You Can Say That Again

chapter two

I sat in the lounging chair and waited.

I was committed. I had said I would give Durant my wholehearted cooperation. I had a credit note in my wallet for one thousand dollars. According to him, tomorrow, I would be given another credit note for another one thousand dollars.

I was to impersonate some unknown big wheeler dealer while he went off to fix a deal his rivals either wanted to stop or wanted to know about. In return for impersonating him, I would, after thirty days, find in the Chase National Bank thirty thousand dollars to my credit.

When I had said it was a deal, Durant had nodded, got to his feet and moved to the door. He had paused, stared at me with his hard black eyes and said, ‘Wait, Mr. Stevens,’ then he left, followed by the Ape and the door slid shut.

So I lit a cigarette and waited.

I was far from feeling easy. There was something about Durant and the Ape that scared me, but I needed this kind of money. I had been assured there was no danger and I wouldn’t be breaking the law, so it seemed to me, I would need to have my head examined to turn down an offer like this.

I waited uneasily for some thirty minutes, then the door slid back and the little old woman, plus her poodle, came in. The door must have been controlled by an electronic beam for she had taken only a couple of steps forward before the door snapped shut.

She was wearing a fawn, turtle neck cashmere sweater and black slacks: a rope of pearls with a sheen on them that told me they were genuine, completed this chic outfit. She paused and gave me a friendly smile. The poodle made a whining sound and struggled in her arms as if anxious to give me a lick of death.

‘Mr. Stevens,’ she said gently. ‘May I intrude?’

I regarded her sourly, then got to my feet.

‘Well, you’re here, aren’t you?’ I said.

She moved further into the room, still smiling and sat down in the chair recently occupied by Durant.

‘I have come to apologize, Mr. Stevens. I can quite understand how you are feeling. This must be so strange to you.’

Remaining standing, I said, ‘Mr. Durant has explained.’

‘Of course, but I don’t want you to have any bad feelings, Mr. Stevens. Do sit down. I feel I must explain further.’

So I sat down.

‘How nice of you,’ she said, staring at me with her dark blue, hard eyes. ‘Tell me, Mr. Stevens, is your mother alive?’

‘She’s been dead for the past five years,’ I said curtly.

‘Sad. Mr. Stevens, I am quite sure, if she were living, she would have done what I did. The man we are asking you to impersonate is my son.’

I thought of my mother: a kind, homely body without a brain in her head, but with a God fearing conscience.

‘My mother wouldn’t have drugged a man and kidnapped him,’ I said coldly. ‘Let us leave her out of this.’

She played with the poodle’s ear.

‘One never knows with mothers,’ she said, still smiling. ‘In trouble, they can rise to unexpected things.’

This was beginning to bore me. I shrugged and said nothing.

‘I want you to believe, Mr. Stevens, that I do admire your work and your talent,’ she said. ‘It makes me very happy that you have agreed to cooperate. Your help will be more than appreciated.’

‘I’m getting well paid,’ I said woodenly.

‘Yes. I understand that money is important to you.’

‘Isn’t it to most people?’

‘I’m afraid you are still a little hostile, Mr. Stevens. Do please relax. You will be doing a most helpful job and when it is over, you will have quite a lot of money.’

She smiled. ‘I am doing this for my son. Please understand.’

But I couldn’t relax. There was something about this old woman that scared me as Durant scared me, but I made an effort. I forced a smile.

She nodded.

‘That’s better.’ She patted the poodle. ‘I’ve so often thought, when watching your movies, what a nice smile you have, Mr. Stevens.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Well, now, let us get down to business as my son so often says. You have been kind enough to give us your whole hearted cooperation.’ For a brief moment, her smile became fixed, and the steel in the dark blue eyes showed. ‘That is right, isn’t it?’

‘Frankly, I’m getting bored with that phrase,’ I said. ‘I told Mr. Durant, I agreed to his terms. Do we have to go over and over it again?’

She gave a light little laugh.

‘You must forgive an old woman, Mr. Stevens. Old women are inclined to be repetitive. Oh, incidentally, do call me Harriet. Let us be informal. May I call you Jerry?’

‘Of course.’

‘This afternoon, Jerry, we will begin. I have a good make-up man who will transform you as nearly as possible to resemble my son. Please be patient with him. He is a perfectionist and I must admit, a little tiresome. We want to be sure that you will resemble my son so closely no one viewing you from a distance won’t know you are not my son. Is that understood?’

