In spite of these doubts, I was determined to try.
I was shaving when I heard Mazzo wheel in the breakfast trolley. I finished shaving, slapped on lotion and walked into the living room.
‘Morning, Mazzo,’ I said. ‘Let’s have some exercise this morning. How about a little jogging?’
My plan was to jog around the estate and finish up by the garage. I would tell Mazzo I hadn’t seen the engine of a Rolls, so let’s take a look. Once inside the garage, I planned to knock him cold, get into the Rolls, lock the doors, hope the ignition key would be in place and take off.
‘You’re going to the office this morning,’ Mazzo growled.
I looked sharply at him.
‘Is Mr. Durant back?’
‘Mrs. Harriet’s orders. Eat your breakfast.’
I suddenly wasn’t hungry. What was cooking? If Durant was back with the final papers to sign, time was running out for me.
I drank coffee, ate a piece of toast and ignored the ham and eggs.
Mazzo went into the bedroom. I followed him and watched him take a suit from one of the closets. I saw the suit was mine! I began to panic.
‘You don’t put on the mask,’ Mazzo said. ‘You go to the office as yourself. Get it?’
‘What’s the idea?’
‘You talk too much. You’re paid to do what you’re told. Get dressed! We leave in half an hour,’ and he left me.
I stood for a long moment, motionless, my heart thumping.
You go to the office as yourself!
This could mean only one thing: Durant was back with the final papers for my signature, then he would tell me I was free to go. Probably, he would tell Mazzo to take me to the Miami airport for a plane to Los Angeles.
During the drive to the airport, there would be a prick of a needle and I would cease to exist.
Man! Was I in a sweat!
I went to the liquor cabinet and poured myself an enormous Scotch. I drank it down as if it were water, then I stood still until the Scotch hit me. It stiffened my wilting spine.
Come on, Jerry, I said to myself. You’re not dead yet.
I decided, when I reached the office, I would refuse to sign. That would throw a spanner in their murderous works. What could they do? At least, delaying tactics would gain time for me.
Feeling a little high, I put on my own clothes and my own shoes. After wearing John Merrill Ferguson’s super suits, my suit looked terrible as I stared at myself in the wall mirror. I had forgotten how shabby I had been looking. No wonder Lu Prentz had stopped inviting me to lunch. I looked what I was: an unemployed, seedy, bit-part actor. Then I remembered I had seven thousand dollars in the bank. If I could get out of this mess, I would refit my wardrobe and pester
Lu until he found work for me. But I had to get out of this mess first!
‘You’ll want the make-up kit,’ Mazzo said. He had come silently into the room.
‘What’s all this about?’ I demanded, staring at him.
‘You heard me! Pack it!’
Take it easy, I told myself as I walked into the bathroom.
Remember, you have the last word: no signing.
I put the mask, the moustache and the eyebrows in the make-up box. Mazzo took the box from me. On the bed was a suitcase, packed with the dark mohair suit I had worn which belonged to John Merrill Ferguson.
Mazzo put the make-up box in the suitcase, closed the lid and snapped the locks.
‘Let’s go.’
We went down the stairs and to the open front doors.
There was a beat-up looking taxi waiting. At the wheel sat Marco, the night guard.
A man came out of the shadows of the hall and took the suitcase from Mazzo.
‘This is Pedro,’ Mazzo said. ‘He’ll take care of you. You do what he says . . . get it?’
I looked at the man: short, squat, broad shouldered, wearing a pale blue light weight suit and a dark brown panama hat.
During my movie days, I had come across all kinds of toughies and thugs, but this man took the Oscar. It flashed into my mind that he could be my executioner. He looked deadly enough to be just that. Had he murdered Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine?
‘Aren’t you coming?’ I asked Mazzo.
He gave a sly grin.
‘I’ve things to do. Go along with Pedro. He’ll take care of you.’
Pedro waved me to the taxi. I had an urge to bolt, but I saw two guards standing close by in the sun, watching. Sweating, I walked down the steps and climbed into the taxi. As I settled on the springless seat, Pedro sat by my side. The taxi drove off.
