The car slowed and turned down a long, dark ramp.
At the end of the ramp was a pole which lifted and we drove into a big underground garage.
From the shadows came three men: Ferguson’s guards. They grouped around the car, silent, watchful and sinister.
Pedro got out, carrying the suitcase.
‘Let’s go, Mr. Stevens.’
I got out of the taxi and looked around. As if on cue, the three guards closed in, so I walked with Pedro to an elevator. We entered. He pressed a button. The guards stood back as the elevator raced upwards.
Pedro walked me down a long corridor, then opened a door and stood aside.
‘Take it easy, Mr. Stevens,’ he said. ‘Just sit and wait, huh?’
I walked into a luxuriously furnished waiting room, equipped with some twenty lounging chairs, tables on which were scattered a number of magazines.
‘Sit down,’ Pedro said, closing the door. He went to a lounging chair and settled himself, then reached for a copy of Penthouse.
I moved over to the big window and looked down the thirty stories onto Paradise Boulevard. People looked like ants; cars like miniature toys. Beyond, was the beach, the palm trees and the sea.
Pedro suddenly released a soft whistle.
‘This doll doesn’t even bother to keep her legs crossed,’ he muttered. ‘Boy! Could I give her a workout!’
I ignored him. My mind was racing. Every time I planned an escape I was frustrated. Suppose I now made a bolt from the room, yelling ‘Murder!’ Suppose . . .
The door opened and Sonia Malcolm stood in the doorway.
The sight of her gave me a surge of relief. Since I had been caught up in this nightmare, she had been the only normal person I had encountered, but I knew I couldn’t involve her. I couldn’t attempt to explain to her what a mess I was in. There would be no opportunity and even if there was, she would probably think I was out of my mind.
‘Mr. Stevens?’ she said, looking at me. ‘Will you, please, come this way?’
I saw her nice, serious eyes take in my shabby suit and my scuffed shoes. She must have been used to the immaculate, rich business men who came to the office, but her expression didn’t change.
I looked directly at her, but she showed no sign of recognition. Why should she? I wasn’t hiding behind John Merrill Ferguson’s facade. She only saw Jerry Stevens, the bit-part, unemployed actor.
I followed her out into the corridor.
Muttering, Pedro dropped the magazine, picked up the suitcase and walked behind me as I followed Sonia’s graceful back.
As we turned the corner in the corridor, I saw ahead of me the door leading to John Merrill Ferguson’s office suite.
Behind the door, I thought, would be Joe Durant with final papers to sign. I braced myself.
Sonia opened the door and stood aside.
‘Mr. Stevens, sir.’ She motioned me forward.
I walked into the familiar room, expecting to see Durant at the desk.
I stopped short and stared as Sonia closed the door behind me.
Instead of Durant at the desk, where I had sat a couple of days ago, was the man I was impersonating: John Merrill Ferguson!
* * *
The mind moves with the speed of light.
As I stood there, looking at the man at the desk, into my mind came a memory of a drunken, famous film star who had buttonholed me and told me he had had a frightening experience.
‘I was asleep, Jerry,’ I remembered him saying. ‘Then I suddenly woke and I saw myself standing by the bed. It was as if I had stepped out of my body, and I looked at myself, solid, not a mirror reflection, but myself. It was the most frightening, uncanny thing. Me . . . away from my body!’
I knew he was drunk, but I remembered what he had said.
Now, I was looking at a reflection in a mirror. For days, I had stared at myself, disguised as John Merrill Ferguson, telling myself I could be John Merrill Ferguson.
I then understood fully my drunken film star: I was having his experience; a frightening, uncanny thing.
John Merrill Ferguson got to his feet, came around the desk with a wide, friendly smile.
‘Mr. Stevens!’ he exclaimed, reaching me. ‘This is quite a moment, isn’t it?’ He grasped my hand and shook it with warmth. ‘You must be a little bewildered. Come and sit down. Let’s talk.’
Still holding my hand, he steered me to a chair.
‘Don’t look so worried. I have a lot to thank you for.’
The friendly voice was relaxing. ‘Sit down. Let’s have a drink.’
As I sat down, he went to the liquor cabinet.
He looked over his shoulder and grinned.
‘A bit early, but never too early for champagne.’
I just sat there, trying to get on balance while he popped the cork, poured the wine, came over, put my glass on an occasional table, then sat down, facing me.
‘You have done a marvelous job, Mr. Stevens,’ he said and raised his glass. ‘I drink to you.’
This was so unexpected, I couldn’t say a word, but, pulling myself together, I picked up my glass with an unsteady hand and we drank.
‘I didn’t think it possible that any man could impersonate me as brilliantly as you are doing.’ He put down his glass. ‘I have seen photographs of you, playing tennis, here at my desk, entering our offices. I have kept staring at them. They could be me! I’ve heard a tape recording of you talking to Walter Bern. Your voice was mine!’
He sounded so friendly and enthusiastic, I, like most actors, responded to this praise. I began to relax.
‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘I was hired to do the job, and I am glad you are satisfied.’
‘Satisfied? That’s an understatement!’ His smile widened. ‘You have saved me a lot of money, Mr. Stevens . . . to hell with calling you Mr. Stevens. Let’s be informal. Jerry and John, how’s that?’
I gaped at him.
One of the richest and one of the most powerful men in the world offering to be on Christian name terms!
Did this do something for my ego!
‘Why, yes, sir,’ I said.
He laughed.
‘Okay, I’ll give you time to relax, Jerry. You have done a fine job. It is unbelievable. You have fooled the press. You have even fooled my old butler. Without you, I couldn’t have gone to Peking and pulled off a big deal. All the sharks, including the CIA, imagined I was home.’ His face suddenly turned serious. ‘I’m talking to you in confidence, Jerry. What I am saying mustn’t go beyond these walls. Right?’
‘Yes, Mr. Ferguson.’
‘I have a proposition for you, but, first, I want to know how you feel about your future as an actor. Do you want to return to that rat race? Be frank with me. If you have an itch to go back, then tell me and I’ll understand, but if you are prepared to give it up, I have a proposition for you that will establish you with a big salary and no problems, moneywise for the future.’
My mind flashed to Lu Prentz and to the dreary days of waiting for the telephone bell to ring. I thought of returning to Hollywood, finding some tiny apartment, waiting and hoping. The thought chilled me.
‘Let me put the cards on the table, Jerry,’ Ferguson said, seeing my hesitation. ‘Again, what I say to you is in strict confidence. Your brilliant impersonation has given me ideas. I am offering you a permanent position on my staff. Whenever I want to disappear, you will take my place. You will be my personal assistant. You will have an office of your own. Simple work will be found for you. This will be a front. You will have plenty of time off. Your real job will be to impersonate me when I don’t want publicity. You will sign unimportant papers.’ He paused and grinned. ‘I couldn’t believe your marvelous forgeries were my signatures. That’s the proposition. Now for the terms. If you accept, I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars a year and provide you with living accommodation and a car. I will give you a seven-year contract with a rise of ten thousand dollars after three
