James Chase: You Can Say That Again

‘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 cliché.

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

But, this night, I witnessed the cliché 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.

A tall, fat, imposing looking man with thick white hair was talking to Mrs. Harriet. They spoke in undertones. I could see him clearly. A heavy face with jowls of good eating, dressed in a dark immaculate suit, he exuded authority and arrogant confidence.

Obviously, Dr. Weissman.

He moved to kneel by Loretta, touching her gently, turning her head slightly, lifting an eyelid. Then he stood up.

‘There is nothing to be done, Mrs. Ferguson. The poor lady is dead,’ he said in a rich baritone. ‘Leave this to me. We mustn’t move her. I will telephone Chief of Police Terrell.’

‘I think, dear doctor, we should have a little talk first,’ Mrs. Harriet said. ‘It won’t take long.’ She put her old hand firmly on his arm and drew him into the living room and closed the door.

I rested my arms on the banister rail and waited.

Mazzo began to prowl around the hall. I could see by the expression on his face, he was uneasy.

Ten minutes crawled by, then the living room door opened, and Mrs. Harriet and Dr. Weissman emerged.

‘My son is stricken, doctor,’ Mrs. Harriet said. ‘I don’t want him to be disturbed.’

‘Of course not. Should I see him? Perhaps I could give him a tranquillizer?’

‘He needs to be alone.’

‘I quite understand. Now, Mrs. Ferguson, please go to your room and lie down. Leave everything to me. If it is necessary, I will call you.’

‘I rely on you, doctor.’ She patted his arm. This terrible old woman was good at arm patting. ‘I will be available if you need me.’

As she turned to mount the stairs, I moved quickly back into my living room and shut the door. Then I went out onto the balcony.

The police arrived in two cars within ten minutes.

They were followed by an ambulance.

Dr. Weissman had certainly got action.

I watched two plainclothes detectives and a uniformed sergeant mount the steps.

I went to the living room door and opened it a crack.

Mrs. Harriet was standing where I had been standing, watching in the darkness, her old arms resting on the banister rail.

I heard voices. Dr.’s fruity voice was predominant, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.

The whole charade was over in less than twenty minutes.

As I stood, peering through the crack of the door, I wondered how much Mrs. Harriet was going to pay Dr. Weissman.

My immediate impression of him was that he was a man who could be bought, always providing the sum was big enough.

I watched Mrs. Harriet leave the banister rail and walk slowly down the stairs. I moved out of my living room and took her place.

Below were the two detectives. The Sergeant stood by the door. Dt. Weissman dominated the scene.

Mrs. Harriet reached the bottom of the stairs.

‘I’m sorry, Madame, to have to ask you questions at this time,’ one of the detectives said.

‘Of course, of course.’ Mrs. Harriet dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘You must understand that my son knows nothing about this. He mustn’t be disturbed. He is in shock as Dr. Weissman will tell you.’

‘That’s okay, Madame,’ the detective said and moved towards the living room door. Harriet followed him with Dr. Weissman.

Two ambulance men entered. They whisked Loretta’s body onto a stretcher, covered it with a sheet and carried it out.

The other detective talked softly to Mazzo who kept shrugging his ape-like shoulders.

I returned to the living room and sat down. I sat there, holding my head in my hands, too sick even to think.

The slamming of car doors, the sound of engines being revved up brought me upright. I went onto the balcony to see the police cars, following the ambulance, drive away.

As simple and as easy as that! The power of money!

I returned to the living room as my door opened and Mrs. Harriet came in. She shut the door and stood looking at me.

‘Dear Jerry, it has all been arranged. You are not needed.’ A tiny smile of triumph moved on her old lips. ‘Go to bed. Take a sleeping pill, and remember, for poor Etta, it is a merciful release.’ As she turned to the door, she paused, ‘You will not have to attend the inquest, Jerry. Dr. Weissman will arrange everything: such a dear, helpful man. You will, of course, have to attend the cremation, but no one will worry you. Good night.’

She waved her fingers at me and left.

The next six days dragged by like six years.

Mazzo brought my meals. He said nothing and I had nothing to say to him. I spent hours on the balcony, reading paperbacks. In the evenings, I watched TV I slept with the aid of pills. I tried to comfort myself that I was Ferguson’s hired man at one hundred thousand dollars a year.

But there were too many times when I thought of that scream and that thud; when I thought of Loretta’s despairing eyes and remembered what she had said: For God’s sake, Jerry, don’t believe what that old bitch tells you. Don’t believe what Durant tells you. Believe me ! I also thought of the man pacing up and down in the room with the barred windows.