1980 - You Can Say That Again

by James Hadley Chase

  I started the car engine and drove along Paradise Boulevard until I spotted a cut-price store. The salesman talked me into buying a second-hand IBM electric typewriter. I bought a carton of typing ribbons and a box of typing paper.

  I put my purchases in the car, then headed back to the cabin. As I drove, I realized I no longer felt lonely.

  I was itching to make a start.

  As I entered the cabin, I found a large, smiling black woman, dusting the living room. She told me she was Mrs. Swanson. I remembered Sonia telling me there was a cleaning woman on the beach estate.

  ‘If there’s anything you want cooked for dinner tonight, just tell me, Mr. Stevens,’ she said.

  ‘Why yes, thank you. If it’s not too much trouble,’ I said. I didn’t want to go out on my own. ‘Anything will do.’

  ‘I have a beautiful steak.’

  ‘That would be fine.’

  ‘Okay, Mr. Stevens, around eight o’clock, I’ll be in and whip you up a dinner.

  As soon as she had gone, I got the typewriter from the Merc., plugged in and practiced with the machine.

  Among the many jobs I had done while waiting for a film deal, was addressing envelopes, sending begging letters for a School for the Blind. After an hour, I got back my old speed.

  With a big scotch, I went onto the veranda and began to plan the story of my impersonation of John Merrill Ferguson. On a scratch pad, I invented names.

  Under each name, I invented a description, completely unlike the people I planned to write about. I invented place names.

  By the time I had finished this chore, Mrs. Swanson returned and cooked me a splendid steak with all the trimmings. She said she would be in tomorrow evening with one of her specials: curried chicken. I gave her five dollars. Her wide, beaming smile showed her surprise and pleasure.

  When she had gone, and after I had finished the meal, I put the dishes in the kitchen, cleared the table and began the book.

  I typed non-stop until 02.00, then collected the pages, locked up and went to bed.

  Just before I fell asleep, I thought of Sonia. Rather to my surprise, I found she had sunk into a background that was like one of my old movies: to be remembered, but not quite real. I felt I no longer needed her. She had her career before her: I meant nothing to her. As I settled to sleep I decided she now meant nothing to me: a moment’s infatuation.

  For six days and most of the nights, I hammered out the Ferguson story. Mrs. Swanson came to clean twice a week. She prepared me a good dinner every evening. I swam in the afternoon. There was no word from the Ferguson Electronic & Oil Corporation, and there was no more feeling of loneliness. I had something to do: something that absorbed my interest, and when so occupied, loneliness, and even women, don’t exist.

  Then on the sixth night, with the french windows wide open and a big moon lighting the sea, and while I was hammering away at the typewriter, I heard the sound of an approaching car.

  Into my mind came a vision of Joe Durant coming to check on me. If he walked in and saw the typewriter and all the typewritten pages, he would want to know what I was doing. This he must not know!

  Moving fast, I swept the pages into a drawer, then grabbed up the typewriter and rushed it into my bedroom. I shoved it under the bed. Then I moved to the bedroom door.

  I heard footfalls on the veranda. I braced myself and walked into the living room.

  Standing in the doorway of the french windows was John Merrill Ferguson.

  He was the last person I expected to see.

  ‘Hello, Jerry,’ he said, and moved further into the room. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  I drew in a long, slow breath.

  ‘Not at all, sir. I wasn’t doing anything. Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ He came to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

  Bewildered and uneasy, I sat opposite him.

  There was a lamp on the table which I used when typing. He reached out and turned it off. That left two side lamps, making the room dimly lit.

  ‘Well, Jerry?’ he said. ‘How do you find life?’

  What the hell is this? I thought. What was one of the richest and most powerful men in the world doing here, asking an unemployed actor how he found life? . . . I became more uneasy.

  ‘Life’s fine, sir,’ I said. ‘Thanks to you. I appreciate what you are doing for me.’

  He nodded, moving his hands restlessly.

  ‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

  ‘Oh, things. Swimming. It’s marvelous here. Marvelous city.’

  He stared at me, his eyes showing tension.

  ‘I want you to do something for me, Jerry.’

  That came as no surprise. He wouldn’t have come here without a reason.

  ‘That’s fine with me, sir.’

  ‘You have your make-up here?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘I want you to take my place at my residence tonight.’ I was startled.

  ‘That’s okay, sir. Anything you say.’

  ‘There will be no problem. My car is outside. Put on the disguise and drive to my residence. The guards will let you in. You will go to my suite and remain there until you hear from me. No one knows that you will be impersonating me. The guards will think you are me. I have already told Jonas to serve meals in the suite and to see I am not disturbed. Do you understand.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. You are very valuable. Now, will you go and put on the disguise?’

  Then something horrible and shocking happened.

  John Merrill Ferguson’s right eyebrow became detached and dropped off. It fell, like an obscene caterpillar, on the table before us.

  * * *

  A long, explosive silence hung over the dimly lit room and a tension that only deep shock can produce. The man who I thought was John Merrill Ferguson suddenly released a soft moaning sound, then he kicked back his chair and started to his feet. He looked wildly around, like a panic stricken animal, searching to escape. Then he began a wild dash towards the open french windows.

  My reaction was automatic. I thrust out my foot, caught his ankle and brought him down with a thud that shook the cabin. I came down on him, swept aside his flaying arms, pinned them with my knees, holding him helpless.

  I stared down at his face, then I plucked the other eyebrow away and the moustache.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ I demanded breathlessly.

  He tried to throw me off, but I held him pinned.

  ‘Let me go!’ he gasped.

  Still leaning my weight on his arms, I felt under his chin, found the join of the latex mask and levered it off his face.

  I looked down at him as he stared, with despairing eyes, at me.

  Then a shock ran through me: a shock that paralyzed me, and send cold waves down my spine.

  I heard in my mind, Mazzo’s sneering voice: Jerks like him often have car accidents.

  Pinned under my weight was Larry Edwards!

  I scrambled off him and stood away, staring at him.

  ‘Larry! Good God! They told me you were dead!’ I exclaimed.

  He got slowly to his feet. He looked haggard and frightened.

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here!’ he shrilled in an hysterical voice.

  ‘You’re not leaving here until you tell me what the hell’s going on,’ I said. ‘Sit down! I’ll get you a drink.’

  He looked at the open french windows and then at me.

  ‘Don’t try it, Larry!’ I said. ‘I’ll break your goddamn arm if you don’t sit down and talk.’

  He hesitated, then giving a hopeless shrug, he dropped into a lounging chair. Without taking my eyes off him, I moved to the liquor cabinet, poured a stiff scotch and gave it to him. He drank eagerly.

  ‘Why are you here? What’s the idea telling me to go to the residence?’ I demanded, standing over him.

  ‘I wanted to gain time,’ he muttered. ‘I’
m sorry about that, Jerry. I was only thinking of myself.’

  Moving around him, I sat opposite him.

  ‘What do you mean? Look, Larry, let’s have it from the beginning. What are you doing, disguised as Ferguson?’

  So he talked.

  He had the exact experience as I had. Lu Prentz had arranged for him to go to the Plaza hotel. He had met Mrs. Harriet. He had been drugged, waking up in Mrs. Harriet’s home. He had been offered the bribe of a thousand dollars a day. He had accepted, and Charles Duvine had worked on him. He had learned to forge Ferguson’s signature and imitate his voice. Finally, he had been flown to the Ferguson’s residence as I had been.

  ‘Did you meet Loretta?’ I asked.

  He wiped the sweat from his face.

  ‘I couldn’t keep that crazy bitch out of my bed. All that talk about not being married, and some priest. I guess you got the same treatment.’

  ‘She’s dead. They murdered her.’

  He flinched.

  ‘They told me she was sleepwalking.’

  ‘I was there when it happened. I heard her scream. You don’t scream when sleep walking. Mazzo broke her neck.’

