by Helen Wells
Now that Cherry and Mrs. Julian were alone together, the woman sighed and sat down on a bench.
“I’m not feeling very well,” she admitted. “I realize it’s mostly worry and nervousness, being under suspicion about the Ming vase, more than anything physical. I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept a night through since the vase disappeared.”
Cherry suggested things to do to relieve insomnia; a warm, not hot bath before bedtime, a glass of warm milk. “Some people enjoy reading in bed or listening to music from a bedside radio. It frees their minds from the day’s worries.”
Mrs. Julian smiled. “My dear, are you trying to tell me I mustn’t worry about the Ming vase? That’s very good of you. Do you suppose I might stop addressing you formally and call you Cherry?”
Cherry was pleased. When Mrs. Julian asked to be called Anna, Cherry shook her head. “You’re not much older than I am, but you’re firmly fixed in my mind as Mrs. Julian. I couldn’t any more do that than I could call Mr. Dance by his first name.”
“I can’t call him Willard, either,” Anna Julian confided. “Come over here and see the gorgeous necklace he purchased abroad. He’s had it at his apartment ever since he was abroad last year. He says he’d hoped to find a private customer for it. Evidently he didn’t, because here it is.” She led Cherry to a locked display case.
The necklace was of rose diamonds, gems of graduated sizes, set in an intricate design, ending in a medallion which was a burst of fire and color. Cherry had never seen anything so magnificent.
“It must be worth a fortune. It’s worthy of a museum, isn’t it, Mrs. Julian?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, it was designed and made in Vienna about 1800. Probably it belonged to a member of the royal family. I remember seeing jewels in similar designs when my family took me to Vienna as a girl. You notice the rather heavy, clumsy workmanship, which is beautiful in its own way—and the baroque spray designs circling each large diamond. That’s how you place its date and origin.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Dance know its history?” Cherry asked. “After all, he bought it.”
Mrs. Julian made a face. “Mr. Dance doesn’t pretend to know much art history. He says so bluntly. Not that I mean that as a criticism! He is a capable and experienced businessman, and so kind to me.”
“Don’t forget that your knowledge of antiques is valuable to him, too.”
“Yes, Cherry, but who else would keep me on, on my job, after an ugly affair like the Ming vase theft? More than that, Mr. Dance says I can rely on him to help clear my good name, because he is vouching to the detectives for my good character.”
Cherry had not the heart to say she doubted if that would be enough to clear Mrs. Julian. Besides, the store detectives, city police, and insurance detectives were working on the case and they would require more proof than Mr. Dance’s word. Tom Reese had hinted as much.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Mrs. Julian said musingly, “although I trust Willard Dance beyond question. Since he is determined to retain me on his staff, and since he’s promised to clear me, why hasn’t he taken action to clear me? The store detectives, particularly Mr. Pierce, when they questioned me this morning, said nothing about Mr. Dance’s statement on my behalf.”
“Yes, it is hard to understand,” Cherry commented warily.
“Still, perhaps he hasn’t found the propitious moment to speak up for me. I’m sure he will; he promised.”
Mrs. Julian steered the conversation back to the rose diamond necklace, and some of the rare and beautiful furniture. Cherry’s enjoyment of these things gave Mrs. Julian real pleasure.
“You know, Cherry, I have a few small treasures of my own. Nothing as grand and costly as the things here, but still, I would like you to see them. Will you come for tea this Sunday at my apartment?”
“Why—why—I’d love to! Thank you so much, Mrs. Julian.”
Nothing could have pleased Cherry more, for it proved she had won the young woman’s confidence, and it might perhaps give her a chance to help Anna Julian in some way.
“At five this Sunday, then,” said Mrs. Julian, and gave Cherry her address.
CHAPTER V
Mr. Otto and the Music Box
THE FIRST PERSON CHERRY SAW THE NEXT MORNING WHEN she arrived at the sixth floor was Tom Reese.
“Happy new month,” he said. Today, Friday, was the first of December. “Also Merry Christmas,” he said. “I want to break the news to you that starting today, we’ll be open until nine every evening until Christmas. No more days off, either, young lady. You and your assistant had better arrange split schedules between you. You’ll have to work some evenings.”
