1972 - Just a Matter of Time (9 page)

Sheila had telephoned him on an outside line just before he was leaving the bank on Friday evening. She told him she would be free to see him at 18.00 Sunday evening.

The sound of her quiet voice sent a stab of desire through him. He said he would pick her up in the lobby of the Splendid Hotel. Although he didn’t spell it out, he was nervous that the Plaza Beach Hotel’s doorman might gossip.

He found her waiting in the lobby. She was wearing the white dress again, but she now had a touch of lipstick and her hair was dressed becomingly and yet, Patterson felt she was still remote and the barrier was still there.

He had to concentrate on his driving as the Sunday evening traffic was heavy and they only exchanged pleasantries about how hot it was, did she like the hotel and how was Mrs. Morely-Johnson? . . . that kind of talk.

He had reserved a corner table at the Coq d’Or restaurant and he suggested because of the crowd in the bar they should have drinks at their table. Although it was only just after 19.00, people were already dancing. The four-piece band played softly but with a good, sharp rhythm.

The maître d’hôtel fussed over them. Champagne cocktails arrived. Patterson told the maître d’hôtel he would order later. When they were settled with their drinks, Sheila looked around.

‘It’s nice here . . . the band is marvellous.’

Patterson wasn’t interested in the band. He looked hungrily at her.

‘How are things?’ he asked. ‘Are you happy?’

She nodded.

‘Yes, thank you. Mrs. Morely-Johnson is so nice. She seems to like me.’

‘Yes . . . she’s a funny old thing. She has moods. You must watch out. . . sometimes she can be tricky.’

Sheila sipped her drink, not looking at him.

‘But most people are like that.’ She abruptly looked up, staring at him. ‘Of course, I realize it is early days yet.’

‘Yes.’ Patterson gave her his warm smile. ‘Let me alert you. I know all the signs. When she is in a bad mood, she fidgets with her bracelets and hums under her breath. These are warning signs. When she starts this performance, watch out. You must go along with anything she says. You understand? Never try to persuade her to do anything . . . just go along with her. I tell you this because it could be useful.’

She nodded, turning the cocktail glass in her fingers.

‘Thank you.’

He leaned back, pleased and very sure of himself.

‘I’ve known her for something like four years and I’ve always been able to handle her . . . even in her worst moments.’

She sipped her drink before saying, ‘But then she is in love with you.’

Startled, Patterson stared at her. Then he realized she was stating a fact and he smiled, passing his hand over his immaculately groomed hair.

‘Not quite, but perhaps something like that,’ he conceded. ‘If she was twenty years younger I would have to be careful,’ and he laughed.

There was a pause, then Sheila said, ‘You have, of course, an irresistible appeal to women.’

Patterson leaned back in his chair. Coming from her, this meant something to him. He knew he did have an appeal to women, but she was the first woman to have told him so. He finished his drink, then gave her a wry grimace.

‘Perhaps to most women . . . but not to you.’

She looked beyond him at the dancers, jammed together on the tiny dance floor.

‘What makes you think that?’

He fidgeted with a fork: picking it up, staring at it and putting it down.

Trying to keep his voice casual, he said, ‘I feel there’s a barrier between us . . . you’re so impersonal.’

She regarded him for a long moment, then she pushed back her chair and stood up.

‘Shall we dance?’

Although there was little space for dancing, she moved beautifully and her body, pressed against his, gave him a sensual pleasure he hadn’t before experienced. As they danced, she touched his neck very lightly with cool fingertips to send hot blood surging through him.

When they returned to their table, the maître d’hôtel arrived.

Without consulting her, Patterson ordered king-sized prawns to be followed by creamed chicken breasts in rice and truffles.

‘The Pouilly-Fume, I think, Jean . . . unless you have better ideas?’

‘That would be perfect, Mr. Patterson.’ The maître d’hôtel bowed and went away.

‘You are very experienced,’ Sheila said.

Patterson looked pleased. Praise to him was like water to a plant.

‘Well, you know. . .’ He waved a deprecating hand. ‘You dance beautifully . . . I really mean that.’

