by Helen Wells
“Get a move on,” Joe muttered, and roughly but imperceptibly shoved her toward the inner vault room. “The change of name papers. Go on, get them!”
Cherry stepped through the huge circular steel doorway, where the room-sized safe stood open, her slip of paper and the key in her hand. Joe started to step through with her when one of the armed guards in the inner vault room barred his way.
“Your key and slip, sir?”
“I’m goin’ in with my wife. She has ’em.”
“Sorry, sir, only the person with the key and slip can go in.”
Joe glared at Cherry over the guard’s shoulder.
“Well, hurry up about it, then!”
The guard said, “I can give you the box, ma’am, and you can take it outside, and you and your husband can go into one of the little private rooms.”
Outside? No! What little safety she might have lay here, in this barred, guarded, armed room with its—
“We’ll keep the box in here,” Cherry hastily answered the guard. Joe looked as if he wanted to kill her.
… this inner vault room with its armed bank guards, its emergency barred door (Cherry’s mind raced on), its emergency telephone—And Joe in the first office room with its locked barred entrance door, and its full complement of armed guards. She nearly wept for joy as the chance—for safety!—burst full blown on her in this perilous instant. Joe was locked in! Joe was surrounded by armed men and outnumbered! And she could throw an emergency gate between herself and this killer! And she could use that emergency telephone to reach the police!
“Close this vault door!” she yelled. “And don’t let that man get away!” She pointed at Joe. With the other hand she tugged at the barred emergency gate and slammed it shut between herself and him.
“Don’t let him go! Thief! Stop thief!”
Joe reached inside his jacket for his gun and ran for the locked outer door. Instantly four guards in the office room were on him, their own guns out of their holsters. Joe ran again, dodging them, to the vault door. A shot boomed out, echoing thunderously in these underground vaults. Cherry shiveringly thought it must be Joe’s gun, aimed at her. The four guards locked inside the vault room with her pulled her into a corner, out of Joe’s range. Their own guns drawn and aimed at Joe, they edged around but not directly before the barred emergency door. One of them kept Cherry covered while she begged to use the telephone in here. It was on a metal folding extension, at the now-closed emergency gate, and swung safely out of range of Joe’s gun. Joe was shouting. He ran again as guards tried to corner him. The office workers and two box holders cowered behind desks. The guards outside scuffled with him—a desk was flung over with a crash—but Cherry was intent only on the telephone. Emergency alarm bells were ringing.
“Police! Police! Hurry!” she signaled the operator. “Hello! Please go immediately to the apartment of Gregory Carroll at”—she gave the address and the names of the four people waiting for her to bring the papers—“the charge? The charge is, they’re threatening Scott Owens with extortion! Yes, the famous pianist!”
“We’ll take him into protective custody,” came the deep voice over the wire.
Cherry remembered to say, “He’s sick, don’t move him!”
By the time she hung up, the outer office room of this place teemed with blue-coated policemen. Cherry saw them handcuff Joe and drag him off. He shouted curses at her, threats, vile words. Cherry shook all over. She still held fast to the key. The box was still unopened, still in its place in the shining steel wall. The change of name papers were safe.
A bank guard opened the emergency door and two policemen strode into the vault to Cherry.
In a daze Cherry obediently answered their questions and followed them to the street. They climbed into a police wagon where Joe already sat, manacled to his captors. Cherry looked away.
The hours at the police station were like a dreary nightmare—hours in which Cherry answered the same questions over and over again—hours in which Carroll, Mr. Thatch, Mercer, and Mrs. Crawford were brought in, a sullen, cowed group, furiously denying everything, refusing to admit even that they recognized Cherry.
But the police had raided the headquarters apartment, ransacked it, had found there and taken dozens of confidential files, so-called “gossip bulletins,” telegrams, lists of auto license plates, damning evidence of all kinds.
When Cherry was finally permitted to leave, and the station door was opened onto the street for her, she was surprised to find that it was night, and dark. She was so tired, so dazed. She began to walk automatically, back to the Owens house.
She found the house blazing with lights and excitement, and policemen at the door. She had expected that. She was questioned before being admitted to the house.
But what Cherry had not expected to see was Scott Owens downstairs, fully dressed, beaming, obviously in better health than he had possessed in weeks—since Carroll had made his threat.
The musician came toward her, with that smile that welled up from deep in his gentle eyes.
“Cherry—Cherry, my dear—” He took her hand. “There’s no way to tell you how I—how much I—Oh, Cherry, my brave little nurse!”
CHAPTER XIV
Troubles and Triumphs
A PARTY WAS IN FULL SWING IN THE DOWNSTAIRS LIVing rooms. Bébé with great gusto was playing Scott’s new waltz. The beautiful, dark Carmela stood beside Bébé at the first piano and sang it, gaily making up words as she went along. Dr. Pratt was here too this Sunday afternoon, giving out broad smiles and clouds of cigar smoke, as he talked to Miss Kitty. The pianist’s sister was a considerably chastened lady, since she had returned and learned all that had happened. But Scott himself was beaming and pouring out punch for the white-haired orchestra conductor, Dr. White, and Mrs. White. Jen beamed too, at Scott, and even the abstracted Lucien, stepping over the three poodles, with an armful of music scores, and Octave the cat on his shoulder, seemed happier though without knowing quite why. Perhaps the happiest person present was Cherry.
