“What do we have?”
“Cinnamon rolls.”
“All right,” she said indifferently.
I warmed the rolls in the oven and poured some more coffee. We sat down at the table in the kitchen and ate, and then went back into the living room. The radio was still turned on. I went across the dial, looking for news. There was none. It was nearly eleven, however. The afternoon papers should be on the street now.
Then I remembered that the news in them wouldn’t be as late as what she’d heard on the radio at ten.
She sat down in the big chair and lit a cigarette. She leaned back and said, “Pacing the floor isn’t going to help
— Incidentally, how soundproof are these walls and floors?”
I tried to make myself sit still. “They’re all right,” I said. “I’ve never heard any of the other tenants. Just be sure you wear those slippers, and don’t play the radio too loud.”
“Is there anyone who comes in and cleans up? Or has to read the meters, or anything?” “No,” I said. “I had a woman who cleaned up the place once a week, but she quit a month or so ago. And all the
gas and electric meters are down in the basement. There’s no occasion for anyone to come in here unless we have something delivered, in which case I’ll be here to take it. Never answer the door, of course, or the telephone. Nobody’ll ever know you’re here.”
She smiled faintly. “I really have to give you credit. I believe it will work. How long do you think it will be before I can go out?”
“It depends on whether that guy dies or not,” I said. “Of course, they’re never going to quit looking for you, but normally some of the heat would die down after a while and every cop in the state wouldn’t have your picture in front of his eyes all the time. However, that deputy sheriff is going to make it rough. If he dies, they’re looking for two people who killed a cop.”
“If he dies,” she said coolly, “you killed him. I didn’t.”
“That hasn’t got anything to do with it. Nobody knew I was there. They have no description of me. Actually, they don’t even know I exist. So they have to get you, to get me. They have descriptions of you, and pictures. You’re real. You exist. They know who they’re looking for. Which brings us right up against the problem. We might as well
get started on it. Stand up.”
She looked at me questioningly.
“Stand up,” I repeated irritably. “Turn around, very
slowly. Lets get an idea of the job.”
She shrugged, but did as I said.
“All right.” I lit a cigarette. It wasn’t going to be easy. It was all right to talk about, but just where did you start? A man could grow a mustache, or shave it off, or break his nose....
What did you do to camouflage a dish like this?
“A little over average height,” I said, more to myself than to her. “But that part’s all right. There are lots of
tall women. But damn few of them as beautiful.”
She smiled sardonically. “Thank you.”
“I’m not complimenting you,” I said, “so don’t rupture
yourself. This is no game. You’re not going to be easy to hide, and if we don’t do a good job, we’re dead.”
“Well, you took the job.”
“Keep your shirt on. Let’s break it down. There are things we can change, and things we can’t. We can change the color of your hair and the way you do it, but that alone isn’t enough. We can’t do anything about those eyes. Or the bone structure and general shape of your face.
“You can wear glasses, but that’s pretty obvious. And you can splash on more make-up and widen your mouth with lipstick, but that still isn’t going to do the job.”
I was silent for a moment, thinking about it. She started to say something, but I broke in on her.
“Just a minute and then we’ll get your ideas. Here are mine. We can’t make you plain and drab enough to blend into the scenery because you’re too much whistle bait to start with and there are too many things we can’t change, so we have to make you a different kind of dish.
“Here’s the angle. All the people who are looking for you are men. And since we can’t keep ‘em from noticing you, we’ll make ‘em notice the wrong things. We’ll start by bleaching your hair up three or four shades. I think we can make it as far as red, or reddish brown. We cut it. You put it up close to your head in tight curls. We may butch it up somewhat, but after we get the groundwork done it’ll be safe enough for you to go to a beauty shop and have it patched. You splash on the make-up. Pluck your eyebrows. Over-paint your mouth. So far, so good. Now. Do you wear a girdle?”
She stared coldly. “Really.”
“I asked you a question. Do you wear a girdle?”
“When I’m going out, and dressed.”
“All right. And how about falsies? How much of all that
is yours?”
“Of all the utterly revolting—”
“Shut up,” I said. “Maybe there just isn’t any way I can get it through your thick head that this is serious. Can’t you see what I’m trying to do? You’re going to come out a dish, no matter how we slice you, so what we’ve got to do is make you an entirely different kind of dish. A cheap one. Flashy. If you’re not already wearing padding up there, you’re going to, and plenty of it. Change your way of walking. Get dresses tight across the hips, leave off the girdle, and let it roll. Cops are men. Who’s going to keep
his mind on the job and look for the patrician Mrs. Butler with all that going on?”
She shook her head. “You have the most amazing genius for vulgarity I have ever encountered.”
“Oh, knock it off,” I said. “If you don’t like the idea, let’s see you come up with a better one.”
“You misunderstand me. I wasn’t criticizing the idea. It’s very good. In fact, it’s remarkably ingenious. I was merely objecting to your crude way of expressing yourself, and marveling that someone without even the faintest glimmerings of taste or discrimination could have figured it out.”
“Save it, save it.” I waved her off. “You can make a speech some other time. Now, if we’ve agreed on the idea, let’s work out the details. We’ve got to do something about your complexion. Do you tan all right?”
‘Yes. Except that I avoid it.”
“Not any more. Now, let’s see. I could get a sun lamp, except that anybody asking for one at a store here on the Gulf Coast in summer might be locked up for a maniac, so we’ll get along without it. This living-room window faces west, and in the afternoon the sun comes in if we raise the Venetian blind. There’s no building across the avenue high enough for anybody to see you if you’re lying on the floor. Item one, suntan oil.”
I got up and found some paper and a pencil and wrote it down.
“Now, what else?”
“Do you have any scissors?”
“No,” I said. I wrote that down, and went on: “Home
permanent outfit. Sunglasses. Now, what do I get to bleach your hair with?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said.
“You’re a big help,” I said. “But never mind. I’ll get it. Now, can you think of anything else?”
“Only cigarettes. And a bottle of bourbon.”
“You won’t get tanked up?”
“I never get tanked up, as you put it.”
“All right.” I stood up. As I started toward the door I stopped and turned. “What banks are those safe-deposit boxes in?”
She answered without hesitation. “The Merchants Trust Company, the Third National, and the Seaboard Bank and Trust Company.”
“What name did you use?”
“Names,” she said easily. “Each box is under a different
