James Chase - You Can Say That Again

I made up my mind. I would try right now, and to hell with the consequences!

I went to the clothes closets. After searching, I found a track suit in dark blue and a pair of sneakers. It took me only a few moments to change into the track suit and put on the sneakers. I needed a weapon of some kind. I was determined to fight my way out if I had to.

I looked around, then went to the desk. I found a heavy, narrow silver paperweight that fitted perfectly across my knuckles. Going to the bathroom, I found a roll of elastic bandage. I bound the paperweight across my knuckles. A blow with that would stun any man.

Which way out?

I turned off the only light in the room, groped my way to the window and opened it. I looked down: a sheer drop of some fifty feet to flagstones. There was no way to climb down. I went into the bedroom and opened the window. Again there was no way to climb down.

Moving silently, I opened the living room door and peered into the long, dark corridor. There was a faint light coming up from the lobby. I crept to the head of the stairs and looked down.

A shadowy figure of a man sat in a chair by the front door. As I watched him, he gave off a faint snore. I didn’t hesitate. Moving fast, and as silently as a shadow, I went down the stairs, and moved into the main living room. The guard snored on. The room was in pitch darkness. I began to inch my way, like a blind man, my left hand advanced, making sure not to upset a lamp or an occasional table. It took me five, sweaty minutes to reach the french windows. I slid between the drapes and I could see the immaculate lawn, brightly lit by the moon. As I put my hand on the latch to open the french windows, I paused.

Was this house wired against burglars?

I spent another minute, running my fingers around the frame of the doors. I encountered a wire that told me that if I opened the door, I would set off an alarm. I should have known! It made sense that all the ground floor windows and the terrace doors would be wired.

Still determined to escape, I decide to try the first floor. Moving silently, I opened the living room door a crack and peered into the big hall. I waited and listened. I could see the shadowy form of the guard, sitting by the front door, but he no longer seemed to be asleep: at least, he wasn’t snoring. I waited. Watching the guard through the crack of the door, I saw him stand up. Then the full glare of the overhead lights came on, lighting up the hall. I could see a short, stockily built man standing, alert, looking towards the living room door, a gun in his hand. The gun didn’t bother me. I was sure he wouldn’t shoot. As I stood watching, I wondered if the front door was also wired.

Then I saw Mazzo coming down the stairs. He was wearing a green cotton dressing gown, over orange pajamas.

‘Okay, Marco,’ he said as he reached the hall. ‘I’ll handle it.’

The guard jerked his thumb to the living room door.

‘Sure,’ Mazzo said. ‘Relax.’

I put my hand out and found the light switch and turned it down. The big living room became alight and I walked away from the door and to the middle of the room.

By touching the wire around the french windows, I had set off the alarm! Hastily, I stripped away the paperweight bound to my knuckles and as I stuffed the bandage and the paperweight into my pocket, the door swung open.

Mazzo looked inquiringly at me.

‘You want something, Mr. Ferguson?’ he asked, his eyes probing.

‘I couldn’t sleep, Mazzo,’ I said. ‘I was just taking a look around.’

He grinned.

‘Looks like you were planning to take some exercise, Mr. Ferguson,’ he said, eyeing my track suit. ‘Not right now. Tomorrow, huh?’

‘Okay, Mazzo,’ I said. ‘Then tomorrow.’

He nodded and stood aside.

‘Bed now, huh? If you can’t sleep, I can fix you with a pill. I can fix you with most things, Mr. Ferguson.’

I gave up. With the guard in the hall, with Mazzo, feeling sure the front door was wired, there was no point in making a desperate attempt to escape. At least, I had learned something. I was not going to escape from this house the easy way.

‘I’ll sleep now,’ I said, and walked by him and up the stairs, ignoring the guard who was staring at me, and to my rooms.

Mazzo joined me in the living room.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demanded when he had closed the door. ‘You think you can get out of here? Every goddamn exit is fixed! Even I can’t get out of here at night!’

I gave him a rueful grin.

‘It was worth a try.’

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he demanded. ‘You’re being well paid. Why do you want to get out of here?’

I stared at him.

Was he that moronic?

‘Okay, Mazzo, go to bed. Sorry I got you up,’ and I walked into the bedroom.

I heard the living room door shut. I waited a long moment, then went to the door and gently turned the handle.

The door was locked from the outside.

* * *

Mazzo brought in the breakfast trolley around 09.15.

I had slept a couple of hours, but before dozing off, I had done a lot of thinking. Time was running out. It was more than possible I would not be able to escape. If the security was this tight, I couldn’t see how I could.

Suppose Loretta persuaded Mazzo to murder Mrs. Harriet? With a woman like her, anything was possible: I had to warn Mrs. Harriet! I had to tell her Loretta was not married to her son, that she was trying to persuade me to forge a marriage certificate and a will. I had to warn the old lady against Mazzo.

So what would happen to me when I told Mrs. Harriet about Loretta? I still had a trump card: I could refuse to sign any further documents. Then, tossing and turning in the darkness, I thought of Durant. He was ruthless. Could he force me to sign these final papers? Force me? I remembered my father who had served in the second world war, telling me how agents had been tortured, and even some of the bravest of them had been broken. Thinking of Durant, I felt he would do anything, except kill me, to get me to forge the final documents. Was my trump card such a trump card? Finally I slept and woke when Mazzo wheeled in the trolley.

‘Feeling low, Mr. Ferguson?’ he said. ‘Nothing like a tomato juice laced with Vodka to cheer you up.’

‘Just coffee, Mazzo,’ I said.

‘You want a run around the estate, Mr. Ferguson?’ he was grinning.

‘No. Tell Mrs. Harriet I want to talk to her.’

His small eyes shifted.

‘What do you want with her?’ There was a rasp in his voice.

‘Tell her!’ I rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom.

After a quick shower and a shave, I returned to find him gone.

I drank coffee, ignored the dish of scrambled eggs, lit a cigarette, then dressed.

By then it was approaching 10.00. I went into the living room to find Mazzo, sitting, staring into space.

‘Did you speak to Mrs. Harriet?’ I asked.

‘Too early for her.’ He pointed to one of the telephones on the desk. ‘That one works. Go ahead and call your bank.’

I had the Chase National bank’s telephone number on the credit slip. I sat at the desk, lifted the receiver and dialed. While I waited for the connection, thoughts ran through my mind. Should I tell them to alert the police? Should I yell for help? Those thoughts were dispelled as Mazzo got up and came over to stand close to me.

‘Careful, Mr. Ferguson. Just business, huh?’

When a girl answered, I said. ‘I want to check if Mr. Jerry Stevens has an account with you.’

‘A moment, please.’

A man came on the line.

‘This is Mr. Jerry Stevens,’ I said. ‘Tell me: has there been an account opened in my name, and has the sum of seven thousand dollars been credited to the account?’