You Can Say That Again Read online

  Mazzo stood in the doorway watching me.

  ‘It sure is something,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t know you from the boss.’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ I said.

  ‘Here’s a hat and dark glasses,’ Mazzo went on, producing a broad brimmed white hat which I put on. He then gave me black skiing goggles.

  Again he stared at me.

  ‘I’ll fetch Mr. Durant. He’ll want to see you before we take off. Go over by the bed and wait.’

  When he had gone, I stared at myself in the long mirror.

  So this is what John Merrill Ferguson, one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, looked like.

  An extraordinary feeling of excitement ran through me. This man, facing me, was John Merrill Ferguson! I lifted my right hand and John Merrill Ferguson lifted his right hand. I took two steps back and John Merrill Ferguson took two steps back. I smiled at him and he smiled at me.

  Then a thought dropped into my mind. What had this man got that I hadn’t got? Never mind about his money and his power. Certainly, I hadn’t his money nor his power, but I had his face, his clothes, and I could now easily forge his signature.

  This thought seed had dropped into my mind: no more than a tiny seed, but seeds germinate. This thought seed was forgotten as I heard Durant come into the room.

  I limped out of the bathroom, limped across the room to the bed, then turned and faced him.

  I felt a tingle of satisfaction when I saw the startled expression jump into his eyes.

  After staring at me, he said, ‘Very good.’ He turned to Mazzo who was standing in the doorway. ‘We’ll go,’ he said, curtly, and left the room.

  ‘I told you, Jerry,’ Mazzo said, grinning. ‘It’s a beaut.’

  I made no move, but looked directly at him.

  ‘This is just a suggestion, Mazzo,’ I said in my confidential voice. ‘Wouldn’t it be safer, if from now on, you call me Mr. Ferguson instead of Jerry?’

  He gaped at me.

  ‘Whatcha mean? Listen, palsy, you’re not the boss. I don’t call you Mr. Ferguson. You do what I tell you to do and that’s it.’

  ‘You call me Jerry or palsy, Mazzo,’ I said, ‘and someone overhears and we are in the shit. I am Mr. Ferguson. I do what you tell me, but call me Mr. Ferguson.’

  He rubbed his huge hand over his shaven head while he thought. I could almost hear his brain creaking, then finally, he nodded.

  ‘Yeah. You’ve got something.’ Then he grinned. ‘Okay, Mr. Ferguson, sir, let’s go.’

  I didn’t realize, as I followed him from the room, the tiny seed thought had begun to germinate.

  I followed him down the broad staircase into the brightly lit lobby.

  Harriet Ferguson, cuddling her poodle, stood in the doorway of the main living room.

  Durant, holding a briefcase, stood by the front door.

  Mazzo moved aside.

  ‘Go ahead, Mr. Ferguson,’ he said.

  I passed him on the stairs, and seeing the old woman was watching, I paused on the final stair and looked directly at her. I heard her catch her breath. I smiled at her. The smile was stiff because of the mask, but it was a smile.

  ‘It is fantastic,’ she exclaimed, looking at Durant.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We must go.’

  Mazzo gave me a slight nudge. I limped forward, then went up to the old woman.

  ‘Madam,’ I said. ‘I hope you are satisfied.’

  ‘You could be my son,’ she said, and I saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘That would be a privilege,’ I said, hamming it up.

  Then I lifted her hand and brushed it with my lips: ripe corn, straight out of a 1935 movie.

  I turned away and limped towards Durant who was watching the scene with that sour look a director got when I so often tried to steal a scene from the lead.

  Outside, in the gathering dusk, was the Rolls. The Jap chauffeur was holding open the door.

  Durant got in. I followed. Mazzo sat with the chauffeur.

  As we drove onto the highway, Durant said, ‘When we reach the airport, Stevens, we will find the press waiting. They can’t get near you, but they will be there. We fly in the Corporation’s aircraft. You will do exactly what Mazzo tells you. There will be no problem. Don’t hurry. Remember, you are John Merrill Ferguson. You will be well guarded. When you climb the stairway of the plane, you can pause, turn and lift your hand. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Durant,’ I said.