  ‘No. Mazzo’s not like that. If anyone broke her neck it would have been Pedro. He’s Durant’s hitman. When he finds I’m not there, he will come after me. I’ve got to get the hell away from this goddamn city.’

  ‘But why two standins? I don’t understand. What have you been doing?’

  ‘I’ve been in Peking. Ferguson is mentally sick. They had to have you and they had to have me. You fooled the press while I fooled the Peking people. I went with a team. I just signed papers while the team did the talking. All the time, Ferguson was locked up in the residence.’

  I thought of the man I had heard pacing up and down. Ferguson!

  ‘So what are you doing here?’

  He held out his empty glass.

  ‘Give me a refill.’

  This time, I made myself a drink as well.

  As we drank, Larry said, ‘John Merrill Ferguson died at six o’clock this evening.’

  I slopped my drink.

  ‘Died?’

  ‘Yeah . . . a massive heart attack.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You can say that again. Luck . . . only pure, unadulterated luck. I was in the Ferguson suite doing nothing. There was a sudden commotion: voices, trampling of feet, and I heard the key turn in my door. I was locked in. I kept listening: more voices. Then the telephone bell on the desk gave a tinkle. Luck! I lifted the receiver. They had forgotten to unplug the extension. Mazzo was on the line to Mrs. Harriet. He told her Ferguson had died. That woman! She took the news as if it was a weather forecast. She told Mazzo to do nothing until she arrived. Durant was in Washington. She said she would tell him. Then she said, and I can still hear her flat, cold voice, “Tell Pedro that Edwards and Stevens are now dispensable. Do you understand? Pedro will know what to do.” ’

  I stiffened, turning cold.

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘I’m telling you! Then Mazzo told her Pedro was in Miami for the night, but he would follow her instructions tomorrow. She wanted to know if I knew her son was dead. Mazzo said I didn’t. I was locked in my room. She said she would be arriving tomorrow and hung up.’

  ‘You really mean she ordered our murders?’ I couldn’t believe what he was saying.

  ‘How many more times do I have to tell you!’ Larry shouted. ‘I waited until Mazzo went to bed, put on the mask, pushed the key out of the door onto a piece of paper, drew in the key, unlocked the door and walked out. Although the guards knew you were impersonating Ferguson, they really believed I was Ferguson. I had no trouble taking the Jaguar and driving here. The guard let me in, thinking I was Ferguson.’

  ‘But why should she want to kill us?’ I still couldn’t believe it.

  He made an impatient movement.

  ‘Use your head! The Peking deal is fixed. Ferguson is dead. You and I could prove we had signed the documents and then all hell would break loose. They have to silence us!’

  I stared at him.

  ‘You told me to go back to the residence.’

  His eyes shifted.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. I was scared crapless. With you back there, they wouldn’t think I had got away. I was trying to gain time.’

  I looked at him with sick disgust.

  ‘You rotten creep! You were sending me back to be murdered while you got away.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I lost my head! Now, we both have to get out of here! We’re wasting time! When Mazzo brings in the breakfast trolley tomorrow morning and finds me gone, they’ll start a manhunt! Listen, Jerry, I’ve seen the way these people work. They have connections everywhere. I’m going into hiding until they are convinced I won’t talk. If you want to stay alive, you do the same. Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone what’s been going on. You and me could upset their empire, but I’m not crazy in the head to do it! I’ve got money. I’m going to get lost. You’d better look after yourself. We have just eight hours start.’

  He jumped to his feet and bolted out into the night.

  I made no attempt to stop him. If that eyebrow hadn’t fallen off, I would have gone back to the residence and tomorrow, I would have been dead!

  But what he had said made sense. It was time to go!

  I paused for a long moment, thinking. I too had money.

  Once away from this city, I could instruct my bank to send my money to some other bank.

  Where to go?

  I had to control a feeling of panic. I went into the bedroom and checked my wallet. I had just under a thousand dollars.

