Cherry Ames Boxed Set 5-8

by Helen Wells

“Not very long.”

  “Oh.—Mr. Owens is quite ill, isn’t he? Angina pectoris, I believe his sister said. What a pity. A man in that condition should be protected from worries. I presume that is part of your duties as his nurse.”

  “Yes. Er—good coffee.”

  “Thank you. You would know if anything is worrying him? Or if Miss Kitty is worrying?”

  “That’s right,” said Cherry.

  Mr. Thatch gingerly sipped his coffee. “I often wonder what a celebrity’s past must be like. A man like Mr. Owens must have made a long, difficult climb to fame. I do admire such a man.”

  Cherry said in some exasperation, “I haven’t known Mr. Owens long enough to know anything about his past.”

  Mr. Thatch coughed and was silent. He patted his lips with his pocket handkerchief. Then, hesitatingly, he said:

  “As the Owenses’ nurse, may I confide to you something which troubles me? Miss Kitty is such an enthusiast for fortunetelling that I am concerned about her. It has occurred to me that she might fall into some charlatan’s hands sometime. Mr. Carroll is honest and can be of service to her. But some of these others”—he picked at one neat trouser knee—“the others might accept her money, suggest worrisome ideas to her, and do her and her brother real harm. That is why I asked you, a moment ago, if either of them is worrying about anything.”

  The elderly man looked at Cherry earnestly. Then he rose and rapped on the door and inquired about sending a cable. Gregory Carroll gave instructions and called, “Miss Ames, don’t you want to come in now, too?”

  Cherry went into a smaller room dominated by Gregory Carroll seated at a vast desk. She sat down beside Scott Owens who said with a grin, “I need another non-believer for moral support. They’re telling my fortune in spite of my protests.”

  Gregory Carroll smiled. Miss Owens’s rapt expression did not change.

  “I can tell you this,” Gregory Carroll said softly. “The influences now are almost all good. But long ago, you had a terrible experience.”

  Scott Owens trembled. He got out, “Who hasn’t had a bad experience at one time or another?”

  “A terrible and unjust experience,” Carroll pursued. “Most unjust. It lasted about—let’s see—your ordeal lasted about two years.”

  Scott Owens suddenly turned gray. Cherry was alarmed for her patient. Two years of what?

  “But that is all over,” Carroll gently went on, “and the indications for the future are encouraging. For the immediate future, great personal success—through your work—”

  “My brother always gets excellent notices on all his concerts!”

  Scott said crossly, “For heaven’s sake, don’t put the words in his mouth! Who’s telling this prediction, Kit, you or Mr. Carroll?”

  Gregory Carroll said, “An illness is coming. Perhaps caused by worry.”

  Cherry did not like this suggestion to her patient that he would fall ill. Miss Kitty asked sharply, “What would my brother have to worry about?”

  The reader slowly shook his head. “Something returning from the past. I’d prefer to draw up a more detailed chart and really study the matter before saying exactly what. I don’t mean to alarm you. I merely want to warn you.”

  “I suppose there’s an extra charge for this chart?” The musician made it not a question but a sarcastic statement.

  “It’s a good deal of work,” Miss Kitty retorted. “If there is something in the prognostications to be alarmed about, I want to know exactly what it is!”

  Gregory Carroll nodded, and turned to Cherry.

  “And you, young lady. Don’t meddle in others’ affairs. You won’t help them—you will only bring trouble, for them and for yourself. Aside from that, you can be a good influence for Mr. Owens. Your vibrations are sympathetic to his.”

  “I expect my nursing techniques will do him more practical good than my ‘vibrations,’ Mr. Carroll.”

  The musician said shortly, “This has been very interesting and now I have to leave. If you’ll excuse us, sir—”

  “But, Scott,” his sister said, “we aren’t finished—”

  Scott Owens stood up. The reader rose too, and held out his hand.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Owens, and thank you for coming. Watch your health and especially watch out for the past returning. Good-bye, Miss Kitty … Miss Ames. Perhaps next time I will be able to tell you something of a happier nature. But whatever it is, I will tell you only the truth.”