For this party—though the guests did not know it—was a celebration of the end of Scott Owens’s troubles. Carroll and his ring were under prosecution and would never again harm the musician. The police had kept Scott’s confidential papers confidential; they did not and would not expose his unhappy past. Scott was safe now. The entire affair was closed, for good.
Miss Kitty, sitting here on the divan large and capable-looking in her green dress, still wore a dazed expression. Scott had not minced words with her when she had returned home two days ago.
“This mess was your doing, Kit,” he had said bluntly, in Cherry’s presence. “If it hadn’t been for your weak-headed superstition, and your wagging tongue, this ugly business need never have happened.”
Miss Kitty had hung her reddish head. “It’s true, Scott. I’m sorry. I’m ashamed. For me, such a practical person, to—” Then she had brightened. “But you did get out of it all right.”
“Despite you! And because of little Cherry here. Kit, Kit, you still don’t see the enormity of your folly! I don’t suppose you ever will.”
Cherry had smiled and suggested mischievously, “Maybe you ought to try being a little less practical, Miss Kitty.”
The police had told the Owenses and Cherry a little of the background of the people who had been tormenting them. Gregory Carroll had a long criminal record. Starting as a poor boy, dishonest, cold, shallowly clever, he had always believed “only fools work.” He had never worked honestly for a living, but relied instead on get-rich-quick rackets. Caught and sent to jail over and over again, he therefore claimed “the whole world was against him” and so “had more reason than ever” to cheat people and seize for himself. He had changed his name and identity several times, but not for a decent reason like Scott’s.
Mr. Thatch was quite another story. He had come of a well-to-do family and had been educated in several universities, here and abroad. For many years he had been a professor, living alone
. He had led a humdrum, solitary, and narrow life. In middle age he had done a surprising thing. He had started taking drugs. These were expensive, illegal, and necessitated much money. Mr. Thatch stole, very cleverly, over a period of years from his own school. When he was finally discovered, his teaching career was forever closed to him and he was sent to prison. There he met Gregory Carroll, on one of his more recent charges. Carroll at once recognized how useful Mr. Thatch’s trained mind could be to his own warped ends. The totally demoralized Mr. Thatch accepted Carroll’s offer because it meant enough money to buy more drugs.
Joe’s story was no less sordid. He had at one time worked at menial but honest jobs for his living. But it paid him better to be strong-arm man for Carroll. In his stupid, limited way, he resented his cleverer boss and was jealous of his rich mode of living. Joe had informed on Carroll to the police in a way that would tack on an extra ten years to Carroll’s sentence.
Mercer was simply a shady business man who, at last, stepped on the wrong side of the law. Mrs. Crawford was a widow, a sorry shabby woman buffeted around by hard luck and no principles. She had never been a match for Carroll.
Cherry did not want to think about these ugly people. She had defeated them and so had earned the right, now, to dismiss them from her mind.
Cherry’s work here was finished. Mr. Scott was very much better. He did not need her any more. “And almost best of all,” her face dimpled, “Dr. Pratt lavishly praised my nursing. I guess I feel pretty good about my work here. Yes, relieved, and very, very good.”
Cherry’s good-byes were quickly made, to the accompaniment of a houseful of music. Miss Kitty thanked her with sincere emotion. Dr. Pratt thumped her approvingly on the shoulder. Only her good-bye to Mr. Scott was difficult.
He tilted up her chin with one finger and smiled down at her.
“Now see here, Miss Cherry Ames, I have one final order for you! As long as I give recitals, I shall send you tickets and expect to see you sitting there in the front row!”
“It’s—it’s a date,” Cherry smiled back shakily, and fled before the sentimental tears spilled over. Music rang out behind her as her taxi pulled away for the railroad station. Scott Owens’s music would ring in her memory for years to come.
Hilton, when she arrived in the early summer evening, looked quiet, plain, substantial, and very dear. The little town was having its Sunday evening supper, except for the Ames family who were waiting for Cherry. The two Fortunes were there waiting for Cherry, too.
They all sat down together at the big table under a circle of light. Cherry was in her usual chair between her father and Charlie. Midge and Dr. Joe smiled at her across the table.
“Being home feels good,” Cherry said delightedly. “No more private duty nursing for me!”
“Why, Cherry!” her mother said. “The nurses’ registry called up only yesterday asking for you to take a case!”
Dr. Joe nodded his gray head. “I told them you were coming home and they’re eager to have you.”
Cherry grinned. “Well, I’ll call ’em right back and tell ’em to take my name off their list. Permanently.”
Charlie grinned back at her. “What are you up to next, scamp? Come on, confess, we know you!”
Cherry shook back her black curls. “Oh—ah—I’m not saying—may I have some iced tea, please?”
Midge groaned. “Cherry, you can’t give up private duty nursing. Not now! You positively can’t!”
“Why not, for goodness’ sake?”
