James Chase: Vulture Is a Patient Bird

Natalie Norman was thirty-eight years of age. She spoke fluent French and German, and she had an impressive degree in Economics. With no apparent interests outside Shalik’s office she was, to him, a machine who worked efficiently and who was essential to him.

Shalik liked sensual, beautiful women. To him, Natalie Norman with her plain looks, her pallid complexion was merely a robot. When he spoke to her, he seldom looked at her.

“I shall be away for the weekend, Miss Norman,” he said, pausing at her desk. “I will ask you to come in tomorrow for an hour to see to the mail, then take the weekend off. I have a meeting on Monday morning at 09.00 hrs.,” and he was gone.

There was no look, no smile and not even a “nice weekend’.

The following morning, she arrived at her usual time, dealt with the mail and was beginning to clear her desk as George Sherborn came in.

She loathed Sherborn as he loathed her. To her thinking, he was a boot-licking, sensual, fat old horror. On the day she began to work for Shalik, Sherborn, his fat face flushed, had run his hand over her corsetted buttocks as she was sealing a large envelope full of legal documents. His touch revolted her. She had spun around and slashed his fat face with the side of the envelope, making his nose bleed.

From then on they hated each other, but had worked together, both ably serving Shalik.

“Have you finished?” Sherborn asked pompously. “If you have, get off. I’m staying here.”

“I’ll be going in a few minutes,” she returned, not looking at him.

Sherborn nodded, regarded her contemptuously and returned to Shalik’s office.

Natalie sat for a long moment listening, then when she heard Sherborn dialling a number, she took from a drawer a big plastic shopping bag. From another drawer she took out the tiny tape recorder and three reels of tape. These she hurriedly put in the shopping bag and zipped it shut. She could hear Sherborn talking on the telephone. She moved silently to the door and listened.

“I’ve got the place to myself, baby,” Sherborn was saying. “Yes… the whole week-end. Suppose you come over? We could have fun.”

Natalie grimaced with disgust and moved away. She put on her coat, tied a black scarf around her head and taking the shopping bag, she crossed to the lift and pressed the call button.

As she waited, Sherborn appeared in the doorway.

“You off?”

She stared bleakly as she saw him looking curiously at the shopping bag.

“Taking all the secrets with you?”

“Yes.”

The lift doors swung open and she entered. As the doors closed, Sherborn smiled sneeringly at her.

Natalie took a taxi back to her two-room flat in Church Street, Kensington. She had slept very little the previous night, tossing and turning, trying to make up her mind whether to betray Shalik or not. Even now as she unlocked the front door and entered the small but pleasant living-room which she had furnished with care, she still hadn’t made up her mind.

She put down the shopping bag, took off her head scarf and coat and then dropped into an armchair. She sat there for some minutes, knowing she would do it and loathing herself. She looked at her watch. The time was 11:10 hrs. There was always the chance that Burnett wouldn’t be at the bank on this Saturday morning. If he wasn’t, then it would be a sign for her not to do what she was planning to do. For a brief moment, she hesitated, then crossed to the telephone and dialled a number.

She sat on the arm of the chair as she listened to the ringing tone.

An impersonal voice said, “This is the National Bank of Natal.”

“Could I speak to Mr. Charles Burnett, please?”

“Who is calling?”

“Miss Norman… Mr. Burnett knows me.”

“One moment.”

There was a brief delay, then a rich, fruity baritone voice came over the line.

“Miss Norman? Delighted… how are you?”

She shivered, hesitated, then forced herself to say, “I would like to see you, Mr. Burnett… it’s urgent.”

“Of course. If you could come at once… I am leaving in an hour for the country.”

“No!” Hysterical self-loathing now had her in its grip. “In half an hour… here… at my flat! 35a Church Street, fourth floor. I said it was urgent!”

There was a pause, then the rich baritone voice, sounding slightly shocked, said, “I’m afraid that is not convenient, Miss

Norman.”

“Here! In half an hour!” Natalie cried, her voice going shrill and she slammed down the receiver.

She slid down into the seat of the chair, resting her head against the cushion. Her body shuddered and jerked as she began to sob hysterically. For some minutes she allowed herself the luxury of crying. The hot tears finally ran no more. Trembling, she went into the bathroom and bathed her face, then spent some minutes repairing her make-up.

She returned to the sitting-room, opened a cupboard and took out the bottle of whisky she kept for Daz. She poured herself a stiff drink and swallowed it neat, shuddering.

She sat down to wait.

Thirty-five minutes later, the front door bell rang. At the sound of the bell, blood rushed into her face and then receded leaving her face chalk white. For a long moment, she sat motionless, then when the bell rang again, she forced herself to her feet and opened the door.

Charles Burnett, Chairman of the National Bank of Natal, swept into the room like a galleon in full sail. He was a large, heavily-built man with a purple red face, shrewd hard eyes and his bald head, fringed by glossy white hair, was glistening pink. Immaculately dressed in a Savile Row grey lounge suit with a blood red carnation in his button hole, he looked a movie version of what a rich, influential banker should be.

“My dear Miss Norman,” he said, “what is all the urgency about?”

He regarded her, his mind registering distaste, but he was far too shrewd and experienced to show it. What a dreadful hag! he was thinking: nice figure, good legs, of course, but that pallid face, the plainness of it, those depressing black eyes and the dark overshadowed face.

Natalie had control of herself now. The whisky had given her false confidence.

“Sit down, please, Mr. Burnett. I won’t be wasting your time. I have information regarding Mr. Kahlenberg that you will wish to hear.”

Burnett lowered his bulk into an armchair. His expression showed mild interest, but his shrewd mind was thinking: So it has paid off. One drops a seed here and there, and sometimes it germinates.

As Chairman of the National Bank of Natal which was owned by Max Kahlenberg, Burnett was under instructions from his Chief to collect every scrap of information circulating in London that could effect Kahlenberg’s kingdom in Natal.

Some twelve days ago, Kahlenberg had sent him a brief cable:

Need information regarding activities of Armo Shalik. K.

Burnett knew all about Armo Shalik, but nothing of his business activities. The cable dismayed him. To get information about Shalik… the kind of information that would interest Kahlenberg… would be as difficult as getting information from the Sphinx. However, Burnett knew he had to do something about this request. When Kahlenberg asked for information, he expected to get it no matter the difficulties or the cost.

It so happened that two days later, Shalik threw a cocktail party in his suite to which Burnett was invited. Here, he met Natalie Norman.

Burnett believed in being pleasant to the underlings. Didn’t George Bernard Shaw say once: you may kick an old man: you know what he is, but never kick a young man: you don’t know what he will become?

Seeing Natalie supervising the drinks and being ignored by the chattering guests, he had detached himself from his tiresome wife and cornered her. He had charm, and was an easy con versationalist and he quickly learned that this pale-faced, plain- looking woman was Shalik’s personal assistant, and he could see that she was sexually starved.