‘That’s okay with me.’

‘Do call me Harriet.’

‘Okay, Harriet.’

She lifted one of the poodle’s ears, rubbed it between her fingers making the dog whine with pleasure.

‘Then there will be other sessions. There will be other things for you to learn, but I am sure you are a quick study. Most actors are.’ She smiled at me.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

‘Of course you will. Nothing difficult, but it is important.’ She paused, then went on, ‘Are you married, Jerry?’

This unexpected question surprised me.

‘Divorced,’ I said curtly.

‘So many people in the film world are divorced. Where is your wife?’

‘Does that matter?’

She shook her head and gave me a playful smile.

‘Please, Jerry, be cooperative. I need your answers to the questions I am going to ask.’

‘She’s in New York. She married again.’

‘You don’t see her?’

‘I haven’t seen her for the past five years.’

‘Children?’

‘None.’

‘Your mother is dead. Your father?’

‘He’s dead too.’

‘Your relations? Brothers? Sisters?’

I began to get a creepy feeling up my spine.

‘Now that you mention it,’ I said. ‘I have no relations.’

‘How sad!’ She didn’t look sad. ‘So you are quite on your own.’

‘That’s it.’

She nodded.

‘Now, an attractive man like you must have a girlfriend. Tell me about her.’

‘An actor worth one dollar and thirty cents doesn’t have a girlfriend.’

Again she nodded.

‘Yes, of course, but very soon, Jerry, with thirty thousand dollars in your bank, you will have many girlfriends. It is all a matter of patience.’

She was right there. I had all the girlfriends I needed when I had been making money. With thirty thousand dollars in the bank, I would only have to whistle.

‘Now that we have your wholehearted cooperation, Jerry,’ she went on, after a pause, ‘I want to tell you about Mazzo.’ She spent a moment fondling the poodle. ‘I really don’t know what I would do without Mazzo. His appearance is deceptive, but there is nothing he wouldn’t do for me . . . nothing.’

I looked blankly at her.

‘You have already met him. Mazzo is my loyal and true servant who brought you that delicious meal that I had ordered specially for you.’

I gaped at her.

‘You mean that — that Ape of a man?’

She patted her poodle.

‘You mustn’t speak unkindly of Mazzo’s looks. No one can be as handsome as you, Jerry. Mazzo is going to be your constant companion, Jerry. He will help you in many things. Without him by your side, I don’t think you would succeed in impersonating my son. For years now, Mazzo has been my son’s bodyguard. When you are seen together, it will be assumed you are my son.’

The thought of having that Ape as a constant companion gave me goose pimples.

As I was about to protest, she went on, ‘Changing the subject, Jerry, have you ever met Larry Edwards?’

‘Why, sure,’ I said, surprised by the question. ‘Why do you ask?’

I certainly remembered Larry Edwards. He was like me: an unemployed bit-part actor. We often met at Lu Prentz’s office, both hunting for work. We hadn’t much in common, as both of us wondered if one of us would get a job the other was hoping for, but we did have an occasional beer together and moaned about our hard times.

‘I was just wondering. He was rather like you in appearance: tall, dark,’ Harriet said, smiling. ‘He hadn’t your personality, of course. We did consider him for the job you have now accepted. In fact, we brought him here and discussed the idea with him, but he wouldn’t cooperate. He raised all kinds of difficulties. I am so very glad you aren’t going to be difficult, Jerry . . . so very glad.’

I stared at her, feeling a chill move over me.

‘You are talking about him in the past tense,’ I said.

‘Yes . . . sad.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll ask Mazzo to bring you some books. Please tell him what you would like for lunch.’ She made for the door.

‘What’s happened to Larry?’ I asked, my hands clammy.

She paused at the door.

‘Oh, didn’t you know? He had an accident. Something wrong with the brakes of his car, I believe.’ Her dark blue hard eyes fixed me. ‘He’s dead.’

The door slid open and she was gone.

* * *

An hour later, the door slid back and Mazzo came in, carrying a number of paperbacks. These he set on the table.

‘You want something to read?’

This was the first time I had heard his voice and the sound startled me. It was husky and soft whereas I expected a growl of a bear.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

He stalked over to the chair Harriet had been sitting in and sat down. He grinned at me, showing small white teeth a rat might envy.

‘We’re going to live together, palsy, so we may as well get acquainted, huh?’

‘Why not?’

