You Can Say That Again

chapter nine

The palm trees rustled in the breeze. The sea glittered in the sun. The beach was like a silver carpet.

Who the hell cared?

Frustration, fury and loneliness swamped my mind.

I wanted Sonia! I needed her!

I sat on the veranda, staring at the empty beach. A gull swooped out of the sun and flew away with a plaintive cry.

In my mind, I heard the voice of the staff controller: Miss Malcolm does what I tell her.

I forced myself to relax. If this creep imagined he could dictate to me, he was in for a surprise! This was between Sonia and I! To hell with him!

My decision made, I got to my feet and walked to where I had parked the Merc, under the shade of a group of palms. I drove to the barrier. The guard, yet another squat, dark, sinister looking man, gave me a curt nod and lifted the pole.

I drove into the city. The time now was 17.05. I had no idea when the Ferguson Oil & Electronic Corporation released their staff. I hopefully decided when the staff did leave, they would leave by the back entrance.

It was a chance I had to take.

I cut down the side street, leading to the back entrance and the underground garage. I found parking space and maneuvered the Merc, to the curb, then I settled to wait. I was in a good position. I could see the exit of the garage. I could see the guard at the barrier.

Time crawled by. I kept looking at my watch. Just after 18.00, the exodus began. First, cars came from the garage. I looked at the men, driving: all well dressed, executive types. Then, some twenty minutes later, came the flood of secretaries, the clerks, the less important. All of them walking.

I started the engine, leaning forward, my heart thumping. There seemed no end to the stream of men and women: some talking, some pausing for a final word.

Then I saw her. She came up the ramp, wearing a cool looking beige dress, walking purposefully, and by herself.

No one spoke to her: no one waved. She was a new member of the staff.

She set off down the street, heading for the main boulevard. I gave her a good start, then drove slowly after her.

Once on the boulevard, I had trouble. I had to edge my car into the home going traffic, and once in, I was surrounded by slow moving cars. I could see her on the sidewalk, walking briskly. I tried to slow, but an impatient tap on the horn from the car behind me forced me on. I passed her, cursing. There was no parking space ahead of me. As I passed her I wanted to pull up, but again the tap on the horn kept me going. I nearly rammed into the car ahead of me as I watched her in my driving mirror. She kept moving, but I was now leaving her well behind.

The sidewalk was as crowded as the boulevard. If I lost her! I didn’t know where she lived! Then ahead of me, I saw a car pull slowly from the curb and edge into the traffic. I swung into the parking slot, didn’t wait to lock the car, but ran back down the sidewalk, dodging around people, looking frantically for Sonia.

I caught a glimpse of her as she turned down a side street. I ran, jostling and shoving against the stream of people until I reached the side street. There she was, walking briskly, out of the crowd. I lengthened my stride and came up to her.

‘Sonia!’

She whirled around.

There were only a few people on the sidewalk. They pressed on, ignoring us.

She stared at me.

‘What do you want?’

This wasn’t the Sonia I had been dreaming about.

Her expression was hostile, her eyes frightened.

‘Sonia!’ I said as I came to a standstill by her side. ‘I . . .’

I got no further.

With firm determination, she said, ‘Leave me alone! I don’t want anything to do with you! Leave me alone!’

‘Now listen, you mustn’t worry about that jerk, Macklin. I am Mr. Ferguson’s personal assistant. I don’t have to conform to their stupid rules. If I ask you to dinner, there is no problem. I . . .’

‘No problem for you, Mr. Stevens!’ she snapped. ‘Now you listen to me! I have slaved for this job. I am working as Mr. Ferguson’s assistant secretary. Mr. Macklin has told me that if I fraternize with you or any of the other members of the staff, I will be dismissed! Now, go away! I am not giving up this job for any man! If you don’t leave me alone, I will complain to Mr. Macklin!’

She turned and walked on, leaving me staring after her.

‘Tough,’ a well-known voice said from behind me.

I swung around to find Mazzo, smiling his ape-like smile.