‘Relax, Mr. Stevens,’ Pedro said in a soft spoken voice. ‘You do your job, and I’ll do mine, huh?’
His job? To murder me?
I said nothing.
As we reached the high double gates, I leaned forward. A guard opened the gates. Looking at the gates, I felt sure, if ever I had the opportunity, I could smash my way through them in the Rolls, but would I ever now have the opportunity? Had I left it too late?
I sat back as the taxi left the Largo and headed for the City. Should I make a break to escape when I got out of the taxi to enter the Ferguson Electronic & Oil Corporation offices? The press would be there. Pedro wouldn’t dare pull a gun. I decided as soon as we reached the offices, I would bolt. The guards and Pedro couldn’t chase after me on the busy street.
Then I was suddenly aware that the taxi had turned off the main boulevard and was cutting down a side street.
Startled, I looked at Pedro.
‘This isn’t the way,’ I said, dry mouthed.
He gave a little grin.
‘We go in the back entrance, Mr. Stevens,’ he said. ‘That way we don’t have to worry about the news jackals.’
It was as if he had read my mind. Panic took hold of me again. Should I throw myself out of the car. I looked at the car door, then saw the car door handle had been removed.
Pedro’s heavy hand fell on my arm.
‘Take it easy, Mr. Stevens.’
The car slowed and turned down a long, dark ramp.
At the end of the ramp was a pole which lifted and we drove into a big underground garage.
From the shadows came three men: Ferguson’s guards. They grouped around the car, silent, watchful and sinister.
Pedro got out, carrying the suitcase.
‘Let’s go, Mr. Stevens.’
I got out of the taxi and looked around. As if on cue, the three guards closed in, so I walked with Pedro to an elevator. We entered. He pressed a button. The guards stood back as the elevator raced upwards.
Pedro walked me down a long corridor, then opened a door and stood aside.
‘Take it easy, Mr. Stevens,’ he said. ‘Just sit and wait, huh?’
I walked into a luxuriously furnished waiting room, equipped with some twenty lounging chairs, tables on which were scattered a number of magazines.
‘Sit down,’ Pedro said, closing the door. He went to a lounging chair and settled himself, then reached for a copy of Penthouse.
I moved over to the big window and looked down the thirty stories onto Paradise Boulevard. People looked like ants; cars like miniature toys. Beyond, was the beach, the palm trees and the sea.
Pedro suddenly released a soft whistle.
‘This doll doesn’t even bother to keep her legs crossed,’ he muttered. ‘Boy! Could I give her a workout!’
I ignored him. My mind was racing. Every time I planned an escape I was frustrated. Suppose I now made a bolt from the room, yelling ‘Murder!’ Suppose . . .
The door opened and Sonia Malcolm stood in the doorway.
The sight of her gave me a surge of relief. Since I had been caught up in this nightmare, she had been the only normal person I had encountered, but I knew I couldn’t involve her. I couldn’t attempt to explain to her what a mess I was in. There would be no opportunity and even if there was, she would probably think I was out of my mind.
‘Mr. Stevens?’ she said, looking a
t me. ‘Will you, please, come this way?’
I saw her nice, serious eyes take in my shabby suit and my scuffed shoes. She must have been used to the immaculate, rich business men who came to the office, but her expression didn’t change.
I looked directly at her, but she showed no sign of recognition. Why should she? I wasn’t hiding behind John Merrill Ferguson’s facade. She only saw Jerry Stevens, the bit-part, unemployed actor.
I followed her out into the corridor.
Muttering, Pedro dropped the magazine, picked up the suitcase and walked behind me as I followed Sonia’s graceful back.
As we turned the corner in the corridor, I saw ahead of me the door leading to John Merrill Ferguson’s office suite.
Behind the door, I thought, would be Joe Durant with final papers to sign. I braced myself.
Sonia opened the door and stood aside.
‘Mr. Stevens, sir.’ She motioned me forward.
I walked into the familiar room, expecting to see Durant at the desk.
I stopped short and stared as Sonia closed the door behind me.