He nodded his shaven head.

‘There’s nothing to it, palsy, so long as you do exactly what I tell you to do. It’s dead easy money, but don’t ask with the questions. I tell you to blow snot, you blow it. Get it? I tell you to look left, you look left. Get it? I tell you to look right, you look right. Get it? I tell you to run fast, you run fast. Get it?’

‘You have made your point,’ I said.

He wrinkled his forehead.

‘You mean you get it?’

‘I get it.’

‘Okay. The other jerk didn’t get it.’ He lost his smile and looked like a tiger regarding a prospective meal. ‘Too bad for him.’

My mouth turned dry.

‘I heard he had a car accident.’

‘Sure . . . jerks like him often have car accidents.’ He smiled at me. ‘You’re smart, palsy. You won’t have a car accident.’

I didn’t say anything. The hint was there because Larry Edwards hadn’t cooperated, he had been murdered. I couldn’t accept this, but the hint was there.

‘Now, this afternoon, palsy, we start business. Just go along with it, huh?’

I nodded.

‘A creep will come and work you over. Just sit still and let him have his way. Get it?’

Again I nodded.

He smiled.

‘You know, palsy, you and me are going to get along fine together. I saw that movie of yours: The Sheriff of X Ranch. I thought it stank.’

‘So did I,’ I said hoarsely.

He widened his smile.

‘See what I mean? We’re going to get along fine.’

‘Mrs. Harriet liked it.’

‘Sure . . . women! They like anything that moves.’

He got to his feet. ‘Whatcha want to eat for lunch, palsy? You name it, you have it.’

My stomach was churning. The thought of food made me cringe.

‘I had a fine breakfast. Nothing, thanks.’

He released a soft laugh. It sounded like someone stepping on a pair of bellows.

‘Take it easy, palsy. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll have something light fixed for you, huh?’

He moved his great body to the door, turned, smiled his rat smile and went away.

Could Larry have been murdered?

I sat there, sweating.

Something went wrong with his brakes.

No, I couldn’t believe it. I pushed the frightening thought out of my mind.

So I just sat still. I didn’t even get up to look at the paperbacks. I had this frightening thought that now I had committed myself and had accepted the first payment, I would have to do whatever these people told me to do.

He had an accident. Something wrong with his brakes. He’s dead.

I thought of Mazzo’s rat smile.

Man! I thought. What the hell have you walked into?

Can it be possible, that unless you go along with these awful people, if you don’t do just what they want you to do, you could finish up dead?

I sat there, working myself up into a monumental panic.

At 13.00, Mazzo wheeled in a trolley.

‘Take something, palsy,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a long afternoon.’ He regarded me. ‘You feeling okay?’

‘Yes, but I don’t want anything.’

‘You eat something. Get it?’ There was a sudden snarl in his soft voice. ‘You’ve work to do,’ and he stalked out.

So I ate some of the lobster soup because I was scared not to. It was so good, I finally finished it, then sat away from the trolley, fighting the inclination to throw up.

Then action began.

Mazzo came in, inspected the empty tureen, smiled at me and wheeled out the trolley. Then Harriet, minus the poodle, came in, followed by a short, fat man in a short sleeved white overall, carrying what looked like an expensive vanity box.

This man was something to see. His hair, thick and long, was dyed the color of apricots. His eyelids were tinted pale blue and his lips were shell pink. He paused as the door slid shut and gave me a half sly, half roguish smile.

‘Jerry, dear,’ Harriet said. ‘This is Charles. He knows just what to do. Do, please, be cooperative. I want to make sure you will pass as my son.’ She turned to the fat little man. ‘Charles, this is Jerry Stevens.’

‘My dear boy!’ Charles gushed, bounding forward. ‘I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to meet you. I have seen so many of your wonderful movies! What talent! The Sheriff of X Ranch! I was overwhelmed!’ He seized my hand and shook it. ‘It is my great, great pleasure to meet you!’

‘Thank you,’ I said, not believing a word of this gush.

‘Charles!’ A curt note in Harriet’s voice made him stiffen. ‘You are wasting my time!’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He gave her a cringing smile. ‘We mustn’t waste time.’

I saw tiny sweat beads on his forehead.

‘Then get on with it!’ She moved to the door. ‘Ring when you have finished.’

Both Charles and I watched her leave, then when the door slid back, I said, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Sit down, please, Mr. Stevens.’