‘Women are hell,’ he went on, ‘but she’s talking sense. She’s holding down a big job, Jerry, so think of her, and not of yourself.’

I gaped at him. I never expected to hear this shaven headed ape come out with a sentiment of that kind.

‘Let’s go and have a drink,’ he said.

Then I remembered I was looking at the man who had murdered Loretta.

‘Screw you and screw your drink,’ I said, and brushing by him, I walked to where I had parked the Merc. I sat behind the wheel, wrestling with my disappointment. Finally, I came to terms with myself.

Sonia was lost to me. I guessed she was probably as lonely as I was and been happy to accept my dinner invitation. Then Macklin had shown her the red light.

The bitter truth was that I meant nothing to her except a night out.

So what was I going to do with the evening and the night? I knew no one in this opulent city. I thought of the lonely cabin. To go back there and sit on my own was unthinkable. The idea of going to some restaurant and eat on my own was also unthinkable. I thought longingly of the people in Hollywood I could call: people I had had to drop, and who had dropped me because I had run out of money, but who would come flocking if they knew I was now earning one hundred thousand dollars a year.

This mood quickly passed. Those fair weather friends weren’t worth a goddamn.

So I sat there and brooded. Then out of the blue, an idea hit me. I had to find an occupation to keep my loneliness from swamping me. Why not write a detailed story of what I had experienced since Liz Martin, Lu Prentz’s secretary, had telephoned me, telling me Lu had a job for me.

The luxury cabin would no longer be lonely. I would sit at a typewriter and write the frightening story of my impersonation of John Merrill Ferguson, the murders of Larry Edwards, Charles Duvine and Loretta, of Mrs. Harriet and her poodle, Mazzo and Durant. I would write it as a novel with changed names and with changed backgrounds. The only character I would call by his real name would be Lu Prentz. I knew he would love to be featured in a novel.

It seemed to me the story was unique. I might have a big paperback sale! I might even sell the film rights, with me playing the lead!

Writing the book as a novel, using fictionalized names, the Ferguson Corporation couldn’t object. No one would believe such a story could happen, but I would wait until my seven-year contract was up. I wasn’t going to give up one hundred thousand dollars a year. This novel would be an insurance for my old age!

I would have to write it now while all the facts were fresh in my mind.

The cabin would be the perfect place in which to write. No one would interrupt me. I would write all the morning, swim, construct the plot in the afternoon, then write again in the evening.

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?

I threw off the sheet and scrambled out of bed. I went into the living room and peered out from behind the curtains.

The sight I saw was reassuring: people loading their cars with baggage: talking, laughing: people on vacation. I looked at my watch. The time was 09.15. I took a shower, dressed, then walked out into the sunshine. By then most of the people with their cars had gone. There were only three cars parked.

I found my way to the restaurant. The waitress gave me a cheeky smile.

‘Mr. Lazybones, huh?’ she said. ‘What’ll you have?’

I ordered eggs on grilled ham and pancakes and asked for a newspaper. She brought me The Paradise Herald. I searched through the paper, but there was no mention of the death of John Merrill Ferguson. It was too soon, but I badly wanted news.

Breakfast over, I went to the reception desk. The lean, dark man who was the manager, gave me a wide smile.

‘I’m Fred Baine,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Sleep well, Mr. Higgins? Comfortable?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be staying a while. I’m writing a book.’ I gave a modest smirk. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘A book?’ He looked impressed. ‘No problem, Mr. Higgins, you stay as long as you like, and you won’t be disturbed.’

‘You wouldn’t have a typewriter I could rent?’

‘Sure. No renting. I have a spare. You’re welcome.’

‘That’s real kind of you. I appreciate it.’

‘Now, look, Mr. Higgins, if you don’t want to be disturbed, I can have your meals sent over to you. No problem. Just give the girl fifteen minutes a day to fix your bed and room, and you won’t be disturbed.’

‘I would like that . . . thank you.’

‘No problem, Mr. Higgins. Boy! Would I like to be able to write a book.’ He sighed. ‘All those paperback rights!’

