You Can Say That Again

As I sat there, I suddenly heard a faint sound: a click of metal. In this silence, the sound made a tiny explosion in the room.

I reacted: starting to my feet, I stood motionless, listening. Then I knew what the sound was. I went quickly to the door and turned the handle.

The door was locked.

Someone had turned the key!

I stared at the door, my heart thumping, panic gripping me. What was going on? Why lock me in?

Then the silence was split by a woman’s scream.

The sound practically curdled my blood: the terror in the scream made me take quick paces away from the door and set my heart racing.

There was a brief moment of silence, then I heard a scuffling sound, then a thud that seemed to shake the house: the sound a body makes when falling from a height and landing sickeningly on the ground below.

I waited, my face and hands clammy, while I listened.

Then came voices: men’s voices.

I went to the door and pressed my ear against the panel.

I heard Mazzo’s voice.

‘Keep back. Don’t touch her.’

A man said something I couldn’t hear.

‘Get Dr. Weissman,’ Mazzo barked.

Then I knew a woman had died.

Mrs. Harriet? Loretta?

I heard Mrs. Harriet’s poodle yapping.

That scream of terror, then the thud of a falling body! It was murder!

There was a sudden buzz of voices, then I heard Mrs. Harriet’s distinct, calm voice, but it was not loud enough for me to hear what she was saying.

Loretta!

They could murder me, Jerry! They could murder you!

Less than two hours ago, she had said that to me: now they had done it!

My legs unsteady, I went to a chair and sat down.

Faintly from below, I could hear voices. The poodle’s yapping had stopped.

After some minutes, there was a click as the lock of my door turned, and the door opened.

Mrs. Harriet stood in the doorway, looking at me.

She was wearing a black silk robe over a white nightdress.

She held the poodle in her arms.

‘Jerry, dear,’ she said as she came in and shut the door. ‘I am so glad you haven’t gone to bed. There has been a most unfortunate accident.’ Her face was completely without expression, but her little dark eyes were glittering. ‘Did you hear? Poor, dear Etta! She was sleepwalking. She fell down the stairs.’ She came and sat near me. ‘When she gets mentally disturbed, she always walks in her sleep.’

I stared at this ghastly old woman. I said nothing.

‘She broke her poor neck,’ Mrs. Harriet went on, fondling the poodle’s ears. ‘My son will be so upset. He loved her so much.’

Bile filled my mouth. I got to my feet, ran into the bathroom and threw up. It took me several minutes to put myself together.

They could murder you too!

I returned slowly to the living room.

‘Poor Jerry!’ Mrs. Harriet said quietly. ‘You artists are so sensitive. Here, drink this,’ and she thrust a glass half full of Scotch into my shaking hand.

I drank.

‘That’s better.’ She patted my arm. ‘Now, Jerry, you have to help. Dr. Weissman is coming. He will have to call the police.’

I went over to the chair and sat down.

‘Jerry!’ The snap in her voice made me stiffen. ‘You are here to help! Stop acting like a child! Do you hear me?’

They could murder you too!

I finished the Scotch and took hold of myself.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked, not looking at her.

‘John is thought to be here. He will be away for at least a week. I am not going to tell him what has happened until he returns. He would come rushing back. The business he is conducting is of vital importance. You must take his place. Are you listening?’

‘Yes.’

‘Put on the disguise. I will tell Dr. Weissman you are in shock, but the police may want to speak to you. I will see they don’t worry you. Understand this: you will tell them that Etta very occasionally walked in her sleep. That’s all you need say if they question you, but I don’t think they will. John has always looked after the police. There will be an inquest, but you won’t be called. John has always looked after the coroner. You will have to attend the funeral. It will be strictly private. Now, go and put on the disguise!’

I had no choice. I was scared witless of this old woman. I was sure she had ordered Loretta’s murder as she had ordered the murders of Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine.

In the bathroom, with shaking hands, I put on the mask and completed the disguise.

When the police came, would this be my chance to get away from this nightmare? Should I tear off the mask and tell them the truth.

I thought of John Merrill Ferguson’s warm smile. You are too valuable to lose.

I thought of my seven year contract. I thought of those awful days when I sat by the telephone, waiting and waiting, practically starving.

This dreadful old woman would return to Frisco when the funeral was over, and I would be rid of her.

I thought of the luxury cabin which had been given to me for my new home. I thought of Sonia. This wasn’t my business, I told myself. My business was to earn the money John Merrill Ferguson was paying me.

Maybe the scotch gave me courage. As I adjusted my disguise, I decided, I would remain a member of the Ferguson staff.

* * *

The saying that money is power is an accepted cliche.

In the movie world, I had heard it often enough, but as I never had enough money, the cliche meant little to me.

But, this night, I witnessed the cliche come true with a devastating impact.

Wearing the mask, and dressed in the dark mohair suit, I went out onto the terrace, overlooking the front entrance of the residence.

Floodlights now lit the garden, the lawns and the distant iron gates, guarding the entrance to the estate.

Some ten men stood at the gates in a semi-circle: the tough, squat guards. As I watched, a glittering Caddy drove up to the gates, paused, then the gates were opened and the Caddy drove to the front doors.

I guessed Dr. Weissman had arrived.

I moved quickly from the living room and peered over the banisters.

The lights were on in the hall. Lying on the floor, at the foot of the stairs, still wearing the pale blue silk wrap, her feet and legs bare, was the body of Loretta Merrill Ferguson. By her side, his face expressionless, stood Mazzo.

I looked down on his shaven head.

A karate chop?

She had probably seen him, creeping up on her. She had screamed. Then the chopping blow at the back of her neck: her lifeless body crashing down the stairs.