LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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