  I would drive to Miami, leave the car at the airport, then take a plane to New York. Once in New York, I could get lost.

  I packed all my clothes in two suitcases, then I remembered the manuscript. I wasn’t going to leave that behind. Moving fast, I took the pile of typewritten pages and dumped them in one of the suitcases.

  The typewriter, sitting on the desk, was a giveaway.

  If they found that they would guess I had been making a statement. I lugged the typewriter to the car, put it on the back seat, returned for the suitcases and was ready to go.

  I returned to the cabin, made sure I had left nothing belonging to myself behind, then turned off the lights and hurried back to the car.

  I drove down to the barrier, wondering if I would have trouble with the guard, but he lifted the pole and gave me a surly nod.

  Forcing myself to relax, I drove onto the Overseas Highway. At this hour, there was little traffic, but I was careful to keep within the speed limit, although I was itching to send this powerful car flat out.

  The typewriter was nagging me. I would have to dump it somewhere. I knew, sooner or later, the Merc, would be traced, and if they found the typewriter, they would guess I had been making a record of what had happened. The hunt for me would be redoubled.

  After a few miles, I came upon a fisherman’s lay-by and I pulled in. I waited until there were no signs of traffic, then got out, lugged the typewriter to the rail and dropped it into the sea.

  Back in the car with one problem solved, I continued towards Miami. While I drove, I thought of Loretta. I heard her voice saying: She is a ruthless, dangerous old woman. All she thinks about is money. When he dies, she will inherit everything.

  John Merrill Ferguson was dead. Mrs. Harriet now inherited everything. She had flicked her ruthless fingers and Charles Duvine, who had made it possible for Larry and me to impersonate her son, had died. She had flicked her fingers and Loretta who could have inherited everything, had died. Now this ruthless old woman was flicking her fingers towards me. The thought brought me out in a cold sweat.

  Then I thought of the car I was driving. If it was found at the airport, they would know I had flown somewhere. With their money and their organization, they could trace me to New York.

  I abruptly realized that if I was to continue to live, I had better start using my brains.
I had dumped the typewriter. I had now to dump the car.

  I looked at the clock on the dashboard: 01.05. Time was running out for me. In another seven hours, Mazzo would find Larry gone. There would be a check on the cabin, and they would find I had gone. Then the heat would be on.

  I was now approaching Paradise City. Suppose one of Ferguson’s guards, off-duty, spotted the car? I drove along Ocean Boulevard. My heart was beginning to thump. Maybe, I had been crazy to have come this way. I could have turned off and headed for the west coast. It was too late now.

  I kept looking in my driving mirror, scared that I was being followed. There were cars behind me, but they kept turning off: people going home.

  Once away from the city and heading for Fort Lauderdale, I began to relax.

  Then an idea dropped into my mind: Give them a red herring. Leave the car at the airport for them to think I had taken off by air, but stay around Miami until the heat cooled. There were dozens of motels on the highway. I would leave the car at the airport, then take a taxi and settle, out of sight, in one of these motels.

  Surely a motel, close to Paradise City, would be the last place they would think of looking for me. This is what I did. Having parked the Merc., I took a taxi, being careful not to take one off the rank. The cabby had delivered a passenger from Palm Beach and was returning. He was glad to pick up a fare. I told him I wanted a good motel for the night. He took me to the Welcome Motel.

  The sleepy girl at the reception desk, scarcely looked at me as I signed in. I used the name of Warren Higgins. She gave me a key, told me where to find the cabin and went back to dozing.

  I shut and locked the cabin door and turned on the light. The place was comfortable. I set down my suitcases and drew in a long breath.

  I now felt safe!

  Man! Was I tired! My one thought was to sleep.

  I undressed, then too tired to take a shower, I fell into bed.

  I slept.

  * * *

  The sound of car engines starting up woke me. Sunlight was streaming into the little bedroom. I heard voices. For a moment, I felt a clutch of fear. Had they found me already?