‘Yes,’ I said and returned to the cabin.

I was determined to finish The Ferguson Story. I would have nothing to do, probably, for the next three weeks. By then, the heat should have cooled. I would then consider what my next move should be.

A black girl came over later with a portable typewriter.

She gave me a toothy grin.

‘My brother wants to write a book, but he doesn’t know how to start it, Mr. Higgins,’ she said as she busied herself with an electric cleaner. ‘He has a fine plot, but he doesn’t know how to finish it either.’

‘Tell him to start in the middle,’ I said. ‘It’ll work out,’ and I shut myself in the bathroom. When she had gone, I got out my manuscript and spent the entire morning reading it.

The room was air conditioned, but I longed to get out into the sun. I resisted the temptation. I had to keep out of sight.

The manuscript, to me, read well.

After a lunch of hamburgers and coffee, I settled down at the typewriter.

I hammered away at the typewriter until 18.00, then I paused to make myself a Martini from the well-stocked refrigerator.

I had now reached the moment when Larry Edwards had come into my cabin, disguised as John Merrill Ferguson. I was pleased with the way the story went along: there were no hitches, but I wanted a rest before the big moment when I found Ferguson was impersonated by Larry.

I looked longingly out of the window at the swimming pool. There were a number of men and women and kids enjoying themselves, but I decided to keep out of sight.

Around 19.30, the black girl brought me a steak dinner. I gave her a couple of bucks and she looked in on awe at the table, littered with typewritten pages.

After dinner, I pulled the curtains and continued to write. Finally, around 23.00, I had brought the story up-do-date.

In the story, as in fact, I was in a motel, worried about what my next move should be. I would have to wait and see what happened.

Gathering up the pages, I put them with the rest of the manuscript, then took a shower and went to bed.

I didn’t sleep all that well. I kept thinking of my future. Should I return to Los Angeles? That would be the first place they would look for me . . . always providing they were going to look for me.

I had some eight thousand dollars in the bank.

Maybe it would be an idea to buy a car and drive down to Mexico. I could hide out there, taking a tour until it seemed safe to return. Then what would I do? By that time my eight thousand dollars would have slimmed down.

I thought of beginning that dreary life I had known: sitting by the telephone, waiting and waiting.

Maybe the book would jell.

With that thought to comfort me, I finally slept.

The following morning, the black girl brought my breakfast and a copy of The Paradise Herald.

The front page was given up to the death of John Merrill Ferguson.

Dr. Weissman had told the reporters that Ferguson had been working too hard. He had brought off a brilliant deal with the Chinese. He had been shattered by his wife’s death. He had suffered a fatal heart attack.

There was a picture of Dr. Weissman looking sad.

There was a picture of Joseph Durant also looking sad.

The paper stated that Durant would now run the great Ferguson Oil & Electronic Corporation. There was a picture of Mrs. Harriet and her poodle. She looked sad and the poodle also looked sad. The paper said Mrs. Harriet Ferguson was now the major shareholder, and by common consent, she was to become the President of the Corporation.

A secret deal had been made by Ferguson with the Chinese government. The corporation was to build electronic computers and satellites which would put China on an equal footing with the Russians. The deal was worth some two billion dollars.

I read as I ate.

Two billion dollars! Both Larry and I could blow this deal sky-high! The thought made me lose my appetite.

I shoved away the plate, got up and sat in a lounging chair.

If either Larry or I leaked that we had forged Ferguson’s signature to the many documents we had had through our hands, the result would be like an atomic bomb explosion. I remembered Larry’s last words to me before he took off: Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone what’s been going on. You and I could upset an empire, but I’m not that crazy in the head to

do it!

You can say that again, Larry, I thought. That’s the last thing I’d do, then I thought of the manuscript.

Maybe some smart newsman, reading the book if it ever got published, might put two and two together. What if he did? He couldn’t prove a thing. The manuscript was an insurance for my old age. I would wait until the dust settled, but I was certainly not going to scrap it.

Then, looking again at the newspaper, a small news item caught my eye. It was tucked away at the foot of the page: TV STAR DIES – Larry Edwards, known for his Western TV roles . . .