  ‘Once in the plane, Stevens,’ he went on, ‘you will nod to the air hostesses and sit. You won’t be disturbed until we arrive. I will brief you on the arrival.’

  The seed of thought was continuing to germinate.

  ‘There’s one small point, and it could be important,’ I said. ‘This is only a suggestion, Mr. Durant. Wouldn’t it be safer for you to quit calling me Stevens? I don’t know what you call Mr. Ferguson, but wouldn’t it be wiser to call me what you call him? A slip of the tongue could bitch the whole operation, and I don’t want to be blamed.’

  I didn’t look at him, but looked steadily at the back of the Jap chauffeur’s head.

  There was a long pause, then Durant said, ‘Yes, you have a point, Mr. Ferguson. You are showing intelligence.’

  ‘If it comes unstuck, Mr. Durant, I wouldn’t want it to be my fault.’

  ‘Yes.’ He breathed heavily. ‘Then you had better call me Joe.’ The rasp in his voice told me how he hated this.

  ‘Okay, Joe.’

  Nothing more was said until we reached the airport.

  Then Durant said, ‘Do nothing. Say nothing. Leave this to Mazzo.’

  I couldn’t resist my triumph.

  ‘I hear you, Joe,’ I said.

  The Rolls was obviously expected.

  Guards opened the double gate and saluted as we drove through. Feeling like royalty, I slightly raised my hand in a return salute.

  ‘Do nothing!’ Durant snarled.

  The car drove around the perimeter of the airfield.

  Ahead, I could see blinding lights and a big crowd of figures. Beyond them was an aircraft, floodlit.

  Man! Was I getting a bang out of this!

  The Rolls drove through a raised barrier that immediately descended. Some fifteen men stood at the foot of the stairway to the plane. They looked what they were: tough, efficient bodyguards.

  Mazzo slid out of the car. Durant gave me a nudge, so I got out, and he followed me.

  ‘Get moving!’ Durant rasped. .

  In the dazzle of the floodlights, I walked towards the stairway.

  There was an immediate clamor of sound.

  ‘Mr. Ferguson! Look this way!’

  ‘Mr. Ferguson! Just a few words!’

  ‘Mr. Ferguson! A moment, please!’

  Voices shouted: the baying of the press. Flashlights went off. I could hear the whirr of TV cameras. This was the most exciting moment of my life! This was the stuff I had so often dreamed about when I hoped I would finally become a great movie star with the press clamoring and photographers fighting to get near me.

  I started up the stairway with Durant following closely behind me. My heart was thumping.

  ‘Mr. Ferguson!’

  The name was repeated over and over again. The sound waves of the voices hammered around me.

  Man! Did I feel great!

  At the top of the staircase, I paused, turned and looked down at the sea of faces, the TV cameras, the bodyguard, the struggling photographers. Feeling like the President of the United States of America, I lifted my hand in a regal salute, then Durant, moving up, practically shoved me inside the aircraft and the show was over.

  * * *

  I had often read about the private aircrafts owned by wheeler dealers, but this aircraft, as I moved past two smiling girls, wearing dark green uniforms with brown pillbox hats, made me gape.

  The passenger accommodation had been replaced by small leather covered lounging chairs, an executive desk with a high black l
eather chair, a big cocktail bar, a board room table with ten chairs and a wall-to-wall heavy pile dark red carpet.

  To the side, was a leather chair with a leg extension which looked comfortable enough to sleep in.

  ‘Sit there,’ Durant said, pointing to the chair.

  I lowered my body into the comfort of the chair, took off my hat and dropped it on the floor.

  Mazzo came forward, picked it up and took it away.

  Durant went forward and out of my sight. I heard the aircraft’s door slam shut.

  Through the drawn curtains of the windows, I could see the glare of the TV lights and I itched to draw aside one of the curtains to take a look at the press below, but this wasn’t the time.

  A few minutes later, the aircraft’s jets came alive and minutes later, the aircraft began its take-off.

