Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 25, No. 3, March 26, 1980

A Casual Crime by Dan Marlowe

The blonde had made a small fortune in phony insurance claims...

The snapshot was of a blonde whose hair was long and casual-looking. She was wearing shorts and a halter, showing that she liked to dress casually too. “Nice,” I said, handing the photograph back to Burk Larson, chief investigator for the Argo Insurance Company.

“Nice!” Larson snorted. “I want her in prison, understand? She’s cost Argo a fortune in the past five years.”

“She must’ve started young.”

“She did, but she’s never been anything less than a professional.” There was a note of respect in Larson’s voice. “Last week was the first time we ever had enough on her to take her to court, even, and then she walked away with a big smile.”

“She must be a wonder to have you calling for help, Burk,” I remarked lightly.

“I’ll tell you just how much of a wonder,” he said grimly. “Five years ago she fell in the lobby of a Chicago theater and threatened to sue. Eventually, she signed a release and settled out of court. A year later her husband of ten days drowned at Atlantic City and she collected ten thousand dollars on a new policy on his life. The following year, a fancy dress shop she was running in Los Angeles went up in flames and we were holding the bag for another fifteen thousand. Early this year we had to make good for an expensive diamond necklace she reported stolen.”

I had been doing some figuring. “It averages out to twelve or thirteen thousand a year, Burk. With her looks, she could make more as a model. Sure it isn’t legitimate?”

“That’s only what she’s cost Argo,” he emphasized. “She’s into half a dozen other companies too.”

“What did you have her up before the judge on?”

“Check cashing. She cashed thirty thousand dollars’ worth of bad checks we’re stuck with.”

“The bad check, the evidence to prove the crime, is always right there to convict the passer,” I said. “How did she get off the hook?”

“She passed all the checks in supermarkets belonging to the Silver Star chain, which we insure against loss.” Larson shook his head. “I thought their system was foolproof. They won’t accept a check unless they have a Silver Star identification card, and the cards don’t come easily. The applicant has to fill out a detailed questionnaire, give bank references, have a photograph taken, and give a thumbprint. Then the chain takes a couple of weeks to check everything out before issuing the card.”

“And she beat the system? The only way she could have done that was to make a phony identity stand up under the credit investigation.”

“No. She used her own name and her own signature.”

“And she walked away?” I said incredulously.

“It was my fault,” Larson said sheepishly. “With her past record, I thought we had her cold. I even offered to put in a word for her with the judge if she’d return the money, but she just laughed in my face.”

“What defense could she possibly have had?”

“The oldest in the world — she claimed that someone else was using her name.”

“But with the evidence that you had—!”

“As I said, I was overconfident.” He rubbed his jaw in embarrassment. “She agreed that the signatures on the checks looked like hers, and that the photo of the woman on the ID card looked like her. But she said that the thumbprint on the application wasn’t hers — and it wasn’t.”

I whistled.

“Yes, I know,” he said uncomfortably. “Why didn’t I check it before we went to court? Because I was so sure...” His voice trailed away. “And she’d always been a lone wolf. It never occurred to me that she’d have an accomplice, someone whose thumbprint she could use on the application. The jury took about fifteen seconds to find her not guilty.”

“Did you try to run a make on the accomplice’s print?”

“Of course. We sent copies to the FBI in Washington and to the California Identification Bureau in Sacramento. Those are the only single-print files that amount to anything, but they couldn’t match up a thing.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“She’ll try something else, and when she does, I want you gumshoeing so close that you can smell her perfume. I’ll pay five thousand for evidence that’ll put her away. And I’d put another thousand on the barrelhead if I knew how she conned us this time.”

I picked up the woman’s photo again. She certainly did look casual against the background of the other lightly dressed shoppers. “Judging by the way everyone is dressed, this ID snap must have been taken in one of the stores near the beach,” I said. “Are you still holding checks of hers not covered by the first indictment? Ones that you could still charge her with?”

“Have I ever! But she’d only use the same strategy.”

I held out the photo for him to see. “The store was crowded when she made out the application. Even with her looks, no one would pay any particular attention to her. The cashier probably handed her a stamp pad and told her where to put her thumbprint. All she had to do was step behind one of the canned-goods displays.”

“Step behind—?”

“She didn’t have an accomplice,” I said. “She worked it herself. Pick her up and run her through the mill again.”

“Listen, you’re—”

“And when she demands a fingerprint expert at her next trial, have him check her toeprints too. You can’t see her feet in this photo, but you can bet she wasn’t wearing combat boots.”

I studied Burk Larson’s astonished face. “And be sure you spell my name right on that six-thousand-dollar check.”