1972 - Just a Matter of Time (17 page)

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

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

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

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

Harry shrugged.

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

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

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

He gave up.

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

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

Bromhead leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

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

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

door open. Mrs. Van Davis had invested fifty thousand dollars on Patterson’s advice in I.B.M. She was happy and Patterson pleased.

He was able to endure her yakking, smile warmly down at her fat, wrinkled face, knowing he had done a good morning’s work. Once settled in the car, rather like a performing elephant settles on a stool, Mrs. Van Davis waved her fat fingers, glittering with diamonds and he waved back. When the Cadillac had moved into the traffic, he heaved a sigh of relief and walked back to his office. That was his last appointment before lunch.

He looked at his gold Omega, yet another present from Mrs. Morely-Johnson, saw he had twenty-five minutes to clear his desk before lunching with Bernie Cohen.

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

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

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

Vera Cross looked in.

‘Mrs. Morely-Johnson on the phone, Chris.’

Patterson grimaced.

‘Okay . . . put her on.’

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

‘Chris?’

‘Good morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. How are you?’

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

‘I agree with you.’

‘And how are you?’

Patterson began to dig holes in his blotter with his paperknife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It will be my pleasure,’ he said.

‘And Chris . . .’

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

‘Yes, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?’

‘Please bring my will when you come.’

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

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

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

Patterson turned cold and his heart began to race.

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

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

‘Chris?’ The squawking voice aroused him. ‘Are you there?’

He willed himself to think.

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

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

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

Fellows appreciated this.

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

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

Patterson took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

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

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

‘You will have it without fail tomorrow morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.’

‘Oh, very well,’ and she hung up.

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

* * *

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

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

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

He saw her flinch.

‘He will be here when you leave.’

Patterson moved past her and out on to the terrace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patterson shifted in his chair.

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

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

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

She shook her head.

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

‘That would be very generous,’ Patterson said in a low, strangled voice.

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

Patterson was desperate now. He must talk to Bromhead . . . he must gain time. As Mrs. Morely-Johnson scrawled her signature on the paper he gave her, he said, ‘Didn’t you know? Mr.

Weidman left for New York this morning. I ran into him as he was leaving. He won’t be back until Monday.’

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

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

‘That’s right,’ Patterson said huskily.

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

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

‘Please excuse me. This is my busy period. I really must run along.’

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

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

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

Patterson closed the door.

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

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

‘Why is she asking for the will?’ he asked.

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

Bromhead absorbed this, then again he nodded.

His calmness began to exasperate Patterson.

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

‘Has he?’ Bromhead asked.

Patterson shook his head.

‘No.’

‘That’s dangerous.’

Patterson slammed his fist into the palm of his hand.

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

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

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

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

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

‘But she wants her will by tomorrow morning!’

‘Do nothing. She won’t need it.’

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

‘She’ll expect it . . . She . . .’ Then he stopped.

Bromhead got to his feet.

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