thought of his future: five hundred thousand dollars would bring comfort, security and new horizons. Not once did he think of Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

Sheila, knowing she wouldn’t sleep, had taken two sleeping pills and she woke, drowsy and languid. She had been dreaming of Gerald, of the time they had shared her small apartment in New York and with her eyes still closed, she reached out her hand to feel for him as she used to do, then opened her eyes to look around the comfortable bedroom and her mind jerked back to the present. Then she remembered this was the day.

All you have to do is to let him in when he rings the bell.

So simple!

He will gag and bind you.

She flinched. Then she thought of Gerald. She thought of Bromhead’s bleak eyes. A squirt of acid in your face. Your face is finished... if you’re unlucky, your eyes too. To be blind! She thought of the old lady groping her way around, peering at things. She is so rich she can always replace her jewels... anyway they are insured.

But it was a betrayal. She had come to like the old lady. She had been the first person who had really been kind to her. She lay still, trying to make up her mind. All you have to do is to let him in. She realized it was impossible at this moment to make a decision. She got out of bed and went into the bathroom. As she stood under the shower, letting the tepid water cool her feverish body, she wondered how she was going to endure the next long two hours ahead of her.

Harry Miller slept peaceably until 08.00. After shaving and showering, he put on his make-up. While he gummed hairs to his upper lip, he hummed under his breath. Harry was completely relaxed. This was just another day’s work for him. It needed finesse, of course, but he had finesse. It amused him that a man like Bromhead seemed so anxious. There must be a lot of money involved. Harry was glad that money no longer meant anything to him. He was glad to be out of the rat race. He was glad too that he would be able to get out of Bromhead’s debt. He would return to New York and live out his life as he wanted to with nothing to bother his conscience. He regarded himself in the mirror... perfect. He nodded his satisfaction. He put on a shabby, lightweight grey suit, polished his black shoes, inspected the cuffs of his white shirt and decided he was part perfect. He then left the cabin, crossed to the restaurant, aware that it was going to be a hot, fine day. He took a corner table by the window and studied the menu. A killing job always give him an appetite. This interested him. He was aware that he was always ravenously hungry before doing a job. To the waitress’s surprise, he ordered a steak with French fried potatoes, waffles with syrup and a pint of milk.

With plenty of time to spare, he lingered over the meal, then having paid his check, he packed his bag, took the piano tuner’s outfit with him and got into the Hertz rented car.

He reached the Plaza Beach Hotel parking lot at 09.45. At this time in the morning there was plenty of space and he parked the car so he would have only a short distance to walk and could leave in a hurry if it was necessary.

The Negro parking attendant came over and eyed him suspiciously. It was his job to make sure only people to do with the hotel used the parking lot.

“You got business here, mister?” he demanded.

Harry nodded.

“You bet I have. I’ve got to fix a piano, but I’m ahead of time. Okay for me to wait here?”

“Sure, mister,” and his curiosity satisfied, the Negro returned to his wooden hut.

At three minutes to 10.00, Harry walked briskly up the steps and across the hotel lobby to the hall porter’s desk. At this time in the morning, the lobby was bare of clients. Only three bellhops were standing around, trying to look busy. George, the hall porter, was checking the Stock-market prices in the Pacific Tribune. He looked up as Harry came to the desk. His sharp, experienced eyes took in Harry’s shabby suit and his little black bag and he decided this was no one of importance.

“Morning,” Harry said and laid the business card that Bromhead had given him on the desk. “Mrs. Morely-Johnson, please.”

George picked up the card and examined it. It told him that Mr. Tom Terring, representative of Scholfield & Matthews, suppliers of pianos, organs and harps, stood before him.

George regarded Harry and what he saw he didn’t like. He didn’t like the heavily dyed black hair, nor the small recess eyes. He didn’t like the shabby suit.

“This you?” he asked, tapping the card.

“That’s me,” Harry said. “Where do I find Mrs. Morely-Johnson... what floor?”

“If you’re trying to sell her a piano you’re wasting your time.”

Harry laughed.

“Nothing like that. We had a call late yesterday. She has a broken piano wire. I’m here to fix it.”

George frowned. There was something about this man that worried him.

“You’re not the usual guy who comes... a fellow named Chapman.”

“That’s right. Chapman tunes pianos... I mend them.”

George shrugged. He picked up the telephone receiver and asked the operator to connect him with the penthouse.

Her toilet completed, Mrs. Morely-Johnson wandered out on to the terrace. The time was 09.30. She had nothing to do now Bromhead had taken the Rolls to Los Angeles. She sat in the sun, looking across at the harbour and wondered how she could pass the next hours before going down to the grill-room where she had arranged lunch with friends.

She decided to clean her rings. Since she was half blind, this chore was always badly done, but she liked to do it. She often said to Sheila: “I must never become a parasite. I have no patience with women who don’t do something for themselves.”

“Sheila?” the raucous voice made Sheila stiffen. She came out on to the terrace.

“Yes, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.”

“Will you be a dear and bring me my rings? I want to clean them.”

