Closing the door, I walked out onto the balcony. I stood looking down at the moon lit grounds. Mrs. Harriet had said Loretta was crazy. She had to be! Yet there was that warning! They could murder me! They could murder you!
I forced myself to face the frightening facts. I was sure they had murdered Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine.
Panic gripped me.
I sat down and tried to calm myself.
I thought of John Merrill Ferguson with his warm friendly smile. You are too valuable to lose.
I thought of Mrs. Harriet. The baby boy was miscarried. From that moment, Etta went mentally to pieces. She began having delusions.
The iron barred windows of the left wing was where Loretta was confined when she had her attacks, but according to her, it was where John Merrill Ferguson, mentally ill, was confined.
His room is above mine. I hear him walking up and down, up and down. He sounds like a caged animal.
Delusions?
I rubbed my sweating face with the back of my hand.
This morning, I had met and talked with John Merrill Ferguson in his office. The footfalls she claimed to have heard must be a delusion. Ferguson was certainly not locked in the left wing suite. Then I thought of Loretta’s haunted, despairing eyes as she told me. Was someone locked up there?
I had to find out!
Getting to my feet, I went into the living room and tried the door. It was still unlocked. Moving silently, I walked down the corridor to the head of the stairs. The light was on, but there was no guard. Mazzo had said that I was one of them now. It looked as if the guards had been removed. I paused for a long moment figuring out how I could reach the left wing. I retraced my way back to the main corridor, then walked down the left hand corridor which was dimly lit. I wished I knew the geography of this immense house. I remembered from seeing the outside, the barred windows were at the far end, so cautiously, moving silently, I kept on.
Ahead of me was a bend in the corridor. I paused and edged myself forward so I could look down the further stretch of corridor. There was no guard. No one was in sight. I moved forward again. There were four doors leading off the corridor: all would be on the front side of the house.
There had been three barred windows. I passed the first door, then edged up to the second door; the first room with barred windows. I gently tried the door handle, but the door was locked. I put my ear against the door panel and stood for a long moment, listening and hearing nothing. I moved further down the corridor to the third door. Again I tried the handle: the door was locked. Once again, I put my ear against the door panel.
What I heard made the short hairs on the nape of my neck bristle: the steady thump-thump sound of pacing footfalls.
Listening intently, I heard a man clear his throat.
There was a pause, then the sound of the footfalls continued.
I stepped away from the door.
Loretta hadn’t been imagining this sound. This was no delusion! There was a man in there, pacing, as she had said, like a caged animal!
It couldn’t be John Merrill Ferguson. I had met him only hours ago, smiling warmly, telling me I was too valuable to lose. So who could it be?
As I moved to the door again to listen, I felt something touch my leg.
The soft feeling against my leg nearly made me launch from the pad.
I jumped away and looked down.
Mrs. Harriet’s poodle sat back on its haunches and waved its paws at me.
* * *
I lay on the bed in the moon lit bedroom, unable to sleep, my mind churning.
Who was the man imprisoned behind the barred windows? One thing I was certain of he wasn’t John Merrill Ferguson as Loretta had claimed him to be.
Hadn’t I met Ferguson this morning? Hadn’t he given me a seven year contract, and had said I was too valuable to lose.
Who could this prisoner be?
I had returned to my rooms with the poodle following me. I had shut the door in its face. I was scared it would begin yapping, but it didn’t.
Now, on the bed, I thought of the man pacing up and down, of Loretta who said she would come again.
My nerves were stretched to breaking point. I tried to reassure myself that Loretta was crazy. I would tell Mrs. Harriet in the morning that Loretta was pestering me. Maybe it was time for her to be confined.
Through the open window I could see the moon was nearly full.
Confined?
I remembered Mrs. Harriet had said that the rooms with the iron bars were for Loretta when she got out of control.
The rooms with the iron bars already held a prisoner!
I got off the bed, knowing I wouldn’t sleep and I went into the living room and turned on the desk light.
This house was weighing down on me: I longed to get away. Something evil was going on: something far too complicated for me to solve.
I sat behind the desk.
There was a heavy oppressive silence in the house.
The only sound I could hear was the steady beating of my heart. The moon light made patterns on the carpet.
The desk clock showed 01.50.
I tried to reason with myself. This was no business of mine. I was now a member of the Ferguson staff. I had signed a contract for seven years to impersonate Ferguson when he was away at the staggering salary of one hundred thousand dollars a year.
Consider yourself lucky, I tried to tell myself. Not in your wildest dreams have you ever thought you would get such a job. How Lu Prentz would gape if he knew!
Go to bed! Go to sleep! What goes on here is nothing to do with you. In a few days, John Merrill Ferguson had told me, he would be back, and you would stay at the luxury cabin by the sea. You would take Sonia out to dinner: a few more days!
But the ghosts of Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine seemed close to me. The desperate eyes of Loretta haunted me. Mrs. Harriet and her poodle seemed to be in the room.
So I sat there, in utter silence, scared, feeling the silence pressing in on me.
As I sat there, I suddenly heard a faint sound: a click of metal. In this silence, the sound made a tiny explosion in the room.