He went to the box, opened it to display a complete make-up kit. From it he took a pair of calipers, a scratch pad and pencil.

‘I have to measure your face, Mr. Stevens. Forgive me for inconveniencing you,’ he said.

I held my head still while he took measurements, noting the results on the scratch pad.

As he was taking the measurements between my eyes, I became aware that he was whispering. Between his gush and his whispering, his conversation went like this: ‘Marvelous eyes, so full of personality. I’ve been kidnapped! Who are these people? Mr. Stevens! Your features are so regular! This dreadful woman terrifies me! I have been a prisoner for more than two months. Now allow me to measure your ears. Just turn your head to the right. Who is she? Please tell me. That’s perfect. Now the left ear.’

I realized this aged queer was in the same predicament as I was. He had been kidnapped to turn me into Harriet’s son.

‘I don’t know,’ I whispered. ‘I’m supposed to impersonate her son. I ‘ve been kidnapped too.’

Then looking beyond him as he was measuring my left ear, I saw Mazzo had come in silently. The sight of him, staring at me, scared the hell out of me.

Charles, seeing my change of expression, looked over his shoulder. I felt his fat frame tremble.

‘Ah, Mazzo!’ he exclaimed in a thin, shrill voice, ‘I have finished. All will be perfect!’

Mazzo moved into the room. On his arm, he carried clothing. He gave Charles his hungry tiger look, then he showed his rat teeth at me in a smile.

‘Put these on, palsy,’ he said.

He tossed a suit onto a chair.

‘Of course,’ Charles said. ‘The clothes.’

Aware that I was now sweating, I stood up, stripped off my clothes and put on the suit Mazzo had tossed on the chair.

This was some suit: a dark grey mohair that must have cost a bomb. It fitted me like a glove. Charles, his eyes frightened, fluttered around me, patting the suit, then he drew back.

‘The clothes will be no problem.’

Mazzo smiled at me.

‘You’re lucky. They didn’t fit the other jerk.’

I took off the suit and put on my own clothes while the two of them watched me.

My mind was darting around in sick panic, Jesus! What have I walked into? I thought. I looked at the wilting, sweating Charles who was smiling at Mazzo like a dog expecting a beating.

‘The hair,’ Charles said. ‘That needs attention. I must do that. Please sit down, Mr. Stevens.’ He went into the bathroom and returned with a towel which he draped around my shoulders.

From his box, he produced a comb and scissors. He began to snip while Mazzo prowled around the room. Between the snips, and while Mazzo was at the far end of the room, Charles breathed words, leaning forward, his lips nearly touching my ear.

‘They are paying me so much! I’m so frightened! What has happened to the other man? I put in hours of work on him.’

Then Mazzo came back and stood over us, and he remained standing over us so this frightening one-way conversation had to cease.

Finally, Charles stood back and surveyed me: his tinted lidded eyes pools of fright.

‘Yes! Perfect!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now, the limp. Mr. Stevens, please give me your right shoe.’

I took off my right shoe and gave it to him. He went to the table and sat down. From the box, he took a small screwdriver and levered off part of the heel of my shoe. Again from his box, he produced a leather wedge which he screwed to the heel.

All this took a little time. I just sat, watching him, while Mazzo stood watching me and Charles.

‘Let us see,’ Charles said. ‘Please put on the shoe and walk to the window and back.’

I put on the shoe, stood up and walked to the window. The thick wedge he had screwed to the heel of my shoe threw me slightly off balance. I found I was walking like a man with an injured leg. I limped back and stood, waiting.

‘Perfect,’ Charles said.

At this moment, the door slid back and Mrs. Harriet came in, carrying the poodle.

‘Well, Charles?’

‘The hair. Please tell me.’

Her dark blue eyes surveyed me for a long moment, then she nodded.

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘You are a great artist, Charles.’

He began to simper, then the simper turned into a grimace. I could read his fears. He was a kidnapped captive as I was.

‘And the walk?’ Harriet said.

‘That has been arranged.’ Charles gave me a pleading look. ‘May I ask you, Mr. Stevens, to walk to the window and back?’

So I limped to the shuttered window and back.

‘Please do it again, Jerry,’ Harriet said.

So I did it again.

‘Yes, it will do,’ she said. ‘Now, we are getting somewhere. Take Charles to his room, Mazzo. Charles! We must not waste time. Get working on the mask.’

‘Of course.’ He walked before Mazzo and out of the room.

