by Helen Wells
“Can’t we go to the theater this evening?” Martha asked. “It’s that, or work on my notes.”
“Now who’s bullying whom?” Cherry said.
She ordered dinner in their rooms, went downstairs to the hotel lobby, and bought theater tickets and an evening newspaper. There was a story and photographs of the picturesque Shah and his recipes for good living. In his own hothouses he grew the flowers for his buttonhole. To stay healthy, the Shah recommended champagne every day. He couldn’t be bothered with owning a car; when he needed one, he hired one, but had his own uniformed chauffeur. When he sang the school song at reunion dinners, tears ran down his beard.
Martha Logan was so amused, as Cherry read these eccentricities aloud to her during dinner, that she actually ate well for a change. They went on to the theater, and had a fine evening.
On Sunday at one o’clock they met Archibald Hazard at Simpson’s in the Strand. In this formal, high-ceilinged restaurant with its large staff, Mr. Hazard looked small and eager. Cherry was sorry she could not like him better, since he was extending himself to entertain them. Martha Logan was glad to see him.
Once they were seated, they plunged into art talk. Cherry listened and learned, but she was diverted by the handsome people at other tables and by the excellent service and food. Mr. Hazard had ordered roast sirloin of beef and Yorkshire pudding. The roast was brought in on a trolley, and carved for them by a waiter.
“It deserves the lordly treatment,” Mr. Hazard declared. “In each city I visit the very best restaurant serving roast beef. And believe me, Mrs. Logan, I am acquainted with the really fine restaurants of the world.” He made an expansive gesture with his short, plump arms.
Cherry grinned at his fondness for roast beef. She did think he sounded like a phony, with all his pretentious talk, but she could be mistaken.
Now Mr. Hazard described the London art collections he had already visited. Martha Logan listened with interest.
“I’m going to see my friend, Pierre Selsam, at his gallery tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “Poor Miss Cherry will have an overdose of paintings on this trip.”
“Lucky Miss Cherry,” said their host. He hesitated. “I haven’t seen the show at the Selsam yet.”
“Come along with us tomorrow,” Martha invited. “I’m sure Pierre Selsam would be happy to meet you.”
“Why, thanks,” Mr. Hazard said. “I’d enjoy meeting him, and I’d enjoy seeing the exhibit in your company.” They made arrangements for tomorrow.
When lunch was over, Mr. Hazard asked whether he could take them anywhere. Martha Logan explained that they were going now to visit some family friends of hers, in another part of London.
“If you’ll just get a taxi for us, we’ll appreciate it,” Martha requested. She thanked him for a wonderful lunch. Cherry added her thanks, and followed her patient into the taxi.
They had not driven more than two blocks when Martha exclaimed, “That box of American nylon stockings I’m bringing my friends—I left it at the restaurant! I put it on the empty chair at our table and forgot it. How careless of me! Driver, take us back to Simpson’s, please.”
The taxi driver complied. As they pulled up in front of Simpson’s, Cherry was surprised to see Mr. Hazard standing there deep in talk with a stocky, unshaven, roughly dressed man who might have been a mechanic or workman. What was striking was that the two men, so unlike, appeared to be on familiar terms. The workman was arguing with Mr. Hazard, who looked overbearing but was listening. As Cherry stepped out of the taxi, she had a good look at the muscular, dark-haired workman, and at Mr. Hazard’s startled face when his eyes met Cherry’s. Mr. Hazard raised his hat and came forward.
“Have you lost something, Miss Ames?” he asked. “May I help you? I’m obliged to speak to this man,” Mr. Hazard said with some distaste, “but I can get rid of him if you or Mrs. Logan need me—”
Cherry thanked him and said No. Mr. Hazard raised his hat again, and both men walked off down the street.
In the restaurant Cherry recovered the package, and brought it back to Martha Logan. Her patient was sitting with her eyes closed. If she had seen Mr. Hazard and his companion, she did not remark on it. So Cherry let it go, and asked, “Are you in pain?”
“The arm aches a little, but it’s not worth mentioning. No, I’m just resting.” Cherry took her patient’s word and did not offer medication. “Shall we go ahead now, driver?” Martha said.