  Durant returned and sat at the desk. He opened his briefcase, took out a mass of papers and began to read.

  I relaxed in the chair, closed my eyes and thought about the reception I had had. What it was to be worth billions of dollars! I thought of my dreary years of grind, trying to make it as a movie star. Now, suddenly, I was being treated as one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, and I loved it!

  I was content to lie there with my thoughts for the next twenty minutes, then it occurred to me that as I was John Merrill Ferguson, I should receive some attention.

  Durant was still immersed in his reading. I glanced around and saw Mazzo dozing in a chair behind me.

  ‘Mazzo!’ I said sharply.

  Both he and Durant looked up.

  Mazzo hesitated, then got to his feet and came to me.

  ‘A double Scotch on the rocks, and I want something to eat,’ I said.

  Mazzo blinked, then looked at Durant who glared at me, hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘Okay, Mr. Ferguson,’ Mazzo said and went away.

  After staring at me for a long moment, Durant returned to his reading.

  One of the air hostesses brought the drink. I gave her a nod of thanks. By the time I had finished the drink, a meal, brought on a trolley was served: an excellent hors d’oeuvre, followed by a fillet of steak in a wine sauce and a selection of cheeses.

  The two air hostesses served me. I guessed Durant had been smart enough to have got two girls who had never seen Ferguson. Their reactions were of two girls serving one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. One of them, a cute blonde, kept giving me a sexy smile. I was sure I could have put my hand up her short skirt and she wouldn’t have squealed.

  Cigars and brandy followed.

  Man! I thought this is the way to live!

  ‘Would you like something to read, Mr. Ferguson?’ the sexy one asked.

  I remembered I had been out of circulation now for three days.

  ‘Get me a newspaper, please,’ I said.

  She hip-swished away and returned with the California Times.

  I settled down to read.

  There was nothing new in the paper: the usual dreary depressions, the President’s hopeful promises, Russia growling. I turned to the Hollywood hews. The paper gave up two pages to the film world: who was suing who, who was the new love-in, who might get the Oscar: stuff that interested me.

  On the second page was a photograph of Charles who had designed the mask I was wearing.

  I stared at the photograph, then read the caption: Charles Duvine: Hollywood’s Master Make-Up Artist: A Suicide.

  My heart skipped a beat as I read on.

  Charles Duvine, wrote the reporter, had been away for two months. It was believed he had been on vacation in Martinique. He had returned to his luxury penthouse in Santa Barbara two nights ago. The Security guard said Mr. Duvine seemed to be in a depressed, nervy mood. The following morning, the Security guard, on his usual patrol, had found the body of Mr. Duvine, lying on the paved surround of the high-rise. It appeared that in a moment of deep depression, Mr. Duvine had thrown himself from the terrace of his penthouse. The police were satisfied that it was suicide.

  I closed my eyes as I let the newspaper drop from my trembling fingers.

  Larry Edwards who could have talked: dead from defective car brakes. Now, Charles Duvine who had turned me into John Merrill Ferguson and who also could have talked: a suicide.

  Cold, clammy fear grabbed at me.

  Then the truth of my predicament hit me like a sledgehammer. When I had served my purpose, I too would cease to live!

  Once this mysterious business deal had been completed, Ferguson and Durant wouldn’t let me live in case I talked. They would have me murdered as they had had Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine murdered!

  I was so frightened, I nearly threw up. I felt cold sweat running down my back. I felt cold sweat running down inside the mask I was wearing.

  ‘A little more brandy, Mr. Ferguson?’ It was the sexy hostess standing over me.

  Because of the mask she couldn’t see how frightened I was.

  Brandy? I needed it!

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She put a big snifter half full of brandy on the table in front of me.

  ‘If you would like to have a nap, sir,’ she said, ‘Your room’s all ready. We have five hours before landing.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I said, and got to my feet.

  The mask was now becoming unbearable. I had to take it off.

  She picked up the snifter and walked past Durant’s desk towards a door.

  ‘Taking a nap, Joe,’ I said huskily as Durant looked up.

