1972 - Just a Matter of Time (4 page)

The doorman brought the Wildcat to the kerb. They drove in silence back to the Franklin Hotel. As Patterson pulled up, Sheila leaned towards him and brushed his cheek with her lips.

Before he could reach for her, she was out of the car.

‘Good night, Chris . . . and again thanks.’

She ran up the steps and into the hotel lobby where Hammett was impatiently waiting.

Two

T
he following morning, Patterson arrived at his office at his usual time. He pulled a long face when he saw the pile of mail, arranged in two neat piles on his desk.

He had spent a restless night thinking about Sheila. She was certainly outspoken! Sex to me isn’t taking off my pants and pulling my dress up to my neck. No other woman he had known ever talked that way and it had shaken him. But this bluntness was, in a way, encouraging. No inexperienced woman would have said a thing like that. He was also uneasy that she had so quickly realized the way his mind was working. Obviously she knew he had the hots for her and this irritated him.

Had he been so blatant? And another thing: she had been in control all the time, and this he wasn’t used to. This also irritated him. She was so goddamn calm. His charm had bounced off her. This had never happened before.
But I pay my debts
.

That must mean, in her own time, when she was ready, she was prepared to go to bed with him . . . what else could it mean?

He sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette.

Most of the night, and while he was showering and shaving, he had asked himself again and again just why this woman had set him on fire. It wasn’t that she was beautiful, nor even pretty! He couldn’t understand it. Yet he was obsessed with her: the thought of having her lying naked by his side in bed made him sick with desire. This urgency was something that hadn’t happened to him before. He had lusted after many women, but not in this gut-tearing, obsessive way. There was something extra in her that sparked this violent desire that half frightened, half elated him. What was it? Damn it! What was it?

Vera Cross, his secretary, came in. She was a pretty, neatly dressed girl in her late twenties and extremely efficient. The sight of her bouncing breasts and slim legs always helped

Patterson through the daily grind of the day’s routine. He had often wondered what she would be like in bed. This was something he wondered about when he looked at any attractive woman. He had an idea that she could be wildly enthusiastic, but he never went further than wondering. He was careful never to make a pass, although he was sure she wouldn’t have objected if he had squeezed her bottom from time to time. But he had heard about one or two of his colleagues who had had it off with their secretaries and the trouble they had run into. He was ambitious.

One day he hoped to be Vice-President - even President - of the bank. He knew one false move like that would finish him so he and Vera were good friends and it was strictly no hands.

‘Good morning, Chris. The mail’s heavy this morning,’ Vera said, shutting the door. ‘I’ve sorted the men from the boys. The right-hand pile is urgent.’ She sat down, crossed one shapely leg over the other and flicked open her notebook.

With a suppressed groan, Patterson picked up the first letter.

Driving himself, he disposed of the mail by 09.50. From time to time, as he read a letter, smoky blue eyes floated on the page, but he forced himself to concentrate. At 10.00, he had to attend the morning Board meeting which would last until 10.45.

‘Any appointments, Vera?’ he asked without hope.

‘Every twenty minutes until lunchtime,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Mr. Cohen is coming in at eleven. I’ve allotted him half an hour.’

Patterson clapped his hand to his forehead.

‘But I haven’t had time to look at his portfolio,’ he said in dismay, remembering the previous afternoon, he had only thought of Sheila.

‘I guessed that,’ Vera said. ‘I took it to Security. They’ve made suggestions. I told them you were too busy to cope.’ She handed him two sheets of paper.

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ Patterson said and meant it. ‘Thanks a million.’

Vera smiled happily.

‘I knew you were tied up with these women for Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Did you find anyone suitable?’

‘I think so . . . I’ll know some time today. Thanks again, Vera,’ and Patterson began to study the suggestions made by the Security department.

During the Board meeting which was pure routine, Patterson kept looking at his watch. By now Mrs. Morely-Johnson would be talking to Mrs. Fleming. The thought worried him. Suppose the old lady fell for this comfortable, elderly woman with fifteen years’ experience of being a companion? He had played her down, but with caution, pointing out that her educational background and her lack of musical knowledge might eventually become a bore. It had been gentle poison, but he thought it had made an impression on the old lady.

