by Helen Wells
“I’ll read it when I get home,” Bunny said in a bright, artificial voice that could not have fooled anyone. “Er—do you think this hazy sky means we’ll have rain?”
They discussed weather—a display of two acquaintances innocently chatting—but with such strain that they gave themselves away as strangers, Cherry thought. When they said goodbye and separated, one of the children blurted out:
“Daddy, I never saw that lady before. Not anywheres, Daddy.”
That settled it. Cherry sprinted for the stairs. By the time Bunny stepped off the elevator, Cherry was waiting for her. Bunny headed for an exit, with Cherry right behind her but at a discreet distance.
Out on the street Bunny, on her stiltlike heels, clambered into a taxi. It started off through Central Park. Cherry hailed another taxi, and followed her. She had no idea who Bunny was—she did not resemble Mrs. Wick, and was about ten years younger. But she was connected with Bally, and Bally was a doubtful figure in Cherry’s mind. She remembered another plain white unaddressed envelope that the messenger had delivered to Mrs. Wick one morning. Did such an envelope contain money—a payoff? Bunny seemed to be a go-between.
The taxi ahead left Central Park and went down Fifth Avenue. Just in case Bunny had noticed her, Cherry reversed the silk coat to its beige side, removed her sunglasses and her cap. She met the taxi driver’s baffled eyes in the rear-vision mirror.
Now the taxi ahead was pulling up in front of a shop. Cherry called, “Let me out here,” paid her fare in haste, and jumped out.
The taxi driver said, “You aren’t the same girl who got in—”
But Cherry was already following Bunny into a shop whose windows displayed gloves, handbags, and luggage.
Fortunately the shop was large. Bunny went to the section displaying purses. Cherry took one sweeping look around, and realized that if she sat down at the glove counter, she could keep her back to Bunny and still be near enough to hear. She could recognize Bunny’s voice asking a saleswoman:
“Have you a handbag in red alligator? Or red lizard? Something not too bulky, please.”
“Yes, madam. We have some really beautiful imports. One moment, I will bring them to you.”
Meanwhile, another salesclerk had approached Cherry, who said very softly that she was waiting for someone, and did not wish to see any gloves. The salesclerk withdrew. Then Cherry noticed a mirror reflecting another mirror that gave her a view of Bunny and the red lizard handbag she was considering buying. It was shaped like a miniature of a doctor’s satchel. The red purse pleased Bunny. Cherry heard her say, “It’s lovely. I’ll take it.”
“I know you’ll enjoy using it,” said Bunny’s saleswoman. “This is a one-of-a-kind design, so you won’t find any other woman carrying your handbag. Is this to be charged, madam?”
“I’ll pay for it now. How much is it?”
The saleswoman named the price, nearly a hundred dollars. It left Cherry staggered. The plump, pretty woman called Bunny looked affluent but not rich. What extravagance!
Bunny, seen in the mirror, was not surprised nor appalled by the price. The saleswoman offered a pen, as if she expected the customer to pay by check. Instead, Bunny opened her handbag, took out a plain white envelope, and extracted several bills. Cherry had to tell herself Don’t stare. Was it the same envelope Bally had slipped to her? If Bunny were only a go-between, Cherry thought, would she be spending the money from Bally? Or was Bunny a principal? Who was she in relation to Irene Wick?
“And shall we send the handbag, madam?” the saleswoman asked.
Bunny hesitated. “I would like to have it nicely wrapped in its own box.”
“Yes, certainly. Your name and address, madam?” The saleswoman held her pencil over her salesbook.
Cherry grew tense, listening, waiting. Bunny fussed with the red handbag, making up her mind.
“I think I’ll take it with me,” Bunny said.
Cherry was disappointed. She had hoped to find out Bunny’s last name and where she lived. Well, she’d have to keep following her. Bunny was indiscreet, she thought, to display in public this much money. A wad of money …
Cherry remembered finding the hidden money at the Youngs’ the morning after Mrs. Wick had complained of holdups and robberies in her street. Was she afraid to carry home a big sum of money? Money from her uniform pocket, patients’ fees, which she had never turned over to the doctors? Afraid she, too, would be held up, or robbed?