A half hour’s drive showed them many parts of London—much bigger than New York—with its many parks and tree-filled squares. Up a long hill, they arrived in a spacious neighborhood of houses and walled gardens.
Cherry thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon she spent with Martha Logan’s friends in their garden. Such beautiful flowers! She had never seen such an abundance—nor such giant sweet peas, blooming in September at that—nor such glorious roses! Their hostess told her that flowers and trees thrived in England’s mild, rainy climate, and gathered a bouquet for them. The children of the family took Cherry on a tour of the garden and introduced her to the bullfrog who lived in the little stream. Later in the afternoon, tea was served ceremoniously. Whenever Cherry thought of England after that, she remembered these kind people.
Monday afternoon Martha Logan and Cherry arrived at the Selsam Gallery to find Archibald Hazard already there, one of dozens of persons absorbed in the glowing paintings in the hushed, deeply carpeted rooms. Martha greeted him, and asked an attendant to tell Mr. Selsam that Mrs. Logan and two friends were here.
A very tall, thin, high-strung man quickly came out of an office. Pierre Selsam reminded Cherry of a greyhound.
“Martha! I am glad to see you! But what has happened to your arm?” Pierre Selsam asked, grasping her good left hand.
“A fall, just before I left. But it has provided me with this young nurse who is a delightful traveling companion. Miss Cherry Ames—” Mr. Selsam smiled and shook hands with Cherry, saying she must take the very best care of Mrs. Logan. Cherry smiled back. Martha said, “And this is Archibald Hazard. We met on the plane coming over.”
The two men shook hands, Mr. Hazard saying how much he admired the exhibit. Cherry thought that next to Pierre Selsam, Mr. Hazard appeared much less impressive. She sensed something faintly false or insincere about pompous little Mr. Hazard. Martha Logan said, “How are you, Pierre?”
“Oh, splendid. Won’t you come along to my office where we can have a chat?”
Cherry hung back, so that the two friends could visit in private. But Mr. Hazard marched right into the private office with them, so Cherry went along, too. Pierre Selsam drew up chairs for them, and asked Martha how her children were.
Her face lighted. “Bobby is shooting up like a bean sprout, and Ruth is turning into quite a young lady.” They exchanged personal news for a few minutes. Mr. Hazard riffled through a catalogue with his left hand. He put it aside when Pierre Selsam said the exhibit was drawing record crowds.
“Marvelous show,” Mr. Hazard said. “Finer than any I’ve seen in Paris or New York all year.”
“Very kind of you to say so,” Pierre Selsam said. “It’s quite a responsibility, having nearly a million and a half dollars’ worth of paintings on the premises. Of course the paintings are heavily insured.”
“And of course you have a watchman,” said Martha Logan.
“Oh, yes, I have a watchman patrol the alley all night, and the police make frequent rounds around the clock,” Pierre Selsam said. “During the day I am here with the gallery caretaker, a guard, and the office staff. So I feel reasonably secure.”
Mr. Hazard engaged the gallery owner in a discussion of the Renoirs, which he particularly admired. Cherry thought Mr. Hazard was being very careful in what little he said here this afternoon. The conversation turned to high-powered art investors who bought paintings as shrewdly as they would buy stocks and bonds to sell later on at higher prices. Pierre Selsam shook his head over collectors who cared nothing for art except to make a f
ortune out of trading in paintings.
Then he took his guests on a tour of the several rooms of the gallery, telling them anecdotes about some of the paintings. Cherry was dazzled by the colors and patterns. In the last room, someone knocked at a rear door. The guard unlocked and opened it to a deliveryman, whom he greeted by name and who handed him a carefully wrapped painting. Then the guard closed and locked the rear door again, and tried it to make sure it was locked. Pierre Selsam watched.
“I should think, sir,” Mr. Hazard said, “that you would be as much concerned about any chance of fire as of theft.”
