1972 - Just a Matter of Time (6 page)

On his twenty-second birthday, Gerald who by now had learned that if you don’t ask, you don’t get, called on his aunt, Mrs. Morely-Johnson at the Plaza Beach Hotel and he reminded her in no uncertain terms that he was her nephew and what was she going to do for him?

Had he approached the old lady with tact and politeness she would have done something for him, but he had no time for rich old women and he demanded financial aid in a way that shocked his aunt.

Marks’s investigator had talked to an eyewitness of the meeting.

The doorman of the Plaza Beach Hotel remembered the incident, now five years ago and was prepared to describe it in detail for a $10 bill. Gerald had arrived at the hotel, dirty, shabby and bearded just as Mrs. Morely-Johnson was going out for her morning shopping. As the result of smoking a reefer to bolster his courage, Gerald was in an ugly and truculent mood.

He had confronted his aunt in the hotel lobby and told her in a loud voice what he expected of her. The old lady listened to this dirty-looking boy, scarcely able to believe her ears. She was aware that her so-called friends were also listening and staring.

She felt helpless and she looked at the doorman who hadn’t seen Gerald’s entrance, waving her hands in a signal of distress. The doorman, remembering many past favours, grabbed hold of Gerald and ejected him from the hotel with considerable violence but not before Gerald had yelled, ‘Okay, you stupid old cow . . . if you don’t want me, then up yours!’

It had been a scene that took Mrs. Morely-Johnson some time to live down. Had she not been worth five million dollars, the manager of this luxury hotel would have asked her to leave.

According to the dossier, Gerald had then gone to Los Angeles. He had joined up with a Hippy group and had spent the next three years living rough, scratching up some kind of living until he finally opted to become a drug pusher. This enterprise lasted less than two months before the Vice squad caught up with him. His father now dead, he had only Mrs. Morely-Johnson to turn to. A detective called on her and asked her if she was prepared to do anything for her nephew. The detective happened to be a handsome Negro. Mrs. Morely-Johnson had been born and raised in Georgia and couldn’t bear the sight of a black skin. Apart from loathing her nephew who had practically wrecked her way of living at the Plaza Beach Hotel, talking to a black detective was, to her, the uttermost end. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

Gerald spent two years behind bars. During that time he brooded and finally came to the conclusion that he had been badly treated from childhood, that the world owed him a living and Mrs. Morely-Johnson should be made to pay. This was, of course, a deduction offered by Marks’s investigator and Bromhead was prepared to go along with it. In Gerald’s place, he would have felt the same way. When he was released, Gerald had gone to New York and to the Hippy scene, but he left drugs alone. He knew he was now a marked man and if the police had reason to arrest him again, he would go away for a long time.

It was during this time when he was living in a vacuum that he met Veda Rayson. She was young, pretty and willing, and what was more important, she had a comfortable income from her father who was thankful not to have her living in his house.

Gerald and she teamed up and she let him live with her in her two-room apartment, paid the bills and generally made his life comfortable. The four months he lived with her turned Gerald soft. He came to like this way of life. He hadn’t to get out of bed before eleven o’clock in the morning. He had his meals provided. When he needed clothes, he had only to ask. Also, Veda happened to be the most exciting lay he had had so far. So what could you want better, man? he asked himself.

Then one morning as Gerald, waking, was turning Veda on her back, she gave a tiny, suppressed scream that frightened him. Then followed the commotion of telephoning, getting an ambulance, having her dragged down the spiral staircase in a hammock by two boozy-faced ambulance men with Gerald, shaking and panic in his heart, following them and offering useless advice.

At the hospital the nurse had told him there was no hope. Marks’s investigator hadn’t wasted time going into details but it seemed Veda had been fighting cancer for the past year. The investigator had picked up gossip from the hospital receptionist.

The nurse who had broken the news to Gerald had been Sheila Oldhill, and the receptionist said that this woman had no right to be a nurse.

‘She is a Tomcat,’ the receptionist said. ‘I know all about her. Show her any man and she’ll fall flat on her back.’

The investigator sighed. If this was true then Sheila Oldhill was his dream woman, but he didn’t say this to the receptionist.

