At the sight of this woman whom he judged to be a year or so younger than himself, Anson experienced a rush of blood through his body that inevitably happened when he met any woman who awoke his sexual feelings.
She was tall: an inch or so taller than himself, and built with the strength and durability of a wooden wedge. She had broad shoulders, a provocative bust, a small waist, neat hips and long legs. She wore a close fitting orange sweater and black tight fitting slacks. Her auburn coloured hair was caught back with a strip of green ribbon. All this he took in at a glance. She wasn't beautiful. Her mouth was a little too large, and her nose too solid for perfect beauty, but she was the most sensational and sensual looking woman Anson had ever seen.
For a long moment they stared at each other, then her red lips parted as she smiled, showing white, even teeth.
'Good afternoon,' she said.
Automatically, but with a conscious effort, Anson moved into his sales approach. His expression, schooled by years of experience, was bright, friendly and alert.
'Mrs. Barlowe? I am John Anson. National Fidelity Insurance Corporation. I have a letter from you ...'
'Of course ... do come in.'
Still aware that his heart was thumping, Anson followed her through a dark little hall into the living- room.
It was a big room, comfortably furnished. There was a bright log fire burning in the oversized fireplace. Before the fireplace stood a vast settee: large enough to seat four people comfortably. There was an oval shaped table in the bay window. On the table was a portable typewriter and a mass of papers, carbons, and a Webster's Dictionary.
As Anson moved into the room, he became aware of dust and dirt everywhere. The room had the same uncared for appearance as the exterior of the house.
The woman walked over to the fireplace and now stood, her back to the fire, her hands on her hips, looking at him.
Disconcerted by the quizzing expression in her eyes, Anson walked over to the window.
'What a garden you have!' he said. 'You must be very proud of it!'
'My husband is.' She laughed. 'He thinks of nothing else.'
Anson turned. His eyes moved over her body.
'Is it his profession?'
'Not exactly. He wants it to be. Right now, he's with Fram-ley's Store in Pru Town. He is in charge of their horticultural department.' She waved to the settee. 'But do sit down, Mr. Anson.'
He came around the settee and sat down at the far end, disturbed by being so close to her. She knelt on the seat away from him.
An air crash out at sea. They have to wait six months before it does happen. Immediately the news is flashed to the terminal, the boy friend puts the woman's name on the passenger list. He also takes care of the ticket receipt and so on.
The woman has moved out of the district where she used to live and is keeping out of sight. He telephones her, warning her of the crash. Then later, her sister puts in a claim for the money showing proof supplied by the boy friend that the woman, her sister, was on the plane.' She paused, took a sip of her drink, then looked at him. 'Of course the details have to be worked out, but that's the general idea ... do you think she would get away with it?' During the twelve years he had been an insurance agent, Anson had become familiar with the tricks and dodges dreamed up by people ambitious to swindle insurance companies. Every week, he received a printed bulletin from Head Office setting out in detail the various swindles attempted. This bulletin came from the Claims Department run by Maddox who was considered to be the best Claims man in the business.
For the past three months, when money had become so desperately short, Anson had thought of ways and means by which he himself might swindle his company. But for all his shrewdness and experience, he realized he could never succeed unless he had someone on whom he could rely to help him. Even then, there was always Maddox who was said to have a supernatural instinct that told him a claim was a phoney the moment it was laid on his desk.
'It's a nice idea,' Anson said. 'It might even be believable as fiction, but it would never work in real life.' She looked enquiringly at him. 'But why not?'
'The sum involved is too large. Any claim over fifteen thousand dollars is examined very closely. Suppose this woman insured with my company. The policy would go immediately to the Claims department. The head of this department is a man who has been in the racket for twenty years. During this time, he has had something like five to eight thousand phoney claims to deal with. He has so much experience he can smell a bad claim the way you can smell a dead rat. So what does he do when he gets this policy? He asks himself why a woman should be insuring her life for such a big sum. Who will benefit? Her sister? Why? Is there a boy friend around? He has twenty experienced investigators who work for him. He'll turn two of them onto this woman. In a few days he will know as much about her as she knows about herself. His men will have unearthed the boy friend at the air terminal.
Once they have dug him up, then God help them both if she is supposed to have died in the air crash. No, it wouldn't work in real life. Make no mistake about that ... not with Maddox around.' Meg made a face, then shrugged.
'Oh well! I thought I was onto a good gimmick. I'm disappointed.' She drank some of the whisky, then reaching forward, she picked up the poker and stirred the fire into a blaze. 'Then it is very difficult to swindle an insurance company?' she asked without looking at him.
Again, Anson felt an intense prickle of excitement run through him.
'Yes ... unless ...'
She was staring into the fire, a little flushed by the heat, her eyes reflecting the red of the flames. 'Unless ... ?'
'It could be done, but it needs two people to do it. One couldn't do it.'
She twisted around to look at him.
'That makes me think that you have thought about it,' she said. 'If you do get an idea would you share it with me? I'd write the story and we could go fifty-fifty if I sold it.'
He finished his drink, set down the glass and reluctantly got to his feet.
'If I think of anything, I'll call you.' She stood up. They faced each other; again Anson's eyes moved over her body.
'If you do think of something, you could come out hers, couldn't you? It's not far from Brent, is it? We could talk over the whole thing and I could get the idea down on paper.'
He hesitated, then said what was in his mind: 'I guess your husband won't want me around after a day's work.' She nodded.
'You're right. Phil isn't sociable and he hasn't much patience with my writing, but on Monday and Thursday nights he is always at Lambsville. He takes night school there and he stays the night with a friend of his.'
Anson's hands suddenly turned damp. 'Does he? Well...'
'So if you get an idea, you'll always find me alone here on those two nights. Don't forget, will you?'
She moved to the door and opened it. Picking up his document case, Anson followed her to the front door. As she opened the doer, he said, 'By the way, does your husband carry any life insurance?' 'No. He doesn't believe in insurance.'
They looked at each other and Anson quickly shifted his gaze.
She went on: 'I'm afraid there is no hope for you in, that direction. Other salesmen have tried to sell him insurance. He just doesn't believe in it.'
Anson stepped out into the rain.
'Thanks for the drink, Mrs. Barlowe. If I get an idea for you, I'll call you.'
'Thanks. I'm sorry about the jewellery.' She gave him a quick smile as she closed the door.
Scarcely feeling the rain on his face, Anson walked down the drive towards his car.
From behind the curtains Meg watched the car drive through the gateway and onto the lane. She watched Anson get out of the car and shut the gate then return to the car. She remained motionless until the sound of the car engine had died away, then she turned swiftly, crossed to the telephone and dialled a number.
There was a short delay, then a man's voice came over the line.
