1972 - Just a Matter of Time (11 page)

‘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. Now, 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.

‘She told me she was leaving you a hundred thousand dollars a year for life.’

Patterson drew in a hiss of breath and his hands turned into fists.

This couldn’t be true! That was a fortune! She must have got it wrong!

‘Wait a minute, Sheila! You mean ten thousand dollars, don’t you? Ten thousand a year for life?’

The gaff was in, she thought.

‘No, Chris. I know exactly what she said. One hundred thousand . . . it’s a lot of money, isn’t it? You should be pleased.’

She got to her feet, threw off the bathrobe and, naked, walked to where she had tossed off her clothes. Patterson didn’t even see her. He was staring down at the carpet, his mind racing. God! If this were true! One hundred thousand dollars a year for life! He wouldn’t even have to work again! He could travel! The women he could have! The fun he could have! London! Paris! Rome! The world would be at his feet.

He remained still, his mind in a whirl until Sheila touched him lightly on his shoulder. She was now dressed.

‘Aren’t you hungry? You’ve eaten nothing.’

Looking at him, she decided the difference between him and Gerald was he was greedy and Gerald was stupid.

Patterson stood up.

‘Sheila! You must understand . . . this is important to me,’ he said, ‘You really mean this? She really told you this?’

She turned away, went to the bedside table and pulled the limpet microphone free. She put it in its box and the box into her bag. Patterson was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice what she was doing.

‘Let’s go back to the hotel, please,’ she said and walked to the door.

She was sitting in the Wildcat by the time he had paid the check. He joined her, still in a daze. She noted with a wry smile that he hadn’t pressed her to stay. As he drove her fast and in silence along the broad highway, she thought that maybe money meant more to men than sex. Men were realistic animals. Sex lasted for only a few minutes, but money, with luck and judgment, could last forever.

As they approached the lights of Seaview boulevard, he said, ‘Why did she tell you? That’s something I can’t understand. Just why did she tell you?’

‘Why do women confide in each other?’ Sheila said. ‘Maybe, women are insecure . . . even old women. They talk. They tell secrets. Perhaps she was so pleased to make you secure. She said how happy you had made her.’

Patterson could accept this.

‘But why did she tell you?’

Sheila made a movement of impatience.

‘Isn’t this becoming a bore, Chris? I’ve told you what she told me. Why should I lie to you? Surely you can read the will?’

Could he? The will was with the Legal department of the bank. The legal man was Irving Fellows. He and Patterson didn’t hit it off. Fellows was married with two children, serious and nothing in common with Patterson. Often, Patterson felt this thin, sour-faced lawyer disapproved of him. To see the will, he would have to get authorization from Mrs. Morely-Johnson . . . that was out of the question. He could never see the will.

‘It’s not possible,’ he said.

‘Then you must be satisfied that I’m telling you the truth.’

Why shouldn’t he be satisfied? Patterson asked himself. Why should she lie to him? One hundred thousand dollars a year for life! If only Abe Weidman, the old lady’s attorney had told him this, then he would believe it. Yet, now he wanted to believe it.

But why should the old lady have told a new companion-help such a thing? The old girl was a little dotty. She might have confided to Sheila to boast. How can anyone read the mind of the rich and the dotty?

He pulled up outside the Splendid Hotel. He had to force his mind away from the thought of all this money to get out of the car and open the offside door.

Sheila slid out.

‘It was wonderful,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Chris.’

His mind still far away, Patterson went through the motions.

He touched her hand and turned on his charm.

‘The greatest,’ he said. ‘Then next Sunday?’

‘Yes . . . I’d love that.’ She took from her handbag the box containing the limpet microphone and put the box in his hand. ‘A little memento, Chris, for a lovely evening.’

She touched his cheek lightly with her fingertips, then turning, she walked quickly along the brightly lit boulevard to the Plaza Beach Hotel.

* * *

The following morning, Patterson entered his office to find Vera Cross laying out his mail.

Until 04.00, Patterson had tossed and turned in bed, thinking about what Sheila had told him and wondering if it were true, then in desperation, knowing he wouldn’t sleep without a pill, he took two and overslept. There was such a scramble to get to the bank in time that he threw on the clothes he had worn the previous night, not caring if the bank raised eyebrows that he was in weekend clothes. In spite of doing without his morning coffee and driving too fast, he was still ten minutes late when he hurried into his office.

‘Oh! Oh!’ Vera said softly. ‘Someone’s had a thick weekend.’

Patterson was in no mood for Vera’s good natured banter.

‘Let’s cut the cackle,’ he said curtly and sat down behind his desk. ‘I’m late . . . okay . . . so now . . . what’s important?’

Startled by his tone, Vera patted the right hand pile of mail.

‘There are the men. Would you like me to cope with the boys?’

‘Do that.’ Patterson lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand.

‘And get me a cup of coffee, please. Have I any appointments?’

‘Mr. Cohen at ten. Mrs. Lampson at eleven-fifteen,’ Vera said. ‘There’s no Board meeting.’

‘I know that!’ he snapped. ‘There never is on Monday!’

Behind his back, Vera rolled her eyes. Someone must have soured him, she thought. Yet he looked as if he had had it off.

Men! She shrugged.

‘Yes, Mr. Patterson, sir,’ she said.