Harriet sat down.

‘Now, Jerry, you have to earn the money we are paying you. So far, so good. Now you have a more difficult task. You must to able to forge my son’s signature.’

At this moment, Durant came in, carrying a briefcase.

He went to the table and sat down, zipped open the briefcase and produced a pack of tracing paper, a Parker pen, and a stack of paper which he laid on the desk.

Harriet got to her feet.

‘I will leave you with Mr. Durant. He will explain what you are required to do,’ and she left.

Durant regarded me.

‘Come here and sit down, Stevens,’ he said.

I came there and sat down opposite him at the table. I noted I was no longer ‘Mr.’.

‘This is a matter of practice, Stevens,’ he said. ‘Here is the signature you must copy and perfect. You will use tracing paper until you feel confident you can reproduce the signature without aid.’ He pushed a sheet of paper towards me on which was scrawled a signature. He then placed a sheet of tracing paper over the signature.

‘Copy it and keep copying it.’ he said. ‘You must be able to write this signature perfectly at a moment’s notice. This will, of course, take you several days. Work at it, Stevens.’ He stared at me. ‘No one gets paid one thousand dollars a day without working for it.’

He got to his feet, crossed over to the electronic door and the door snapped shut behind him.

I looked at the scrawling signature: John Merrill Ferguson.

For a long moment, I stared at the signature, scarcely believing my eyes.

John Merrill Ferguson.

If the signature had been that of Howard Hughes, I couldn’t have been more taken aback. Howard Hughes was dead, but John Merrill Ferguson, according to the newspapers, was very much alive. While waiting for telephone calls, I used to read a lot of newspapers my neighbor left for me. They contained continual references to John Merrill Ferguson who, according to the press, had taken over Howard Hughes’ mantle. The press called him the mysterious billionaire wheeler dealer who pulled strings that made politicians dance, who could, with a flick of a finger, make the stock market of the world either rise or wilt, who seemed to have a financial finger in every big deal.

I sat there, staring at the signature. Into my mind, came the frightening thought that I was being groomed to impersonate this man!

Me! A bit-part unsuccessful actor to impersonate one of the most powerful and richest men in the world!

I realized now the answer to this mystery that had been baffling me. The little old woman with her Rolls Royce: Durant reeking of money: Mazzo, possibly a killer: this room with its electronic door and luxury furnishing: the frightened Charles who had, like me, been kidnapped.

A man of John Merrill Ferguson’s power had only to give orders and what had happened to me and to Charles just happened.

I thought of Larry Edwards.

Jerks like him often have accidents. You’re smart, palsy. You won’t have an accident.

It now came to me with a frightening impact that, because Larry had refused to cooperate, he had been murdered! Knowing now who I was dealing with, suspecting some vast financial deal was being planned and that secrecy was essential, these people wouldn’t let Larry free after kidnapping him, sure he would talk.

So there had been a murderous accident.

This wasn’t going to happen to me! I would cooperate.

Man! Would I cooperate!

With a sweating, unsteady hand, I drew the tracing paper and the signature towards me and began to try, desperately, not only to earn my one thousand dollars a day, but also to keep alive.

* * *

Two hours later, I threw down the pen and stared at my last effort. The floor was littered with screwed up tracing paper. My last effort to forge John Merrill Ferguson’s signature was worse than my first.

My hand ached, my fingers were stiff, and panic made my heart pound.

I pushed back my chair and stood up. I began to pace the room. Suppose I couldn’t forge the signature? Would Durant look for someone else? Would this result in a prick of a needle and an accident skillfully arranged?

I had to succeed!

I flexed my fingers, then walked into the bathroom and ran water into the toilet basin until it ran hot. I immersed my aching hand in the water. When the water cooled, I emptied the basin and refilled it with hot water. After a while my hand became relaxed. I returned to the table and began work again.

I was still at it, an hour later, when the door slid back and Durant, followed by Mazzo, came in.

Durant looked at the mess of screwed up paper on the floor, then he came over to the table and picked up my last effort and studied it.

I watched him, my heart thudding.

Finally, he said, ‘Not bad. I see, Stevens, you intend to cooperate. For a first attempt, this is encouraging.’

I sat back in my chair, feeling a surge of relief run through me.

‘That will do for today. Tomorrow, you will try again.’ He regarded me with his hard, ruthless eyes. ‘You have three days in which to perfect the signature.’ He turned to Mazzo. ‘Clear up this mess, then attend to Stevens’ needs,’ and he left.