“Yes, sir! Yes, sir! I’ll requisition an extra cot, too. Speaking of a Merry Christmas, could you please give our toy department’s Santa Claus a present?” She told Tom Reese about the man’s earnest wish for additional Santas.
Tom grinned and said he’d relay the request to the personnel department. “I saw you talking with Mrs. Julian yesterday. How’s she standing up under the strain of cross-examination?”
“It isn’t easy for her. By the way, she’s asked me to tea at her house this Sunday.”
“Oh? That’s nice.”
Tom Reese’s dark eyes sparkled exactly as Cherry’s did. She wondered if Tom realized he and she looked so much alike that some passing employees stared at them.
“Well, Cherry, don’t let the Christmas rush get you down. Maybe I’ll see you sooner than you think,” he said mysteriously and dashed away.
That set the pace. It was hectic. With more employees being hired, with more shoppers pouring into the store, Cherry had plenty to do.
“Lunch?” said Tom Reese, popping in at noon. “The Christmas rush seems to be you,” Cherry said, laughing.
“Well, besides wanting to have lunch with you, I’d like to talk with you about Anna Julian. If she’s invited you to her house, you must be getting to know her pretty well.”
Over sandwiches in the employees’ cafeteria, they tried to think out what they could do together to help Mrs. Julian.
“I’d like to save her job for her, if I can,” Tom said. “If she loses her position here, she won’t secure another one easily. Not with the suspicion of theft hanging over her.”
“There’s one hopeful angle.” Cherry recalled, and repeated Mrs. Julian’s remark that Mr. Dance did not know too much about antiques. Considering that he operated the gallery, he should be well informed on the subject. “Isn’t that reason enough for Mr. Dance to need Mrs. Julian’s expert knowledge, and keep her on?”
“Yes, I should think so.” He added that, at Mr. Dance’s insistence, she would not be questioned any more this week.
Cherry hesitated, then asked Tom a question which was bothering her. “Tell me honestly, does the store seriously suspect Mrs. Julian, or is she imagining some of it?” Or, Cherry added to herself, is Mr. Dance exaggerating it?
“It’s a real and serious suspicion, Cherry. Some of the executives, and at least one of the store detectives, Hal Pierce, are convinced Mrs. Julian is the thief. Pierce swears he’s going to prove it. Some of them wanted to fire her at once, but they’ve agreed she can be observed and questioned better if she remains in the store.”
Tom Reese explained that the insurance company detectives were doing most of the investigating, because it was the insurance company that was losing money on the Ming vase. Tom added that the insurance company’s detective service was a much bigger operation than the store’s service, limited to this building. The insurance company had a few detectives whom they sent all over the United States, in case the thief had taken or sent the vase to another city. And they worked closely with city police.
“With all those men on the job,” Cherry asked, “have they located any clue to the vase?”
“No. Perhaps I should say not yet. Anyway, not all criminals are caught. A happy-go-lucky lunch we’re having, hey?”
“I can’t feel very happy with that po
or woman in trouble,” Cherry said. “Maybe I should be suspicious of her, but a theft is so—so out of character for her.”
“Well, it might be a good idea to keep our minds open. Keep our eyes and ears open, too, and do a mild sort of sleuthing,” Tom said cheerfully.
So Tom was going to try, too, to help Mrs. Julian! He was in a unique position to do so. He was assistant to the store manager, and the store’s protection department—the detectives—reported directly to the store manager. Cherry felt very glad that she had had this lunch with him, and this talk.
Because Tom was in a terrific hurry as usual, Cherry had fifteen minutes of her lunch hour left, so she decided to stop at the antiques department.
Mrs. Julian was there, and free at the moment to talk. She looked haggard.
“You didn’t sleep again last night?” Cherry guessed.
Mrs. Julian shrugged. “I’ve lost five pounds since the vase disappeared.”
“You’re too slim to lose weight. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”
“Even the best doctor couldn’t dispel this dark cloud of suspicion. Oh, let’s change the subject. Cherry, I want to show you a marvelous highboy that just arrived!”
She led Cherry across the department, but Mrs. James with her poodle tucked under her arm stopped her.
