Just a Matter of Time

Eight

Joe Handley had enjoyed his swim and sunbathe. Now he walked up the steps to the hotel to pick up a copy of the Pacific Herald to catch up with the day’s news.

As he entered the lobby, he saw an undersized man wearing a shabby suit and carrying a small black bag leaving the hall porter’s desk. Two things immediately struck Handley’s police-trained mind. One was the black, heavily dyed hair and the other was that although this man had a fat face, as he walked across the lobby to the elevator, turning his back on Handley, he revealed a thin, stringy neck. Also, Handley’s built-in cop instinct told him this was a man he didn’t like.

As the elevator door swished to, cutting the man from Handley’s sight, he walked over to George’s desk.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Some guy from Scholfield & Matthews to repair Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s piano,” George told him.

“Where’s Lawson?”

“Where do you expect?” George had a low opinion of Fred Lawson. “Taking a nap or stuffing his gut again.”

“I didn’t like the look of that guy... did you?”

George scratched his jaw.

“He can’t help his looks, can he? I checked with Miss Oldhill. She said it was okay for him to go up.” George hesitated, then went on. “But you’re right, Joe... there was something about him.”

The two men looked at each other. Handley hesitated. This wasn’t his business. Lawson was in charge now.

“Miss Oldhill said it was okay?”

“That’s right... sounds as if she had a cold... very husky.”

Again, Handley hesitated, then shrugging, he wandered over to the newspaper kiosk and bought the Pacific Herald. While he glanced at the headlines, he thought of the man who had just gone up to the penthouse. Why was it his instinct told him this man should be investigated? Something in the walk? The slightly hunched shoulders as if he expected someone to call after him?

It might be an idea to go up and check. The old lady was their most valued client. Lawson would blow a fuse, of course, if he found out. Check? How could he check? Carrying the newspaper, Handley went over to a chair and sat down. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the lobby and go to his room. An instinctive alarm bell was ringing at the back of his mind.

It took him four minutes of hard thinking to solve the problem of his alarm. This man not only had a fat face and a thin neck, not only heavily dyed hair, but he was also wearing built-up shoes! Handley dropped the newspaper and got to his feet. He was going to check and to hell with Lawson!

Sheila listened to George’s fruity baritone voice. She was shaking and could scarcely hold the telephone receiver.

“I understand, Miss Oldhill, that Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s piano needs repairing. Scholfield & Matthews have sent a man. Should I tell him to come up?”

This is it! she thought. Even at this moment, she couldn’t make up her mind what to do. She stood silent, hesitating. She had to think of Gerald! I have to do it! she told herself. I have to! The jewels were insured, but at the back of her mind, she had a feeling that there was more to this than taking the old lady’s jewel box. No one lives forever, Bromhead had said and she remembered the bleak coldness in his eyes.

“Miss Oldhill?” There was a note of impatience in George’s voice.

She had to do it!

She forced herself to say, “Yes... it’s all right... let him come up,” and with a shaking hand, she replaced the receiver. She closed her eyes.

He will gag and bind you. She would have to face a police investigation. This was madness. She couldn’t go through with it! Then again her mind switched to Gerald; held prisoner with his life threatened!

Then two things happened simultaneously. The front doorbell rang and the telephone bell rang.

She started violently. She looked wildly to the front door, then down at the telephone. Because the telephone was by her hand and because she knew there was a thief at the front door, she lifted the telephone receiver.

“Yes?”

“This is Jack.”

Strength went out of her legs and she had to sit down.

“Sheila?”

“Yes.”

“It’s off! I’ll explain when I get back. Tell Harry it’s off. We don’t go ahead... do you understand? Harry should be with you any second now... tell him to go away. Now listen, Sheila...”

Then the operator on the hotel switchboard repeated her mistake. She pulled out the wrong plug and cut them off.

Standing before the front door of the penthouse, Harry had rung the bell. He waited. He heard no sound. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the elevator descend.

Ring once, Bromhead had said. Don’t keep ringing as it will alert the old lady. If she doesn’t answer, she’s lost her nerve. Walk down to the next floor. There’s a fire escape staircase...

Harry waited another minute. Still the front door didn’t open. So the stupid bitch had. lost her nerve! He would make her sorry! A red cloud of viciousness filled his mind. Moving silently, he ran down the stairs to the 19th floor. As he disappeared around the bend in the staircase, Sheila replaced the telephone receiver and went to the front door.

She paused with her hand on the door handle. Suppose this man wouldn’t believe Bromhead’s message? Suppose he forced his way in? She slid the safety chain on the door into place, then she opened the door a few inches the chain would allow it to open. Her heart hammering, she looked around the door into the empty vestibule.

Was he standing against the wall... out of sight?

“Is... is there anyone there?” she asked huskily.

Only the faint hum of the ascending elevator answered her. She drew in a long, slow breath of relief. He had waited, become uneasy and had gone, she thought. She closed the door, turned the key and took off the chain.

As she did so, Harry leaned against the steel fire door, pushed and felt it give. He slid into Sheila’s bedroom. He moved swiftly to the half-open door. He paused as he saw Sheila at the front door, her back turned to him. His thin lips came off his teeth in a snarl of viciousness. Silently he set down the little black bag. He would teach her! He looked at her long, slim back turned to him. A quick chopping blow would stun her. Then tape across her mouth. Then his fingers would dig into her body to teach her women didn’t fool with him!

