Kiss and Kill

by Richard Deming

  “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 by coming up with something we haven’t covered, can you ad lib?”

  “Oh, yes,” she assured me.

  “Does your husband have any brothers or sisters?” I shot at her.

  “An older brother named Walter,” she said instantly. “He’s in the Navy.”

  I nodded. “I guess you’ll do. Now once more. Go over the whole thing.”

  She was letter perfect by the time I left. I told her to stick close to her room the next day, so that I could reach her by phone.

  When I got back to the Beverly-Wilshire, I checked at the desk and learned that Mrs. Hollingsworth hadn’t yet gotten back from Las Vegas. But apparently she got in late that night. At any rate she was in the coffee shop for breakfast at her usual time the next morning.

  I paused at her table to ask, “Break the bank at Las Vegas?”

  Looking up, she said, “Oh, good morning, Mr. Carter. No. I lost my usual fifty dollars and quit. I’ve never won yet. Will you join me?”

  Cora Hollingsworth was a plump, good-natured woman in her late sixties with snow-white hair and a smooth, serene face. She had such regular habits, I knew exactly when to enter the coffee shop or dining room in order to “accidentally” meet her. We had become pretty friendly, but I had deliberately kept our relationship on a casual, tourist-acquaintance basis. I never attempted to see her except at mealtime, and even then I usually arranged to sit with her not more than one meal a day. The pitch I was working didn’t require building a close association. I was banking on her sympathy for the young Applebees to put her in the mood for parting with ten thousand dollars. Beyond implanting in her mind that I was in a position to make proper arrangements for disbursing the ten thousand and getting young John Applebee freed, I made no attempt to impress her.

  Pulling out a chair, I sat across from her and picked up a menu. Until I had ordered and my breakfast had been served, I listened to her account of her Las Vegas adventures.

  When she finally ran out of stories, I said as though I had just thought of it, “By the way, I got a wire from my secretary last night. Mary Applebee is flying into Los Angeles this evening. She’s been instructed to phone me here.”

  “Oh?” Mrs. Hollingsworth said with immediate interest. “Can I meet her?”

  “I suppose I can arrange it. I understand she plans to spend the night in L.A., then take a bus to her aunt’s tomorrow. Her aunt lives somewhere in the San Fernando Valley.” Then I said a little diffidently, “We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well, Mrs. Hollingsworth. May I speak frankly about something that’s been on my mind?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “You’ve gotten yourself all worked up about this girl without even knowing her. It’s an unfortunate situation, but it really isn’t either your problem or mine. Don’t go overboard.”

  “Why, what do you mean, Mr. Carter?”

  “I suspect you’re thinking of picking up the tab for these Commie blackmailers,” I said bluntly. “It’s a generous thought, but not a very wise one. Forget it.”

  I figured this was safe. Cora Hollingsworth was one of those people who tend to be ashamed of generous impulses, but whose resolve is only strengthened by common-sense advice against them. Her reaction convinced me it had been a shrewd move.

  Coloring slightly, she protested, “Why the thought never entered my head, Mr. Carter. I’m just interested in meeting the girl.”

  CHAPTER III

 
; MRS. HOLLINGSWORTH was so enthused about seeing Mary Applebee that she insisted on meeting the plane. This was a complication that wasn’t very difficult to work out. I phoned Mavis to get out to the International Airport in advance with her bags and post herself near the proper gate. When she heard the announcement that the plane she was supposed to be on had come in, she could mingle with the passengers as they came out the gate, so that it would appear that she had been on it.

  “Be surprised to see me,” I cautioned her. “You’re not supposed to know I’m meeting you.”

  Everything went smoothly. The plane came in on time at 5:35 P.M. Mavis was properly surprised to see me. Cora Hollingsworth was obviously charmed by her fresh, innocent appearance.

  Following the instructions I had given her over the phone, Mavis said her plans were to stay overnight in Los Angeles, as she couldn’t get a bus out to her aunt’s until the next day. To avoid the possibility of Mrs. Hollingsworth insisting she stay at the Beverly-Wilshire, where the desk clerk knew Mavis by her real name, I had told Mavis to say she had a reservation at a small, moderately-priced hotel in downtown Los Angeles.