Veda died within thirty-eight hours of being admitted to the hospital. Again it was Nurse Oldhill who had broken the news to Gerald who felt a pang of loss. Who was going to pay the rent, feed him, buy his clothes?

‘I was watching them,’ the receptionist told the investigator. ‘It was horrible. She was looking hungrily at him . . . that is the only word to describe it. How could she look at a dirty, hairy kid like that?’

The investigator, a fat, middle-aged man had seen everything and heard everything. What the receptionist told him was so much grist to his mill.

He investigated further and learned that Sheila Oldhill and Gerald had set up home together - a two-room apartment. Sheila continued to work at the hospital, providing the funds on which they lived. Gerald spent his days listening to pop music, going to movies and waiting for Sheila to return. At the conclusion of the report, they were still in New York: she was working at the hospital, he living on her.

All this interested Bromhead. Before making a decision, he telephoned Marks, asking him for a breakdown on Sheila Oldhill. This took a further two weeks and cost Bromhead another I.O.U. for two thousand dollars, but when he read the report he considered he was getting value for money.

He learned that Sheila’s father had been first violinist with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra and referring to Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s dossier he learned at one time she had been a concert pianist - her professional name being Alice Lesson - and had played with the Philharmonic Orchestra a number of times.

It was only when he studied Chris Patterson’s dossier and discovered how highly sexed he was and learned of the numerous affairs he was having out of town and the caution he used to prevent any gossip that Bromhead began to perfect his plan to take care of his future in comfort.

After more thought, he decided he must meet Gerald and Sheila Oldhill. There was now a sense of urgency because Mrs. Morely-Johnson was without a companion-help. The old lady was waiting to hear from the doctors. Her companion who had been with her for fifteen years had been taken to hospital. Mrs. Morely-Johnson disliked change and was prepared to wait for her companion to recover rather than to look elsewhere, but Bromhead was sure the companion wouldn’t recover and he would have to act swiftly.

He wrote to Gerald on the Plaza Beach Hotel notepaper, stating he was coming to New York on urgent business and he would like Gerald to meet him at the Kennedy Airport. Then he asked Mrs. Morely-Johnson if he could take the weekend off as his brother (non-existent) was arriving in New York and Mrs. Morely-Johnson was happy not only for him to meet his brother but to give him his fare there and back.

Before leaving for New York, he contacted Solly Marks and told him he was in urgent need of $1,000. Marks sent him the money without hesitation for Marks now realized that Bromhead was planning something that could be big. Marks, like Bromhead, kept thinking of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s five million dollars. Marks didn’t want to know any details. He knew Bromhead was serious. When Bromhead made his kill, then Marks would move in, but not before. The police couldn’t touch him so long as he acted only as a moneylender and this Marks was willing to do.

Bromhead was a little disappointed in Gerald Hammett, but he was philosophical enough to know that a good workman could use inferior tools if he had to. As soon as he had told Gerald he was Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s chauffeur, Gerald who had been eyeing him with suspicion became much more alive.

Bromhead told him part of the plan, but gave no details. He then asked if Sheila Oldhill could be relied on to help.

Gerald said she could.

Bromhead then asked if he could meet her. As they drove in Gerald’s Volkswagen, which Sheila had bought him, to the two-room apartment, Bromhead thought of the possibilities. If this woman was a Tomcat, as the receptionist at the hospital had claimed, then she was the woman he wanted. Looking at Gerald as he drove, Bromhead decided this immature boy wouldn’t fall for a non-sexy woman. A woman so much older than he, had to be right.

Bromhead was immediately impressed by Sheila. Although now, at his age, he no longer bothered with women, he was immediately aware of her sensuality, her calmness and her efficiency. With this woman, he told himself, he couldn’t go wrong.

Having explained his plan, he warned them that until Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s companion either died or was proved unfit to resume her duties, the plan wasn’t on. He was a little worried about Gerald who sat away from them, listening and scowling. Whenever he began to speak, Sheila had raised her hand, stopping him and he had muttered a four-letter word under his breath, then kept silent.

Bromhead looked directly at Sheila.

‘What do you say?’

‘It is worth a try,’ she said quietly.

