1972 - Just a Matter of Time

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  One

  Patterson looked up from a list of stock quotations lying on his desk as Bailey came in.

  ‘What is it now, Joe?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Not another one?’

  ‘That’s it, Mr. Patterson . . . another one.’ Bailey’s fat face lit up with a leering grin and he closed a heavy eyelid. ‘You won’t want to miss this one, Mr. Patterson,’ and pursing his thick lips, he released a soft whistle.

  Patterson leaned back in his padded leather chair. He was a tall, athletically built man in his early thirties and very aware of his good looks. His numerous girlfriends had told him that he reminded them of David Niven, the movie star when Niven had been young, and Patterson was inclined to agree, but he had resisted the urge to grow a pencillined moustache now that the modern trend was all hair.

  ‘What’s the wink for, Joe?’ he demanded, his voice hostile.

  ‘Wink, sir? No wink . . . I’ve got something in my eye.’ Bailey stiffened at the snap in Patterson’s voice, remembering that although Patterson was all charm when dealing with the bank’s clients, he could be a sonofabitch with the staff. ‘Miss Sheila Oldhill waiting, sir.’

  Patterson hesitated. He had promised Bernie Cohen an early analysis of his portfolio with suggestions for growth, but Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s need for a companion-help took precedence.

  After all, he thought, there were dozens of Bernie Cohens, but only one Mrs. Morely-Johnson.

  ‘I’ll see her,’ he said, pushing aside the papers littering his desk. As Bailey made for the door, Patterson went on, ‘And get that thing out of your eye. It could create a wrong impression.’

  Bastard! Bailey thought as he said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  Patterson pulled a file towards him, opened it and studied his scribbled notes. He had interviewed five elderly women this morning. Four of them had been unsatisfactory, but the fifth, Mrs. Madge Fleming, seemed acceptable. Aged fifty-three, she was a stout, cheerful, quietly spoken woman who was willing to please. She had impeccable references and had been for some fifteen years a companion-help to a wealthy widow who had recently died and now she was looking for another such appointment.

  Patterson, utterly bored with this chore, had almost decided to engage her, subject, of course to Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s approval, but he felt that he had to give Mrs. Morely-Johnson a second choice and he had told Mrs. Fleming to stand by in readiness for an interview.

  He became aware that a woman had come into his office and he looked up, his head a little on one side, his left eyebrow raised, his right forefinger pressing on the dimple in his chin.

  He had cultivated this pose before his bathroom mirror and he now felt it gave him the confident, nonchalant air of an up-and-coming bank executive.

  As Bailey closed the door behind her, the woman moved further into the room and Patterson, regarding her, felt a tingle creep up his spine. He got to his feet, immediately understanding Bailey’s leer and wink.

  ‘Miss Oldhill?’ He waved to a chair. ‘Please sit down.’

  He watched her move to the chair and settle herself. Her movements were unhurried, graceful and calm. She was tall: her shoulders square and her raven black hair glossy. She was not what he would call pretty nor beautiful, but there was a compelling handsomeness in the Grecian nose, the big, smoky blue eyes and the large, firm mouth. But all this wasn’t what sent a hot wave of blood through him. This woman exuded a magnetic sensuality that was like a hundred-watt lamp flimsily concealed by a Cashmere shawl. He could see this as Bailey had seen it, and yet by her calmness and by the way she was looking directly at him without any sign of self-consciousness he couldn’t be sure if she was aware of it or not: this intrigued him.

  Looking at her as he sat down, he thought she was thirty or possibly thirty-two years of age. He looked swiftly at her clothes: inexpensive, in fashion and neat: the skirt an inch above the knee. He couldn’t see her legs from where he was sitting but he felt instinctively they would be exciting and good-looking. He abruptly realized his examination was causing an awkward pause and he jerked his mind back to business.

  ‘You have come in answer to our advertisement?’ he asked, picking up his gold pencil, an expensive Christmas gift from Mrs. Morely-Johnson, and pulling a scratch pad towards him.

  ‘Yes.’