  I took both women to the Statler, which is also in downtown Los Angeles, for dinner.

  Mavis put on a superb performance by simply being herself. She seemed awed by the unexpected attention that she, a mere stenographer, was getting from one of the top executives of her company. She was equally awed by the Statler dining room, its head waiter and by the prices on the menu. She respectfully addressed me as “sir.” I was afraid she was going to overdo it by calling Mrs. Hollingsworth “ma’am,” but she showed surprising discrimination now that she wasn’t trying to be an heiress. Mrs. Hollingsworth was too maternal a type to awe anyone, and Mavis seemed to sense that with her it would be out of place not to be at ease. She struck exactly the right note by being respectful and just a little shy.

  Her responses to Mrs. Hollingsworth’s questions about her husband were flawless, too. She even amazed me by coming through when Mrs. Hollingsworth threw her a curve I hadn’t anticipated.

  It was as we were having coffee. Mrs. Hollingsworth had plied Mavis with sympathetic questions all during the meal. Now, all of a sudden, she asked, “Do you have a picture of your husband, Mary?”

  My heart sank. It would be completely out of character for a woman as concerned over her imprisoned husband as Mary Applebee was supposed to be not to carry a picture of him. But I’d never thought of it. It was one of those vital minor details which can wreck the best-laid plans.

  Mavis came through after only the barest hesitation. Opening her simulated alligator bag she drew out a wallet. From the wallet she produced a small portrait photograph of a good-looking young man about her own age.

  “It’s three years old,” she said apologetically as she handed it over. “It’s been that long since we’ve seen each other.”

  Probably an ex-boyfriend, I thought with relief. It was fast thinking to remember it was in her wallet. I was proud of her.

  “My, he’s a nice-looking boy,” Mrs. Hollingsworth said. “I don’t blame you for wanting him back.” She handed back the photograph. “Mr. Carter tells me a ten-thousand-dollar bribe would free him.”

  Mavis nodded and carefully tucked the photo away. “I save every cent I can. I wouldn’t even have come down here if my aunt hadn’t mailed me the ticket. But it will take years to save that much. About ten more, I figure.” There was nothing forlorn in her voice. It contained a note of desperate determination.

  Mrs. Hollingsworth stared at her thoughtfully. Then she glanced at me, cleared her throat and turned back to Mavis again. “I have a little money, dear. And I give heavily to charities all the time. There’s no reason I couldn’t do some personal charity work for a change.”

  Frowning at her, I gave my head a slight shake.

  “You mind your business, Mr. Carter,” she told me with spirit. “It’s my money, and I’ll do what I please with it.” She returned to Mavis. “My dear, I’m going to put up the money to get your husband freed from that awful place.”

  Mavis’s face turned radiant. “Honest? Oh, if you would, I’d thank you forever!”

  I said reprovingly, “Mrs. Hollingsworth, I thought we agreed that this isn’t your problem.”

  She gave me a haughty look. “It’s certainly my money. Are you going to try to discourage me right in front of the child? She’ll certainly think highly of you if you try to block the freeing of her husband.”

  “That’s not fair,” I protested. “Naturally I’d like to see Mary happy. I feel a certain responsibility here because I was the one who told you about her problem. I’m merely trying to protect your interests.”

  Deciding she had me on the defensive, Mrs. Hollingsworth followed up her advantage. “You should be protecting Mary’s interests instead. She’s an employee of yours, and I’m not. A thoughtful boss would put her welfare ahead of an outsider’s. No wonder workers band into unions.”

  Mavis said eagerly, “It would only be a loan, Mr. Carter. John and I could pay it back, once he’s home and both of us are working. Lots of couples owe more than that on a home. Oh, please, sir, let her.”

  “Let me, fiddlesticks,” Mrs. Hollingsworth said. “I have sons older than your boss, child, and they don’t tell me what to do. I don’t need his permission. The matter’s settled.” She looked at me defiantly.