Was this why Irene Wick used a go-between?
Suddenly, with a flutter of skirts and too-high heels, Bunny was leaving the shop. Cherry hurried out after her. Bunny, now carrying a box, was vaguely looking around as if debating where to go next. Her random gaze fell on Cherry. Did a frown of recognition—of doubt—cross the woman’s face? Cherry averted her own face.
Clumsily Bunny got herself and her box into the taxi just ahead. Cherry took the next taxi and followed to Grand Central railroad station. She trailed the woman across the huge waiting room.
“I hope she goes to a ticket window,” Cherry thought, “so I can stand in line behind her and hear what town she buys a ticket for.”
But Bunny trotted past the ticket windows and went directly to the train gates. She went through Gate 12 and vanished down a ramp to where a train stood waiting.
Cherry could follow no farther. She did not have much money left, for one thing. More important, she wanted to complete some reports at Dr. Fairall’s. Grey was to meet her there late that afternoon.
Reluctantly Cherry turned to leave. Still, she could do one thing: read the list of towns where the train departing from Gate 12 would stop. Cherry murmured the names of nearby upstate and Connecticut towns: Tarrytown, Ossining, Croton-on-Hudson, then Greenhill, Peekskill, and others.
“Too bad! A wild-goose chase.” Cherry sighed, and recrossed the vast terminal. “Space enough in here for a dozen dinosaurs to roam,” she thought, trying to cheer herself up.
She walked across Forty-second Street, west toward Broadway where she’d take a bus to Dr. Fairall’s. Passing the stately Fifth Avenue Library Building in Bryant Park, Cherry remembered the open shelves of telephone directories from all over the United States—from all over the world. She’d bet Bunny’s name and address were in there, if she only knew them!
Who was Bunny?
For that matter, who was Mrs. Irene Wick? Cherry knew nothing about her training or her record on previous jobs. She hoped Dr. Fairall knew.
On the bus she wondered what references Irene Wick had given him. Well, Irene Wick’s references must have been satisfactory for Dr. Fairall to entrust his patients, the management of his office, and his financial affairs to her.
CHAPTER X
A Letter of Reference
REACHING THE BROWNSTONE, CHERRY FOUND GREY was already there. He was working alone in shirtsleeves in the laboratory, doing his own biochemical test on a case whose progress did not satisfy him.
“Checking Dottie’s findings?” Cherry asked from the doorway.
Grey looked, up, with the gas burner’s flame reflected in his serious eyes. He half smiled. “Dottie’s work is accurate. No, I’m exploring another diagnostic possibility. An idea Bill Fairall suggested.”
“For the Matty Miller case?” This was a possible blood disorder.
“Yes. All right, I’m about finished. I’ve got most of the answer now, I think.” Grey turned off the Bunsen burner, and with a long-handled tongs, moved the filled test tube to a wooden stand to cool. “Cherry, don’t let me forget to cork this test tube before we leave here.”
“Yes, Doctor. And I wish you’d give me some information.”
Grey washed his hands at the lab sink, smiling over his shoulder at her and listening. As Cherry described the afternoon’s events, his smile faded.
“What an ugly business,” Grey said. “You be careful, Cherry. If you do any more investigating, I’m going with you.”
Cherry thanked him with a look. He put on his jacket, re
membered to cork the test tube, and waited for her to precede him along the hall.
“You just asked me about Mrs. Wick’s references,” Grey said. “I never knew about that. But I know where Bill Fairall keeps his personnel records. I don’t think he’d mind if I had a look.”
Grey Russell led Cherry into Dr. Fairall’s office, to the bookshelves. Grey pointed behind some big reference books to a small desk-size file. It was half out of sight and had been casually left unlocked. Grey lifted out a folder marked Wick.
“It contains just one letter of reference,” Grey said, and showed Cherry the otherwise empty folder.
“You read the letter,” Cherry said. “I don’t feel I have the right to.”
“Well,” Grey said, after reading it a minute, “this is from a woman physician Irene worked for, for seven years. It recommends Irene highly. Here, at least have a look at the letterhead.”
At the top of the page was printed:
MARY LEEDS KING, M.D.