As he started towards her, Sheila turned and saw him. She saw his hands reaching for her. She saw the glitter in his little eyes. She knew something horrible was about to happen to her, yet she couldn’t scream. Her throat was paralysed. As Harry struck at her, she slid along the wall. The side of his hand scraped her face.

“No!” she managed to whisper. “You must listen!”

Harry snarled at her. He pulled himself together. His rage had upset his aim. This had never happened to him before. Always one chopping blow and he had had no further trouble. He had acted like a fighter, goaded, who swings a wild, stupid punch. He steadied himself and started again towards her.

The front doorbell rang.

Harry froze. He looked at Sheila who was backing away from him. This was the unexpected that Bromhead had warned him about. He whirled around, caught up his black bag, slid past Sheila and into the living-room.

Sheila hesitated. She was shaking. The front doorbell rang again. Somehow she got control of herself. She unlocked the front door and opened it. The sight of the big, powerfully built man in a lightweight grey suit came as a relief.

“Miss Oldhill?” The voice had a snap in it.

“Yes.”

“I’m Handley, hotel detective,” the man told her. “I’m just checking. Sorry to bother you. Is everything okay?”

She hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

Handley was staring at her.

Well, for God’s sake, he was thinking: the woman with the blonde wig! What the hell was going on up here? He was sure. Blonde wig or no blonde wig this was the woman who had disappeared on floor 19.

He moved forward and Sheila gave ground.

“I understand, Miss Oldhill, you have a man here to repair the piano?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

Listening to all this, Harry realized this was now a question of bluff. He appeared in the living-room doorway. Ignoring Handley, he approached Sheila.

“I don’t understand it, miss,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with the piano... all the wires are fine. Do you think madam made a mistake?”

“I suppose she could have,” Sheila said huskily.

Harry shook his head.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with it.” He moved around Handley who was watching him to the front door. “Mr. Chapman will be along next month to tune it,” and he was out into the vestibule.

Handley went after him.

“Just a moment.”

Harry turned and stared inquiringly at the detective.

“What is it?”

“Let me look in that bag.”

“And who are you?” Harry asked mildly.

“House detective,” Handley said, aware that Sheila had shut the front door. He heard the key turn.

Harry opened the bag to reveal the tuning forks, the piano tuning keys and the piano wires.

Handley was suddenly unsure of himself. He realized he could be putting himself out on a limb.

“Anything else, mister?” Harry asked and thumbed the elevator call button.

“What’s your name?”

Harry’s face hardened.

“Okay, brother,” he said. “If you want to play it rough, play it rough. Let’s you and me go talk to Mr. Lacey, your boss. Hotel dicks come a dime a dozen with me. So let’s you and me go talk to Mr. Lacey and I’ll put in a complaint to my people. How’s about that?”

The piano tuning equipment had thrown Handley. He knew he had no business being in the hotel at his hour. Lawson was on duty. Lacey would want to know what Lawson was doing. If this bastard got talking to Lacey, both Lawson and he could lose their jobs and he remembered this was the best job he had ever had.

The elevator arrived and the doors swished open.

“Go ahead,” Handley said. “Forget it.”

Harry gave him a sneering little smile and entered the case. The doors swished to.

Handley turned and stared at the front door of the penthouse. The woman with the blonde hair and the dustcoat! He was sure Lawson knew this woman was Sheila Oldhill and he had been bribed to keep his mouth shut. Handley decided he had better say nothing. He had been warned. Let Lawson handle this, he thought. Why walk into trouble?

He crossed to the second elevator and pressed the call button.

Patterson returned from the Board meeting and dropped into his desk chair. The meeting had gone on longer than usual. He was aware that the other members of the Board hadn’t been impressed by his performance and he wasn’t surprised. How could anyone concentrate on bank business with this thing hanging over his head?

Vera Cross came in.

“Chris... Mrs. Morely-Johnson has been on the telephone.”

Patterson stiffened. He felt himself turn hot, then cold.

“What did she want?” (As if he didn’t know!)

“She sounded very cross. She said she was waiting for her will and you promised to bring it to her this morning.”

Patterson’s heart beat so violently it was a long moment before he said, “What did you say?”

“You were tied up with the Board meeting.”

“How did she take that?”

“She said she wanted to speak to Mr. Fellows.”

Patterson flinched.

“Well... go on!”

“I explained that Mr. Fellows was also at the Board meeting. She said as soon as you were through to call her.”

Patterson eased his collar.

“Okay, Vera... leave it for the moment. I have something to do.”

Vera looked at him, puzzled. She had never seen him look so pale or so worried.

“Is there something wrong, Chris? Anything I can do?”

Patterson wanted to yell at her to go to hell, but somehow he controlled himself.

“No... nothing’s wrong.” Even to him, his voice sounded strangled. “On your way, honey.”

Bromhead had said: do nothing!

When she had gone, he pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

Now he had to do something! What the hell was Bromhead playing at? Patterson moved around his desk. Why wasn’t the damned old woman dead? What was happening? What was he going to say to her? If he didn’t call her, she would call Fellows, and Fellows would personally deliver the forged will to her. Do nothing! Patterson was now in a panic. His telephone bell buzzed. He stared at the telephone for a long moment, then he crossed to his desk and lifted the receiver.

“Mrs. Morely-Johnson,” Vera told him. “Shall I put her on?”

Patterson’s mind skidded around inside his skull. Tell her I’m out? Tell her I’m ill? But he knew she would then ask for Fellows who would rush the forged will to her. Patterson knew he had to handle this. Somehow, he had to gain time.

