Mavis backed away from me coyly when I took her up to the hotel room. I guess a girl likes a little sweet romance. She said plaintively, “Don’t I even get asked?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have time for sweet romance. I wanted to teach her in a hurry who was going to be boss of our little arrangement. And what better way is there?
I pulled her to me suddenly and kissed her. In a moment, her arms slid up and her mouth became warm and eager under mine. I picked her up and carried her to the couch.
She learned fast. . . .
KISS AND KILL
Richard Deming
Copyright © 1960 by Richard Deming
CHAPTER I
I SUPPOSE that in any profession you grow with experience. I know that I did. When I think of my crude planning in the early years, and the chances I took, it makes my hair curl. Time and again I blundered past disaster by pure luck.
But you learn as you go along. Nobody’s luck holds forever, and in my business you’re allowed only one bad break. Long ago I decided the only way to avoid that eventual bad break was to eliminate chance from my planning entirely. I’ve never taken a chance since.
When Mavis was in a teasing mood, she used to call me “the careful man.”
I’m careful, all right. You have to be careful to get away with an average of three murders a year.
We sort of drifted into the business of murder. In the beginning neither Mavis nor I had any plans more serious than working bunco dodges. Maybe if we’d never met, neither of us would ever have turned to murder. But we did meet, and as a team we could hardly avoid moving into the big time. We complemented each other too beautifully to miss.
When I met Mavis six years ago, she was nearly as naïve as the typical mark.
We met at the Beverly-Wilshire, where we were both registered at the time. I was working on a well-to-do widow who was staying there. Mavis, she later told me, was merely looking for a prospect and had picked the Beverly-Wilshire as a likely place to find one.
My plans for the widow had just struck a snag. I was going to need a feminine partner to work the score, and I was sitting alone at the hotel bar mentally sorting over the women I knew in the profession. My mark, Mrs. Cora Hollingsworth, had flown up to Las Vegas for the day.
The trouble was that all the con-women I knew were used to posing as rich, sophisticated women of the world. And for this play, I needed someone to act the part of an ordinary working girl, youthful and unworldly. I doubted that any of them could swing it.
A young woman came into the bar, glanced around, and took a stool two places from mine. In a musical but rather affected voice, she said to the bartender, “A Tom Collins, please.”
Giving her a cursory glance, I saw a slim, black-haired girl of about twenty-five, with a firm, well-formed body and disturbing green eyes. By conventional standards of beauty, her face was too thin, and her small white teeth were faintly irregular. Yet there was a sensual, entirely feminine quality about her which automatically quickened my pulse. Perhaps it was the ripe fullness of her lips, or merely her sultry expression. Whatever it was, it made me give her a second look.
She wore a plain knitted dress which at first glance looked expensive. But I was practiced in judging women’s clothes, and decided it was only the attractive lines of the body beneath the dress that gave that impression. A duplicate could be bought in any department store for under thirty dollars. Her pumps and matching bag, also expensive-looking at first glance, were simulated alligator. To top it off, she wore a wristwatch which glittered with fake diamonds and a ring set with a green stone which would have been worth several thousand dollars if it had been an emerald instead of tinted glass.
Her clothes, her affected tone in ordering her drink, and the rather theatrical condescension with which she laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar tabbed her as a woman of limited means attempting to act as though she had money. It never occurred to me that she might be a fellow member of the profession, though. I pegged her as a working girl on vacation enjoying the harmless fantasy of being her favorite movie actress for a short time.
Exactly the type of girl I needed to work my score, I thought ruefully.
She covertly examined me at the same time I was looking her over. I seemed to make more of an impression on her than she did on me. Which wasn’t surprising. Even in those days, I did know how to put on a front. My suit had cost a hundred and fifty dollars and my shoes were hand-tooled leather. Everything I wore was conservative but expensive. I looked like a young, successful executive.
The girl waited until the bartender was at the far end of the bar, then produced a cigarette and called to him in the same affected voice, “May I have a light, please?”
Her eyes flicked sidewise at me as she spoke. She was waiting for me to save the barkeep the trouble of walking the length of the bar by offering a light myself. Amused, I produced my lighter and held flame to her cigarette. The bartender, halfway to her, dropped a packet of matches back into the pocket of his white coat.
