The girls cooperated splendidly in that respect. And I rented a comfortable, almost luxurious Volkswagen bus for our meandering around Europe. At times my scheme seemed more like a leisurely vacation than a felonious venture, for we often spent days, sometimes a week or more, in colorful little out-of-the-way spots in this country or that one and during such detours I curbed my crooked activities. It was not part of my plan to shaft the peasants.
But my scam got back on the track in major cities. Before entering such a metropolis, we’d stop and change into our airline uniforms, and, on our arrival at the hotel of my choosing, the scheme would pick up steam and begin operating again.
Every two weeks I paid the girls with a counterfeit payroll check, then had them endorse the checks over to me in return for cash. Since I was paying all their expenses (although each thought Pan Am was picking up the tab), most of them purchased money orders and sent them home to their parents or their bank.
The girls were entirely guiltless, of course. Not one, during the summer, ever had an inkling she was involved in a criminal venture. Each thought she was legitimately employed by Pan Am. They were completely duped by my con.
Mine was an idyllic intrigue, but often hectic and taxing. Riding herd on eight lovely, vivacious, exuberant, energetic girls is akin to a cowboy riding herd on a bunch of wild steers while mounted on a lame horse-damned near impossible. I had determined at the outset of the scheme that there would be no personal involvement with any of the girls, but my resolve was endangered a score of times during the course of the summer. Each of them was an outrageous flirt, and I, of course, was a prince of philanderers, and when one of the girls was inclined to make a sexual advance (and each of them did on several occasions), I was hardly prone to fend her off. But I always managed.
I did not lead a celibate life during the summer. I had ample opportunities to engage in side liaisons with the girls of whatever localities we were frequenting, and I took advantage of each and every opportunity.
Monique was not one of the liaisons. When we visited Paris and I sought her out, she informed me our relationship was finished. “I’ll still be your friend, Frank, and I hope you’ll still help Papa in his business, but I want to settle down and you don’t,” she said. “I’ve met another man, a pilot for Air France, and we’re pretty serious about our future.”
I assured her of my understanding and, in fact, was somewhat relieved. I also affirmed that her father would continue to get “Pan Am business,” although that statement was a lie. I was beginning to feel some guilt concerning my duplicitous use of Papa Lavalier, and had opted to release him as a pawn in my scurrilous game. Anyway, he’d already provided me with enough supplies to drain a dozen bank vaults if I used them all.
The girls and I ended our tour of Europe in Copenhagen, where I put them on a plane for Arizona. I dispatched them back to the States with their arms laden with roses and a flowery speech designed to allay any suspicions that might arise in their minds in coming weeks.
“Keep your uniforms, keep your ID cards and keep your check stubs [I’d always returned a check stub when I cashed a check],” I instructed them. “If the company wants the uniforms and IDs returned, you’ll be contacted. As far as employment goes, just return to school, because we’re not going to hire you on a permanent basis until you graduate, and then you’ll be contacted by a company representative. It probably won’t be me, because I’ve been ordered back to flight duty. But I hope you’ll all end up as part of my crew again, for I’ve had a wonderful time with you this summer.”
I had had a wonderful time, all things considered. If the girls put a lot of gray strands in my hair, they also, unwittingly, put a lot of green stuff in my pockets. Something like $300,000 in all.
The girls did hear from Pan Am, as a matter of fact. After three months of a steady stream of photographs, from dozens of European cities and all showing the same eight girls in Pan Am stewardess costumes, advertising executives of Pan Am launched an investigation. Eventually the entire matter ended up in O’Riley’s hands and he deftly sorted it out and put it into focus for the carrier’s officers and also for the girls.
I understand all eight of them took it gracefully, if with some vivid and descriptive language.
I stayed in Europe for several weeks after parting with the girls, then returned to the States, where I wandered around like a gypsy for several weeks, never staying in one place for more than two or three days. I was becoming moody again, nervous and edgy, and the knowledge that I would probably always be a man on the move, a fox perpetually hunted by the hounds, was beginning to weigh on my conscience, affecting my conscious life.
I virtually ceased my check-swindling activities, fearful the hounds were close enough and reluctant to create additional spoor. Only rarely was I challenged to display my creative criminality.
One such time was in a large midwestern city. I was sitting in the airport restaurant after arrival, enjoying lunch, when I became interested in the conversation in the adjoining booth, an exchange between an elderly, stern-faced man and a very young, servile companion, apparently an employee. I gathered from the conversation that the older man was a banker, en route to a convention in San Francisco, and from the remarks he made to the young man it was clear he expected his bank to make money in his absence. He was cool, crusty, arrogant and obviously proud of his lofty status, and when he was paged on the airport intercom I learned his name. Jasper P. Cashman.
That afternoon I did some discreet digging into Jasper P. Cashman’s background, utilizing a local newspaper’s library. J. P. Cashman was a prominent man in his community, a self-made tycoon. He’d started as a teller in his bank when the financial house had assets of less than $5 million. He was president now and the bank’s assets exceeded $100 million.
I scouted the bank the following day. It was a new building, still boasting its expansion motto on the large front window. The interior was roomy and pleasing. Tellers on one side, junior officers scattered across an opposite wall. Senior officers in airy, glassed-in offices. Cashman’s offices on the third floor. J. P. Cashman didn’t believe in close contact with the underlings.
I rented a car, drove to a modest city 175 miles distant and opened a checking account for $10,000 with a counterfeit cashier’s check. Then I returned to Cashman’s town and the next day called at his bank. I wasn’t really interested in the money involved in my swindle. Cashman’s manner had irked me, and I simply wanted to sting him.
I was the picture of the affluent businessman when I entered the bank. Gray three-piece suit. Alligators, luster-shined. Countess Mara tie. A leather brief-case, slim and elegant.
Cashman’s companion at the airport was one of the junior officers. His desk was neat and tidy. His nameplate sparkled with newness. He obviously was newly promoted. I dropped into the chair in front of his desk.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” he asked, patently impressed by my dress and bearing.
“Yes, you can, as a matter of fact,” I said easily. “I’m Robert Leeman from Junction, and I need to cash a check, a rather large one. I’ve all the proper identification and you can call my bank for verification, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. J. P. Cashman knows me, and he’ll verify the check. You can call him. No, I’ll do it myself, since I need to talk to him anyway.”