‘So do you.’

There was a long pause, then he said, ‘But you must admit there’s a barrier between us.’

She shook her head.

‘Chris . . . please don’t expect too much from me so quickly.’

She put her cool hand on his. ‘We are not going to die tomorrow. I get the feeling you can’t wait for anything. I happen to be the waiting type. I have to think, probe and move carefully. Will you try to understand?’

His blood on fire, Patterson gripped her hand.

‘But we could die tomorrow. It’s the pattern of things. For me, life is urgent as it should be for you. Driving back tonight, we could be hit by a truck. How can you say we won’t die tomorrow? We could die tonight! Don’t you feel we are all living on borrowed time? I believe I should do everything I want to do now . . . grab at every opportunity for it may be too late to wait.’

She drew her hand away.

‘Don’t you believe in destiny? What is to be . . . will be?’

Patterson moved impatiently.

‘I don’t believe in waiting. Yes . . . I believe in destiny, but I also believe I can cheat destiny by not waiting.’

The prawns arrived and they waited while the wine was poured, tasted and approved and the waiter had moved away.

‘I understand,’ Sheila said as they began to shell the prawns, ‘but please be patient, Chris. I move slowly - I’m made like that. For us to be as intimate as we will be - for me, I need time.’

Then she smiled at him.

For the first time he had known her and desired her, the smoky blue eyes were no longer remote. There was that sexual thing coming from her that made his heartbeat quicken and that turned his mouth dry.

Four

W
hile Mrs. Morely-Johnson was playing bridge on the terrace with three of her friends, Bromhead opened the front door of the penthouse and, crossing the vestibule, entered Sheila’s office.

He had come because, as she was getting into the Rolls with Mrs. Morely-Johnson that morning, she had whispered that she must see him.

He found her waiting for him, sitting at her desk. This day was. Saturday, close on a week since she had seen Patterson. Each time Patterson had come to the penthouse she had avoided him. It had been Bromhead who had opened the door.

Bromhead had had little chance of talking to Sheila until now, but looking at her as he stood in the doorway, he saw she was under a strain.

‘Shut the door,’ she said abruptly.

He did as he was told, then came over to the chair by the desk and sat down.

‘Something wrong?’

‘We can’t wait any longer,’ she said. ‘Your bright idea of the wig and the dustcoat has come unstuck. Last night when I returned from seeing Gerald, the house detective stopped me and asked where I was going. I was lucky. The elevator doors were open. I pushed by him and shut the doors before he could reach me. Of course he knew by the indicator I had got out on the 19th floor. When I reached my room, I went to the elevator and saw it descend, then come up to the 19th floor. He had come up - looking for me. You will have to get rid of the wig and the coat, Jack. This could be dangerous.’

Bromhead grimaced. He saw that at once. Joe Handley, the night detective was smart - perhaps over smart. Bromhead should have thought of him. Bromhead knew there were only four elderly couples living in suites on the 19th floor – people who certainly wouldn’t be interested in a young, blonde woman at 02.00. Yet this blonde woman had gone up to the 19th floor and then had vanished. It was the kind of mystery that Handley would dig into: the kind of mystery he wouldn’t leave alone nor forget.

But fortunately he only came on duty at 21.00 and went off duty at 07.00 so he wasn’t likely to see Sheila without her wig. The day detective, Fred Lawson, who had been with the hotel for years was fat, lazy and stupid, but if ever Handley saw Sheila during the day, he might recognize her, blonde wig or no blonde wig. There were danger signals here.

‘Gerald is driving me crazy,’ Sheila went on. ‘He’s so demanding. Now he wants to see me every night. He is stupidly jealous of Patterson. He has nothing to do during the day. The money I give him doesn’t last a week. We can’t wait any longer. I intend to tell Patterson I’m ready.’

‘But this is a long term operation,’ Bromhead said uneasily. ‘I warned you about this. Rush it and we could spoil it.’

‘It’s all right for you to talk.’ Even under stress, Sheila remained calm. ‘You don’t have to handle Gerald nor Patterson . . . but I do. I am sure I can handle Patterson now. I’m sure of it . . . we can’t wait any longer.’

