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
