1972 - Just a Matter of Time Page 8

  Lawson was a massively built man with thinning black hair, small cunning eyes and a mouth that could serve as a mousetrap.

  ‘Got a moment, Jack?’

  ‘Just going to watch the ball game on TV . . . what is it?’

  ‘This won’t take long,’ and Lawson steered him down a corridor and into his tiny office. ‘Just wanted to ask you something.’ He sat down behind his desk and waved Bromhead to a chair. ‘You know anything about a tall, well-built woman, blonde, around thirty years of age who wears a fawn dustcoat?’

  Bromhead felt his nerve ends prickle, but his benign expression merely shifted to a look of inquiry.

  ‘I know a number of blondes,’ he said and smiled, ‘but I don’t know about a dustcoat.’ His mind was working swiftly. This was dangerous. Pretend ignorance and he was sure Handley wouldn’t leave it alone and would keep prodding Lawson to press for an inquiry. If this was reported to the Director of the hotel it could become dynamite. ‘Why ask me, Fred?’

  Lawson scowled.

  ‘It’s Handley . . . that guy will give me an ulcer if he goes on the way he goes on. He says he saw a woman use the elevator at two o’clock this morning, going up to the 19th floor. She was youngish, blonde and wearing a fawn dustcoat. He challenged her but she avoided him and beat him to the elevator. He went right up after her, but she’d vanished. I’ve checked the 19th and the 18th floors, but no one knows anything about her. So that could leave the penthouse. Handley wants me to talk to the old lady, but I thought I’d better have a word with you first. The old lady wouldn’t like it . . . would she?’

  ‘You’re right.’ Bromhead had already made up his mind, he went on. ‘I told her it was risky, but she wanted to be kind. I’m sorry, Fred. I should have stopped it, but at the time, I didn’t see anything really wrong . . .’

  Lawson gaped at him.

  ‘Told who? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Miss Oldhill, of course. Now look, Fred, she’s new here and the old lady likes her and . . .’

  Lawson waved his fat hand.

  ‘Wait a minute. You mean the new companion . . . Oldhill? That her name?’

  ‘Yes. She has a girlfriend . . . the one with the dustcoat. This girl was passing through on her way to L.A. and she dropped off to see Oldhill. The girl’s short of money . . . who isn’t? On the bus, she picked up a boy who wanted to show her the town. She asked Oldhill if she could share her bed for the night to save a hotel check. Oldhill asked me. I told her the hotel wouldn’t go for it, but if the girl slipped in and out . . . who would know? My mistake, Fred. I didn’t reckon on Handley being so sharp. Sorry about it . . . can’t say more, can I?’

  Lawson breathed heavily as he frowned at Bromhead.

  ‘Dead against the rules, Jack. You could get me into trouble. You should know better.’

  Bromhead knew his man. He knew Lawson lived by graft.

  ‘You’re right. If you can forget it, Fred . . . I’ll remember it.’ He paused, then went on, ‘I was talking to the old lady only yesterday. Believe it or not, she didn’t know there was a house detective in the hotel. She was asking what she should do about the staff - extra service. I told her I’d think about it.’ Bromhead smiled at Lawson. ‘You forget . . . I remember . . . right?’

  But Lawson frowned down at his fat hands. Bromhead could almost hear his brain creak as he thought. Finally, he said, ‘I don’t know, Jack. Handley’s a sonofabitch. How do I fix him?’

  Bromhead had already solved that problem.

  ‘Tell him you checked with the old lady and she told you the girl was her guest.’

  Lawson’s fat face brightened.

  ‘Yeah . . . that’s an idea. Okay, Jack, you see me right . . . I’ll see you right.’

  ‘The old lady gives me the money for the staff. Why should you wait?’ Bromhead took out his billfold, extracted a hundred dollar bill and slid it over to Lawson. ‘How’s this, Fred?’

  The bill disappeared as Lawson’s fat fingers snapped it up.

  ‘Sure, Jack, but tell this Oldhill broad not to do it again. That sort of thing could lose me my job.’

  ‘She won’t. I’ll talk to her.’

  ‘The other broad still up there?’