“Put her on.”

He sat down.

“Chris?” Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s voice was even more raucous than usual.

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

“Never mind how I am!” God! he thought, she’s really in a mood! “I’ve been waiting! You said you would bring my will this morning! It is now eleven-thirty. I will not be kept waiting!”

Dare he take a tough line? he asked himself. He could think of no alternative. He braced himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said and he put steel in his voice. “I understood you to say the matter really wasn’t all that urgent. I had to attend an unexpected Board meeting. It’s because of these board meetings, Mrs. Morely-Johnson, that I am able to turn over your holdings so profitably.”

How would she take that? he wondered, dabbing sweat from his forehead.

“When I ask for something, I expect to get it.” He was quick to note a slightly hesitant, slightly less hostile note in her voice.

“Of course. I do my best, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.” Patterson realized he had made an impact. “If you were behind my desk I think you would be a little more understanding if you will excuse me saying so. You are my most important client, but I have many other clients. Blame me if you will, but it is impossible to give you a completely exclusive service, as much as I would like to do so.”

There was a pause, then she said, her voice softer, “That I understand. I know I am a demanding old woman. I guess I expect too much from you, Chris. My will is really nothing to do with you. I can’t think why I’m bothering you with this. Now, Chris, you get on with your work and I’ll talk to Mr. Fellows.”

Patterson felt himself shrivel.

“I can’t do that,” he said. “It is my privilege to look after your affairs. May I come to see you at three o’clock this afternoon? I feel we should have a straight talk. It seems to me, Mrs. Morely-Johnson, that you can’t be satisfied with what I do for you. May we please discuss it?”

Jesus! he thought, now I really have stuck my neck out.

“Not satisfied?” Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s voice exploded against his eardrum. “Now, Chris, I won’t have you getting uppity with me! I’m an old woman and I won’t be bullied! Then come here at three o’clock. We’ll go into this... and please bring me my will,” and she hung up.

Patterson sat back. Then this was the finish, he thought. He sat for a long moment, unable to think what he could do to save himself. Then slowly he got control of his panic. First, he must get the forged will from the legal department. He must get it and destroy it. With unsteady hands, he scrabbled through his papers and found the authorization Mrs. Morely-Johnson had signed, then bracing himself, he went along to the legal department.

Irving Fellows was at his desk: a tall, thin, dehydrated man with steely black eyes and a balding head.

“Hi!” Patterson said, forcing his voice to sound cheerful. “How’s the kid?”

Fellows made no attempt to conceal his disapproval of Patterson. He lifted his shoulders.

“He’s coming along, thank you. Do you want something?”

“Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will,” and Patterson laid the authorization on Fellows’ desk.

“Her will?” The heavy black eyebrows shot up. “She had that three weeks ago and returned it.”

Patterson had got beyond the point of no return. He was in no mood to take anything from Fellows.

“So what? If she wants to look at her will every day for the next ten years that’s no skin off your nose, is it?”

Deliberately offensive, Fellows studied the authorization, then handed it to his dowdy secretary.

“Get Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s will, please, and give it to Mr. Patterson.” Then looking at Patterson, he went on, “Is she troubled by her will?”

“If you’re all that curious,” Patterson said, “why don’t you call Mr. Weidman? We keep her will: Weidman is the man to worry about it.”

That broadside silenced Fellows who glared at Patterson, then pulled a document towards him and began to study it.

Three minutes later, Patterson was back in his office with the forged will. One step forward! But he couldn’t see how it would help him. Of course the old lady would have great difficulty in reading the will, but she would manage with the aid of her magnifying glass. She wouldn’t ask Sheila nor himself to read it to her. He looked at his desk clock. It was just on 12.00. He had only three hours to come up with a solution. He sat, thinking. Finally, he decided there was only one way to get out of this mess. He would tell the old lady that his brief-case, containing the will, had been stolen from his car while he was having lunch. He felt sure she would accept this. Then a new will would have to be made. Then he thought of Abe Weidman.

There came a tap on the door and Bailey, the bank messenger, looked in.

“There’s a Mr. Bromhead asking to see you, Mr. Patterson.”

Patterson controlled his expression only with an effort.

“I’ll see him, Joe.”

Bromhead came in, his cockaded hat under his arm, his lean face bland, his bearing dignified. Looking at him, no one could have guessed he had raced back along the highway, driving the Rolls at exactly sixty miles an hour which was the official speed limit, never going over the limit, but tempted to, knowing the cops on this stretch of road could delay him if he went faster.

When Bailey had gone, Bromhead came to the desk.

The two men looked at each other.

“She’s yelling for the will,” Patterson said, his voice unsteady. “You told me to do nothing! What the hell are you playing at? I’ve got to take the will to her by three o’clock?”

“Here it is.” Bromhead produced an envelope from inside his tunic. He laid it on the desk. “The original will, Mr. Patterson. I would like the other.” He looked at the envelope lying on Patterson’s blotter. “Is that it?”

Patterson nodded.

“Yes, that’s it.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Patterson, we are back to square A,” Bromhead said. “Her nephew is dead.”

“Dead?” Patterson stared at him. His mind worked swiftly. The nephew dead, there would be no money for Bromhead nor for Sheila. This didn’t bother him, but his own inheritance could still be in danger!

“We’re not back to square A,” he said, his voice harsh. “How about Weidman?”

Bromhead’s stare made Patterson cringe. It was a look of a man regarding a small boy.