I reacted: starting to my feet, I stood motionless, listening. Then I knew what the sound was. I went quickly to the door and turned the handle.
The door was locked.
Someone had turned the key!
I stared at the door, my heart thumping, panic gripping me. What was going on? Why lock me in?
Then the silence was split by a woman’s scream.
The sound practically curdled my blood: the terror in the scream made me take quick paces away from the door and set my heart racing.
There was a brief moment of silence, then I heard a scuffling sound, then a thud that seemed to shake the house: the sound a body makes when falling from a height and landing sickeningly on the ground below.
I waited, my face and hands clammy, while I listened.
Then came voices: men’s voices.
I went to the door and pressed my ear against the panel.
I heard Mazzo’s voice.
‘Keep back. Don’t touch her.’
A man said something I couldn’t hear.
‘Get Dr. Weissman,’ Mazzo barked.
Then I knew a woman had died.
Mrs. Harriet? Loretta?
I heard Mrs. Harriet’s poodle yapping.
That scream of terror, then the thud of a falling body! It was murder!
There was a sudden buzz of voices, then I heard Mrs. Harriet’s distinct, calm voice, but it was not loud enough for me to hear what she was saying.
Loretta!
They could murder me, Jerry! They could murder you!
Less than two hours ago, she had said that to me: now they had done it!
My legs unsteady, I went to a chair and sat down.
Faintly from below, I could hear voices. The poodle’s yapping had stopped.
After some minutes, there was a click as the lock of my door turned
, and the door opened.
Mrs. Harriet stood in the doorway, looking at me.
She was wearing a black silk robe over a white nightdress.
She held the poodle in her arms.
‘Jerry, dear,’ she said as she came in and shut the door. ‘I am so glad you haven’t gone to bed. There has been a most unfortunate accident.’ Her face was completely without expression, but her little dark eyes were glittering. ‘Did you hear? Poor, dear Etta! She was sleepwalking. She fell down the stairs.’ She came and sat near me. ‘When she gets mentally disturbed, she always walks in her sleep.’
I stared at this ghastly old woman. I said nothing.
‘She broke her poor neck,’ Mrs. Harriet went on, fondling the poodle’s ears. ‘My son will be so upset. He loved her so much.’
Bile filled my mouth. I got to my feet, ran into the bathroom and threw up. It took me several minutes to put myself together.
They could murder you too!
I returned slowly to the living room.
‘Poor Jerry!’ Mrs. Harriet said quietly. ‘You artists are so sensitive. Here, drink this,’ and she thrust a glass half full of Scotch into my shaking hand.
I drank.
‘That’s better.’ She patted my arm. ‘Now, Jerry, you have to help. Dr. Weissman is coming. He will have to call the police.’
I went over to the chair and sat down.
‘Jerry!’ The snap in her voice made me stiffen. ‘You are here to help! Stop acting like a child! Do you hear me?’
They could murder you too!
I finished the Scotch and took hold of myself.
‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked, not looking at her.
‘John is thought to be here. He will be away for at least a week. I am not going to tell him what has happened until he returns. He would come rushing back. The business he is conducting is of vital importance. You must take his place. Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put on the disguise. I will tell Dr. Weissman you are in shock, but the police may want to speak to you. I will see they don’t worry you. Understand this: you will tell them that Etta very occasionally walked in her sleep. That’s all you need say if they question you, but I don’t think they will. John has always looked after the police. There will be an inquest, but you won’t be called. John has always looked after the coroner. You will have to attend the funeral. It will be strictly private. Now, go and put on the disguise!’
I had no choice. I was scared witless of this old woman. I was sure she had ordered Loretta’s murder as she had ordered the murders of Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine.
In the bathroom, with shaking hands, I put on the mask and completed the disguise.
When the police came, would this be my chance to get away from this nightmare? Should I tear off the mask and tell them the truth.
I thought of John Merrill Ferguson’s warm smile. You are too valuable to lose.
I thought of my seven year contract. I thought of those awful days when I sat by the telephone, waiting and waiting, practically starving.
This dreadful old woman would return to Frisco when the funeral was over, and I would be rid of her.
I thought of the luxury cabin which had been given to me for my new home. I thought of Sonia. This wasn’t my business, I told myself. My business was to earn the money John Merrill Ferguson was paying me.
Maybe the scotch gave me courage. As I adjusted my disguise, I decided, I would remain a member of the Ferguson staff.
* * *
The saying that money is power is an accepted cliché.
In the movie world, I had heard it often enough, but as I never had enough money, the cliché meant little to me.
But, this night, I witnessed the cliché come true with a devastating impact.
Wearing the mask, and dressed in the dark mohair suit, I went out onto the terrace, overlooking the front entrance of the residence.
Floodlights now lit the garden, the lawns and the distant iron gates, guarding the entrance to the estate.
Some ten men stood at the gates in a semi-circle: the tough, squat guards. As I watched, a glittering Caddy drove up to the gates, paused, then the gates were opened and the Caddy drove to the front doors.
I guessed Dr. Weissman had arrived.
I moved quickly from the living room and peered over the banisters.