  Mr. Thatch showed them out. All the way downstairs, all during the drive home, Scott Owens muttered his annoyance at “this impertinent nonsense.” He had not wanted his fortune told; Kitty had teased him until he had to accede. Only his sister’s remark, “He said two years, Scott”—only that silenced him. Cherry was very curious indeed. She did not want or intend to pry into her patient’s personal affairs. But it was part of her work to safeguard him against upsetting things, and she was alarmed now at how gray and tired he seemed, after what had been said. She would call Dr. Pratt at once.

  Jen took one look at him and groaned.

  “Mr. Scott looks like a string! You’ll never be able to get him on a train tomorrow! Miss Kitty, haven’t you better sense than to pester him this way?”

  Cherry telephoned Dr. Pratt. On his instructions, she spent the rest of that day making the pianist take nourishment at short intervals, practice only three hours instead of his accustomed five, and lie down. His sister did everybody’s packing, sent last-minute telegrams to concert-hall managers en route, and keep Bébé and other callers from going upstairs. Scott complained that they all treated him like “the Koh-I-Noor diamond, only breakable.” Cherry replied that he was pretty valuable, at that, “and besides we like you!” She refrained from repeating what Dr. Pratt had impressed on her: in angina pectoris, any one heart attack can prove fatal.

  They started out lightheartedly enough next morning. Cherry of course took her instrument kit, medicines, and uniform with her, but wore street clothes. Although the first leg of their journey was to be only half a day, Miss Owens had taken a private drawing room on the train, so Scott could practice.

  “Practice?” Cherry said in astonishment. “In here?” The three of them were crowded into a small Pullman room, door closed, rocking with the motion of the speeding train. It felt a little like playing house on rails. “A piano in here?”

  “Why, certainly,” the musician said merrily. He seemed to have put out of his mind all of yesterday’s nonsense. “Kit, where did you stow Dr. Gradus Ad Parnassum?”

  “Right here.” Miss Kitty produced a book of music scores and a strange-looking, boxlike contraption, which she opened and set on a Pullman table before the train seat. It was a portable, mute keyboard for practice purposes. Scott Owens sat down to it, ran his hands over the silent keyboard several times to limber up his fingers. Then he played, beating time with his foot, earnestly nodding his head, hands and wrists flying in many technical flourishes—and not a sound came out! It was so ludicrous that Cherry got to giggling, and finally laughed out loud.

  Scott Owens looked at her, solemn as an owl. “If I don’t practice for one day, I notice it. If I don’t practice for two days, my friends notice it. If I don’t practice for three days, my audiences notice it. Now quiet, please. Don’t interrupt my music.”

  And he fell to thumping the keyboard again with all his might—and achieving only a few wooden grunts. Cherry wiped the tears of laughter out of her eyes. She managed to keep a straight face for the rest of the journey only by following Miss Kitty’s example and reading.

  By afternoon they were off the train and established comfortably in a hotel in a small city. Miss Kitty had wanted to break the journey for her brother, having him sleep overnight in a hotel bed rather than in a train berth. Cherry insisted that the pianist have additional milk and sandwiches—for he was anemic and anemia intensified his cardiac difficulty. As he was finishing his milk, in their hotel suite, Miss Kitty admitted she had a second reason for stopping over
in this town. There was a fortuneteller she wanted to visit.

  “No, no, not that!” Her brother’s thin frame shook with laughter. “Kit, I’m ashamed of you!”

  “But this one’s supposed to be a real witch! Way out in the country. You can stay here—you can rest—or practice—”

  “Nothing doing! You know how I detest hotel rooms.”

  Cherry spoke up, trying to sound professional. “Mr. Scott, you have the big task of a concert ahead of you. You really should keep quiet.”

  “Be reasonable, Scott. I won’t go either.”

  “Oh, you’ll go anyway. I know you! No. I’ll go along—to keep you from telling all the family secrets.”

  The hotel quickly secured a car and driver for them. They drove through the town, and set off along a state highway.

  The car did not stay on the highway for more than a few miles. It swung off onto side roads. No more villages appeared. Then they drove off the asphalt and hit dirt roads, leading to lonely farms. The driver complained that he did not know where he was going. But Miss Owens called out “Keep going!” and gave directions. The car jolted along mere lanes now and wound up in a tangle of underbrush. They stopped, unable to go further. The silence was profound, until their ears picked up the hum of insects, the snapping of a twig.