“Surely, Mr. Patterson, you can handle Mr. Weidman? May I make a suggestion? Tell him the old lady has changed her mind about the pictures. Old ladies often change their minds. It’s not as if he can complain. The information you gave him was in confidence. I can’t see why you should worry about Mr. Weidman.”

Patterson drew in a long, slow breath.

“You mean it’s all over... we really are back to square A?”

“I think you, Mr. Patterson, can say it is over, depending on how you handle Mr. Weidman. If you handle him well, then I would say it is just a matter of time before you become a rich man.”

Patterson’s mind was darting this way and that. This sounded to him too good to be true.

“I want that tape,” he said.

Bromhead nodded.

“That I can understand, but what one wants and what one gets are two different things. The tape doesn’t interest me. I don’t have it. Miss Oldhill has it... you should talk to her.” He picked up the forged will and regarded it. “A pity: a lot of thought and work for nothing.” He slid the envelope inside his tunic, then moved to the door. “Well, Mr. Patterson, let us hope you will eventually become a rich man.”

Patterson stared fixedly at him, his mind busy. He said nothing.

When Bromhead had left the office, Patterson snatched up the telephone receiver.

“Vera get me Mr. Abe Weidman,” he said.

In the private room of Chez Henri restaurant, Patterson waited impatiently for Abe Weidman to arrive. He kept looking at his watch as he toyed with his dry martini.

When he had called Weidman, Weidman had said it was impossible for him to have lunch. He already had a lunch date with a client.

“This is extremely urgent, Abe,” Patterson had said. “It’s something I must discuss with you. Couldn’t you break your date?”

“What’s so urgent about it?” Weidman had asked.

“It concerns you. We’re talking over an open line.”

There was a pause, then Weidman had said, “Okay, Chris, I’ll be along at one-thirty... Chez Henri?”

“That’s right... upstairs.”

During the drive to the restaurant, Patterson prepared his story. He now felt confident that he could handle Weidman, but he was worried about the tape that Bromhead had told him Sheila had. But one step at the time, he told himself. The tape would cost him money, but he was prepared to pay. He must try to do a deal with this woman.

Weidman came in.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said as he shook hands. “I’ve had a hell of a morning and now you’ve certainly snarled up my afternoon.”

“I’m sorry, but this is important. What will you drink?”

“Same as you... a double.”

Patterson gave the order.

As he sat down, Weidman looked searchingly at Patterson.

“What’s it all about, Chris?”

“Let’s order. Now you’re here we may as well eat.”

The maître d’hôtel came in with the menus, followed by the waiter with the dry martini.

Weidman said he had a heavy afternoon of work. He wanted something light. He accepted the suggestion of asparagus, cold poached salmon and a tossed salad. Patterson said he would have the same.

Patterson talked about the Stock-market while the asparagus was being served, then when the waiter had left, he said, “I’m worried about Mrs. Morely-Johnson.”

Weidman bit into a stick of asparagus, reached for another and dipped it into the piquant sauce.

“Why?”

“I’m sorry to tell you, Abe, she has changed her mind about the new will.”

Weidman paused as he was about to convey the asparagus to his mouth.

“Changed her mind?”

“She has decided to revert back to her original will.”

Weidman sat back. His little black eyes were glazed with shock.

“Her original will?” His voice was strangled. “You mean...?”

“I’m afraid so.” Patterson played with a stick of asparagus, not looking at Weidman. “I saw her yesterday. She told me she had decided the Picassos should go to the museum. She said she had been thinking this over. She said as she hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t know, but she felt that the people of this town and the tourists would be reminded of her husband if she gave the pictures to the museum.”

Weidman put his asparagus back on his plate. Patterson looked up. He saw disappointment, shock and anger flit across the fat face.

“She’s asking for her original will,” Patterson went on. “She wants to give her new companion, Miss Oldhill, some money. She wants to make a codicil, but on the original will. I have it, of course. She told me to destroy the new will... the one in which she left you the Picassos.”

“Goddamn it!” Weidman muttered. “So I’m not to have the Picassos?”

A waiter opened the door, saw neither of the men had touched the first course, raised his eyebrows and quietly withdrew.

“Abe... I know the old lady. She’s a bit dotty,” Patterson said. “She could change her mind. I’m seeing her this afternoon. I still have the new will... I haven’t destroyed it. I want to give her time to change her mind. I know how much you have done for her in the past. If anyone deserves to have those pictures, it’s you.”

Weidman rubbed his fat jaw.

“Old women! As you say, you just don’t know what the hell gets into them. I...” He broke off and raised his hands helplessly.

“I have some influence with her,” Patterson said. He leaned forward, looking directly at Weidman. “I want to gain time. With a little time, I think I can talk her into giving you those pictures. I’m going to try if you will co-operate.”

Weidman stiffened and stared quizzingly at Patterson.

“What do you mean... co-operate?”

“This is Friday. I’ve told her you are in New York until Monday,” Patterson said. “This way I’ve gained time. She wanted to call you right away and get you to make the codicil. I’m sticking my neck out, Abe, but I feel confident this is an old woman’s whim and I can persuade her to change her mind. If I’ve done wrong, you say so and I’ll take the rap.”

Weidman began to speak, then stopped. He thought of the three magnificent Picassos on the walls of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s vestibule. These pictures were something to yearn for. The thought of them hanging in the goddamn local museum was gall to his mind.

Patterson went on, “She could still call your office. Give me a little time, Abe, and I think I can swing this your way.”