Instead of Durant at the desk, where I had sat a couple of days ago, was the man I was impersonating: John Merrill Ferguson!
* * *
The mind moves with the speed of light.
As I stood there, looking at the man at the desk, into my mind came a memory of a drunken, famous film star who had buttonholed me and told me he had had a frightening experience.
‘I was asleep, Jerry,’ I remembered him saying. ‘Then I suddenly woke and I saw myself standing by the bed. It was as if I had stepped out of my body, and I looked at myself, solid, not a mirror reflection, but myself. It was the most frightening, uncanny thing. Me . . . away from my body!’
I knew he was drunk, but I remembered what he had said.
Now, I was looking at a reflection in a mirror. For days, I had stared at myself, disguised as John Merrill Ferguson, telling myself I could be John Merrill Ferguson.
I then understood fully my drunken film star: I was having his experience; a frightening, uncanny thing.
John Merrill Ferguson got to his feet, came around the desk with a wide, friendly smile.
‘Mr. Stevens!’ he exclaimed, reaching me. ‘This is quite a moment, isn’t it?’ He grasped my hand and shook it with warmth. ‘You must be a little bewildered. Come and sit down. Let’s talk.’
Still holding my hand, he steered me to a chair.
‘Don’t look so worried. I have a lot to thank you for.’
The friendly voice was relaxing. ‘Sit down. Let’s have a drink.’
As I sat down, he went to the liquor cabinet.
He looked over his shoulder and grinned.
‘A bit early, but never too early for champagne.’
I just sat there, trying to get on balance while he popped the cork, poured the wine, came over, put my glass on an occasional table, then sat down, facing me.
‘You have done a marvelous job, Mr. Stevens,’ he said and raised his glass. ‘I drink to you.’
This was so unexpected, I couldn’t say a word, but, pulling myself together, I picked up my glass with an unsteady hand and we drank.
‘I didn’t think it possible that any man could impersonate me as brilliantly as you are doing.’ He put down his glass. ‘I have seen photographs of you, playing tennis, here at my desk, entering our offices. I have kept staring at them. They could be me! I’ve heard a tape recording of you talking to Walter Bern. Your voice was mine!’
He sounded so friendly and enthusiastic, I, like most actors, responded to this praise. I began to relax.
‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘I was hired to do the job, and I am glad you are satisfied.’
‘Satisfied? That’s an understatement!’ His smile widened. ‘You have saved me a lot of money, Mr. Stevens . . . to hell with calling you Mr. Stevens. Let’s be informal. Jerry and John, how’s that?’
I gaped at him.
One of the richest and one of the most powerful men in the world offering to be on Christian name terms!
Did this do something for my ego!
‘Why, yes, sir,’ I said.
He laughed.
‘Okay, I’ll give you time to relax, Jerry. You have done a fine job. It is unbelievable. You have fooled the press. You have even fooled my old butler. Without you, I couldn’t have gone to Peking and pulled off a big deal. All the sharks, including the CIA, imagined I was home.’ His face suddenly turned serious. ‘I’m talking to you in confidence, Jerry. What I am saying mustn’t go beyond these walls. Right?’
‘Yes, Mr. Ferguson.’
‘I have a proposition for you, but, first, I want to know how you feel about your future as an actor. Do you want to return to that rat race? Be frank with me. If you have an itch to go back, then tell me and I’ll understand, but if you are prepared to give it up, I have a proposition for you that will establish you with a big salary and no problems, moneywise for the future.’
My mind flashed to Lu Prentz and to the dreary days of waiting for the telephone bell to ring. I thought of returning to Hollywood, finding some tiny apartment, waiting and hoping. The thought chilled me.