  I gave a resigned shrug. “As you say, it’s your money, Mrs. Hollingsworth.”

  “Hmph,” she said. “Am I also going to have to go to China and make personal arrangements, or will you deign to use your connections to get the bribe placed in the proper hands there?”

  Mavis looked at me appealingly. “You know what arrangements have to be made, sir. You’ll take care of it, won’t you?”

  With a rueful smile I raised my hands in a gesture of defeat. “I won’t argue any more. Mrs. Hollingsworth has placed me in the position of a villain trying to keep your husband imprisoned for some fiendish reason of my own. As long as she’s determined to put up the money, I’ll be glad to use my connections to have John freed. You understand, Mary, that I wasn’t trying to discourage the loan because I’m unsympathetic. It’s just—”

  “It’s just that Mr. Carter is a businessman,” Mrs. Hollingsworth interrupted. “He doesn’t understand that human values are more important than dollars and cents.” She added for my benefit, in case I thought she was being too harsh with me, “Not that I don’t like him. He’s really quite charming, and probably a good boss in most ways. Don’t think badly of him.”

  “Oh, I don’t,” Mavis said enthusiastically. “Tonight I think everybody is wonderful.”

  Again I was afraid she was going to overdo it, but she didn’t. She didn’t engulf Mrs. Hollingsworth with thanks. She acted as though she were too overwhelmed to express herself properly, which was a more effective thank-you than a lot of words would have been.

  When we left the Statler, the elderly dowager said, “We’ll drop you off at your hotel now, dear. You go on to your aunt’s tomorrow and enjoy your vacation. I’ll give Mr. Carter a check as soon as we get home, so he can start matters moving at once.”

  We dropped Mavis off in front of the small hotel she designated, and I drove back to the Beverly-Wilshire. Mrs. Hollingsworth asked me to stop by her room for a moment, wrote out a check for ten thousand dollars and handed it to me.

  “Better phone your bank in the morning and tell them it’s all right to cash this,” I advised. “I’ll want to exchange it for a cashier’s check and get it off to New York at once.”

  She did phone the bank the next morning, and I had no trouble exchanging it for a cashier’s check made out to myself.

  Immediately afterward I checked out of the hotel, picked up Mavis and we headed for Las Vegas.

  Mavis seemed strangely subdued. We were well on the way before I noticed it, though. When putting distance behind me after a job, I concentrate on the road ahead. We were fifty miles out of town before I gre
w conscious of her odd silence.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I inquired. “You ought to feel good. You did a beautiful job.”

  “I keep thinking about that old lady,” she said. “She was such a nice person, Sam. I keep wondering what she’ll think when she realizes we were crooks.”

  I frowned sidewise at her. “She won’t miss the money. She’s loaded. You know what the first major rule of this racket is?”

  “What?”

  “Never give a trimmed mark another thought. If you do, you won’t sleep nights. If you’re going to feel sorry for marks, you’re in the wrong racket. Want to mail your share of the take back?”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly. Her expression turned dreamy. “All that nice money. How many things it can buy! Don’t worry about my conscience, Sam. As long as we can make money this easily, I’ll subdue it.”

  “You sure you can?”

  She gave a definite nod. “I promise I’ll never think of the old lady again. Or any other mark, after a job.”

  “What makes you think there will be any more jobs?”

  She gave me an anxious look. “Aren’t you going to keep me with you? You said I did a beautiful job.”

  “You want to form a permanent partnership?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” she said eagerly. “I want to stick with you. Can I, Sam?”

  “We’ll see when we get where we’re going,” I said noncommittally.

  We hit Las Vegas at two P.M. I converted the cashier’s check into cash, and then sold my car to a used-car dealer on the off-chance that Mrs. Hollingsworth might remember the license number. Two hours after we arrived in Las Vegas, we were riding a plane toward Denver under assumed names.

  We had dinner on the plane. When we landed, I had a taxi drive us directly to a small hotel on the outskirts of the city.