Bromhead hesitated, then shrugged.

‘All right. Then tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at her desk clock. ‘He could be in now,’ and she dialled Patterson’s home number. There was a long pause while the ringing tone sounded, then just as she was about to hang up, she heard Patterson’s voice: querulous and sharp.

‘Yes? Who is it?’

‘You sound cross, Chris. Have I interrupted you?’

Bromhead nodded with approval. What an artist this woman was! he thought. The sensual caress in her soft voice had an effect even on him.

‘Sheila’ Patterson’s voice became all charm. ‘I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I haven’t seen you all the week.’ She could hear his breathing, quick, short and uneven. ‘I was just off for a round of golf. What have you been doing with yourself?’

‘Things. . .’ She paused, then went on, ‘Can we meet tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Would you like to go to the Coq d’Or again?’

Again she deliberately paused.

‘I thought, Chris . . . something more intimate. A smoked salmon sandwich and you.’

She heard him draw in a sharp breath.

‘You really mean that?’

‘Chris . . . please . . .’

‘I’ll fix it. Let’s meet at the same place and time.’

‘Yes . . . and Chris, where will you be taking me?’

‘There’s a motel I know. It’s nice and you’ll like it.’ She looked at Bromhead.

‘Would that be the Star motel, Chris?’

‘You know it?’ His voice sounded startled.

‘We went for a drive yesterday and passed it. I thought it looked wonderful.’

‘It is . . . you’ll love it. I’ll fix everything. Sheila. . .’

‘No more now,’ she said firmly. ‘Then at six.’

‘Marvellous . . . wonderful. . . terrific!’

She replaced the receiver.

‘The Star motel?’ Bromhead asked.

She nodded.

‘You did very well. I’ll be there at seven o’clock,’ he said. ‘Hold him off until then . . . you understand?’

‘Yes.’

They looked at each other.

‘If it wasn’t for that little bastard,’ Bromhead said, ‘I would be certain this is going to work out, but with him in the background, we can’t be too careful.’

‘We can’t be too careful anyway. That detective worries me.’

‘Forget him . . . it’s a natural hazard. It’s my fault. I should have remembered him.’ Bromhead got to his feet. ‘Let’s fix Patterson first. Next week we’ll have to decide what to do with Gerald. You won’t be able to see him at night now,’ Bromhead paused while he thought. ‘I hate wasting money but it could be the solution to get him out of town until we are ready to use him. We could send him to L.A. With five hundred dollars, he could keep himself amused, couldn’t he?’

‘I’ve thought of that, but now, I don’t think he’ll go. He has this thing about me . . . this has built up. Now he’s jealous of Patterson. He talks about money meaning nothing and I’m all he wants. Anyway, where do we find five hundred dollars?’

‘I’ll find it,’ Bromhead said, thinking of Solly Marks. ‘I think I’d better talk to Gerald.’ He looked up and for the first time since Sheila had known him, he slid out of character. His thin face tightened and his eyes turned into chips of grey ice. Suddenly this was a face of utter ruthlessness . . . a killer’s face and it sent a chill through Sheila.

‘No! You must leave him to me,’ she said. ‘You don’t know him as I do. He has to be persuaded . . . not forced. He’s like an obstinate child.’

The benign, kindly expression came back into Bromhead’s eyes. Once more he was the efficient, dignified chauffeur.

‘Let’s fix Patterson first. You will leave here just before six tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Before then I’ll let you have the bug. It’s a limpet job and small. You can stick it on any flat surface . . . under the night table would do.’

She nodded.

‘You’re doing fine,’ he said, moving to the door. ‘You leave the worrying to me. Make a parcel of the wig and the coat. I’ll get rid of them tomorrow.’

As Bromhead crossed the hotel lobby to go to his room across the courtyard, Fred Lawson, the hotel detective, appeared from nowhere and rested his big, fat hand on Bromhead’s arm. Bromhead regarded him, his thin face expressionless, then said, ‘Hello, Fred . . . you want me?’

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?’