James Chase: You Can Say That Again

This mood quickly passed. Those fair weather friends weren’t worth a goddamn.

So I sat there and brooded. Then out of the blue, an idea hit me. I had to find an occupation to keep my loneliness from swamping me. Why not write a detailed story of what I had experienced since Liz Martin, Lu Prentz’s secretary, had telephoned me, telling me Lu had a job for me.

The luxury cabin would no longer be lonely. I would sit at a typewriter and write the frightening story of my impersonation of John Merrill Ferguson, the murders of Larry Edwards, Charles Duvine and Loretta, of Mrs. Harriet and her poodle, Mazzo and Durant. I would write it as a novel with changed names and with changed backgrounds. The only character I would call by his real name would be Lu Prentz. I knew he would love to be featured in a novel.

It seemed to me the story was unique. I might have a big paperback sale! I might even sell the film rights, with me playing the lead!

Writing the book as a novel, using fictionalized names, the Ferguson Corporation couldn’t object. No one would believe such a story could happen, but I would wait until my seven-year contract was up. I wasn’t going to give up one hundred thousand dollars a year. This novel would be an insurance for my old age!

I would have to write it now while all the facts were fresh in my mind.

The cabin would be the perfect place in which to write. No one would interrupt me. I would write all the morning, swim, construct the plot in the afternoon, then write again in the evening.

I started the car engine and drove along Paradise Boulevard until I spotted a cut-price store. The salesman talked me into buying a second-hand IBM electric typewriter. I bought a carton of typing ribbons and a box of typing paper.

I put my purchases in the car, then headed back to the cabin. As I drove, I realized I no longer felt lonely.

I was itching to make a start.

As I entered the cabin, I found a large, smiling black woman, dusting the living room. She told me she was Mrs. Swanson. I remembered Sonia telling me there was a cleaning woman on the beach estate.

‘If there’s anything you want cooked for dinner tonight, just tell me, Mr. Stevens,’ she said.

‘Why yes, thank you. If it’s not too much trouble,’ I said. I didn’t want to go out on my own. ‘Anything will do.’

‘I have a beautiful steak.’

‘That would be fine.’

‘Okay, Mr. Stevens, around eight o’clock, I’ll be in and whip you up a dinner.

As soon as she had gone, I got the typewriter from the Merc., plugged in and practiced with the machine.

Among the many jobs I had done while waiting for a film deal, was addressing envelopes, sending begging letters for a School for the Blind. After an hour, I got back my old speed.

With a big scotch, I went onto the veranda and began to plan the story of my impersonation of John Merrill Ferguson. On a scratch pad, I invented names.

Under each name, I invented a description, completely unlike the people I planned to write about. I invented place names.

By the time I had finished this chore, Mrs. Swanson returned and cooked me a splendid steak with all the trimmings. She said she would be in tomorrow evening with one of her specials: curried chicken. I gave her five dollars. Her wide, beaming smile showed her surprise and pleasure.

When she had gone, and after I had finished the meal, I put the dishes in the kitchen, cleared the table and began the book.

I typed non-stop until 02.00, then collected the pages, locked up and went to bed.

Just before I fell asleep, I thought of Sonia. Rather to my surprise, I found she had sunk into a background that was like one of my old movies: to be remembered, but not quite real. I felt I no longer needed her. She had her career before her: I meant nothing to her. As I settled to sleep I decided she now meant nothing to me: a moment’s infatuation.

For six days and most of the nights, I hammered out the Ferguson story. Mrs. Swanson came to clean twice a week. She prepared me a good dinner every evening. I swam in the afternoon. There was no word from the Ferguson Electronic & Oil Corporation, and there was no more feeling of loneliness. I had something to do: something that absorbed my interest, and when so occupied, loneliness, and even women, don’t exist.

Then on the sixth night, with the french windows wide open and a big moon lighting the sea, and while I was hammering away at the typewriter, I heard the sound of an approaching car.

Into my mind came a vision of Joe Durant coming to check on me. If he walked in and saw the typewriter and all the typewritten pages, he would want to know what I was doing. This he must not know!

Moving fast, I swept the pages into a drawer, then grabbed up the typewriter and rushed it into my bedroom. I shoved it under the bed. Then I moved to the bedroom door.

I heard footfalls on the veranda. I braced myself and walked into the living room.

Standing in the doorway of the french windows was John Merrill Ferguson.

He was the last person I expected to see.

‘Hello, Jerry,’ he said, and moved further into the room. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

I drew in a long, slow breath.

‘Not at all, sir. I wasn’t doing anything. Can I offer you a drink?’

‘No, thank you.’ He came to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I wanted to talk to you.’

Bewildered and uneasy, I sat opposite him.

There was a lamp on the table which I used when typing. He reached out and turned it off. That left two side lamps, making the room dimly lit.

‘Well, Jerry?’ he said. ‘How do you find life?’

What the hell is this? I thought. What was one of the richest and most powerful men in the world doing here, asking an unemployed actor how he found life? . . . I became more uneasy.

‘Life’s fine, sir,’ I said. ‘Thanks to you. I appreciate what you are doing for me.’

He nodded, moving his hands restlessly.

‘What have you been doing with yourself?’

‘Oh, things. Swimming. It’s marvelous here. Marvelous city.’

He stared at me, his eyes showing tension.

‘I want you to do something for me, Jerry.’

That came as no surprise. He wouldn’t have come here without a reason.

‘That’s fine with me, sir.’

‘You have your make-up here?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘I want you to take my place at my residence tonight.’ I was startled.

‘That’s okay, sir. Anything you say.’

‘There will be no problem. My car is outside. Put on the disguise and drive to my residence. The guards will let you in. You will go to my suite and remain there until you hear from me. No one knows that you will be impersonating me. The guards will think you are me. I have already told Jonas to serve meals in the suite and to see I am not disturbed. Do you understand.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. You are very valuable. Now, will you go and put on the disguise?’

Then something horrible and shocking happened.

John Merrill Ferguson’s right eyebrow became detached and dropped off. It fell, like an obscene caterpillar, on the table before us.

* * *

A long, explosive silence hung over the dimly lit room and a tension that only deep shock can produce. The man who I thought was John Merrill Ferguson suddenly released a soft moaning sound, then he kicked back his chair and started to his feet. He looked wildly around, like a panic stricken animal, searching to escape. Then he began a wild dash towards the open french windows.

My reaction was automatic. I thrust out my foot, caught his ankle and brought him down with a thud that shook the cabin. I came down on him, swept aside his flaying arms, pinned them with my knees, holding him helpless.