‘And cut that out!’ Patterson barked. ‘It’s not funny!’

She was glad to leave the office.

Patterson rubbed his hand over his badly shaven jaw. He looked across the office at the wall mirror and grimaced. God! He looked a mess! He was thankful he didn’t have to attend a Board meeting. He looked at the pile of mail and cursed under his breath. What a life to lead! he thought. He was nothing but a goddamn slave! Such a thought would never have entered his head had he not been obsessed by the thought of an income of one hundred thousand dollars a year.

He stubbed out his cigarette. He immediately wanted another and put his hand in his pocket. He found the box Sheila had given him.

When she had left the previous evening, he had opened the box. In the dim light, he had peered at what seemed to him to be a black button. Obviously it was of no value nor of importance and his thoughts were so busy, he had shrugged and dropped the box back into his pocket. Now he opened the box and this time regarded the black button more closely: to him, it was still a black button. He took it from the box and found the back was sticky with some powerful adhesive. What the hell was this? he wondered irritably, then as Vera came in with a cup of coffee, he put the button down on his desk and forgot it.

After drinking the coffee, he became more relaxed. He settled down to dictate. In under an hour, he had cleared the mail. When Vera had gone he leaned back in his chair and stared at his blotter. If the old lady had really left him this income for life, he could make plans. She was seventy-eight. She could last for another ten years of course, but that was unlikely. Suppose she lasted another six years: by then he would be thirty-nine.

How many men could give up work and retire with one hundred thousand dollars a year? Six years wasn’t so long to wait. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his sweating hands. If only he knew for certain!

The only way he could be certain was to read the will. Was this impossible? He sat, thinking. He knew the form. The Legal department, run by Irving Fellows, wouldn’t part with the will without authorization from Mrs. Morely-Johnson. Would that be so difficult to get? He lit a cigarette, got to his feet and began to pace around his office.

The old lady was half blind. She signed any paper he put before her. He could include an authorization along with stock transfers. He felt sure she would sign it.

Fellows?

Patterson returned to his desk and sat down.

Fellows was tricky, but if Patterson told him the old lady wanted to review her will and here was the authorization, how could he object?

Again Patterson wiped his hands with his handkerchief. But if he slipped up! If the old lady wanted to know what she was signing! He could have an answer ready . . . he would have to have an answer ready! This didn’t present a problem, but suppose Fellows telephoned her to check that she wanted to see her will . . . the sonofabitch was so tricky he might do just that to curry favour. If that happened, then there would be an inquiry.

Patterson flinched at the thought. No job . . . no one hundred thousand dollars a year for life! Patterson, thinking about this, lost his nerve. No! Wait! He told himself. He was young. Don’t do anything stupid or dangerous. When working in a bank, you don’t do stupid things. One slip . . . and you were out! And yet, he tormented himself, why couldn’t he know for certain? To have this hanging over his head until the old lady died! It might be ten years. Goddamn it! She might even outlive him!

There came a tap on the door and Vera looked in.

‘Mr. Cohen,’ she said.

Patterson dragged his mind back to realities and got to his feet.

Bernie Cohen owned a flourishing self-service store, an Amusement Park and a water skiing school He always had spare cash and was always looking for a quick turnover. The bulk of his money was safe in high yielding bonds, but with his spare cash, he liked to gamble for capital growth.

Cohen was short, fat, balding, blue-jowled and always smiling. He dwelt behind a six-inch cigar and he had been heard to say: ‘If the greatest man of this century smoked cigars, why shouldn’t I?’ and he would give the V sign with his stubby fat fingers and grin.

Cohen sank into the client’s chair and stared at Patterson.

‘Moses and Jacob!’ he exclaimed. ‘Have you had a weekend! What did she do to you?’

Patterson was in no mood to take a ribbing from Cohen.

‘What’s your problem, Bernie?’ he asked, a snap in his voice. ‘I have a load of work, so let’s get down to it.’

Cohen removed his cigar from his mouth, regarded the cigar, then leaning forward, he knocked the ash into the ashtray.

‘Like that, huh? Sore? That happened to me . . . once it was really bad . . . a Jap. Brother! Talk about getting caught in a vice.’

‘What’s your problem?’ Patterson said, picking up his gold pencil.

Cohen grimaced.

‘You’re in a hell of a mood, aren’t you, Chris?’

‘I’m okay . . . what’s the problem?’

Cohen hesitated, then he lifted his fat shoulders. If it was going to be only business . . . then it was going to be only business.

‘How do you like Auto Cap Comp?’

Patterson didn’t hesitate. He shook his head.

‘Not for you . . . too long term. Unless you’ve changed your thinking, you want something quick . . . or am I wrong?’

‘You’re right.’

‘How much?’

‘Fifty big ones.’

Patterson thought for a moment. He envied Cohen. This fat, ball of a man could afford to gamble. If he won, he smiled. If he lost, he still smiled. Thinking back on their association, Patterson couldn’t remember when Cohen had lost . . . he had gambler’s luck.

‘Ferronite,’ he said. ‘It stands now at $21. There’s a hint of a takeover. Could go to $29 . . . might go higher. It’s a quick in and out.’

Cohen grinned.

‘That’s what my Jap said to me, but she was fooling.’

Patterson put down his gold pencil with an irritable movement that told Cohen this kind of talk wasn’t with him this morning.