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.
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.