As he sat in his office, discussing with Bernie Cohen whether to shift half Cohen’s holdings into short-term, high yielding bonds, he kept looking at his desk clock. The time was now 11.10. Sheila would be sitting in the big, luxuriously furnished living room of the penthouse suite, talking to the old lady. He felt his hands grow clammy. Suppose this flopped. What would

Sheila do? She had said she was on her way to Los Angeles. Would she disappear from his life? The thought dismayed him.

Finally, he got rid of Bernie Cohen and then got involved with Mrs. Van Davis who had surplus cash to invest. It was 11.40 before he got rid of her and as he conducted her to the lobby, he saw Vera signalling to him. Leaving Mrs. Van Davis enveloped in his charm and warmth, he crossed quickly to Vera’s desk.

‘I have Mrs. Morely-Johnson on the line.’

‘Put her through,’ he said and almost ran to his office. He shut the door, paused long enough to light a cigarette with unsteady fingers, then snatched up the telephone receiver.

‘Is that you, Chris?’ Mrs. Morely-Johnson had a twanging accent, and when using the telephone, she had a rooted idea that everyone she spoke to was deaf. The first blast of her voice always made Patterson wince. He held the receiver away from his ear as he said, ‘Good morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. How are you this morning?’

‘I’m all right. Maybe I’m feeling a little tired.’ She liked to emphasize she was no longer young. ‘It’s about this girl . . . Sheila Oldhill. I’ve talked to her. She seems a serious person, Chris.’

Patterson shifted in his chair. Careful to keep his voice casual, he said, ‘I think she is. She has excellent references. I’ve thoroughly investigated her (a lie). Did you like her?’

‘Very much.’ There was a pause, then the squawking voice went on. ‘But she is very young.’

Patterson gripped the receiver, his nails turning white.

‘Yes . . . there is that. I hesitated whether to send her to you . . . her qualifications. . .’

‘I liked the other woman. This girl wouldn’t have her experience.’

It’s going to flop! Patterson thought.

‘I understand perfectly, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Should I tell Miss Oldhill to look elsewhere?’

‘I didn’t say that!’ Her voice rose a note and Patterson hurriedly shifted the receiver further from his ear. ‘Not at all. The girl interests me. I knew her father . . . he was a fine musician. It’s a shame she knows so little about him. She tells me he was disappointed not to have a son. She tells me he ignored her . . . men can be so stupid. I would like to tell her more about her father. You are too young to remember. I often played when he was the leader of the orchestra.’

Patterson began to relax.

‘I am sure she would be most grateful, Mrs. Morely-Johnson.’

‘I don’t know about being grateful. A girl should know about her father. I’ve decided to take her on trial.’

Patterson rubbed the side of his jaw, aware he was sweating slightly.

‘How about Mrs. Fleming? Should I tell her to stand by?’

‘Certainly not . . . tell her I am suited. I will have this girl for three months. I’ve told her so. Then if I want to change, I’ll consult you.’

Patterson drew in a long, slow breath, then said, ‘I think you’re being most wise. A three-month trial will tell you if she is what you are looking for.’

‘Yes . . . I thought that. And thank you very much, Chris, for being so helpful. I am sure it has taken up a lot of your time.’

‘It is my pleasure.’ Patterson put charm into his voice. ‘Well, then that’s settled for the moment. I have some transfers for you to sign. May I come about eleven tomorrow?’

‘Of course.’ There followed a girlish giggle that Patterson found gruesome. He had looked after her account now for the past four years and this old lady’s adoration for him was hard to stomach. Okay, he had often told himself, she’s old, a little dotty, lonely and she looks on me the way some old dears look on movie stars. She’s harmless, but I wish to God she wouldn’t try to be so goddamn girlish!

‘Fine, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. When is Miss Oldhill starting with you?’

‘She’s moving in right away.’

Patterson frowned. This wasn’t good news. Once Sheila was with the old lady, access to her - intimate access - could be difficult.

‘Do you want me to pay her weekly or monthly?’ he asked.

‘The girl hasn’t any money. Her father left her nothing. She tells me he left his money to a home for old musicians. I am really surprised . . . but musicians can be eccentric. I admit it . . . sometimes I’m eccentric.’ Again the girlish giggle that set Patterson’s teeth on edge. ‘I’ve decided I will pay her. I have given her some money to buy clothes. She is rather shabbily dressed. You know how snobby people are in this hotel. She is now out buying some clothes. I won’t worry you with her affairs, Chris. You have enough to do without that.’