The newspaper slid out of my fingers. I began to shake.

Larry!

I got unsteadily to my feet and went to the liquor cabinet. I poured a shot of scotch. The glass rattled against my teeth. I lit a cigarette and moved around the cabin, my heart thumping.

Larry . . . dead!

I forced myself to pick up the newspaper and read the skimpy details.

Larry Edwards, the paper stated, driving a Ford rental, had been hit by a hit-and-run truck on the Miami-Naples highway. The Ford had been smashed to pieces and hurled into the forest. The police were on the lookout for a damaged truck. Larry Edwards had been on vacation in Florida.

So they had caught up with him!

Sweat trickled down my face.

He had been smart enough to have dumped the Jaguar, as I had dumped the Merc. He had rented a Ford, and had made a dash for the East Coast: not smart, nor quick enough!

Was I safe here?

I remembered Larry saying: Listen, Jerry, I’ve seen the way these people work. They have connections everywhere.

Man! Was I in a panic!

I sat down and tried to calm myself. How could they possibly find me in this way-out motel? But they had found Larry! By now, they could have found the Merc.

Would they think I had gone some place by air? Would they check and find no one answering to my description had taken off? Would they then reach the conclusion that I was hiding somewhere close? Now I knew what a fox must feel when he hears the baying of the hounds.

There must be more than three hundred motels and many hotels around Miami. Would they check each one?

I began to calm down. I would not bolt from cover. I would stay put.

Then I thought of the manuscript. This could save my life! I would write to Mrs. Harriet and tell her I had written the whole story from the moment I had met her at the Plaza hotel. I would warn her that if anything happened to me, the manuscript would go to the police. I would give her my word that as long as I was left alone, I would say nothing.

This seemed to me a good idea. I went to the typewriter and wrote the letter.

How was I to get it to her? It would be fatal to mail it from here. The Miami postmark would tell them I was in the district.

I must find someone to mail the letter for me out of the district. I addressed the envelope: Mrs. Harriet, Largo Residence, Paradise City. Whoever it was who mailed the letter mustn’t know I was writing to a Ferguson. I put the letter in the envelope and sealed it.

How about the manuscript? I decided to mail it to Lu Prentz, telling him to keep it for me.

Leaving the cabin, I went to the reception desk. Fred Baine beamed at me.

‘Hi, Mr. Higgins, how’s it coming?’

‘Okay. Can you give me some paper and string, please? I want to mail a parcel.’

‘No problem.’ He went to the back of the office and produced brown paper and string. ‘This okay?’

‘Sure, and thanks. Another thing, Mr. Baine, I have a letter I want mailed out of the district. I don’t want anyone to know where I am.’ I produced the letter. ‘Mrs. Harriet is my mother-in-law. If she knew I was in Miami . . .’ I gave him a knowing wink.

He looked a little startled, then nodded.

‘Sure, Mr. Higgins. I guess you authors have to get away sometimes. I have a couple leaving for New York this morning. They’ll mail this for you: a nice couple. Okay?’

‘That would be fine.’ I slid a ten dollar bill towards him. ‘Okay to give them this?’

‘Sure. They would be glad to have it, Mr. Higgins. I’ll fix it for you. No problem.’

I returned to my cabin.

The black girl had been in, made the bed and cleaned.

I was feeling much more relaxed.

I sat down at the typewriter and worked for the next three hours, bringing The Ferguson Story to date.

I now feel confident, I wrote, that I will survive. I intend to pack this manuscript and send it to Lu Prentz for safekeeping. I will have nothing to do except to sit in this cabin until I feel sure that Mrs. Harriet has got my letter. She is smart. I have given her my word not to say anything. I have warned her if anything should happen to me, the story will go to the police. So why should she flick her fingers at me?

In a couple of weeks, I will hire a car and drive to Mexico. In a few months’ time, I will be back in Hollywood, sitting in some shabby room, waiting for telephone bell to ring.

Bad as that is, it is better than being dead