1972 - Just a Matter of Time (22 page)

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 tum 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 briefcase, 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.’