“Indeed, yes. We did have a bit of trouble with a fire last year. That’s why we installed a sprinkler system.” Pierre Selsam pointed out this equipment, which was almost hidden from view. “Oh, I quite overlooked showing you this lovely Monet! Do you know how Monet came to paint this one? …”
It was a privileged visit. Finally Mrs. Logan said they must not take up any more of Pierre’s time. When his three delighted visitors thanked him, Mr. Selsam said, “So happy to see you. Come back for another look some morning when there’s less of a crowd here. Martha, shall I see you again this trip? You Americans are always in such a rush.”
Martha Logan grinned, “I can’t hurry in my present battered state. … Yes, do phone me.”
She was limping with fatigue, Cherry noticed, as they left the art gallery. Cherry recommended that Martha take it easy the rest of the day, and on the following days space out her appointments to allow for periods of relaxation.
“What, no sightseeing?” she protested. “I always enjoy seeing the great sights over and over again. Not that I’d attempt walking through the Tower of London, or Hampton Court Palace and gardens—you’ll have to go by yourself, Cherry, while I’m resting or seeing the publisher or other people.”
So, during the next few days, they followed this plan. Cherry appreciated Martha Logan’s eagerness for her to see as much as possible, but took good care always to put her patient first. She kept watch to see that no swelling occurred in the right hand; if the cast on her right arm were proving too tight, it would constrict circulation and cause her right hand to swell. So far, so good. Cherry frequently changed the dressings on her patient’s legs; the abrasions were healing slowly but satisfactorily.
On Wednesday she escorted her patient to the office of Dr. Alan Bates. It was two weeks since Mrs. Logan’s accident—time to consult Dr. Bates, according to Dr. Merriam’s instructions. Cherry learned that Dr. Bates was one of the topflight medical men in London. He had an assistant X-ray Mrs. Logan’s arm; then the X-rays were developed, and the doctor looked at the film through a lighted view box. He said the arm was healing well, but the cast must remain. He also looked at the patient’s bruised, scraped legs and was satisfied with their condition. Her general health seemed satisfactory.
“You’re doing a good job, Nurse Ames,” Dr. Bates said, then told both Cherry and Martha Logan, “You must have this arm X-rayed again in about two weeks. Where will you be then?” Edinburgh, they answered. “Capital, I shall refer you to an excellent physician there,” Dr. Bates said.
He wrote out the name, Dr. Malcolm MacKenzie, and an address, with a note about his checkup of Mrs. Logan today. He handed these to Cherry.
“Dr. MacKenzie probably will remove the cast,” he said. “In the meantime, Mrs. Logan, take care of yourself. See that she eats well, Nurse Ames, and rests sufficiently.”
They thanked Dr. Bates and left his office.
Their week’s stay in London was all too short. Martha Logan insisted she felt strong enough to take the peaceful boat ride along the Thames to Windsor Castle. Erected by William the Conqueror, and added to by other kings, the castle stood in the greenest countryside Cherry had ever seen. Once, while watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, they were caught in a sudden rain shower—but on the whole, the weather was perfect. By Friday, their last day in London, neither wanted to leave. They decided at breakfast to make the most of the day. Returning to Martha Logan’s room for coats, they turned on the radio for a weather report. A news broadcast came on:
“—robbery at the Selsam Gallery last night,” the announcer was saying. “The thieves stole thirty-five contemporary paintings valued at three hundred and fifty thousand pounds.”
That was more than a million dollars. Mrs. Logan dropped her umbrella. She and Cherry stood motionless, listening.
“Police believe the thieves scaled the flat roofs of the area, bypassing the street and alley where a night watchman was on duty. The thieves forced open a rear door of the gallery, a fire-escape door, apparently using a small crowbar. They cut the paintings out of their frames, and left the empty frames on walls and floor.
“The robbery was discovered at seven o’clock this morning by the gallery caretaker, who comes in early to clean.
“The caretaker immediately called the police, and Scotland Yard is throwing out a massive dragnet for the thieves. Detectives are making an intensive search in the Mayfair area for clues. Ports and airports are being closely watched for the paintings, which, gallery owner Pierre Selsam believes, the thieves may try to smuggle immediately out of England to Russia or South America, to sell there. Interpol has been notified—”
“Poor Pierre!” Martha exclaimed.