  ‘She caught the 7.30 bus. Maybe you weren’t in the lobby.’

  Lawson who had been eating a full-scale breakfast in his office at that time, shook his head.

  ‘That’s right. . . I wasn’t around.’

  ‘Well, she’s gone.’ Bromhead got to his feet. ‘See you, Fred and thanks. Christmas is coming. I’ll see you right with the old lady. She can be generous at Christmas.’

  When Joe Handley reported for duty that evening, Lawson who was his superior tramped over him.

  ‘Listen to me, Joe . . . you can act too smart,’ he said, glaring at Handley. ‘Okay, so you keep your eyes open, but watch it . . . use your head. I checked with Mrs. Morely-Johnson. That woman you’ve been yelling about was a guest of hers. Mrs. Morely-Johnson didn’t like me checking. She’s touchy . . . so watch it in the future.’

  Handley stared at Lawson.

  ‘She went to the 19th floor,’ he said quietly. ‘Why didn’t she go direct to the penthouse?’

  Lawson hadn’t thought of this, but he was committed, so he blustered.

  ‘Cut it out! I’ve talked to the old lady. If she’s happy, you be happy!’

  ‘This woman went up the stairs to the fire door . . . is that it?’

  ‘I said cut it out!’ Lawson growled. ‘Get moving! You should be on duty!’

  Then Handley knew someone had bribed Lawson. He filed the blonde woman away in his cop mind for future reference.

  * * *

  The light coming through the half-open door of the shower room faintly lit the comfortable furnished motel bedroom; the rest of the room was in darkness.

  The big double bed was in the darkest part of the room and only the red gleam of two burning cigarettes told that two people lay on the bed. The noise of the heavy Sunday traffic on the highway just penetrated through the double-glazing: the air conditioner hummed softly: there was no discordant sound.

  Patterson lay limp and satiated. His mind dwelt on the past half hour. This woman, lying naked by his side, had been everything he had hoped for. No . . . that wasn’t true: she had been better than his most sensual expectations. This was an experienced woman who knew how to give and receive pleasure. In a drowsy stupor, he thought back on his many sexual encounters.

  Nothing he had known could be compared with the past half hour. He dragged hard on his cigarette, drawing smoke down into his lungs: his patient wait had been more than rewarded.

  ‘Chris . . . what is the time?’ Sheila asked out of the darkness.

  This was a jarring note to Patterson. Who the hell cared about time right now? He peered at the luminous hands of his watch.

  ‘Just after half past seven . . . why?’

  ‘I must be back by eleven.’

  Why must women talk at a moment like this? he thought. They always did. Women never seemed to know when to stop talking. Didn’t they ever realize that after a body-shattering explosion like the one he had just experienced, a man wanted to rest, doze and dream it all over again?

  ‘You’ll be back in time.’ He stubbed out his cigarette, then closed his eyes. They had two and a half hours before they need to think of the hotel. If she would only let him doze for a while, in half an hour or so, he would then be able to show her what lovemaking really meant.

  ‘Was it good for you, Chris?’

  ‘It was marvellous.’

  He remained quiet, his eyes closed. Maybe she would stop talking and doze too, but she didn’t.

  ‘Was it the best ever, Chris? It was for me.’

  He resigned himself. She was going to talk and he had to put up with it.

  ‘Yes . . . the best ever.’

  A pause, then she said, ‘Would you say something for me?’

  ‘What?’ He tried to control the impatienc
e in his voice, but didn’t quite succeed.

  ‘Please say this: I, Chris Patterson, consider Sheila Oldhill the best lay he has ever had.’

  The ideas women get! he thought.

  ‘Look, darling, I’d like to sleep a little. Then we can start this all over again. How about it?’

  ‘Say it for me, please, Chris. I want to hear you say it, then we’ll sleep . . . I promise.’

  God! Women! he thought, then for the sake of peace, he intoned without much enthusiasm, ‘I, Christopher Patterson, think Sheila Oldhill the most marvellous, wonderful and exciting woman I have ever slept with. How’s that?’