Sheila felt her heart skip a beat. She looked furtively at her watch. Then she was suddenly glad. She knew the old lady loved her rings more than the rest of her jewellery. Her rings were kept in a special box. At least this man who was coming wouldn’t now get them. The diamond brooches, the strings of pearls, the diamond necklaces would satisfy him.

She went into the old lady’s bedroom, got the ring box and collected the cleaning material. She laid these out on the terrace table.

Mrs. Morely-Johnson peered at everything to make sure she could find what she needed and nodded her satisfaction.

“Thank you, my dear.” She opened the ring box, then looked up and peered at Sheila. “You are very quiet this morning. Are you feeling all right?”

“I have a slight headache,” Sheila said huskily and again looked at her watch. The time now was 09.56.

“Wretched things... headaches. Go and lie down. Take an aspirin. When I was your age, I used to get a lot of headaches... it’s all part of a woman’s burden.” She picked up a magnificent diamond and ruby ring and peered at it.

“I think I will,” Sheila said and returned to the living-room.

Her hands were damp and her heart was thumping. She looked with dread at the telephone. She must think of Gerald, she told herself. What a fool she had been to have ever listened to Bromhead! She was sure he wasn’t bluffing. How could a man bluff with a face like that? What did it matter if the old lady lost some of her jewels? And yet she felt ashamed. This was a betrayal of trust.

The telephone bell rang.

When Solly Marks learned that Gerald Hammett had died in the tenement fire, he realized this was information that must be relayed immediately to Bromhead. Marks was a man of swift action. He called Bromhead’s room. Getting no answer, he called the hotel garage. The attendant told him that Bromhead was on his way to Los Angeles and had left around 08.20. Marks reckoned that Bromhead couldn’t reach Los Angeles for another two hours. He telephoned Sergeant Pete Jackson, the traffic control officer at Los Angeles. Marks had good contacts with the police and the key men always received a turkey and two bottles of Scotch on Thanksgiving Day: these presents paid off in an emergency.

“Pete? This is Solly. Do me a favour?”

“Name it and it’s yours.”

“There’s a Rolls on the highway heading this way. No. P.C.M.J.1. Dark red,” Marks said. “I want the chauffeur... Jack Bromhead... to get to the nearest telephone fast and call me. Top priority, Pete.”

“Nothing to it,” Jackson said. “One of my men will pick him up in five minutes.”

“Thanks, Pete,” and Marks hung up.

Bromhead had a nasty shock when a patrol officer on a powerful motorcycle cut in ahead of him and flagged him down. Bromhead had been driving at a sedate forty-five miles an hour so he knew he wasn’t being stopped for speeding. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It showed 09.45. Whatever the cop wanted, Bromhead decided it was a good thing he was being stopped. What better alibi than to be stopped by a cop some fifty miles or so from the scene of a murder?

The cop leaned into the car and stared at Bromhead.

“You Jack Bromhead?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Got a message for you. You’re to call Mr. Solly Marks. It’s urgent. There’s a call-box about a mile head.”

Bromhead felt the muscles in his face turn stiff. A sudden cold, empty feeling developed in the pit of his stomach.

“Right... thanks,” he said and engaged gear.

The cop went ahead, riding at sixty miles an hour and Bromhead kept up with him. The cop waited long enough to see Bromhead make his connection, then with a wave of his hand, he rode off.

“Solly? What’s up?” Bromhead asked.

“There’s been a fire. Your problem went up in the flames,” Marks said. “He’s deader than an amputated leg.”

Bromhead absorbed the shock. He knew Marks by now. If Marks said Gerald was dead... he was dead.

“Okay, Solly,” he said and hung up.

In an emergency, Bromhead was always able to think swiftly and act promptly. With Gerald dead, his plan was in pieces. There would be no one million five hundred thousand dollars to be divided. The time was 09.58. In two minutes time Harry would be arriving at the hotel. In ten minutes time, probably less, the old lady would be dead. He must alert Sheila. Dropping a coin in the box, he dialled the number of the Plaza Beach Hotel. As he listened to the ringing tone, he glanced at his watch. It was now 10.00 The hotel operator said: “The Plaza Beach Hotel. Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Connect me with Mrs. Morely-Johnson,” Bromhead said.

“Yes, sir. Hold a moment.”

There was a long pause. Bromhead watched the cars as they roared along the highway and he was aware of a trickle of sweat running down his face.

“The line is busy, sir,” the operator told him. “Will you hold on?”

Harry!

“I’ll hold on,” Bromhead said.

He stood tense. Harry had arrived! The hall porter would check with Sheila. She would say it was okay for Harry to come up. It took less than a minute for Harry to get up to the penthouse by the express elevator. He would ring the bell and Sheila would let him in.

Then Bromhead heard the dialling tone and realized that he had been cut off. The bitch of a girl had pulled the plug on him! He found another coin, dropped it into the box and with a shaking finger, dialled again.

“The Plaza Beach Hotel. Good morning. Can I help you?”

Bromhead longed to get his fingers around this stupid bitch’s throat and strangle her.

“You cut me off. I want Mrs. Morely-Johnson,” he said, his voice a croak.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m putting you through now. Mrs. Morely-Johnson?”

“Yes!”

“Hold a moment, please.”