The radio announcer went on. “The theft is one of the biggest and most daring ever staged in Britain. Mr. Selsam, interviewed within the hour, said the paintings were insured, but stressed that works of art are unique and irreplaceable. Mr. Selsam, profoundly shocked, pointed out that the theft was apparently masterminded by someone with a keen knowledge of art, who had selected only the finest works. Among the paintings stolen were—”
Martha Logan turned the radio off. “I don’t want to hear any more,” she said, and sat down, looking miserable. “My poor friend!” In a moment she remarked, “Well, I’m at least going to call Pierre.”
She telephoned and told the gallery owner how shocked and sorry she was. After a short conversation she hung up.
“Pierre Selsam says,” she told Cherry, “that the police do not suspect anyone in particular, so far. You know, hundreds of persons freely walk into an art gallery—the thieves could be anyone.”
“No clues at all?” Cherry asked.
“None,” Martha replied. “Can you imagine how shocked Mr. Hazard must be at this news? He greatly admired those Renoirs. … That reminds me, I promised to call him up once more before we left. Would you mind putting the call through for me?”
“Not at all,” Cherry said. She telephoned the Ritz, only to learn Archibald Hazard had checked out an hour ago. “Aren’t you a little surprised he didn’t phone you to say goodbye?” Cherry asked Mrs. Logan.
“No, the last time we saw him, Mr. Hazard told me he was rather busy,” Martha replied. “It would have been a nice courtesy if he had phoned, but not necessary. We’re just casual acquaintances.”
The Selsam robbery left them feeling glum, but they went ahead with a morning of leisurely sightseeing. When they returned to their hotel, Cherry found she had again missed a telephone call from Peter Holt. This time he had left a message:
“Positively will see you in Stratford-upon-Avon next week!”
CHAPTER V
Cherry Meets Peter Again
CHERRY FELT ENCOURAGED. HER PATIENT SEEMED MUCH better on Saturday. She did not tire during the morning bus ride from London through rolling country to Oxford. In fact, she struck up lively conversations among the other American tourists who filled the bus. They said goodbye to their new acquaintances on reaching the ancient university town. Martha Logan had an appointment that afternoon with a scholar of English history, and research to do in the incomparable libraries.
Cherry escorted her from one medieval, formidable gray-stone building to another, and took notes for her. On the way they had glimpses of chapels, stone arcades, gardens, and bell towers. A few masters and students were here early, before the school term started. That ev
ening Cherry and Martha dined on beefsteak stew, pickled walnuts, and Queen’s pudding, and slept that night in high-ceilinged old bedrooms. Next morning they attended a formal Sunday church service, then lunched and boarded a bus for Stratford-upon-Avon.
Nearing Stratford they saw, at a distance, several brightly dressed young persons on bicycles. Cherry wondered if they might be Peter Holt’s students.
Cherry fell in love on sight with Shakespeare’s little town, deep in the country. Their bus drove beside the gentle River Avon, where swans glided under willow trees. As the bus turned onto cobblestoned High Street, Cherry exclaimed, “Why, this is just a pleasant country town!” Its rows of Tudor half-timbered brick and plaster houses, with their latticed windows and flowering window boxes, looked inviting and homelike.
Martha smiled at Cherry’s delight. “If Will Shakespeare were to come back,” she said, “he’d find his town little changed.”
They alighted from the bus at one of the two or three big inns in Stratford. Cherry registered for her patient and herself, and was seeing about their luggage when someone said:
“Oh, there you are! I figured that any day now you’d turn up either at the Falcon Inn or the Welcombe or here. I’ve been inquiring at all of them.”
Cherry turned and saw Peter Holt, looking delighted and sunburned. He wore tennis clothes and carried a racket. He pumped Cherry’s hand, greeted Martha Logan, and invited them to have tea with him right now, all in one breath. Cherry was pleased to see him again—and knew she must be showing it; otherwise, why did Martha look so amused? Martha said: “Why don’t you two have tea together? I’ll just go up to my room and work on my notes.” But Peter persuaded her to come along, and escorted them to a tearoom next door to the inn.
They had just sat down, and were deciding on orange squash instead of hot tea, when a very tall, very thin, fair young man in tennis clothes stopped at their table.