“Mrs. Julian, I want to ask you about the history of the rosewood table I purchased.”
“Certainly, Mrs. James. I did start to tell you, didn’t I?”
Mr. Dance, overhearing, came up to say that eight matching rosewood chairs might be available soon, if an estate were settled and offered for sale. He nodded to Cherry as Mrs. Julian moved off with her customer. To be pleasant, Cherry said:
“Mrs. Julian was about to show me a highboy she’s excited about.”
“We’re all thrilled with it. Just look at it, Miss Ames!”
They paused before a simple and magnificent highboy which stood nearly seven feet high. Massive, of gleaming mahogany, it easily outshone anything else in the gallery.
“Just look at the shell carving at the top!” Mr. Dance drew Cherry’s attention to the highboy’s fine points: the exact matching of the wood’s grain, the ease with which the capacious drawers slid open, the fine brass handles, the gracefully turned legs. It had been made in the early eighteenth century, entirely by hand, by a Rhode Island master craftsman for a wealthy sea captain. He had taken it in his clipper ship to China where he sold it to a mandarin for a fortune in jewels.
“So Mrs. Julian tells me,” Mr. Dance said. “The highboy has a long, involved history. I don’t recall everything Mrs. Julian said. It’s nearly priceless.”
Only three such highboys were made. One was in England, privately owned, one was missing, and here was the third.
“These old craftsmen were artists.” Cherry was full of admiration. “How do you ever know where to locate such treasures, Mr. Dance?”
He stroked his balding head in a pleased sort of way. “In this field it’s important to know people who collect antiques, and it’s important for them to know about me. So that, Miss Ames, when someone has a highboy or a vase he wishes to sell, he brings it to me, and I try to sell it for him. Now, take this wonderful highboy—a man who’s just closed his big house, a famous art collector, sent it to me.”
“It doesn’t belong to you, then?” Cherry asked.
“I only wish it were mine. No, Miss Ames, it’s here on loan—on consignment, the usual arrangement, a percentage to me if I can sell it—Otto! When did you get here?”
“You have no time to talk to Otto?” said a heavy voice.
A man brushed past Cherry and forced her aside. She was astonished. What arrogance! She stared at the tall, paunchy, bulletheaded man, and disliked him for his overbearing rudeness.
“So, my friend, the famous highboy has arrived.” Mr. Otto turned his back on Cherry. “You are so sure it is authentic?” His voice rang with mockery. “You don’t mislead your customers?”
“Examine it, Otto,” said Dance deferentially. “I’m awfully glad you could come in today. I’d like you to have a look at the rose diamond necklace as well, and have your opinion.”
Mr. Otto began to talk to Mr. Dance about the technicalities of antiques. Apparently he was a specialist in this field, active as a consultant to Willard Dance. Wasn’t Mr. Otto the one whose telephone calls Dance had complained about? Perhaps, Cherry thought, Dance was just upset that morning because of the theft of the vase. The two men seemed to know each other fairly well.
“Mr. Dance, Mr. Otto,” said Anna Julian, trying to get a word in edgewise, “if you could give me some idea about those rosewood chairs—Mrs. James has left but wants me to notify her.”
“Don’t interrupt, if you please!” Otto dismissed her.
“Later, my dear.” Willard Dance smiled over his shoulder. He returned his full attention to Mr. Otto, who opened an oversized brief case. The case was big and important-looking, and the man carried it as if it were his badge of office.
Mrs. Julian plucked Cherry’s sleeve and urged her away from the two preoccupied men. “What a character!” Cherry muttered under her breath.
“Yes—well—let’s talk of something pleasanter,” Mrs. Julian said. “You’ve seen the highboy?”
They strolled back for another look at the magnificent chest.
“If it’s such a rarity,” Cherry remarked, “it’s a wonder the store isn’t being mobbed by art collectors and museum directors, trying to purchase it.”
Anna Julian smiled. “You’re quite right. We would be mobbed if people knew the highboy was here. As a matter of fact, Adam Heller told me not ten minutes ago that the highboy has been sold.”
“Already! I don’t understand.”