  By leaning forward slightly, he could see her knees were pressed together and her hands rested on a black leather handbag. He became aware of her hands. The long tapering fingers and the narrow back of her hands were, to him, sensual. The thought of those hands moving over his body made him shift in his chair.

  ‘You couldn’t have read it very carefully,’ he said and smiled. He was pleased with his smile, knowing his teeth were excellent and his smile radiated warmth. ‘We are advertising for an elderly woman, Miss Oldhill . . . you can scarcely call yourself that.’

  She regarded him steadily, her chin up, her smoky blue eyes remote.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought, these days, being elderly is a qualification for any job,’ she said quietly. ‘But if you really are looking for an elderly woman then I won’t take up any more of your time.’

  They looked at each other and he noted she made no move to get up. He was thinking: She’s sensational! What a lay she would be! He looked down at his scratch pad suddenly uneasy that she might read from the expression in his eyes what was going through his mind.

  ‘You could be right,’ he said and began to dig holes in his blotter with the point of his pencil. ‘This is rather out of my field.’ Feeling now in control himself, he looked up and smiled. ‘My client is used to an elderly companion. The woman she has had for the past ten years has died rather suddenly and my client is in urgent need of a replacement.’ He paused, glancing at the still figure, then went on, ‘I don’t know how she would react to someone as young as you.’

  Sheila Oldhill remained still, her eyes looking directly into his and he looked away. As she said nothing, he went on, ‘But it might be an idea. She might be glad to have someone around as young as you . . . it might be an idea.’

  Again the polite silence: again the steady look.

  Seeing he was spoiling the appearance of his blotter, he laid down his pencil.

  ‘You’ve read the advertisement,’ he said, leaning back and forcing himself to relax. ‘We want a capable woman to act as companion-help for one of our clients. You might think it odd for a bank to handle such a - a chore, shall I say? But this particular client is important and I do all kinds of chores for her.’

  Sheila nodded. Still no body movement, still the faint, quizzing expression in the smoky blue eyes.

  ‘What makes you think you would be suitable for such a job?’ he asked, determined to make her talk.

  ‘If you will explain what the duties would be, I would be able to give you an intelligent answer,’ she said.

  There was even a sensual caress in her voice, he thought, as he again picked up his pencil to dig holes in the blotter.

  ‘My client is seventy-eight years old and proud of it,’ he said. ‘She is very wealthy and lives in a penthouse suite at the best hotel here. She has a cataract on both eyes and is half-blind. She has a horror of operations and refuses to have her eyes fixed. She needs a sympathetic type of woman to live with her to take care of her daily needs such as answering letters, reading the newspapers to her, helping her dress, going to the shops with her . . . that sort of thing. She is easy to live with, kind, considerate and in no way tiresome. The hotel staff look after the penthouse. She
has a chauffeur. Apart from being half blind, she is in no way helpless.’

  ‘Then I think I can be of use,’ Sheila said without hesitation. ‘I am a trained nurse. I was at the Pendick Foundation Hospital, New York, for four years. Previously, I was nurse-secretary to Dr. Gordon Fosdick, a leading surgeon in Washington. I do fast shorthand and typing. I drive a car. I speak good French and I am musical.’

  Patterson made notes.

  ‘This sounds fine,’ he said. ‘Not that Mrs. Morely-Johnson needs nursing, but one never knows at her age.’ He leaned back in his chair and regarded her. ‘But surely, Miss Oldhill, if you are a trained nurse with these extra qualifications, you could get something more interesting than being a companion to an old lady?’

  She stared down at her handbag for a brief moment, then looked at him.

  ‘I suppose I could, but I am very tired. The last four years have been hard. I like this city. Perhaps you don’t realize how strenuous hospital life can be, Mr. Patterson.’ So she had got his name, Patterson thought and was flattered. ‘If I could find something less strenuous, it would be helpful. You see I used to play the violin. I have a muscle condition in my bowing arm. I’ve been told that it will come right, providing I don’t do strenuous work, then I can begin playing again.’