  “This can’t be it!”

  “This is it. We’ll get out and walk.”

  They pushed their way through branches, following a rut in the earth. Cherry thought she heard a telephone ring somewhere. But she must have imagined it, she decided, for when they abruptly emerged into a clearing, there was only a tumble-down shack and a half-ruined barn.

  Chickens ran around the house and filth lay everywhere. The driver snorted and went back to wait in the car. Miss Kitty boldly marched through rusted cans, rainsoaked boards, burned cornstalks, up to the shack. Scott followed laughing, and Cherry, tossing back her black curls, felt relieved that her patient regarded this as only a lark.

  “Is anybody here? Hoo-hoo!”

  Miss Kitty’s echo quavered back at her.

  “Hello!” called Scott. “Come down off your broomstick and brew us a potion of snakes’ tongues!” He coughed then from the exertion of shouting.

  Out of a broken window peered a hag of a woman. Her loose mouth, even the stringy hair about her face, was stained yellow with chewing tobacco.

  “Who’re ye? Git away!”

  “We’ve come to ask you to read cards for us,” Miss Kitty called, unperturbed.

  “Ain’t readin’ today. Git along!” The sloven spat from the window.

  Miss Owens argued and cajoled. She offered good payment. She named the woman friend who had sent her.

  “Wal. I reckon I kin read fur ye. Go ’long in.”

  Scott whispered to Cherry, “She looks like a caution for cats.”

  Cherry whispered back, “And just look at this hovel. I wish I had a pail full of disinfectant.”

  This was the worst poverty Cherry had ever seen. The cabin room had a dirt floor, no windows, a roof with a hole gaping toward the sky. A few broken stools, a box, a rusty coal stove, and an old table showed in the shadows. The stench was awful. They shooed chickens off the stools and gingerly sat down.

  They waited for long minutes. Nearly ten minutes. Two people were talking in the next room, but Cherry could not hear what they said.

  The hag shuffled in. Close up, Cherry saw she was barefoot, not as old as she appeared at first, and had an inexpressibly stupid and malevolent face. Suddenly Cherry wanted to get out of here. This whole situation was unhealthy. But she could not catch Scott’s eye, to signal him, and Miss Kitty seemed to be enjoying herself.

  “I understand you live here alone?” she questioned the woman. “My friend says you have supernatural powers. A sort of nature seer?”

  “Live here with my old man. Lyin’ sick, he is.” The hag snapped, “Lay out yer money on the table afore I read.”

  Miss Kitty counted out bills. The woman watched, seemed satisfied. Then she sat down before the table and thumbed through a deck of greasy cards. These she lay out in three semicircles. She pored over them, chewing her wad of tobacco. Then she lifted her head.

  “Yer name ain’t what ye pretend it is!” She looked directly at Scott. “Mind now, I don’t know yer name—neither of yer names. The cards here—they say it.”

  “I don’t want my fortune told,” Scott said.

  “Silly!” Miss Kitty laughed. “Try it, be a sport!”

  “But I kin find out yer name—both of ’em.” The hag persisted slyly.

  “Tell somebody else’s fortune,” Scott said, less steadily.

  “There’s papers about yer names. And they’re at”—the woman hesitated for a long time—“in a box, mebbe.” She never took her eyes from the man. He changed color. The hag nodded. “Yep. In a box. In a good safe box, hey?”

  Miss Kitty, who seemed to notice the threatening undertone, said evenly, “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. People often alter their names for professional reasons. As a matter of fact, this man with me—”

  “The box, the box,” the hag muttered. Again her stupid eyes fastened on Scott. “You better watch that box. The cards say the box is in—” Again that long, probing pause. Cherry felt a shiver spread up her spine. “—the box is in—”

  The woman grinned evilly at Scott Owens. He had turned ashen and was beginning to sweat.

  “That’s enough!” Cherry shouted. She sprang to her feet, seized her patient by the arm, and dragged him out into the open air. He swayed with weakness. Cherry was thoroughly alarmed and angry. “Get that car if you can!” Cherry yelled to Miss Kitty. “How can you submit Mr. Scott to this!”

