1972 - Just a Matter of Time (12 page)

‘Mrs. Moses!’ Cohen was now worried. ‘You’re in a hell of a mood, Chris?’

‘I have a load of work, Bernie,’ Patterson said. ‘How about Ferronite?’

Cohen felt deflated. Up to now, he always had enjoyed his sessions with Patterson. They kidded each other, swopped raw jokes, but this morning, Patterson was acting like the goddamn manager of the bank.

‘Well, okay . . . you say it . . . I buy it. Sure go ahead.’

‘Fifty thousand?’

‘Yes.’

Patterson made a quick note on his pad.

‘Fine, Bernie.’ He got to his feet. ‘Let’s have dinner together. How are you fixed . . . Friday any good to you?’

Cohen began to smile again.

‘Yeah . . . will you lay on the girls or shall I?’

Patterson only half heard this. He was again thinking of Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

‘Hey! How about the girls?’ Cohen asked, raising his voice.

Patterson dragged his mind back and shrugged.

‘You fix them, Bernie.’

Cohen got to his feet.

‘How that chick must have screwed you! Look, I’ll call you. You’re not in the mood right now. I know how it is. A good . . .’ He broke off and his smile vanished. ‘What’s this? What are you playing at?’

The sudden snap in his voice startled Patterson. He stared at Cohen.

‘What is what? What do you mean?’

‘What’s the big idea - bugging me?’ Cohen demanded and he pointed to the desk.

Patterson followed the direction of the fat finger and saw Cohen was pointing at the black button Sheila had given him.

‘Bugging you?’ he said blankly, then as Cohen pulled the button off the desk, he felt a cold sensation move over his body.

‘That’s what I said. Why are you bugging me?’

‘But I’m not! I don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about!’

‘Then why is this on your desk?’ Cohen waved the button at Patterson.

‘It’s a button, isn’t it? I - I picked it up in the street . . . outside the bank.’

Cohen’s little eyes were now like jet beads.

‘Do you pick up buttons in the street?’

Stuck with the lie, Patterson said, ‘My mother was superstitious. Never pass a button on the street, she used to tell me when I was a kid. Do you walk under a ladder?’

‘You really mean to tell me you picked this up on the street?’

‘I’m telling you! What the hell is all this, Bernie?’

Cohen suddenly relaxed and he clapped his fat hands down hard on his fat thighs.

‘Man! You may be good with money and women, but you’re certainly wet behind the ears. You mean you don’t know what this is?’

Patterson had a presentiment of disaster, but he managed to keep his face expressionless.

‘Should I?’

‘This is one of the most sophisticated microphones on the market: a Limpet special. You can stick it anywhere and it can feed a tape recorder a half a mile away: no wires - no nothing. It’s one of the most dangerous tools industrial spies are using. Every time I have a board meeting, I have the room checked against this. It’s the big ear. You mean you’ve never seen one before?’

Patterson felt his heart beginning to hammer.

‘No.’

‘Well, you’ve seen one now. Get rid of it. Every word we’ve said could have been taped . . . not that it matters.’

Patterson looked so shaken and white that Cohen felt he would be doing him a kindness by leaving.

‘Well, so long, Chris . . . see you Friday.’

‘Yes.’

Cohen paused at the door.

‘Mothers are the salt of the earth, but I’d skip picking up buttons if I were you in the future.’

He went out, closing the door behind him.

Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He finished the whisky and ignored the sandwich.

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

He lit a cigarette as he thought.

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

Back at the bank, a half an hour later, he went to his office, took from his desk drawer a sheet of the Plaza Beach Hotel notepaper he kept handy on which to write letters for the old lady to sign. Using his portable typewriter, he wrote the following:
Dear Mr. Patterson,
I am so forgetful these days, I can’t remember certain bequests
I think I have made in my will. Would you please bring my will at your earliest convenience? It is, I believe, in an envelope in the bank.

Looking forward to seeing you.

Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He paused, staring down at his blotter, his heart beating unevenly.

Well, he was committed. He had to know. With this threat of blackmail hanging over him, the risk had to be taken.

He had to know!

Twenty minutes later, he was ringing on the bell of the penthouse.

Sheila opened the door. He stood for a moment, looking at her. He had himself under control and his warm, charming smile appeared as sincere and as genuine as it had always done.

He regarded the calm, remote face, the glasses and the low-dressed hair. Neither she nor he let the mask slip.

Sheila stood aside.

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

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

‘Thank you. Is Mrs. Morely-Johnson well?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What are these papers, Chris?’ she asked, fumbling for her glasses.

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

She had her glasses on now.

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

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

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

‘What’s this, Chris?’

He was prepared for this.

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

‘Do I?’ She looked up and peered at him. ‘I thought . . .’

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

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

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

Well, it had worked, he thought, drawing in a deep breath.

Now, he had to convince Fellows.

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

Then Bromhead came out on to the terrace.

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

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

‘Thank you . . . it will be my pleasure.’ Patterson gathered up his papers and put them in his briefcase.

‘Black tie, Chris,’ she reminded him as he kissed her hand.

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

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

It was as easy as that.

* * *

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