Weidman hesitated, but his sense of duty made him all attorney.

“We can’t do this, Chris. I see you want to help and I appreciate it, but I can’t go along with it.”

“Okay.” Patterson shrugged. “I wanted to be helpful. Okay, if that’s the way you feel about it. But I’ve told her you are in New York. Are you going to pull the rug from under my feet?”

Weidman shifted uneasily.

“I won’t do that,” he said. “No, I won’t do that. Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’ve done, but the old lady has the right to do what she likes with her pictures. I don’t want to get involved in anything that could be...” He stopped short, aware that Patterson was looking inquiringly at him. “I don’t want to get involved,” he ended lamely.

“I understand,” Patterson said. “But I know the old lady. She blows hot... then cold. You deserve these pictures, Abe. Let me try to handle this. Keep out of the way. If the old lady calls, tell your secretary to tell her you are out of town. Leave it until Monday. What’s the harm?”

Weidman brooded over his untouched asparagus, his fat face dark with thought. He could only think of the three Picassos. Why not? It would mean only three days. Patterson might just swing it in his favour. It was worth a try.

He gave an abrupt little nod and picked up a stick of asparagus. Seeing him do this, Patterson knew he had made yet another step forward.

Just after midday, Bromhead drove the Rolls into the hotel garage. The Negro attendant who was washing a 280 Mercedes suspended his work and came over as Bromhead got out of the Rolls.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been to L.A., Mr. Bromhead,” he said. “That sure would be moving.”

“I got half way there,” Bromhead said, ready with his story, “then I knew what was wrong... dirt in the carburetors. I stopped at a garage, they blew them out and she’s going like a dream.”

The Negro giggled happily.

“What do you know, Mr. Bromhead? Ain’t that life?”

“That’s it,” Bromhead said. “I’ll get me some lunch.”

“You do that, Mr. Bromhead.” The Negro turned to admire the Rolls. “Sure is a beauty, ain’t she?”

“That’s what she is.”

Bromhead walked to his room. He took the forged will from his tunic and put it on the table. He felt old and frustrated. It had been a good idea. It could have worked if that stupid Gerald had behaved himself and had stayed alive. Her only relative! He paused to look into his future. He would remain now the old lady’s chauffeur. A cottage in Carmel was a dream like any dream. You woke up and found your dream was a puff of smoke. When she died, he would inherit $15,000 a year and the Rolls. With the high cost of living creeping up every year this sum would allow him to just tick over. It was a bleak prospect.

He picked up the envelope containing the will and tore it into small pieces, then carrying the pieces into the bathroom, he flushed them down the toilet.

Returning to the living-room, he called the penthouse.

When Sheila answered, he said, “Jack... how are you fixed?”

“She’s recording,” Sheila told him. “Come to my room.”

He took the elevator to the penthouse and let himself in with his key. He could hear Mrs. Morely-Johnson playing... Mozart? Beethoven? He didn’t know. The notes had a liquid quality... beautifully phrased. He went into Sheila’s bedroom and found her standing at the window, waiting.

He closed the door.

“What happened?”

Briefly, she told him. She didn’t tell him the whole truth. She said Harry had arrived and she had let him in, then the hotel detective had arrived. She said Harry had been clever in diverting the detective’s suspicions.

So the unexpected had happened, Bromhead thought. Seeing it in perspective, he realized it was lucky the way it had turned out. He wouldn’t have wanted the old lady to die if he couldn’t profit by her death.

Now he had to break the news of Gerald’s death. He had thought, how best to do this. He wasn’t sure how she would react. He had a growing suspicion that this dirty drop-out meant more to her than she had revealed. He didn’t want a scene.

“Well, there it is,” he said. “Things go wrong.” He paused, then went on, lowering his voice, “I’m sorry... I have bad news.”

She looked sharply at him.

“Bad news?”

“Gerald.”

Take it slowly, he told himself, break it gently. He saw her hands turn into fists.

“What about Gerald?”

“There’s been an accident. I don’t know how much Gerald meant to you... I’m sorry... he’s dead.”

She recoiled.

“Dead?”

All the colour went out of her face and he was alarmed to see how shocked she was.

“I’m afraid so... he died in a fire.”

“You killed him!” The sudden viciousness in her voice warned him how dangerous she could be unless he controlled her.

“No... it was an accident.” He kept his voice low and calm. “It was his fault.” His mind groped frantically for an inspiration to stop the scene he saw was coming. “He was with a girl. They were on the top floor of a tenement building... you know Gerry. He was fooling around. The girl got scared and resisted him... she was only a kid. He knocked over a lamp. The place went up in flames. They were both trapped.”

Watching her, he saw this was the right tactic. Her anger went away and she stared unbelievingly at him.

“A girl?”

“A teenager... sixteen.” He dug in the dagger. “You didn’t expect Gerry to remain alone for so long without a woman, did you? He picked on this kid... she was sixteen.”

Sheila flinched and turned away. She walked slowly to the window and rested her forehead against the pane.

“They both died,” Bromhead went on. “That’s why I called you. With him dead, there’s no relative for the old lady to leave her money to... we’re back to square A.”

There was a long pause. Through the closed door came the magic sound of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s piano playing.

After waiting several moments, Bromhead began to lose patience.

“I’m sorry, but after all he wasn’t much.”

She turned, her smoky blue eyes alight and he knew he had said the wrong thing.

“Much? Who are you to judge? Do you think you’re anything but a cheap crook?” The bitterness in her voice jolted him. “To me, he was... he was my husband!”