14275 Crescent Drive, Greenhill, Connecticut
Telephone: 203 Greenhill 9–7272
“Greenhill,” Cherry murmured. That was one of the towns on the route Bunny had taken.
“Hmm?” Grey said. “What about Greenhill?” Cherry explained, and Grey said, “For cat’s sake!”
He reached for the telephone on Dr. Fairall’s desk. “Shall we dial that number and see what we can learn?”
“Wait a minute,” Cherry said. “I respectfully suggest, Doctor, that we look up Dr. Mary Leeds King in the Greenhill telephone directory and in a medical directory. Then telephone.”
“Look her up. To find out what?” Grey demanded.
“Whether Dr. Mary King exists. Or whether Irene Wick invented her. I mean, lied about her.”
“But look here, Cherry, this printed stationery isn’t faked—” Then Grey’s face changed. “Well, yes, I see what you mean. A few dollars spent on stationery in order to make a fake reference appear authentic—”
“Exactly.” Cherry said. “Any woman, who’s in cahoots with Irene, could answer the phone and say ‘Yes, this is Dr. Mary King, and I can tell you Irene Wick is a fine medical secretary.’ Any woman. Maybe Bunny.”
Grey stared into space somewhere over Cherry’s head. “I have another idea. Let’s call this number and ask for Bunny. See where that gets us.”
“Right! You’re a smarty!” Cherry said. “Wait—How do we know Bunny isn’t Dr. King’s nickname?”
“A good point,” Grey said. “But we’ll still want to check the directories, as you suggested.”
Grey said he was for phoning now because it was still not quite five o’clock, and Dr. King might still be available for a professional call. Whereas if they delayed phoning, they could not be sure of reaching Dr. King on a Saturday evening or a Sunday. “We might only reach the answering service over the weekend,” Grey pointed out.
Cherry agreed. She did not want to wait in ignorance until Monday, either.
So Dr. Grey Russell dialed 203 GR 9–7272, and handed the telephone to Cherry. Grey said under his breath, “You talk. A woman’s voice could seem like one of her patients or neighbors.” Cherry held the receiver end of the phone so that Grey could listen with her. They heard the phone ringing, and waited. After a long wait the faint, high voice of a child said, “H’lo?”
Cherry said, “Is Bunny there?”
“Who?” said the small voice.
“Bunny. I’d like to speak to Bunny.”
A pause. “My mother isn’t here now. My mother—I mean Bunny—is out.”
“Oh, yes,” said Cherry. She waited, to give the child time to say something more. Perhaps to ask, “Is this you, Mrs. Wick?” But that did not happen, so Cherry said, “Well, thank you very much.”
“Welcome. ‘Bye,” and the child hung up. Cherry hung up, too. Grey shook his head.
“Dr. Mary King, huh?” he said. “Well, there’s still a small chance that this may be her phone number. Let’s go check those directories.”
Cherry decided that the reports she had come here to complete could just as well wait until Monday. She went with Grey to the Fifth Avenue Library.
In the telephone directory for the Greenhill area there was no Dr. Mary Leeds King listed. There was no one named Wick listed, either.
They consulted directories of two years ago, as well as current directories, in order to give Mrs. Wick the benefit of the doubt. Still no Dr. King.
“She doesn’t exist,” Grey concluded, after they had spent an hour checking. “Irene Wick’s reference—her one and only reference—is an outright fraud!”
The fact was baldly obvious: Bunny had posed by letter as Dr. Mary King.
“If Irene Wick got her job by lying,” Cherry said to Grey, “what else won’t she do, to lie and cheat?”
“She could rob us three doctors blind,” Grey said. “That probably was her original intention, probably why she went to such trouble to get this job in the first place.”
“But why couldn’t Irene have gotten the job honestly?” Cherry asked. “She is a skillful, experienced medical secretary.”
Grey said dryly, “Maybe she robbed her previous doctor-employers and got found out. That could be one reason why she had no honest references to show Bill Fairall.”
They left the Fifth Avenue Library’s marble halls and strolled in the cool greenery of Bryant Park. It was dusk; the city was growing quiet.
“Is Mrs. Wick stealing from us?” Grey said. “We’ve got to find out for sure. And prove it.”