Mazzo found a wastepaper basket and began picking up the balls of paper. I helped him. When the room was tidy again, Mazzo smiled at me.

‘Palsy, you’re going to survive. Anyone who can please that sonofabitch is smart.’

I didn’t say anything, but I registered the fact that Mazzo had no time for Durant.

‘Well, palsy, how about a little workout in the gym?’ Mazzo asked. ‘A big guy like you doesn’t want to sit on his butt all day. Let’s go and loosen up.’

I was glad to get out of my prison and walk along the corridor to an elevator. He and I sank between floors, and when the elevator stopped, the door swung open. Mazzo led the way into a large, fully equipped gymnasium.

‘I’ve seen you on TV, palsy. You’re a good fighter,’ Mazzo said, giving me his rat smile. ‘Let’s put on the gloves, huh?’

I did consider myself a good scrapper. When playing the roles of baddies in Westerns, I had prided myself not to have a double. But, looking at this man mountain, I felt a qualm.

‘I have to be careful of my hands, Mazzo,’ I said. ‘I have this writing job.’

Again the rat smile.

‘Sure . . . sure. Nothing to it, palsy. We wear gloves. Just a little sparring. Nothing to it.’

He went to a locker and produced two pairs of sparring gloves. Seeing there was no way out, I took off my jacket and shirt while he did the same. The sight of his huge muscles alarmed me. I put on the gloves and waited until he also put on the gloves, then we faced each other.

I pranced around him, noting he was slow on his feet: a man of his size had to be slow. He pushed out his left and I shifted my head and poked him hard on his nose.

He shuffled away, and I saw surprise in his little eyes.

He sent over a left hook. It was telegraphed, and I took it on my right glove, but the force of the hook sent me back. I knew if one of his punches landed, I would be flattened. He hit like a pile driver.

We pranced politely around. I poked his head back when he came too close and he snorted. This went on for some minutes, then I saw an evil smile flicker on his lipless mouth. I felt instinctively, he was about to launch a blockbuster. I didn’t give him time to get set.

I weaved towards him, jabbing with my left in his face, throwing him off balance, then I let fly with my best right hand hook with all my weight behind it. My fist smashed on his jaw and he went down as if the bones in his legs had turned to putty. His shoulders crashed down on a wrestling mat: his eyes rolled back: he was out to the world.

I tore off the gloves and knelt beside him, lifted his shaven head, patting his cheeks.

I was scared witless that when he recovered, he would tear me apart.

It took more than ten seconds for him to come to the surface. When I saw the light of life come into his eyes, I pushed him into a sitting position, then I stood away as one might stand away from a drugged tiger, getting to its feet.

He peered at me, then he smiled: not a rat smile this time, but a wide, friendly grin.

‘That was a beaut, palsy,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘Man, can you sock!’ He offered me his hand and I dragged him to his feet. He rubbed his jaw, then burst out laughing. ‘And I was dim enough to take you for a phoney.’

I drew in a long, slow breath of relief.

‘I’m sorry, Mazzo. You had me scared. If you had caught me with one of your blockbusters, I couldn’t have worked for Mr. Durant. I had to uncork my best.’

He peeled off his gloves and again rubbed his jaw, staring at me, then he nodded his shaven head.

‘You’re right, palsy. Listen, don’t say anything about this to that sonofabitch. He would have my balls. Okay?’

‘Sure, and would you skip the palsy routine. Call me Jerry.’

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.

‘Yeah. Well, come on, Jerry, let’s have a workout.’

Although I was practically sure he was a killer and I feared him, I had a feeling that now he just might be on my side. We worked together throwing a medicine ball around and with the bars until we were both sweating.

I felt I had made a major step forward.

After we had showered and redressed, he led me back to my room.

By now, I was hungry.

‘You ask, you get,’ Mazzo said when I said it was time to eat. ‘Anything goes here.’

So I asked for chicken Maryland.

He patted me on my shoulder.

‘You like that, Jerry? Me too.’ He rubbed his jaw and widened his smile. ‘You’re going to survive.’ He tapped his vast chest. ‘I’m telling you,’ and he went away.

* * *

The next day was a replica of the previous day.

When Mazzo wheeled in the breakfast trolley, I found another credit note in my favor for one thousand dollars. This was encouraging.