  Patterson lifted his left eyebrow.

  ‘You are a violinist?’

  ‘I was. I just wasn’t good enough to become a professional so I took up nursing, but the violin is my first love. My father was first violinist with the New York Philharmonic. Music runs in my family.’

  Patterson drew in a long, slow breath.

  ‘Being a musician is a better qualification than being a trained nurse, Miss Oldhill. Before she married, Mrs. Morely-Johnson was Alice Lesson, the concert pianist. You have probably heard of her?’

  Sheila Oldhill nodded.

  ‘Of course. She was as good as Myra Hess. She once played with my father.’

  ‘Quite a coincidence. You understand as she is half-blind she plays the piano a lot. It’s her way of passing the time. She might welcome you as a fellow-musician.’ He regarded her calm face. ‘You say she played with your father?’

  ‘It was twenty-five years ago. She played the Beethoven Emperor. It was my first concert, and the first time I had seen my father on a concert platform.’

  ‘What was your father’s name?’

  ‘Henry Oldhill.’

  ‘Is he alive? Mrs. Morely-Johnson is certain to ask.’

  ‘He died three years ago.’

  ‘Have you been here long, Miss Oldhill?’

  ‘I arrived two days ago. I was on my way to Los Angeles, but I liked this city and decided to stop off for a few days. I am staying at the Franklin Hotel and saw your advertisement. I wondered . . .’ She paused.

  Patterson knew the Franklin Hotel. It was sedate and reasonably cheap: not the kind of place he would have liked to stay in, but then he had high standards.

  ‘This is very interesting,’ he said. ‘I would like to take up your references. You understand, of course, I have the responsibility of finding someone suitable for Mrs. Morely-Johnson. I don’t know you . . . as you don’t know me.’ He gave her his warm smile. ‘Have you a reference . . .’ he paused to look at his notes ‘. . . from Dr. Fosdick?’

  She looked directly at him. Her smoky blue eyes opened a little and he found her even more exciting.

  ‘No, but I have a reference from the Pendick Foundation Hospital.’ She opened her handbag and took from it an envelope which she put on the desk.

  He read the reference. It was impersonal and signed by one of the Hospital Governors. It said that Sheila Oldhill, a qualified nurse, had been with them for four years and had always been a hard worker, honest, trustworthy and good with patients. It wasn’t a rave reference, but it was adequate.

  ‘Could I call Dr. Fosdick if you haven’t a reference from him?’ Patterson asked.

  ‘Dr. Fosdick wouldn’t give me a reference,’ she said as she looked directly at him.

  Patterson lifted his left eyebrow.

  ‘He wouldn’t? Why not?’

  ‘He would be prejudiced.’ She hesitated, then went on, ‘He tried to become familiar with me. There was an unpleasant scene and I had to leave.’

  Patterson picked up his pencil and began to dig more holes in his blotter. He could imagine the situation: a doctor working under pressure, closeted all day with this sexy woman. He, himself, would have tried a pass if he had been in the same position. He couldn’t imagine any normal man not doing so. But she had walked out and that told him she was no pushover, but then he hadn’t seen Fosdick. He could be old, fat and ugly.

  ‘I understand.’ He was now a little dubious. This was his responsibility. He mustn’t make a mistake. Yet he wanted this woman to get the job. He wanted to see her again. At least three times a week, he had to visit Mrs. Morely-Johnson and that would mean he would be able to see Sheila Oldhill at least three times a week, and this, he realized, was what he wanted. There was this sensual thing in this woman who was sitting so quietly that set him on fire. Compared to the other women he had known, loved and forgotten, she was like a 1929 Claret compared to a Coke.

  Women played an important role in Patterson’s life. Being assistant manager of the bank and living in this small, gossip-ridden city, he was always careful and selective. Most of the women he went with lived in the adjacent town, some fifteen miles from his hometown and all of them were married. They had to be as careful as he. His thoughts were so far away that for a moment he had forgotten her when he was aware she had said something. He looked up.