“Thank you,” she said primly. “I left my gold lighter in my room.”
The adjective “gold” amused me. She was as refreshingly naïve as a small girl playing princess. If I hadn’t been in the process of working a dodge, I would have played along just for kicks. But I had too much on my mind to let myself get sidetracked by a flirtation. Finishing my drink, I gave her an impersonal smile and walked away.
At the door I looked back to see her crook her finger at the bartender. When the man came to her, she leaned forward to speak to him in a low tone. He glanced toward me, then quickly averted his eyes again when he saw me standing in the doorway watching. I continued on out, amused to know that the woman was inquiring who I was.
She would probably be impressed by what the bartender told her, I imagined. The hotel employees thought I was a vacationing executive of a New York importing firm which had branch offices all over the world.
I paused in the lobby, considering where I could go for some quiet, uninterrupted thinking. It was a sunny afternoon in late May, and the thought of spending it in my room wasn’t very attractive.
I thought of the hotel swimming pool. The outside temperature was only about seventy, warm enough to be comfortable lying in the sun, yet cool enough to assure that the pool would be relatively deserted. Deciding I could think as well lying in the sun on my back as I could in my room, I walked out to the pool and rented a pair of trunks.
When I came from the dressing room, I brought a towel, a package of cigarettes and my lighter with me. I laid them at the front edge of the pool, on the opposite side of the diving board from where the lifeguard was seated in a canvas chair, and dived in.
Except for the lifeguard and a young couple lying in the sun at the far edge of the pool, I had the place to myself. I did a few fancy dives, then stretched out on the concrete with my head on the towel to absorb some sun and think. I closed my eyes against the brightness of the sun.
A shadow touched my face, making me open my eyes. The girl I had seen in the bar, now wearing the briefest of blue bathing suits, stood over me. She must have gone up to her room to change, for it obviously wasn’t a rented suit. Apparently she had followed me from the bar into the lobby and had seen me head for the pool. She was persistent when she wanted to meet a man, I thought sourly.
She carried a towel and a bathing cap in one hand, a package of cigarettes in the other. “Could I trouble you for another light?” she asked. “I forgot my lighter again.”
This time I wasn’t amused, because I had wanted to be alone. Sitting up, I asked dryly, “The gold one?”
“Why, yes,” she said. “I only have one.”
I flicked my lighter and she stooped to get the flame. Then she dropped t
o the edge of the pool about two feet away from me and dangled her feet in the water.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Sure,” I told her a little shortly. I fished a cigarette from my pack and lighted one of my own.
“I was watching you dive,” she said. “You’re quite expert, aren’t you?”
“Run-of-the-mill. I was a summer lifeguard as a kid.”
“Oh?” she said in an interested tone. “That accounts for all those muscles. I’ve heard swimming is the best all-around exercise there is.”
She was beginning to amuse me again. The asking-for-a-light technique was about the corniest approach in the book. Now she was going into the my-what-a-big-strong-man-you-are act.
“You have nice muscles yourself,” I said.
She gave me a quick glance, blushed when she saw I was pointedly staring at her full bosom. For a flustered moment she didn’t know what to say. I didn’t help her any. I was interested to see how she handled wolf wisecracks.
She simply ignored the remark. She asked, “Do you stay here?”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“So do I. I just checked in. I’m Mavis Train.” She looked at me expectantly.
“Sam Carter,” I said. “What’s your room number?”
She looked a little startled. “What? Why, 713. Why?”
“I collect them,” I said.
“Collect what?”
“Pretty girl’s room numbers. Then when I get drunk and feel lecherous in the middle of the night, I go pound on their doors.”
She stared at me, not sure whether I was making a joke or was really a screwball.
I said, “I’m just warning you. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s dangerous to speak to strange men?”
She decided I was teasing her. “I’m not that young,” she told me. “I’m twenty-five.”
“From where?” I asked.
“What? Oh, you mean my home. Long Island.”
I nodded. “Your father has a big estate there?”
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
“Just a guess. What are you doing so far from home?”