Patterson’s eyes narrowed as he listened. Sheila had certainly worked fast, he thought. Suddenly, she was out of his control. He was sure she had talked the old lady into this new arrangement. For the past four years he had always paid the wages of the old lady’s companion.

‘It would have been no problem.’ He had to force his voice to sound casual. ‘Well then, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning, Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Is there anything I can bring you?’

‘That reminds me. I was going to ask.’ A long pause, then she went on, ‘Will you please bring me five thousand dollars in cash?’

Patterson could scarcely believe what she was saying. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his desk, his fingers tightly gripping the receiver.

‘Did you say five thousand, Mrs. Morely-Johnson?’

‘Yes, please. I think I should have more cash here. I don’t always like paying by cheque.’

‘I will happily bring it.’

He listened to more of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s yak and when she finally hung up, he stared thoughtfully at his blotter. He didn’t like this new development. He felt he had been, suddenly and unexpectedly, deprived of some of his power. Had Sheila, in some clever way, persuaded the old lady to pay her and not to be paid by the bank? Maybe he was imagining this whereas the old lady had thought this up for herself. She is out buying clothes. Had this really been the old lady’s idea or had Sheila suggested it? He pressed his forefinger against his dimple as he thought. And now the old lady was asking for five thousand dollars in cash! This again made him feel uneasy. She had never asked for cash before. Thinking about the past, he realized how complete his control had been over her during the past four years. He had paid her tax, invested her money; every item she bought he had paid for: her hotel bills, her chauffeur’s wages, the car repairs, her gifts to charities and up to now, her companion’s wages and expenses had passed through his hands.

I’ve decided to pay her myself. I won’t worry you with her affairs
.

He didn’t like this sudden change. He wondered if the old lady had been persuaded.

He lit a cigarette as he thought. He saw the calm, expressionless face, the smoky blue eyes, the firm mouth. Then he heard her quiet voice as she said: I pay my debts. He began to relax. He told himself that he was imagining something that didn’t exist. The old lady was a little eccentric. What did it matter if she paid Sheila herself? What was he worrying about? The important thing now was, sooner or later, Sheila would pay her debt.

Vera put her head around his door.

‘Mr. Lessing is waiting.’

Patterson stubbed out his cigarette.

‘Send him in, Vera,’ he said and with an effort he switched his mind off his immediate problems and reached for a scratchpad and his gold pencil.

* * *

Jack Bromhead had been Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s chauffeur for the past five years. Although Mrs. Morely-Johnson was in awe of him, she was very proud to have such a man as her chauffeur. Aged fifty-five, Bromhead was tall, lean and dignified and his thick hair was the colour of burnished silver. Once, when sightseeing in Canterbury, England, Mrs. Morely-Johnson had seen a Bishop walking along the main street. His benign expression, his dignity, his snow white hair had made an impression on her. She had the same impression when Bromhead had come to her from an Agency to apply for the vacancy caused by the death of her previous chauffeur who had been far from dignified, too familiar and who thought a Cadillac the only car in the world.

Bromhead had impeccable references. He had only recently arrived in America, being British born. He had told her he had been chauffeur to the Duke of Sussex. His quiet, dignified manners, his references from the Duke, his appearance made him irresistible to Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

He told her in his quiet, beautifully modulated voice that he was used to driving only a Rolls-Royce. If Mrs. Morely-Johnson preferred the Cadillac, and here he paused, lifting his silver grey eyebrows, then he would regretfully have to look elsewhere.

Looking at this tall, stately man, Mrs. Morely-Johnson thought how her friends would envy her having such a personality working for her. She had never thought of buying a Rolls-

Royce. All her friends had either Cadillacs or Mercedes. The idea delighted her. She told him to get a Rolls. He had inclined his head gravely and she was a shade disappointed that he wasn’t more pleased. He then told her that he would prefer to get his uniforms from Hawes & Curtis, London, who were the Duke of Edinburgh’s tailors. He thought American tailors didn’t have the style to which he was accustomed. Slightly bewildered, but enchanted, Mrs. Morely-Johnson told him to go ahead and make the necessary arrangements. Even when the check came in for over a thousand dollars, she paid it without flinching. She assured herself that so dignified and handsome a man had to be suitably dressed.