‘This is a gamble,’ Bromhead said. ‘It may not come off. I want you both to think of it as a long term operation, but the payoff will be big.’

Gerald, across the room, chewed his thumbnail.

‘What do you call long term for God’s sake?’

Bromhead regarded him.

‘We will have to wait until the old lady dies.’ He paused, then went on, ‘But no one lives forever.’

Three

G
erald Hammett sat in his shabby room at the Franklin Hotel with the door ajar and waited anxiously for Sheila’s return. She had left the hotel at 10.45 and he reckoned she would be back with news by at least 12.30. At 13.00 he went down to the bar and bought a beef sandwich and a glass of beer. From his stool in the bar he could see the entrance of the hotel. He was growing impatient and worried. At 13.30, he returned to his room and again waited. The hands of his watch crept on. What had happened to her? She was the kingpin of this operation and without her, there would be no more money. Had she been knocked down by a car? He was angry and frustrated to realize that although his own pan in the plan was of vital importance, he had such a small active part to play.

Sheila and Bromhead were so goddamn efficient, he thought angrily. It seemed to him that they treated him the way movie stars would treat a bit player and this riled him.

Around 16.00 when almost exasperated with waiting, he saw her come down the corridor, carrying three boxes and several parcels that told him she had been on a shopping spree.

He waited until she had unlocked her door, then he came out into the corridor, looked right and left to assure himself there was no one to see him and then joined her as she entered her room.

‘What happened for God’s sake?’ he demanded as she closed the door.

‘You, shouldn’t be here, Gerry,’ she said as she dropped the boxes on the bed. ‘You’re taking too many risks.’

Gerald said a four-letter word.

‘What happened?’

‘It’s all right. I’m on a three months’ trial.’ She crossed to the flyblown mirror and began to rearrange her hair which she had dressed low, making her look older and severe.

‘What’s all this?’ Gerald demanded, waving to the boxes on the bed.

‘Oh, clothes.’ Her voice was indifferent. ‘Your aunt wants me to dress better.’

‘Did she give you the money?’

‘Of course.’

He stared at the boxes.

‘What’s she paying you?’

‘A hundred and forty a week.’

‘She is?’ Gerald whistled. ‘That’s not hay, man! The old cow must be rolling in the stuff.’

‘We know that.’

Her cold tone made him stare at her.

‘And Patterson?’

‘I was able to persuade him.’

‘Just what the hell does that mean?’

‘Never mind. I must pack. She wants me there by six o’clock. I haven’t much time.’

‘You mean you are going to live with her right now?’

‘Yes . . . she is without anyone.’

Gerald shifted uneasily.

‘What’s going to happen to me?’

She moved by him, took a suitcase from the closet, put it on the bed and opened it.

He caught hold of her arm and swung her around to face him.

‘Did you hear me? What’s going to happen to me?’

She regarded him with her calm, smoky blue eyes and this quiet calmness angered and frightened him.

‘You accepted the arrangement,’ she said and jerked her arm free. ‘Be careful . . . you will bruise me.’

‘I’ll do more than that!’ Gerald snarled and hooking his foot around her ankle, he upset her, sprawling her on her back across the boxes on the bed. As he dropped on her, his hand groping for her skirt, she struck him across his face. Water jumped into his eyes and he felt blood starting from his nose. Stunned by the force of the blow, he felt her move out from under him, then a Kleenex tissue was thrust into his hand. He sat up, the tissue held to his nose while he glared at her.

‘You bitch!’

‘Control yourself,’ she said curtly. ‘Get off the bed . . . you’re bleeding.’

Trembling and now in despair, he got to his feet.

‘I know the signs, you bitch,’ he mumbled as he dabbed at his nose. ‘You’ve got the hots for this banker bastard. I don’t mean anything anymore to you.’

‘Stop talking,’ she said. This quiet, firm voice made him feel like a performing ape who answers to signals. He sat on the sagging chair and she went into the bathroom, returning with a wet sponge. With expert and completely impersonal hands, she wiped the blood off his nose and mouth. Then she returned to the bathroom, rinsed out the sponge while he sat there like a beaten child.