For a moment, Bromhead couldn’t believe he had heard what she had said.

“What was that? He was your husband?”

“Go away!” She moved listlessly from the window and sat on the bed. She put her hands to her face.

Bromhead gaped at her.

“Yes... we got married before we came here.”

“Gerry was your husband?”

Bromhead felt sweat break out on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why should I? You never asked. Go away!”

Bromhead thought of the forged will he had destroyed. He felt so frustrated he could have killed this woman sitting on the bed with her hands covering her face. His mind worked swiftly. There was still time. They still had Patterson in a trap. Harry was still in town. He could forge another will.

“Don’t you realize, you fool,” he snarled, “if you can prove you are Gerry’s wife, you are his next of kin and all this money will come to you?”

She looked up. The dead expression in her eyes alarmed him.

“I don’t want it!” she said. “He’s dead... I thought I could make something of him... with money. That’s why I married him... to have a hold on him... I could have moulded him. He pretended money meant nothing to him, but I know better. He didn’t understand its power. I could have taught him. Now... he’s dead... I’m not interested in money.”

Bromhead controlled himself with an effort.

“You don’t know what you’re saying!” He couldn’t keep his frustrated anger out of his voice. “Forget him! You can always find some other boy... what made that little creep so special? If you must have a lover half your age, you can always find one.” He knew he was saying things he would regret later, but he was so angry, he couldn’t control himself. “We can still swing this thing. I’ll talk to Patterson. We’ll try again. The money will go to Gerry’s next of kin... you! One million, five hundred thousand dollars! We can begin again!”

“Get out!”

The viciousness and the hatred in her voice shocked Bromhead. He stared at her, seeing the contempt and the hatred in her eyes and he realized further attempts to persuade her were useless, but he couldn’t let so much money escape him without a supreme effort.

“Sheila! Pull yourself together! Listen to me...”

“Get out!”

The snap in her voice told him nothing he could say would make any impression. He wanted to hit her, but he controlled himself.

“All right... then that’s it.” He moved away from her. He couldn’t resist hurting her. “Gerry talked to me about you. He said you had a mother complex and you were a nut. He didn’t give a damn about you, except when he had you in bed. That was all you were good for, he said. You are a nut, and you’ll regret this when you’re old — and that won’t be long — unwanted and without money.”

“Get out!”

Bromhead accepted defeat. He left the room and made his way to the elevator. The living-room was alive with sound as Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s old fingers flew over the keyboard.

Left alone, Sheila sat motionless, her hands gripped between her knees. Mother complex? A nut? Yes, Bromhead was right. She had married Gerald because she wanted to be sure that when they got the money he wouldn’t leave her for someone younger. He had been reluctant to marry. “Why bother with this jazz?” he had demanded. “Aren’t we happy as we are?” But she knew she had to have a hold on him. With all that money involved, she had been confident she could have made something of him, but not if she hadn’t some hold on him. He had been dependent on her for money. He had been happy to lounge about while she had provided for him. That had been her hold on him then. Bromhead’s proposition had seemed to her then to offer the release she longed for: to be able to be with Gerry instead of slaving in the hospital, wondering all the time what he was doing: coming back tired, forcing herself to go out with him, trying all the time to be gay. Why had she done this? A nut? Yes... there was this thing in her for the younger man. A nut was as good a description as anything. Now he was dead. She must be a nut, she thought, even to have thought of teaming up with a man like Bromhead. She supposed the thought of owning a million dollars had sent her off balance.

Well, now Gerry was dead. She thought back on her life. Doors opened, then closed. This was another door that had closed. She felt it was impossible to stay here any longer. She wasn’t going to give up the rest of her life to wait on an old woman.

Then she thought of Patterson. He would remain smug, waiting for the old lady to die, sure of his inheritance. He was a man who thought only of himself. Suddenly she had a hatred for this man with his good looks, his confidence and his two-faced servility with the old lady. He mustn’t get away with this! Why should he? Gerry was dead. She had nothing. Bromhead had nothing. Why should Patterson have anything?

“Sheila?”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson was calling her. She got to her feet and went into the living-room.

“I’m going down to the grill-room,” Mrs. Morely-Johnson said. “I’ve just made another recording. Be a dear and label the box: Beethoven: Appassionata Sonata.”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson peered at her.

“Is your headache better?”

“It’s gone.”

“I’m so glad.” She put her hand on Sheila’s arm. “Have a good lunch. Are you having something sent up?”

“Yes.”

“Have something nice. Mr. Patterson is coming at three o’clock. I intend to scold him. He’s been quite cross with me.” She started slowly towards the front door. “Would you see me to the elevator?”

Sheila looked at her, knowing this was the last time she would see her. She felt a pang of regret. The old, half-blind woman was not only a great artist, but she was kind. Kindness was something Sheila felt was without price. Until she had come to the penthouse, kindness to her was just a word in a dictionary.

She went with the old lady to the elevator. The attendant took charge of the old lady. He was an elderly man who would have given service even without Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s presents.

As soon as the doors swished to, Sheila went quickly to her bedroom. She opened the closet and took from it her two shabby suitcases. She packed quickly. Finished, she looked around the room, making sure she had left nothing behind that belonged to her, then satisfied, she opened a drawer in her dressing-table and took out the box, containing the I, Christopher Patterson tape.

She went into her office, found a biro and printed on the label of the box: Appassionata Sonata: Beethoven.

