I slid the bolt home, then went into the bathroom and carefully removed the mask. Laying it down, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.
Did I look a wreck! This was Jerry Stevens, a washed-up, bit-part actor scared witless, white faced, sweat beads, a mouth that twitched. Very far from the last time I had seen myself in a mirror: the confident, powerful John Merrill Ferguson who I had asked myself what he had got that I hadn’t got.
I washed my face and hands, then returned to the cabin. I drank nearly all the brandy, then sat on the bed, trying to steady my shaking hands. I finished the brandy and set down the glass before I dropped it. After a few minutes, the brandy began to bite and my heart beat began to return to normal. I lit a cigarette.
I thought about Charles Duvine. Maybe two thugs or even Mazzo had been waiting on the penthouse terrace: a prick of a needle and away into space.
I shuddered.
This could happen to you. This will happen to you when Durant has no further use of you. Well, at least, you know what to expect.
Durant said I was to impersonate Ferguson for a month, possibly longer. That must mean I was safe for at least thirty days, and during those thirty days, I had to find a way out of this nightmare.
I began to get over my scare.
Thirty days!
A lot could happen in thirty days. I was forewarned.
There must come a moment when I could escape. I would go to the police. They would give me protection. I had ample proof. I’d show them the mask. I would get them to check the Chase National Bank that all this money had been paid to me. I would get Lu Prentz to tell them that Durant had hired me.
I began to relax. Maybe the two big brandies now gave me confidence.
Then I heard a slight sound that set my heart thumping again. Looking at the door of the cabin, I saw the door handle turn, but the bolt stopped the door opening.
I began to sweat again.
‘You okay, Mr. Ferguson?’ Mazzo whispered through the door panel.
The brandy made me exclaim, ‘Piss off! I’m trying to sleep.’
‘Okay, Mr. Ferguson.’
I sat like a stone man, watching the door handle. It moved up and down for a moment or two, then came to rest.
Sitting there on the bed, staring at the door, I understood the feelings of a trapped rabbit.
* * *
I was awakened by a gentle tapping on the door.
‘Mr. Ferguson, please. We will be landing in one hour.’
‘Thank you,’ I said and looked at my watch. The time was 23.30.
I didn’t remember falling asleep. I did remember lying on the bed while I wrestled with my fears. The brandy must have had a lot of authority.
I stripped off, showered and shaved, regarding my pale face in the mirror. Then I spent time putting on the mask, the eyebrows and the moustache.
Stepping back, I surveyed myself in the mirror. John Merrill Ferguson stared back at me, and at the sight of him, I began to lose my fears.
No one was going to murder John Merrill Ferguson!
He could have people like Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine murdered, but he was too powerful for anyone to murder him.
This childish reasoning helped to restore my confidence.
As I dressed I assured myself that I could handle this situation as long as I remained behind the protection of John Merrill Ferguson’s mask.
I opened the door and walked into the main cabin.
Durant sat at the desk, still reading papers. Mazzo was drinking coffee.
‘Still at it, Joe,’ I said in a hearty voice, and I gave him a slap on his shoulder. ‘You work too hard.’
Not looking to see his reaction, I crossed to the lounging chair and sat down, aware Mazzo was gaping at me.
Phoebe came to my side.
‘Coffee, Mr. Ferguson?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
By the time I had finished a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette, the aircraft was circling Miami airport.
Durant came over to me.
‘We fly directly to the residence by helicopter,’ he said. ‘There will be the press again, but they won’t be allowed to get near you. You will be escorted to the helicopter.’ He paused to give me a glowering stare. ‘I don’t want any theatrics from you . . . understand?’
‘Sure, Joe!’ I said. ‘Anything you say.’
By the slight flush that came to his hard face, I could see he hated me calling him Joe, but he knew he was stuck with it.
Phoebe, now wearing her pillbox hat, came in to ask us to fasten our safety belts as we were about to land. Five minutes later, we landed at an obscure corner of the Miami airfield.
There was a wait. Looking out of one of the windows, I saw the fifteen tough bodyguards had descended, and had made a menacing circle at the foot of the stairway.
In the distance, under a blaze of lights and held back by a barrier was a crowd of reporters and camera men.
Again, I experienced this tremendous excitement: these men were waiting to see me: to try to have a word with me: John Merrill Ferguson.
Again, I heard the exciting baying of the press. Their shouts were Wagnerian music in my ears.
The fifteen bodyguards closed in on me, forming a wedge. I was hurried to the waiting helicopter. I was tempted to pause and wave to the press, but I was hurried on. I was practically lifted into the helicopter with Durant, following me. The door slammed shut.
The pilot turned in his seat.
‘Hi, Mr. Ferguson,’ he said with a wide respectful smile.
Mazzo, sitting behind me, murmured, ‘Lacey.’
‘Hi, there, Lacey,’ I said in a hail-fellow-well-met voice. ‘Good to see you.’
Obviously, this was the wrong thing to have said for the pilot’s eyes bugged in surprise, but I couldn’t care. I was up in the clouds with the immortals again. The fans began to revolve and the chopper took off.
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ Durant snarled under his breath.
‘Sure, Joe,’ I said. ‘No problem.’
I was looking down at the crowd of press men, the photographers and the TV cameras outlined in the floodlights. I watched them drop out of sight.
It took some twenty minutes before I had my first sight of Paradise City: and what a city! In the brilliant light of the moon, I could see the beaches, still crowded at nearly midnight with people swimming, the palm trees, the wide boulevards packed with cars, the luxe high-rises: a picture of opulent wealth.
Flying over the big, luxury villas set in acres of gardens, the helicopter crossed a broad expanse of water, littered with motor cruisers and yachts to what looked like an island. I was to learn later this was Paradise Largo where the super-rich lived. Skirting the trees, I saw John Merrill Ferguson’s home: a baronial style house you only saw in 1959 movies: a huge, imposing structure, surrounded by lawns and flowerbeds, bursting with color.
The helicopter settled on the lawn.
I couldn’t resist saying to the pilot as I followed Mazzo, ‘Thanks for the trip, Lacey.’
‘My pleasure, Mr. Ferguson,’ he returned, his voice startled.
Waiting, was an electric golf cart. Durant, looking like the wrath of God, waved me to the front seat and climbed into the back. Mazzo slid under the driving wheel, and we set off towards the house.
Was I getting a bang out of this!
‘Listen to me, Stevens,’ Durant said, leaning forward and tapping me on my shoulder. ‘I told you to keep your goddamn mouth shut. Mr. Ferguson never speaks to his staff.’
‘Sorry, Joe. I’ll know next time. Anything you say.’
We pulled up outside the front entrance of the house.
All the terrace lights were on. Double doors stood open. We got out of the cart, and led by Mazzo, I climbed the twenty marble steps, paused to look along the big terrace, set with lounging chairs and tables, and boxed in with banks of multi-colored begonias.