She hesitated, then said with rehearsed reluctance, “I ran away from a wedding.”
“Oh? Whose?”
“My own, silly. My father wanted me to marry this old man. Well, not old exactly. He’s about forty-five. He’s a business associate of daddy’s.”
The words had a familiar ring. They were the prelude to one of the oldest female bunco games there is. Old, but pretty effective when a real artist pulls it. But Mavis was no artist. Her idea of how heiresses acted was derived from seeing movies. Up to now I had assumed she was merely play-acting for the thrill of it. Now I realized with a shock that she was trying to work a bunco game and had picked me as her mark.
For a few moments I was too flabbergasted to speak, A little offended too. I regarded myself as an accomplished pro, and it wasn’t very flattering to be taken for a sucker. Then the humor of the situation struck me.
“Daddy insists on the marriage, huh?” I said with a wide grin. “If you go home and behave, all will be forgiven. If you don’t, he’ll cut you off without a cent. Already you’re running low on cash, and are becoming a little desperate. You’ve about decided to give in.”
She examined me doubtfully. I was going too fast. That part of the story wasn’t supposed to come out for several days yet, when I had become fond enough of her to object to her throwing her life away on a man twenty years older than she was.
“Don’t go back home and marry him,” I advised. “Something will come up. Maybe some kind man will stake you until you can get a job and make it on your own.”
She frowned and looked a little confused.
“How much do you need?” I asked.
She stared at me for a long time. Then she said accusingly, “You’re making fun of me.”
“Me?” I said. “Make fun of a damsel in distress? You wound me. Your story tugs at my heart. I’d open my purse wide, except for one thing.”
She ground out her cigarette on the concrete and tossed it aside. Rising, she looked down at me disdainfully. “I don’t think I like you, Mr. Carter.”
“Don’t you want to know what the one thing is?” I asked.
“No.” Turning her back, she started to walk away.
“It’s that there’s very little in my purse,” I said softly. “I’m in the bunco racket too.”
She stopped and slowly turned around. Her eyes were wide as they stared down at me.
“Sit down again,” I invited. “I’ve been looking for a girl like you. Maybe we can get together in a different way than you intended.”
CHAPTER II
AFTER SILENTLY eyeing me for some time, she returned and gracefully sank to a position facing me. She looked wary.
“This your first attempt to score?” I asked.
After thinking this over, she said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then it’s your first attempt,” I told her. “What gave you the idea of pulling the runaway heiress gag?”
She continued to study me. Finally she asked, “Are you really a confidence man?”
“Uh-huh.”
“A good one?”
“Among the best,” I said modestly. “You made a fine choice for your first mark. I spotted you for a phony the minute you walked in the bar.”
She frowned. “How?”
“You ever actually know an heiress?” I countered.
She reluctantly shook her head.
“You overdid it. I didn’t know it was a bunco pitch, of course. I just thought you were putting up a front for kicks. Like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. I didn’t realize you were trying to work a dodge until a few moments ago. But your front was so obvious, it was funny.”
“You aren’t very good for my ego,” she said.
“I’m good for your welfare,” I told her dryly. “With your technique, you were headed straight for jail.”
She flushed a little. “Why are you telling me this?”
I looked her up and down. “With a little training, your technique might improve. You speak decent English. You’re young and good-looking. With the proper clothes and a lot of polish, you could pass as an heiress.”
“You mean you’d like to train me?” she asked eagerly.
“Maybe. Interested?”
“Oh, yes,” she said enthusiastically. “I never thought I’d be lucky enough to run into a real pro who could show me the ropes.”
I studied her curiously. “You’re sure you want to get into this racket?”
She gave her head a vigorous nod. “I want nice clothes, and a big car, and all the other things money can buy. I’d learn fast. I promise.”
I said, “Maybe we can help each other. As I told you, I’ve been looking for a girl like you. I need a partner for a pitch I’m working on.”
“I’ll be your partner,” she said instantly.
I smiled at her. “Without even knowing what the dodge is?”
She looked a little embarrassed. “Do I sound too eager? I guess I am. But you don’t know how scared I’ve been ever since I started this. What if I got caught, I kept wondering? 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.
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