  Thinking of Bromhead with his tape recorder, sitting in his Mini-Austin Cooper Mrs. Morely-Johnson had given him as a runabout, Sheila was satisfied.

  ‘Thank you, darling. Maybe I’m a little stupid, but I did want to hear you say that. . . now go to sleep.’

  Patterson drifted off into a light sleep while Sheila waited.

  She let him sleep for half an hour, then she got off the bed and took a shower. She thought of Bromhead waiting out there.

  ‘Don’t rush anything,’ he had said as he had given her the microphone. ‘Remember . . . this is a chance in a lifetime.’

  As she came out of the shower room, leaving the door wide open so the light brightened the shadows of the bedroom, Patterson woke. He sat up.

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘I’ve had a shower.’ She came across the room, naked with the light behind her and he felt desire for her rise in him.

  ‘Come here.’

  ‘Chris . . . I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Not now . . . come here.’

  She put on the bathrobe the motel supplied.

  ‘Chris . . . do you realize how dangerous this is and do you realize it can’t happen again?’

  ‘What do you mean . . . dangerous?’

  ‘Dangerous to you.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sheila. You mean the bank? Nonsense. This place is a hundred percent safe.’

  ‘I don’t mean the bank. I mean Mrs. Morely-Johnson.’

  ‘Dangerous? What’s all this, Sheila?’

  ‘She’s in love with you.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. I know she’s a sexy old thing. In her heyday, she had lovers by the dozens, but now she’s seventy-eight, for God’s sake!’ Patterson laughed. ‘Of course she regards me as her Prince Charming, but that means nothing . . . to me. I go along with her. I have to: it’s part of my job. I don’t mind telling you when she turns girlish she bores me sick.’ He suddenly

  realized he was talking too much. ‘Come here, darling. We’re wasting time.’

  ‘There’s time.’ She came over to the bed and sat on it, keeping away from him. She wasn’t sure about the strength of the microphone although Bromhead had assured her that it would pick up every sound in the cabin. ‘If she ever found out about us, it would hurt her. You realize that, Chris?’

  ‘How could she find out? This isn’t the time for this kind of talk.’ He switched on the bedside lamp and half raised himself to stare at her. She had gone remote on him. Her quiet, calm expression had come back and he realized her barrier had come up again between them. For no reason he could quite put his finger on, he began to feel uneasy. ‘What’s the matter, Sheila?’

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ she said. ‘I have seen you with the old lady. Are you acting all the time? You are so nice to her . . . so charming . . . yet you say she bores you sick.’

  ‘Do we have to discuss this stupid old woman right now?’ Patterson demanded, losing patience. ‘Come here! I want you!’

  ‘Do you think she’s stupid?’

  ‘Well, don’t you?’ Patterson was becoming exasperated. ‘Do you want me to spell it out? At the age of seventy-eight, she is vain, half-blind, gushing and she can’t keep her eyes off young men. If you don’t call that stupid . . . then what do you call it?’

  Sheila drew in a long breath. If she had written the script or if Bromhead had written it, it couldn’t have been more word perfect.

  Listening in his car outside the motel cabin, Bromhead decided he had what he wanted. He snapped down the stop button on the recorder, started the car engine, sounded his horn three times, in short loud blasts, then drove rapidly back to the Plaza Beach Hotel.

  Sheila heard the horn blasts and she stood up. The first stage of the operation had been successfully completed, now came the more difficult stage.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said. ‘Let’s eat.’

  She went over to the plastic bag that Patterson had brought, opened it and took from it two neatly packed parcels.

  Patterson watched her. Why was he feeling uneasy? This woman had become so impersonal, so different from the moaning, thrashing woman who had clung to him, uttering little cries of pleasure as her fingernails dug into his flesh.

  Well, if she was hungry . . . there was still plenty of time. He looked at his watch: 19.45. Yes . . . it would be an idea to eat, then make love again. He too suddenly felt hungry.

  She went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of Chablis he had brought. He had already half drawn the cork.

  She poured the wine into glasses.

  He lay still, watching her, wished she wasn’t wearing the bathrobe.