The lights were on in the hall. Lying on the floor, at the foot of the stairs, still wearing the pale blue silk wrap, her feet and legs bare, was the body of Loretta Merrill Ferguson. By her side, his face expressionless, stood Mazzo.
I looked down on his shaven head.
A karate chop?
She had probably seen him, creeping up on her. She had screamed. Then the chopping blow at the back of her neck: her lifeless body crashing down the stairs.
A tall, fat, imposing looking man with thick white hair was talking to Mrs. Harriet. They spoke in undertones. I could see him clearly. A heavy face with jowls of good eating, dressed in a dark immaculate suit, he exuded authority and arrogant confidence.
Obviously, Dr. Weissman.
He moved to kneel by Loretta, touching her gently, turning her head slightly, lifting an eyelid. Then he stood up.
‘There is nothing to be done, Mrs. Ferguson. The poor lady is dead,’ he said in a rich baritone. ‘Leave this to me. We mustn’t move her. I will telephone Chief of Police Terrell.’
‘I think, dear doctor, we should have a little talk first,’ Mrs. Harriet said. ‘It won’t take long.’ She put her old hand firmly on his arm and drew him into the living room and closed the door.
I rested my arms on the banister rail and waited.
Mazzo began to prowl around the hall. I could see by the expression on his face, he was uneasy.
Ten minutes crawled by, then the living room door opened, and Mrs. Harriet and Dr. Weissman emerged.
‘My son is stricken, doctor,’ Mrs. Harriet said. ‘I don’t want him to be disturbed.’
‘Of course not. Should I see him? Perhaps I could give him a tranquillizer?’
‘He needs to be alone.’
‘I quite understand. Now, Mrs. Ferguson, please go to your room and lie down. Leave everything to me. If it is necessary, I will call you.’
‘I rely on you, doctor.’ She patted his arm. This terrible old woman was good at arm patting. ‘I will be available if you need me.’
As she turned to mount the stairs, I moved quickly back into my living room and shut the door. Then I went out onto the balcony.
The police arrived in two cars within ten minutes.
They were followed by an ambulance.
Dr. Weissman had certainly got action.
I watched two plainclothes detectives and a uniformed sergeant mount the steps.
I went to the living room door and opened it a crack.
Mrs. Harriet was standing where I had been standing, watching in the darkness, her old arms resting on the banister rail.
I heard voices. Dr.’s fruity voice was predominant, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
The whole charade was over in less than twenty minutes.
As I stood, peering through the crack of the door, I wondered how much Mrs. Harriet was going to pay Dr. Weissman.
My immediate impression of him was that he was a man who could be bought, always providing the sum was big enough.
I watched Mrs. Harriet leave the banister rail and walk slowly down the stairs. I moved out of my living room and took her place.
Below were the two detectives. The Sergeant stood by the door. Dt. Weissman dominated the scene.
Mrs. Harriet reached the bottom of the stairs.
‘I’m sorry, Madame, to have to ask you questions at this time,’ one of the detectives said.
‘Of course, of course.’ Mrs. Harriet dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘You must understand that my son knows nothing about this. He mustn’t be disturbed. He is in shock as Dr. Weissman will tell you.�
��
‘That’s okay, Madame,’ the detective said and moved towards the living room door. Harriet followed him with Dr. Weissman.
Two ambulance men entered. They whisked Loretta’s body onto a stretcher, covered it with a sheet and carried it out.
The other detective talked softly to Mazzo who kept shrugging his ape-like shoulders.
I returned to the living room and sat down. I sat there, holding my head in my hands, too sick even to think.
The slamming of car doors, the sound of engines being revved up brought me upright. I went onto the balcony to see the police cars, following the ambulance, drive away.
As simple and as easy as that! The power of money!
I returned to the living room as my door opened and Mrs. Harriet came in. She shut the door and stood looking at me.
‘Dear Jerry, it has all been arranged. You are not needed.’ A tiny smile of triumph moved on her old lips. ‘Go to bed. Take a sleeping pill, and remember, for poor Etta, it is a merciful release.’ As she turned to the door, she paused, ‘You will not have to attend the inquest, Jerry. Dr. Weissman will arrange everything: such a dear, helpful man. You will, of course, have to attend the cremation, but no one will worry you. Good night.’
She waved her fingers at me and left.
The next six days dragged by like six years.
Mazzo brought my meals. He said nothing and I had nothing to say to him. I spent hours on the balcony, reading paperbacks. In the evenings, I watched TV I slept with the aid of pills. I tried to comfort myself that I was Ferguson’s hired man at one hundred thousand dollars a year.
But there were too many times when I thought of that scream and that thud; when I thought of Loretta’s despairing eyes and remembered what she had said: For God’s sake, Jerry, don’t believe what that old bitch tells you. Don’t believe what Durant tells you. Believe me! I also thought of the man pacing up and down in the room with the barred windows.
On the sixth morning, Mazzo, while serving breakfast, said, ‘It’s all fixed. The inquest went like a dream. Get with the mask. They’re burning her this morning at eleven.’
I wanted to smash my fist into his ape-like face. I wanted to yell at him: You killed her! I got up and went into the bedroom.
‘Something wrong?’ he asked, following me.
You Can Say That Again Page 14