“Yes, the highboy came in only this morning. But that’s not too unusual—”
Mrs. Julian explained to Cherry that in this business art dealers favored certain steady customers, giving them first chance to purchase rarities. It was evident Mr. Dance had notified a preferred customer the instant the highboy had been delivered this morning, and the customer had snapped it up.
“I understand,” Mrs. Julian added, “that a private collector—not a museum or estate—has purchased the highboy. I don’t know his name. Mr. Dance hasn’t said. You know, this is a famous highboy and there could be an awful lot of publicity about its changing hands—newspaper inquiries and photographers wanting to come to the customer’s house. It would be a nuisance to the customer, and Mr. Dance doesn’t want to embarrass him. Later, when the highboy is actually delivered to him, I’m sure the new owner will send a publicity statement to the newspapers and art magazines about his acquisition. Probably soon. It is news.”
As Mrs. Julian talked, Cherry watched Mr. Otto examine an old American painting, inch by inch, under a magnifying glass. Otto might be expert, but he certainly was an unpleasant man.
The week end, fortunately, was pleasanter than the tensions Cherry had been dealing with in the store. Early Saturday evening, after a hectic day’s work, she arrived at the Long Island house to find it full of girls. All the lights were blazing, music filled the living room, and the Spencer Club was in full swing. Aunt Kathy, passing tomato-juice cocktails and canapés, said:
“Don’t look so surprised, Cherry. You know we’re having a house party this week end.”
“Guess I forgot, Aunt Kathy. I’ve been up to my ears in work all day. How are you all? How’s No. 9? Vivian, what a becoming dress!” Vivian flushed with pleasure. After Vivian’s long struggle to earn her own way, a new dress was still an occasion.
“Our fashion plate,” Bertha said with good-humored envy. Bertha was plump from her own good farm-style cooking, and never cared what she wore.
“We waited for you, Cherry, at Pennsylvania Station,” said Mai Lee. “We let three trains pass, thinking you’d be along any minute.”
Cherry thanked her friends and said, “If you knew what that medical department is like on a Saturday—especially before
Christmas. That’s why I’m late.”
“The late Miss Ames,” Gwen chanted.
Aunt Kathy called them all into the dining room for a buffet supper. She was amused by their chatter and by the amounts of refreshments they could consume.
“We’re eating you out of house and home, Mrs. Martin,” said Mai Lee.
“Never mind. I haven’t had so much fun since I was a girl. Only I have never, never heard so much nursing talk in my life!”
Their talking continued far into Saturday night. Aunt Kathy had stowed them away, as Gwen put it, two or three girls to each bedroom. Naturally the six girls did not stay put; all of them congregated in Gwen’s room. At midnight Aunt Kathy sleepily came in.
“Since nobody is going to bed, let’s go downstairs and fix ourselves fried-egg sandwiches or something,”
Having stayed up half the night shortened Sunday considerably. If Cherry hadn’t had an appointment in town with Mrs. Julian, she might not have gotten up until the middle of next week. Nursing was hard, tiring work, no matter how rewarding it could be. Cherry showered, dressed, and found the rest of the sleepy household glowering at her for her virtuous example. Besides, in her zeal, she had a couple of hours left until train time. Cherry filled it by writing letters home. She wasn’t sure what she was writing, what with everyone coming and going and chattering around her. But she expected her family would forgive any incoherence.
In contrast to this jamboree, Mrs. Julian’s apartment was startlingly quiet.
Anna Julian met her at the door, looking more nearly Cherry’s age than she did in the store. Perhaps because she had spent her childhood mostly in Europe and mostly with adults, she had a settled, dignified manner which contrasted with her glowing youth. She wore a softer dress and coiffure, but more than that, Cherry noticed, her expression was pensive and a little anxious—as if, at home, she need not keep up pretenses.
“You’re very nice to make a special trip to visit me,” Mrs. Julian remarked as she led Cherry into the living room.
Cherry had half expected to see another visitor or two, but they were alone. A mantel clock ticked loudly in the stillness of the room. The clock was of porcelain, and so was the tea service which Mrs. Julian had ready on a tole tray. Every furnishing of the small room was chosen with an eye to beauty.