“Because I—” The teen-ager wailed and all eyes turned on her. She pulled back a lock of hair and, rather proudly, displayed a red rash on her cheek. “I think I have—don’t scold me, Dad—the measles!”
“Midge!” Dr. Fortune was horrified. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I want Cherry to nurse me and I was waiting for her to come home!”
Cherry shut her eyes, took a deep breath in chagrin, and then burst out laughing.
“All right, all right, Midge, I’ll nurse you and your measles! But you are absolutely my last private duty case. Because I have a mighty important date with the Spencer Club! In fact, I guess I have a date with a brand-new nursing career!”
CHERRY AMES NURSE STORIES
CHERRY AMES VISITING NURSE
By
HELEN WELLS
Copyright © 1947 by Grosset & Dunlap, Inc.
Copyright © renewed 2007 by Harriet Schulman Forman
Springer Publishing Company, LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Springer Publishing Company, LLC.
Springer Publishing Company, LLC
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New York, NY 10036-8002
Acquisitions Editor: Sally J. Barhydt
Production Editor: Matthew Byrd
Cover design by Takeout Graphics, Inc.
Composition: Techbooks
07 08 09 10/5 4 3 2 1
* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wells, Helen, 1910-
Cherry Ames, visiting nurse / by Helen Wells.
p. cm.— (Cherry Ames nurse stories)
Summary: Cherry reunites with her old Spencer classmates when they all decide to take an apartment together and work for the Visiting Nurse Service of New York.
ISBN 0-8261-0399-5
[1. Nurses—Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)–History–1898-1951–Fiction.]
I. Title.
PZ7.W4644Cn 2006
[Fic]—dc22
2006022321
* * *
Printed in the United States of America by Bang Printing
Contents
FOREWORD
I
FRESH START
II
THE SPENCER CLUB
III
THE VISITING NURSES
IV
ANN TO THE RESCUE
V
TRYOUT
VI
CHERRY’S OWN DISTRICT
VII
THE MYSTERIOUS MANSION
VIII
PARTIES AND CLUES
IX
UNKNOWN NEIGHBORS
X
IN HIDING
XI
THE SECRET
XII
A WELCOME GUEST
XIII
THE TEST
XIV
CHRISTMAS PARTY
Foreword
Helen Wells, the author of the Cherry Ames stories, said, “I’ve always thought of nursing, and perhaps you have, too, as just about the most exciting, important, and rewarding, profession there is. Can you think of any other skill that is always needed by everybody, everywhere?”
I was and still am a fan of Cherry Ames. Her courageous dedication to her patients; her exciting escapades; her thirst for knowledge; her intelligent application of her nursing skills; and the respect she achieved as a registered nurse (RN) all made it clear to me that I was going to follow in her footsteps and become a nurse—nothing else would do. Thousands of other young people were motivated by Cherry Ames to become RNs as well. Cherry Ames motivated young people on into the 1970s, when the series ended. Readers who remember reading these books in the past will enjoy rereading them now—whether or not they chose nursing as a career—and perhaps sharing them with others.
My career has been a rich and satisfying one, during which I have delivered babies, saved lives, and cared for people in hospitals and in their homes. I have worked at the bedside and served as an administrator. I have published journals, written articles, taught students, consulted, and given expert testimony. Never once did I regret my decision to enter nursing.
During the time I was publishing a nursing journal, I became acquainted with Robert Wells, brother of Helen Wells. In the course of conv
ersation I learned that Ms. Wells had passed on and left the Cherry Ames copyright to Mr. Wells. Because there is a shortage of nurses here in the US today, I thought, “Why not bring Cherry back to motivate a whole new generation of young people? Why not ask Mr. Wells for the copyright to Cherry Ames?” Mr. Wells agreed, and the republished series is dedicated both to Helen Wells, the original author, and to her brother, Robert Wells, who transferred the rights to me. I am proud to ensure the continuation of Cherry Ames into the twenty-first century.
The final dedication is to you, both new and old readers of Cherry Ames: It is my dream that you enjoy Cherry’s nursing skills as well as her escapades. I hope that young readers will feel motivated to choose nursing as their life’s work. Remember, as Helen Wells herself said: there’s no other skill that’s “always needed by everybody, everywhere.”
Harriet Schulman Forman, RN, EdD
Series Editor
CHAPTER I
Fresh Start
IT WAS A HOT AFTERNOON AT THE END OF AUGUST. THE whole Midwest town of Hilton looked wilted. Even this tree-shaded block, and the Ameses’ big, gray frame house and lawn, wore a dusty, tail-end-of-summer look. Cherry, sitting forlorn on the porch steps, debated whether the long summer ever would be over.
“Of course, summer is my favorite season,” she argued to herself. “But I’ve had enough of doing nothing. What I want is a new fall hat and new, exciting things to do!” She wrinkled her nose as if trying to detect any first autumn briskness in the air.
The hot breeze carried to her only the scent of overripe greenery. Cherry sighed and pushed her black curls off her forehead, off the back of her too-warm neck. She fanned her red cheeks, muttering, “Where, oh, where is that mailman?”