  ‘Sorry . . . I was thinking . . . what did you say?’

  ‘Perhaps you don’t think I am suitable?’ she repeated.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘I think you are, but I just don’t know how Mrs. Morely-Johnson will react when I tell her you are so young. How old are you, if I may ask?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Would you mind if I told her you are thirty-eight?’ He smiled. ‘It could make a difference and you see . . . she doesn’t see very well.’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  He wished she would smile. She was so serious, quiet and calm.

  ‘I tell you what I will do. I have to see her this afternoon. I’ll explain who you are and so on. If she’s interested, I’ll arrange for you to see her some time tomorrow. How’s that?’

  A faint sparkle came into the smoky blue eyes and the firm lips curved into something Patterson thought was a smile: whatever it was he liked it.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Patterson,’ she said and got to her feet.

  He looked at the tall, firmly built body and again he felt the surge of blood run through him.

  ‘I hope I can fix it. I think I can.’ He got to his feet. ‘You haven’t asked what the pay would be.’

  She began to move slowly to the door.

  ‘I am sure it will be adequate. I’d rather not be told until I know the job is mine.’ She reached the door and put her hand on the doorknob. ‘That way I won’t be disappointed.’

  He came around the desk and approached her.

  ‘As soon as I know I’ll tell you,’ he said. ‘Will you be at your hotel say around seven o’clock?’

  ‘I could be.’

  ‘I pass your hotel on my way home . . . suppose I look in?’

  ‘If you haven’t any good news for me then I won’t expect you.’

  ‘I’ll drop by . . . good or bad news. I think it will be good.’

  She studied him in her calm remote way, nodded, turned, opened the door and walked out into the busy stream of people passing up and down the broad aisle of the bank. Patterson closed the door. He stood for a long moment staring down at the thick green pile of the carpet, pressing his forefinger against his dimple, then he walked back to his desk, sat down and drew Bernie Cohen’s portfolio towards him. The long list of securities and bonds meant nothing to him.

  He could only see the
smoky blue eyes and that firm mouth floating on the page. He sat there for half an hour doing nothing but thinking of her, then seeing the time, he shoved the portfolio into a drawer in his desk, got to his feet and left the bank.

  He drove fast towards the Plaza Beach Hotel.

  * * *

  Seaview Boulevard began in luxury and slowly deteriorated as it wound its way along the coast to mediocrity and then finally to slum conditions. The boulevard was two miles long. It began with the Plaza Beach Hotel with its own private beach, gay sun umbrellas, a thatched roof bar and restaurant, its boutiques and a jeweller’s shop whose windows blazed with diamonds. Several yards further on, past an ornamental public garden with tropical flowers and graceful palm trees was the Splendid Hotel, not quite so grand as the Plaza Beach but still expensive and with a smaller private beach. Further on still was the Ambassador Hotel which had no private beach and its frontage needed a coat of paint. Then came the tourist shops and also further deterioration.

  A mile from the Plaza Beach was the Franklin Hotel, strictly a family hotel, inexpensive, shabby but comfortable. Beyond the Franklin was the harbour and the fishermen’s huts, bars, cheap seafood restaurants, and still further on were the tenement blocks housing those who scratched up some kind of living along the waterfront.

  Gerald Hammett sat on the balcony that ran the length of the Franklin Hotel and watched the fishing boats and the bustle of the harbour with bored indifference. From time to time he glanced at his cheap wristwatch with an impatient frown.

  Gerald Hammett was twenty-six years of age, slimly built, his blond hair resting on the collar of his red and white striped shirt, open at the neck. His carefully cultivated sideboards like right angle triangles with the peaks at his ears and the bases reaching the corners of his mouth linked up with a thick, droopy moustache, gave him a slightly sinister appearance. His eyes were small, steel grey and restless; his mouth thin, his nose short and blunt. He looked what he was: a typical product of instability, dissatisfied with his way of life, groping, not knowing what he wanted, unsure of himself but with a latent viciousness that could be sparked off should he encounter any kind of opposition or criticism.