1980 - You Can Say That Again (18 page)

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.

‘I don’t want anything. Get out!’

‘I tell you: no problems,’ Mazzo said with grin. ‘Get with the mask and wear the mohair.’

Mrs. Harriet, her poodle and I were the only mourners. We drove to the crematorium in the Rolls.

There was a car in front and two behind.

The news had leaked, and the press were at the gates of the crematorium: the jackals, the camera men, the TV crews, the lights and the gaping crowd. The guards spilled out from the three cars. They let the Rolls through, then shut off the surge of the jackals.

There was an aged priest, his lined face set in professional sadness. He seemed in awe of Mrs. Harriet and spoke mumbling words of sympathy. He lingered over the service as if anxious to give value for money.

When the coffin began to roll into the furnace, I sank onto my knees. I hadn’t said a prayer since I was a kid, but I said a prayer for Loretta.

The poodle began yapping.

As I tried to find words for Loretta, I heard Mrs. Harriet say to the poodle, ‘Hush, darling. Show respect.’

* * *

The next two days dragged by.

I ate, sat on the balcony, read and waited.

On the third morning while I was sitting on the balcony after breakfast, I saw the Rolls drive up.

Jonas appeared with luggage which he put in the boot, then Mrs. Harriet appeared, carrying the poodle. She paused to talk to Jonas who bowed, then she got into the car and was driven away.

Was I thankful to see her go!

Mazzo came silently into the room.

‘You go to the office this morning,’ he said, ‘Get with the mask.’

He drove me in the Jaguar to the front entrance of the office where the guards got me through the waiting press. There were the usual plaintive cries and flashlights.

We went up in the elevator and Mazzo led me to Ferguson ‘s office where I found Joe Durant behind the big desk.

‘Come in, Stevens,’ he said, giving me a tight smile. ‘Sit down.’ He waved me to a chair.

I sat down.

‘I have to thank you for your excellent performance at the funeral,’ Durant said. ‘I realized what an ordeal this must have been for you.’

There didn’t seem anything for me to say to this, so I said nothing.

‘Mr. Ferguson has now returned,’ Durant went on. ‘You are free to do what you like for at least two weeks. You are showing yourself a most valuable member of our staff, and we are more than satisfied with you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said.

Durant leaned forward and opened a briefcase. He took from it a check.

‘Here is your first month’s salary, Stevens, plus a small bonus.’

I got up and took the check. It was for ten thousand dollars.

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, putting the check in my wallet.

‘You are free. Get out of that disguise. You will find your clothes in the second bathroom, down the corridor. Make use of the cabin.’ His thin smile lifted the corners of his lips. ‘It is understood you don’t leave the city. You don’t talk to the press. You say nothing about your work.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘All right, Stevens, run along and enjoy yourself.’

I moved to the door, then paused.

‘Would you convey to Mr. Ferguson my sympathy and condolence for the loss of his wife?’

The thin smile went away.

‘All right, Stevens, run along.’

I spent the next three hours buying clothes. There was a man’s store on Paradise Boulevard, and I had myself a ball. Finally, satisfied I had everything I wanted, I packed the carrier bags in the Merc, and drove to the cabin.

The guard at the barrier eyed me, then nodded and lifted the pole.

As I drove to the cabin, it occurred to me that I was exchanging one prison for another. I was still under surveillance, but I didn’t care. I had money! I was out of that evil house, and I was damn well going to enjoy myself!

It was just on noon. As soon as I had unpacked my purchases and put them in the closet, I called The Ferguson Electronic & Oil Corporation. I asked to speak to Miss Sonia Malcolm.

‘This is Jerry Stevens,’ I said when she came on the line. ‘How about that rain check? Could you or would you have dinner with me tonight?’

‘I’d love to,’ she said, and she sounded as if she meant it.

‘Look, Sonia, I am a stranger in this city. Where can we go? Something really nice, preferably by the sea. I’ve just been paid: money is no object.’

She laughed.

‘Well . . .’ A long pause, then she said, ‘There’s The Albatross on Ocean Boulevard. I hear it’s very special but pricey.’

‘Sounds fine. I’ll pick you up. Where do you live?’

‘No, don’t do that. I’ll meet you there. I have a car. My place is difficult to find.’