She went into the living-room. On one of the shelves of the bookcase were some thirty boxes of tape: all neatly labelled. She lifted some of them and inserted the box she had just labeled between them. Then she rewound the tape that Mrs. Morely-Johnson had just recorded and put that in another box and left it unlabelled.

She went to her office. Sitting at her desk she wrote a brief note. Taking the note to her bedroom, she put it on her bare dressing table. She looked around the comfortable room with regret, then shrugging, she put on a light dust coat, picked up the two suitcases and left the penthouse, leaving the key in the door.

As she was driven in a taxi to the bus station, she opened her handbag and checked her money. She had $95. She smiled a little bitterly. When she had arrived in this city, she had had $55... not a lot of profit, she thought.

At the bus station, she bought a ticket to Los Angeles. The driver stowed her two bags into the luggage compartment. The bus was half empty and she found a window seat. She planned to spend the night in Los Angeles and then take another bus to San Francisco. She was sure she would get a job easily enough at the Masonic hospital... they were always short of staff. As she took a pack of cigarettes from her bag a young man sat down heavily by her side.

“Have you a cigarette to spare?” he asked as he squeezed a dirty duffle bag between his knees.

She looked at him: another Gerry, she thought, with hair reaching to his shoulders. His suntanned face, pinched as if he ate badly. As he took the cigarette she saw his hands were dirty and his fingernails black. She could smell his stale sweat.

They began to talk. After a while, when he began to loosen up, he sounded just like Gerry. He had the same stupid, youthful phrases: the scene must be changed! We have to get rid of the rich! There were too many old people! Gerry all over again. The usual destructive rant without suggesting anything constructive.

As the bus roared along the highway, she relaxed and listened.

She thought: He only needs a bath and some decent food. Maybe I could make something of him. He has good eyes.

When they reached Los Angeles, she suggested they should go to a hotel together. He stared at her, then grinned. She felt her blood move through her body as he looked at her with youthful lust.

As they walked together to the reception desk of a rundown, shabby hotel near the bus terminal, Gerry’s ghost left her mind forever.

Bromhead returned to his room. He opened a can of beer, poured the contents into a glass and then sat down.

Back to square A, he thought.

It could be worse. He would now have to accept a restricted future. The dream of the cottage in Carmel was just another dream. The old lady could last for years. When she died, he would have $15,000 a year. He must now be careful and save for the future.

Then suddenly he remembered Solly Marks. The thought of Marks brought him upright in his chair. He owed Marks $32,000. This sum could now never be repaid. He remembered Marks, staring at him as he said: “I have a collecting service... I thought I’d remind you.”

The possibility of some thug catching him when he was off guard and smashing his skull now became very real, but Bromhead never allowed himself to panic. This was something that had to be handled. He sat for some time, sipping his beer, while he thought, then coming to a decision, he reached for the telephone receiver. He caught Solly Marks just as he was leaving for a late lunch.

“Jack here,” Bromhead said. “It’s okay to talk. I’m on an outside line.”

He listened to Marks’s wheezing breathing.

“I’m sorry about your problem,” Marks said. “He set fire to the place. You can’t blame me. I’ve lost a valuable tenement building.”

“I’m sorry about that too.” Bromhead paused, then went on. “With my problem dead, Solly, the operation is dead. I’m calling to tell you to tear up those I.O.U.s I gave you.”

“That’s something I never do,” Marks said, his voice turning hard. “You pay or I’ll have to collect and you know what that means.”

“You won’t, because I have now an insurance policy covering me,” Bromhead said quietly.

There was a long pause while the line hummed and Bromhead listened to Marks’s wheezy breathing. Then Marks said, “What does that mean?”

“It means you tear up those I.O.U.s and you write off your loss as I am writing off my loss.”

“You think so?” There was now a snarl in Marks’s voice.

“I know so, Solly, and I’ll tell you why. Do you remember Harry Miller?”

“Harry Miller?” A startled note came into Marks’s voice. “I’ve heard of him.”

“Who hasn’t?” Bromhead reached for his beer and took a sip. “Harry happens to be a good friend of mine... I once saved his life. He wants to square things with me. He’s funny that way. I’ve told him about your collecting service, Solly. He doesn’t approve of it. If anything ever happens to me, Harry says it will be his pleasure to square it... do I have to spell it out?”

There was a long pause, then Marks said, a slight quaver in his voice, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack. Who said anything was going to happen to you?”

“Things can happen,” Bromhead said. “Are you going to tear up those I.O.U.s, Solly?”

“Well if you haven’t the money there’s no point in keeping them, is there?”

“That’s right. Okay, Solly... better luck next time if there’s a next time,” and Bromhead hung up.

As Mrs. Morely-Johnson didn’t expect him back until 17.00, he decided to take Harry Miller out to lunch. It wasn’t safe to bluff with Marks.

As he was driving to meet Harry, he considered his future. He, Harry and Marks were all around the same age. If Harry died first, he (Bromhead) would be in trouble for Bromhead knew Marks would never forget. If Marks died first, he (Bromhead) would have no more cares. If he died first, he would have even less cares.

It seemed to him his future now depended on how long Harry kept alive. It wasn’t a very satisfactory outlook, but it was an outlook he had to accept.

At a few minutes to 15.00, Patterson entered the lobby of the Plaza Beach Hotel. He had come armed with a large box of marrons glacés which he knew Mrs. Morely-Johnson adored. As he walked towards the elevator, George, the hall porter, intercepted him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Patterson... Mr. Lacey would like a word with you.”