Breakfast over, I sat at the table and worked on John Merrill Ferguson’s signature. I was in a more relaxed mood, and I began to feel more confident.

After an hour, I discarded the tracing paper and kept on writing the signature on ordinary paper. I was still doing this, an hour later, when the door slid back and Durant came in. He stood over me, studying my many attempts.

‘Take a fresh piece of paper and write the signature,’ he said.

I did as I was told. He took the paper and examined the signature.

‘Yes. You are doing well, Stevens. Keep at it. I want you to be as familiar with this signature as you are with your own.’ He moved away. ‘I have been making arrangements for you. I have paid your rent, and your clothes and personal effects have been packed and are here. I have seen your agent, Prentz, and have paid him the commission he asked for. I have told him you are now in Europe, working for me. You have no further ties nor debts.’ He paused to stare at me. ‘You are entirely at my disposal.’

I felt scared. There was something in his staring eyes that sent a red light flashing in my mind.

‘Continue with the signature,’ he went on. ‘Tomorrow, if I am satisfied, you will be moved from here, and you will begin the impersonation.’

‘Where do I go?’ I asked huskily.

‘You will be told later. So far, Stevens, you are proving satisfactory. Remember, you don’t ask questions,’ he said curtly and left me.

It took me some minutes before I could bring myself to begin again the dreary chore of writing the signature.

I was committed. At least, so far, I was giving satisfaction and making money.

Lunchtime arrived. Mazzo wheeled in the trolley.

The meal was a big prawn salad, decorated with slices of lobster meat.

‘Okay?’ he said, smiling at me. ‘Build yourself up, Jerry. You have work to do this afternoon.’

Two hours later, when I was still working on the signature, the door opened. Mazzo, followed by Charles, came in.

Charles was carrying his make-up box. Mazzo had a suit over his arm and a pair of shoes in his hand.

‘Mr. Stevens!’ Charles exclaimed rather breathlessly. ‘We must get to work.’ His eyes were darting with fright and there were sweat beads on his forehead. He put the make-up box on the table. From it he took what looked like an overlarge rubber surgical glove.

‘Get into these clothes, Jerry,’ Mazzo said.

It was the same suit I had put on before. I put it on.

‘Now the shoes.’

These I put on.

‘Please sit down, Mr. Stevens,’ Charles said.

Carefully, he unfolded the piece of rubber and it became a face mask. This he fitted over my face.

‘This is the thinnest latex, Mr. Stevens,’ he said. ‘It won’t be uncomfortable. It is on this base I work.’ He was molding the rubber mask to my skin. There were blank eyepieces and I could see without trouble. ‘Now the eyebrows and the moustache.’ He worked away, then finally stood back. ‘It is simple, Mr. Stevens. You will have a good supply of eyebrows and moustaches. I have three masks, in case you have an accident. You will be able to arrange this yourself without trouble.’

He took a photograph from his make-up box, studied it, then studied me. ‘Excellent. Please go to the mirror. See for yourself.’

I got to my feet, and because of the raised wedge in the heel of the shoe, I limped to the wall mirror and surveyed myself. For a long moment, I stared, feeling a cold chill run over me. This wasn’t me! The man in the mirror was a total stranger. The latex mask showed a handsome, heavily tanned face with a thin nose, a firm mouth and an aggressive jaw. The thin eyebrows and the pencil line moustache gave this image distinction. I just stood staring, and it was only when I moved that I convinced myself that the reflection in the mirror was me, and not someone else.

I became aware that Harriet and Durant had come into the room.

I turned.

‘Walk,’ Durant said.

I limped across the room, turned and limped back to the table.

‘Wonderful!’ Harriet exclaimed. ‘No one could tell them apart! Your talents, Charles, are worthy of your great reputation.’

Charles simpered.

‘Thank you. Great care must be used to fit the mask. Mr. Stevens is used to making up. There will be no problems.’ He smiled uneasily. ‘Now, my work is done. I would like to go home. I have many, many commitments.’

‘Of course,’ Harriet said. She waved to Mazzo. ‘Arrange for Mr. Charles to go to his home.’

‘Thank you, thank you.’ Charles’s face lit up with relief. ‘You can depend on my discretion. I am so glad everything is so satisfactory.’ He moved to the door, paused to give me a shy smile. ‘It has been a pleasure, Mr. Stevens. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye,’ I said, thinking he was lucky to get out of this mess, but, then, how was I to know this was his last goodbye?