  ‘Take that off, Sheila,’ he said. ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘Later.’ She opened the packets and put one of them beside him, then she sat away from him with the other packet on her knee. ‘Chris . . . have you seen the old lady’s will?’ She began to eat the smoked salmon sandwich. ‘Her last will and testament . . . that’s what it’s called, isn’t it?’

  He was reaching for a sandwich, but his hand paused.

  ‘Will? Why bring that up?’

  ‘I asked you a simple question: can’t I have a simple answer?’

  God! he thought, how remote she’s become, and he became aware that he was lying naked on the bed. He shifted a little and pulled the sheet across him. Instinctively, he felt that there would be no more love making. He didn’t know why except perhaps her calm remoteness told him this, but he was sure of it.

  ‘I know nothing about her will,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Does money mean anything to you?’

  He began to get angry. There was a snap in his voice as he said, ‘Of course it does . . . doesn’t it to you?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was a slight pause, then she said. ‘You should know about her will.’

  Patterson’s face hardened. He felt at a disadvantage lying on the bed, half hidden by the sheet. He swung his legs off the bed and sat upright and looked directly at her.

  He got no hint as to what was going on in her mind. She had this maddening remote look and she was eating the sandwich as if she were enjoying it.

  ‘Sheila . . . just what are you getting at?’

  ‘You don’t know she’s leaving you a lot of money?’

  ‘Me?’ He stiffened, staring at her. ‘A lot of money? How do you know?’

  She finished the sandwich and reached for another. She could see he had become tense.

  ‘She told me.’

  ‘She told you she had left me money?’ Patterson couldn’t believe this. Sheila had been with the old lady for only eight days. The old lady had never hinted she was leaving him anything . . . then why tell a new companion-help?

  ‘Are you sure she told you, Sheila?’

  ‘Why should I tell you if I wasn’t sure?’ She took another bite at the sandwich while she looked at him: cool, remote, the smoky blue eyes impersonal. ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Frankly . . . no!’ He knew now for certain love making was finished. He wanted to get into his clothes. He didn’t feel he could control this unexpected situation while he was naked.

  ‘Wait a moment.’

  Holding the sheet around him, he grabbed up his shirt, underpants and trousers and went into the shower room.

  Sheila drank a little of the Chablis, then finished her second sandwich. No
w, she told herself, she had to be careful. The fish was nibbling at the bait, but she had to judge the exact moment when to sink in the hook.

  Patterson came out of the shower room. Sitting on the bed, he put on his socks and shoes. She watched him in silence. When he had knotted his tie and had put on his jacket, she said, ‘Aren’t you hungry, Chris? These sandwiches are delicious.’

  He regarded her angrily and suspiciously.

  ‘Just what is all this? Do you really mean the old lady told you she is leaving me a lot of money?’

  She nodded.

  ‘If you don’t believe me . . . why bother? Wait until she is dead, then you’ll find out for yourself.’

  He continued to stare at her, his mind busy. He hoped, of course, that Mrs. Morely-Johnson would remember him in her will. Maybe ten thousand dollars . . . something like that. But what did a lot of money mean? This old woman was worth five million dollars. She and he had always got along well together and he knew she was a bit sexy about him. If he could believe Sheila, this could mean real money. How he wanted that!

  Often, he had dreamed of leaving the bank and setting up as an independent broker. But he knew that was out of the question. You had to have substantial capital to set up on your own, but if he could be sure of getting a large sum . . .

  ‘She actually told you?’ he said, trying to keep his voice steady.

  ‘Why not look at her will? Then I don’t have to convince you,’ Sheila said quietly.

  ‘Look at her will? I can’t do that! You don’t know what you are saying! Her will is with our Legal department! Of course, I can’t look at it!’

  Sheila finished her drink.

  ‘You don’t believe me and you can’t look at her will . . . then you must wait, mustn’t you?’

  Patterson began to sweat. He knew there would be no rest in his mind until he did know.

  ‘Just what did she tell you?’

  Sheila studied him. She knew she had to be careful with him.

  She could goad him so far, but no further. He wasn’t like Gerald: this man was shrewd, nimble-minded and experienced in tough business dealings. She felt this was the moment to sink in the gaff.