“Later,” Patterson said curtly. “I have an appointment with Mrs. Morely-Johnson.”

“It is to do with Mrs. Morely-Johnson,” George said.

Patterson hesitated, then nodding, he went down the corridor leading to the Director’s office.

Lacey got to his feet and shook hands.

“I felt you had better be warned,” he said. “Mrs. Morely-Johnson is very upset. Her companion-help has left.”

Patterson stiffened. He stared at Lacey.

“Left?”

“While Madam was lunching in the grill-room, Miss Oldhill packed and left. She left a note.” Lacey handed a folded piece of paper to Patterson.

Putting down the box with its gay wrapping, Patterson unfolded the paper, aware his hands were unsteady.

He read:

Patterson stared at the note, then making an effort to keep his face expressionless, he looked at Lacey.

“How extraordinary. So... she’s left?”

“Yes. She has taken all her things. Madam is very upset.”

“I’ll go straight up.” Patterson put the note in his pocket. “I’ll have to find someone else to look after her. In the meantime, is there anyone...?”

“Of course. Maria has already been told. She’s with her now.”

Picking up the box of marrons glacés, Patterson hurried to the elevator and was whisked to the penthouse. As the elevator rode smoothly up to the 20th floor, his mind was busy.

He could think only of the damaging tape. What had happened to it? Why had Sheila run off like this? Had she taken the tape with her? Was she planning to blackmail him? The Siberian wind was whistling through his mind.

Maria, the fat, kindly floor waitress, opened the front door. She looked worried.

“How is she?” Patterson asked as he entered the vestibule.

“Not too good, sir. She’s on the terrace.”

Patterson braced himself and walked through the living-room and on to the terrace.

Mrs. Morely-Johnson sat under a red and blue sun umbrella, staring sightlessly across the harbour. She sat with her hands folded in her lap and for the first time, Patterson realized how really old she was. She looked up, peering at him through her thick glasses, then she smiled.

“I don’t know what I would do without you, Chris,” she said and held out her wrinkled, beautiful hand.

Patterson felt a stab of conscience. He bent over her hand and brushed it with his lips.

“Mr. Lacey told me,” he said, putting the box on the table. “This is the most extraordinary thing. She seemed so happy with you. I don’t understand it... it’s extraordinary.”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson lifted her hands and let them drop in her lap.

“I can understand it,” she said. “She was too young. I think she was wise to leave. The old take strength from the young. It’s just the way she left that has hurt me.”

“Yes.” Patterson sat down. “I’m truly sorry. Shall I see if Mrs. Fleming is still available... you liked her, didn’t you?”

“Yes... I did. The old for the old.” Mrs. Morely-Johnson again lifted her hands and again let them drop into her lap. It seemed to Patterson a gesture of defeat. “Would you do that for me, Chris?”

“Of course.”

“There was something about that girl I liked so much,” she went on. “You read her note. In sincere admiration. I think she really meant that.”

Patterson shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m sure she did.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Morely-Johnson took off her glasses. “She was kind to me. I will miss her.”

“I’ve brought you a little present... marrons glacés.”

Mrs. Morely-Johnson put on her glasses, leaned forward and peered at the box.

“And you are too kind, Chris.” Her hand patted his arm. “Kindness is so rare. Thank you... you will be rewarded... you’ll see.” She smiled at him.

Patterson felt himself shrivel.

“It’s my pleasure,” he said huskily. “I’ve brought your will.”

She waved her hands.

“It doesn’t matter now, Chris. I’m sorry I was so tiresome about that. I wanted to reward her... now she’s left me. Take it back to the bank.”

Patterson thought of Abe Weidman. He would have to break the news to him that he wasn’t going to get the Picassos. This didn’t worry him. There was nothing Weidman could do about that. He would tell Weidman that he had tried hard, but he couldn’t persuade the old lady to change her mind.

“I had better go at once to Mrs. Fleming,” he said. “If she is still free, I’ll ask her to come this evening.”

“Would you do that? I’d be so grateful. I liked her. We should have chosen her in the first place... Sheila was too young.”

“Yes.” Patterson got to his feet.

“Oh, Chris...”

He paused. What now? His nerves were jumping.

“Yes, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?”

“Would you be a dear and put on a tape for me? I’m feeling a little sad and my music helps me. Any tape will do. You will find them on the bookshelf.”

He looked at her, sitting under the sun umbrella, rich, old and lonely. These were the people he had to deal with, he thought. Old people! People who had the money!

“You mustn’t feel sad,” he said gently. “Why be sad?”

“Put on a tape,” Mrs. Morely-Johnson said. “You are young. You don’t understand sadness.”

He hesitated for a moment, then went into the living-room and looked impatiently at the boxes of tapes on the bookshelf.

What had Sheila done with that tape? he wondered. Thrown it away? Cleaned it? Was she planning blackmail? He thought of the future days, the weeks and the months ahead while he waited for a telephone call. He took the top box from the pile, slid out the spool and threaded it on the recorder.

The clear, limpid notes of a Bach Fugue filled the living-room.

As he left the penthouse, he told himself that perhaps after all it would work out all right. Sheila had gone. Maybe she would forget him. What he didn’t know, of course, was that the damaging tape, labelled The Appassionato Sonata had been within reach of his hand.

Sooner or later, Mrs. Morely-Johnson would ask her next companion-help to put this tape on the recorder.

It was just a matter of time.