‘Let me put the cards on the table, Jerry,’ Ferguson said, seeing my hesitation. ‘Again, what I say to you is in strict confidence. Your brilliant impersonation has given me ideas. I am offering you a permanent position on my staff. Whenever I want to disappear, you will take my place. You will be my personal assistant. You will have an office of your own. Simple work will be found for you. This will be a front. You will have plenty of time off. Your real job will be to impersonate me when I don’t want publicity. You will sign unimportant papers.’ He paused and grinned. ‘I couldn’t believe your marvelous forgeries were my signatures. That’s the proposition. Now for the terms. If you accept, I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars a year and provide you with living accommodation and a car. I will give you a seven-year contract with a rise of ten thousand dollars after three years, and you can break the contract any time after giving me six months’ notice.’ He smiled. ‘The fact is, Jerry, you are too valuable to lose. In return for what I am offering, you will take a lot of strain and problems off my back. What do you say?’
I sat there, gaping. I just couldn’t believe what he was saying.
‘Of course, you will want to think about it. I won’t rush you,’ Ferguson went on. ‘First, I want you to see your office, where you will live, and your car before you make up your mind. If you agree to my proposal, then you will become a member of my staff. You might not have any work to do for a couple of weeks or so, then when I go away, you will take my place. While you are not impersonating me, you will be entirely free to do what you like in this city. If your friends want to know what you do, tell them you are my personal assistant and no member of my Corporation talks about their work. All my staff are loyal, and I would expect you to be loyal too.’
He got up, went to his desk, flicked down a switch on the intercom.
‘Miss Malcolm, would you come in, please?’ To me, he said, ‘Miss Malcolm is my assistant secretary. She will take care of you. She knows about the impersonation. Only Mr. Durant, my secretary, Miss Malcolm and Mazzo know. You can entirely rely on her.’
Sonia came in.
‘I’ll hand Mr. Stevens over to your care, Miss Malcolm,’ Ferguson said, smiling at her. ‘You know what to do.’
‘Yes, sir.’
In a daze, I got to my feet.
‘Think about it, Jerry,’ Ferguson said. He shook my hand. ‘Will you let me know your decision before six o’clock this evening?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, and followed Sonia out of the room.
My brain was racing. What an offer! One hundred thousand dollars a year, accommodation and a car! Little work! I would be free to explore this wonderful city!
No more Mazzo, Pedro, no more panic about being murdered.
I just couldn’t believe it!
Sonia paused outside a door and
opened it.
‘We’ll share an office, Mr. Stevens,’ she said, and walked into a large sunny room with two desks, equipped with typewriters, telephones, intercom and with a view onto the distant beach.
‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ she said, smiling at me. ‘He really is like God. He just picks people and makes their lives happy. I can’t yet believe he picked me.’
‘Well, I’m lucky too.’
‘I’ve seen you on television. It must be marvelous to be a star.’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ I was looking at her, liking her. ‘I’m glad to be out of it.’
She laughed.
‘Oh, no. You must tell me about it. Let’s go. You have a wonderful home and your car . . . !’
She led me down the corridor to the elevators, then down into the garage.
‘Here it is,’ she said, pointing to a pale blue, two-seater, drop head Mercedes. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’
I had always wanted a Mercedes. I walked around it, patted it and grinned at her.
‘Marvelous!’
She opened the offside door and slid into the seat.
‘We must hurry, Mr. Stevens. I’ve a load of work to do this afternoon.’
I got behind the driving wheel, aware two guards were watching me. I drove to the barrier that lifted.
Man! Was I driving on a cloud!
‘You turn right and keep along the boulevard,’ Sonia told me. ‘I’ll tell you when to turn off.’
I drove in a Technicolor dream: a marvelous car! A beautiful girl!
At the end of the boulevard, she told me to turn left to the beach. We drove along the crowded seafront, then she told me to turn right. That brought us to a narrow sandy road.
‘This leads to Mr. Ferguson’s private beach,’ she said.
Ahead of us were high iron gates and a guard who saluted as he swung back the gates. I drove further up the road, came to high hedges and palm trees, then I saw the beach cabin.
I pulled up.
‘Is this it?’
‘One of them. This is yours.’
‘One of them?’
‘There are four cabins on the estate, but each one is completely private. Mr. Ferguson doesn’t use them anymore.’
I got out of the car and with Sonia, approached the cabin.
A cabin?
You Can Say That Again Page 12
