Kiss and Kill. Richard Deming
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I wished I had someone to work with, just for moral support. But all my friends are honest. They’d be horrified if they knew what I planned to do when I left for California. They all think I’m trying to get into the movies. I don’t care what the job is. I’ll do it.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “First I need answers to some questions.”
“What questions?”
“To begin with, this is your first try, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“You have a record anywhere for anything else?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never tried anything else illegal.”
“What made you decide to be a bunco artist?” I asked curiously.
She flushed again. In a low voice she said, “I got tired of working in a dime store. One night I saw this movie about an heiress running away from an arranged marriage. She met this fellow who was poor but honest. He didn’t know she was an heiress. He helped her out because she was broke, and they fell in love. Then he discovered she was rich and it made him mad and he wouldn’t have any more to do with her. He had principles, you see. But in the end he came around and decided he loved her in spite of her money, and her father came around too, and practically begged the hero to marry his daughter, and it all ended happily.”
Fascinated, I said, “And that gave you the idea of becoming a con-woman?”
“Not right away. I daydreamed a little about being an heiress in disguise. Only I’d meet a rich man who was incognito too, and neither of us would discover the other was rich until after we were in love. Then I got to thinking, what if I went somewhere and just pretended to be an heiress? In the movie this poor boy spent half of the little he had to help the girl out. Why couldn’t I find a rich man who would be willing to come to a runaway heiress’s aid? I kept daydreaming about it until finally the plan was all formed. So finally I decided to try it.”
I grinned at her. “You should have written the plot down instead, and added a romantic ending. Maybe you could sell it to some women’s magazine.”
She said petulantly, “You’re making fun of me again.”
“Just trying to find out what makes you tick,” I assured her. “Where are you from?”
She was from Chicago, she told me. She had a high-school education, plus a six-month business course. Her parents were dead. She had been working in the office of a dime store as a combination cashier, bookkeeper and file clerk. She had five hundred dollars in savings when she got her great idea. Transportation to California and some new clothing had made a considerable dent in this stake. When she checked into the Beverly-Wilshire that afternoon, she had a hundred and fifty left.
“At least one part of my act was real,” she said. “I’m almost out of money.”
Then she wanted to know about me. I told her I was thirty years old, had a year of college at Iowa State and was a Korean War vet. I said I was single and admitted I’d never held a job of any sort, except in the army, for more than three months. I told her I’d been a bunco artist ever since I got out of service, but discreetly didn’t mention any of the jobs I’d pulled.
“Ever been caught?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve had a few narrow squeaks. I’m not wanted anywhere.”
“You think I’d make a good partner?”
I looked her up and down again. “I’m willing to try you out. With no future commitments. If this pitch works, we’ll discuss the future later.”
She accepted this gratefully. Her attitude was a little like that of a girl applying for a job and hoping she was making the right impression. She didn’t even ask what her split would be.
She did finally get around to asking what the job was, though.
“The mark is an elderly widow named Mrs. Cora Hollingsworth,” I told her. “She’s staying here at the hotel. Her weakness is championing underdogs, and she’s also an incurable romantic about young love. She’s past the age where romance interests her personally. I’ve told her a sad story about a young stenographer who works in my office back in New York, and whose husband is one of the G.I. prisoners still interned by the Chinese Reds. Out of sympathy I’ve been pressuring the State Department to do something about getting him released. But all I get is excuses. Using my international business connections, I’ve learned that a little bribery among the officials of his prison camp could get him spirited into India. The Red officials want ten thousand dollars.”
“Ten thousand!” Mavis said, starry-eyed. Then she looked puzzled. “You’re supposed to be rich. Doesn’t she wonder why you don’t put up the money?”
“I’m a hard-headed businessman,” I explained. “I’ll exert what influence I can to help the girl get back her husband. But why should I donate ten thousand bucks to an employee I only know casually? I’m sympathetic, but not that generous. I haven’t suggested that she pay the freight either, of course. I merely told her the story as a bit of human interest, and let it work on her sentiments.”
“You think she’ll come across?”
I shrugged. “She’s outraged at the injustice of it all. She wants the girl’s address, so she can look her up the next time she gets to New York. She hasn’t suggested handing me any money, but I think she’d give it to the girl if she listened to the story again from her. I’ve been stalling her with the story that I think the girl’s vacation is coming up, and I remember her mentioning something about visiting an aunt out here. I’m supposed to have written my secretary to find out. Meantime I’ve been looking around for a woman to play the stenographer’s role.”
“I could do it,” Mavis said eagerly. “I even know shorthand and typing.”
“The first thing to do is get you out of the hotel,” I told her. “Mrs. Hollingsworth flew to Las Vegas today, but she’ll probably be back late tonight. And it wouldn’t do for her to see you just yet. Suppose you go up and pack and check out. I’ll meet you in the lobby in a half-hour. I’ll drive you to another hotel, and after you’re settled, we can discuss the rest of the plan.”
Before driving Mavis to another hotel, I took her to a pawnshop in downtown Los Angeles and bought her a plain wedding band and an engagement ring set with a small chip diamond.
“This is all the jewelry I want you to wear,” I told her. “Ditch that gawdy watch and fake emerald.”
I registered her at the Sheraton. The rest of the afternoon and late into the evening we sat in her room while I drilled into her what she was to say and how she was to act when she met Mrs. Hollings worth.
“Just be natural,” I told her. “You’re supposed to be a working girl. You are a working girl, or at least you were until recently, so the part doesn’t call for any theatrical ability. For God’s sake don’t try to act. You haven’t any talent.”
“All right,” she said in a wounded voice.
“Your name is Mary Applebee,” I said. “Your husband’s name is John Emery Applebee. He’s twenty-six years old and, in civilian life, drives a bakery truck. You were married on April fourteenth, 1951, just before he left for Korea. He was a corporal in the 101st Infantry. The telegram informing you he was missing in action arrived on your first anniversary, April fourteenth, 1952. Later you got word that he was a POW. Got all that?”
“I think so,” she said.
I made her repeat it over and over until it was memorized. I added further details of her background and her husband’s and made her memorize them too. I covered every possible thing I thought Mrs. Hollingsworth might ask about.
“Don’t volunteer any of this,” I told her. “I don’t want you reeling off data like a parrot. You’re supposed to be shy. Just answer what she asks. If she throws a curve