Read 1972 - Just a Matter of Time for Free Online Page B

with the other chauffeurs which pleased him. He was paid one hundred dollars a week with everything found. Mrs. Morely-Johnson wasn’t exacting.
    Each morning at 11.00, she went shopping and Bromhead drove her, took her parcels and generally acted as a nursemaid, but this didn’t worry him. She seldom wanted to be taken for drives in the afternoon and she never went out at night. She preferred to play the piano or to give lunch and dinner parties on her terrace and the hotel staff took care of that. She also liked to sit in the sun, listening to her hi-fi set playing gramophone discs.
    Bromhead had plenty of time. He spent some of this time writing to movie stars, authors and other celebrities asking for their autographs. Such is the delight of such people to be asked for their autographs, he received a steady supply and to keep his forging hand in, he perfected their signatures so that he could produce them without hesitation on any blank cheque should the need arise. But this, of course, was dangerous. Forging these signatures was purely an exercise and not to be capitalized.
    When he had arrived for the first time at the Plaza Beach Hotel he knew nothing about Mrs. Morely-Johnson except that she was wealthy. How wealthy he didn’t know, but he was determined to find out. He invested in a highly sophisticated bugging device, the microphones of which he planted in Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s living room, on the terrace and in her bedroom.
    These microphones, little bigger than grape seeds, were powerful enough to feed a tape recorder in Bromhead’s room across the courtyard.
    He had accepted the fact that this was to be a long-term operation and was prepared to be patient. A year passed without him gaining any information of value, except that he learned Mrs. Morely-Johnson was inclined to gush over men much, much younger than herself. It wasn’t until Chris Patterson appeared on the scene that the information that Bromhead wanted began to filter through on the tape.
    Sitting in his comfortable room, listening to Patterson’s voice on his first visit to the penthouse, at long last, he heard details of Mrs. Morely-Johnson’s financial affairs. He had a scratch pad on his knee and he made rapid notes. He learned that apart from her jewellery, her Rolls, her furs, her pictures and her real estate investments, she was worth around five million dollars.
    Looking at his notes when the interview was over, Bromhead realized if he played the right cards, he had found Eldorado.
    Another year went by. The routine was always the same, but this suited Bromhead. Gradually, he increased his hold on the old lady. Nothing was too much trouble. Her every whim was dealt with with quiet, kindly dignity which delighted her.
    Bromhead was looking to the future. But during these passing months he became more and more aware that Patterson was making a much bigger impact on the old lady than he was. He was prepared for this. He now knew she was susceptible to the young and the handsome. He had often noticed her reaction to young men who served her in the luxury stores and how she sat on her terrace, before the cataract had made her half blind, with powerful field glasses, watching young men parade along the waterfront. So it came as no surprise that Patterson, remarkably handsome, young and well dressed, was giving the old lady a jolt like a massive shot of hormones.
    Then one morning, she told Bromhead to go to her attorney’s office.
    ‘I want you to bring Mr. Weidman back here, Bromhead,’ she said, ‘and when we have finished our business talk to take him back to his office. He will like a little ride in the Rolls.’
    ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ Bromhead had said.
    Business talk . . .
    Before collecting Mr. Weidman, Bromhead arranged a large spool of tape on his recorder, set the time switch to begin recording at 11.00 when Mr. Weidman was due to arrive.
    He sat in the Rolls outside the hotel, knowing every word between Mrs. Morely-Johnson