  Frightened, the sister ran out. Together she and Cherry half lifted, half walked the frail man back to the car. The slovenly woman lounged in her doorway, speculatively watching them.

  Later, after they had gotten Scott safely back to the hotel and into bed, with the danger of attack averted, Cherry apologized to her employer. She emphasized how important peace of mind was to the ill man. She reminded Miss Kitty that fright or anger or emotional shock could bring on an attack.

  Miss Owens knew all this. She truly wanted to take good care of her brother. Yet now, with rest having made Scott comfortable and calm again, the fright seemed to her unnecessary. She lightly laughed off Cherry’s warning.

  “Of course I’m not angry with you for shouting at me, my dear. You’re absolutely right. But aren’t you taking all these little fortunetelling jaunts much too seriously? Why, your attitude persuades Scott to take them overseriously, too. Don’t wear such a long face about such a little thing!”

  Cherry was unable to convince her that, with her “little jaunts,” she was being very foolish. Dangerously foolish.

  Nor did Miss Owens explain to Cherry whether or not her brother had taken a professional name. However, that was none of the nurse’s business.

  But the nurse began to wonder. Was there some mystery surrounding Scott Owens? He lived in a blaze of public notice, like all celebrities. Did something ominous or unhappy lie buried in his past? Something involving two years of his life. Something which could return and whose return he dreaded. And now this matter—related? unrelated?—of possibly having taken another name. And where did an Uncle Matthew fit in?

  “I’ll stick to my nursing job and stop speculating,” Cherry promised herself. “Only I wish my bump of curiosity weren’t such a great, big, lively bump!”

  They traveled by train again and came to a large southwestern city. Here Scott was to give the first of five concerts scheduled for five various towns. Miss Kitty had arranged their arrival a full day and a half ahead of the concert, so her brother could rest. Besides, he would have to see newspaper reporters, try out the piano provided for him, and probably attend a party which the local musical circles usually tendered him.

  But Cherry was waiting for Miss Kitty to say, sooner or later—and she did say, at breakfast in th
e hotel on the second day:

  “Now, Scott, don’t be angry, but there’s a woman here in town whom I simply have to see. This morning.”

  “A fortuneteller?” her brother inquired dryly.

  “Well—Yes.”

  Cherry shook her head at Miss Owens. Her black eyes burned in warning, and her cheeks flamed redder than usual.

  “Of course I’ll go alone,” Miss Owens said hastily. “I’ll just—”

  “You’ll go alone, and just be played for a complete sucker! Oh, yes, Kit, that will be fine. Just fine. You’ll let some unscrupulous charlatan drag all our innermost secrets out of you—you’ll compromise my good reputation—you’ll just ruin—”

  “Please!” Cherry interrupted. She was intensely embarrassed to have the Owenses quarrel and discuss before her matters she had no right to know. “Please, Mr. Scott. You must not excite yourself. If Dr. Pratt were here, he’d be horrified. Right before a concert is no time of all times to wear yourself out.”

  “That’s right.” Miss Kitty leaned forward anxiously. “Let’s drop the whole subject. I won’t go see this woman. Is that better, Scott?”

  His thin face remained tense. “I know what you’ll do. You’ll go anyway. No. I won’t let you out of my sight. This thing can be dangerous, I tell you—”

  “Scott, don’t work yourself up!”

  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do!” He was trembling, nearly shouting in his excitement and worry. “All right, we’ll go to that fortuneteller! I’ll go along to see that you—that you don’t—”

  Cherry said sharply, “Mr. Scott, pull yourself together.”

  He calmed as suddenly as if she had slapped him out of hysteria.

  “You’re right, Miss Cherry. It’s nothing but a racket. I don’t take it seriously. If only Kit weren’t such a fool.”

  “We’ll tell the fortuneteller’s fortune, by gum! We’ll scare the spots off her phony cards!” It was a weak joke but Cherry made it, and made herself laugh. Scott Owens laughed a little, too. Then his sister joined in, and the tension was gone.

  Cherry was somewhat reassured when she saw the quiet house and the quiet, genteel, little person whom they had come to see.