1972 - Just a Matter of Time (21 page)

‘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 grillroom 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 callbox 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.’

Eight

J
oe 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.