  I saw Mazzo start to his feet, but Durant shook his head. Mazzo sat down again.

  I followed the girl into a cabin with a bed and a fitted closet. There was a bathroom leading off the little room.

  She put the snifter on the night table and smiled at me.

  ‘Is there anything else, Mr. Ferguson? I’m not busy for the next couple of hours,’ and she arched her eyebrows invitingly.

  If I hadn’t been so scared and longing to take off the mask, I would have been tempted.

  ‘Nothing now, thank you.’

  ‘Call me Phoebe, Mr. Ferguson. I’m entirely at your service,’ and after hesitating, she smiled again and left the cabin, shutting the door.

  I slid the bolt home, then went into the bathroom and carefully removed the mask. Laying it down, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

  Did I look a wreck! This was Jerry Stevens, a washed-up, bit-part actor scared witless, white faced, sweat beads, a mouth that twitched. Very far from the last time I had seen myself in a mirror: the confident, powerful John Merrill Ferguson who I had asked myself what he had got that I hadn’t got.

  I washed my face and hands, then returned to the cabin. I drank nearly all the brandy, then sat on the bed, trying to steady my shaking hands. I finished the brandy and set down the glass before I dropped it. After a few minutes, the brandy began to bite and my heart beat began to return to normal. I lit a cigarette.

  I thought about Charles Duvine. Maybe two thugs or even Mazzo had been waiting on the penthouse terrace: a prick of a needle and away into space.

  I shuddered.

  This could happen to you. This will happen to you when Durant has no further use of you. Well, at least, you know what to expect.

  Durant said I was to impersonate Ferguson for a month, possibly longer. That must mean I was safe for at least thirty days, and during those thirty days, I had to find a way out of this nightmare.

  I began to get over my scare.

  Thirty days!

  A lot could happen in thirty days. I was forewarned.

  There must come a moment when I could escape. I would go to the police. They would give me protection. I had ample proof. I’d show them the mask. I would get them to check the Chase National Bank that all this money had been paid to me. I would get Lu Prentz to tell them that Durant had hired me.

  I began to relax. Maybe the two big brandies now gave me confidence.

  Then I heard a slight sound that set my heart thumpin
g again. Looking at the door of the cabin, I saw the door handle turn, but the bolt stopped the door opening.

  I began to sweat again.

  ‘You okay, Mr. Ferguson?’ Mazzo whispered through the door panel.

  The brandy made me exclaim, ‘Piss off! I’m trying to sleep.’

  ‘Okay, Mr. Ferguson.’

  I sat like a stone man, watching the door handle. It moved up and down for a moment or two, then came to rest.

  Sitting there on the bed, staring at the door, I understood the feelings of a trapped rabbit.

  * * *

  I was awakened by a gentle tapping on the door.

  ‘Mr. Ferguson, please. We will be landing in one hour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and looked at my watch. The time was 23.30.

  I didn’t remember falling asleep. I did remember lying on the bed while I wrestled with my fears. The brandy must have had a lot of authority.

  I stripped off, showered and shaved, regarding my pale face in the mirror. Then I spent time putting on the mask, the eyebrows and the moustache.

  Stepping back, I surveyed myself in the mirror. John Merrill Ferguson stared back at me, and at the sight of him, I began to lose my fears.

  No one was going to murder John Merrill Ferguson!

  He could have people like Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine murdered, but he was too powerful for anyone to murder him.

  This childish reasoning helped to restore my confidence.

  As I dressed I assured myself that I could handle this situation as long as I remained behind the protection of John Merrill Ferguson’s mask.

  I opened the door and walked into the main cabin.

  Durant sat at the desk, still reading papers. Mazzo was drinking coffee.

  ‘Still at it, Joe,’ I said in a hearty voice, and I gave him a slap on his shoulder. ‘You work too hard.’

  Not looking to see his reaction, I crossed to the lounging chair and sat down, aware Mazzo was gaping at me.

  Phoebe came to my side.

  ‘Coffee, Mr. Ferguson?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  By the time I had finished a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette, the aircraft was circling Miami airport.

  Durant came over to me.