“If we knew more about Bunny, who her collaborator is—”
“Yes, that’s one lead,” Grey interrupted. “You and I could drive up to Greenhill tomorrow. Sunday. Want to?” Cherry nodded.
“What about that salesman Bally?” Cherry asked, and then answered herself, “We can’t approach Bally. He’d only tip off Irene Wick.”
“I wonder how important Bally is in this presumed racket,” Grey said. “Don’t you feel Irene is the key figure?”
“Yes,” Cherry said. “An odd thing—Bally seems scared to death of Mrs. Wick.”
They strolled for a while without saying anything. Then Grey said glumly that during the coming week at work, they would try to keep Irene Wick under surveillance.
“First thing Monday, we’d better tell Dr. Fairall everything we’ve learned,” Grey said. “You’ve learned. Maybe he’ll want to notify his lawyer, Arnold Goldsmith.”
“Lawyer,” Cherry repeated. She thought for a minute. “What about Dr. Fairall’s accountant? Shouldn’t he be notified, too? I didn’t like it when Irene nearly blew up just because I offered to help her with the bookkeeping. Why is she so guarded and touchy?”
Grey had stopped stock-still in the leafy path. “My word,” he said softly, “why didn’t any of us realize at the time?”
Cherry raised her puzzled eyes to his. Grey explained:
“Dr. Fairall used to hire a firm of certified public accountants, CPA’s, to come to the office every three months and analyze the ledgers and charge cards. The CPA’s would make up a balance sheet showing our profit or loss, and they’d prepare the quarterly tax forms. But—”
“But what?” Cherry said.
“But Irene Wick pointed out to Dr. Fairall, after she’d been on the job for about a month, that she could do the quarterly audit, as a regular part of her job. Then he wouldn’t have to hire the CPA’s and pay their fee. I see what Irene was up to! I see! ‘Saving’ Dr. Fairall some money, she called it.”
“This means nobody at all checks on—or even looks at—Irene’s bookkeeping,” Cherry said, appalled. “She could steal and steal, and nobody would ever be the wiser.”
Grey nodded. “What a racket!” he said. “You know, Cherry, most medical secretaries are dedicated to their professions and to the patients. I’d as soon suspect a medical secretary as I would another doctor or a nurse. That’s how Irene Wick has been able to—presumably—impose on us! She’s traded on the trustworthiness, the
honor of a respected profession.”
Cherry smiled faintly. “In short, our Mrs. Wick who is so genteel and conscientious and takes such a pride in her work—may be a thief.”
CHAPTER XI
Greenhill
CHERRY AND GREY MADE AN EARLY START ON SUNDAY morning.
“I’d rather be going in another direction, to Prescott,” Cherry said to the young doctor as they drove up the Sawmill River Parkway.
“So would I,” Grey said. “But this job has to be done.”
Greenhill turned out to be smaller and older than Cherry had expected, with great elm trees. Homes in spacious grounds lined the main street. Grey said they should go first to the leading pharmacy in their search for information.
A traffic policeman directed them to Brown’s Pharmacy. They parked in front of the county courthouse with its American flag waving in the breeze, and walked across the sunny, deserted square to a row of shops. Only a few food shops and the pharmacy were open on Sunday. Mr. Brown was there, a whitehaired, pink-faced gentleman, opening up for a few hours.
“My family has run this pharmacy for three generations,” he told Grey and Cherry, “and we never yet have expected our employees to work on a Sunday. What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’m Dr. Grey Russell”—the young man showed his credentials—“and this is my nurse, Cherry Ames. We need some information, Mr. Brown.”
The pharmacist made a slight, respectful bow. “Glad to help you. Hope I can.”
“Do you know where we can find a Dr. Mary Leeds King?” Grey asked.
“Why, pshaw, there’s no Dr. King around here! Never was. What’d you say?—Mary Leeds? Never any doctor by that name, neither,” said Mr. Brown. “And I’ve worked here since I was a boy. Maybe she’s a dentist? No? … A chemist? Or a veterinarian?”
Cherry bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. Imagine Mrs. Wick’s outrage if her “reference” had come from the local dog and cat doctor!
