“But when?” Caro asked. “There’s supposed to be a going-away gathering after dinner. That’s what Matron Polly told me.”
“After that, then,” Jimmy insisted.
“Okay,” Caro said. “Right before lights-out. We can meet back here.”
Caro’s instructions required Jimmy to go first to Mrs. George’s office and after that to find Melissa. She was in the north parlor reading the new Archie comic book—this one with Jughead on the cover. Jimmy was grateful she was by herself.
“Use the telephone?” Melissa’s eyes widened when he told her what he wanted. “But . . . I’ve never dialed one before, let alone spoken into it. I wouldn’t know how.”
“It’s easy. I’ll dial for you. Then I’ll give you the receiver, and you talk into it like you’re talking to me.”
“But how do you even know what telephone number to dial?” Melissa asked. Jimmy showed her the paper where he’d written it down. She was impressed, but she was not done arguing. “I don’t like mice any more than anybody else does,” she said.
“We’re not doing it for the mice, exactly,” Jimmy said. “We’re doing it for Caro. And before you ask, I can’t tell you why. Maybe later I can.”
Melissa teased him. “Jimmy: Man of Mystery—it sounds like a new radio hero.” She shrugged, rolled her comic book into a tube, and stood up. “Okay, sure, why not? What’s a few more demerits?”
It wasn’t really in Jimmy’s vocabulary to say thank you. So he didn’t. He just started walking. “Mrs. Spinelli has a telephone in her office. She won’t hear us. She’s too busy clanking pots while she makes dinner. Come on.”
The cook’s office was in the back corner of the home, across a narrow service hallway from the kitchen. For the second time that afternoon, Jimmy was entering unfamiliar territory. In summer, it was stifling hot in this part of the ground floor when Mrs. Spinelli was cooking, and Jimmy felt his shirt dampen with sweat.
The door to the closet-sized office was open, probably for ventilation. Inside, the desk was tidy, the only paper on the blotter a neatly written list for the coming week’s grocery delivery. The black telephone was beside the blotter.
Jimmy had gotten the number from the address book Mrs. George kept on her desk: Delaware 2-2618. Now he looked at the dial on the telephone. The truth was, he had never used a telephone, either, but it seemed as if it should be easy. He knew he was supposed to dial 3 and 3, which corresponded with D and E for Delaware—then the rest of the number. He put his finger in the hole next to the 3 and brought the dial around till it stopped.
“I think you have to lift up the receiver first,” Melissa whispered. “Then you listen for a hum. That’s the dial tone.”
“Sure,” Jimmy said. “I knew that.”
He tried again. The process—twisting the dial, releasing it, and waiting as it fell back—seemed to take forever, but at last the seven digits were complete. Then—as if it were a hot potato—he handed the receiver to Melissa, who put it to her ear and frowned.
This part also seemed to take forever. Why wasn’t Melissa talking? Wasn’t there anybody at the other end to answer the telephone? He had a terrible thought. Could the business be closed? If it was closed—what would happen then?
Finally—to Jimmy’s great relief—Melissa spoke, and her voice was an uncanny imitation of the boss’s. “Hello? Yes, hello? This is Mrs. Helen George at the Cherry Street Children’s Home. I wish to cancel the services of your exterminator gentleman who previously was appointed to come here tomorrow morning.” There was a pause, and she said, “Yes, that is correct. And you are mighty welcome, for sure. Good-bye.”
Melissa hung up the receiver, took a deep breath, let it out, and grinned. “I did it!”
“Why did it take so long before anybody answered?” Jimmy asked.
“She said she was the after-hours answering service,” said Melissa. “She said she’d make sure they got the message.”
Jimmy sighed with relief. He had put on a good show for Melissa, but really he had been scared of failing and scared of getting caught. They could still get caught if they didn’t hurry.
For the length of time it took Jimmy and Melissa to return to the foyer from Mrs. Spinelli’s office, they reveled in their accomplishment. Once in the foyer, however, they realized that something had happened, something strange. Except for the girls on kitchen duty, all the children were gathered there, along with Matron Polly and Mr. Donald. It was unnaturally quiet, and everyone looked worried.
“What is it?” Melissa asked Betty.
Betty shook her head. “We don’t understand it, either, but the boss asked Matron to look at all the girls’ shoes.”
“Our shoes?” Melissa couldn’t help looking down at her own, which were lace-up oxfords, same as everyone else’s—nothing remarkable about them. “Do I have to show her mine?”
Betty shook her head. “Not anymore. She must’ve found what she was looking for. Matron sent Caro to the boss’s office. She hasn’t come out yet.”
“But what’s the matter?” Melissa asked. “I don’t understand.”
Betty bit her lip. “It’s something bad, Melissa. The boss was in a fury. I’ve never seen her like that.”
Chapter Fifty
Caro was not at dinner.
And Mrs. George did not come in to make announcements.
Instead, it was Matron Polly who told the children about their field trip to the park the next day. They would leave early because the exterminator was coming to take care of the mouse problem.
Melissa and Jimmy looked at each other, but neither smiled. After what had happened since their telephone call, they didn’t feel like smiling.
“Where’s Caro?” It was Ricky who asked Matron Polly the question they were all thinking. Dinner was over, but the children were still seated at the two long tables in the dining room. Standing before them, Matron Polly looked uncomfortable.
“I believe she is with Mrs. George,” Matron Polly said.
“But why?” Barbara asked.
“And why did she pack her things?” asked Virginia.
“And what’s the matter with her shoes?” asked Annabelle.
Matron Polly, usually the most placid of women, lost her temper. “Carolyn has been adopted. She is leaving tomorrow morning. I believe she is spending her last evening with Mrs. George in her private apartment. That’s all I know. Now, you children—you be quiet, all of you. It’s nothing to do with you. You hear me?”
Adopted!
Imagine that! Sure, she was nice as could be, but she had those awful scars!
And why was it a secret? Weren’t they going to say good-bye? It almost never happened that older children were adopted, but when it did, they always said good-bye.
Disconsolate and puzzled, the children dispersed. It was still light outside, and some of the boys went out to the yard to play kickball. Jimmy would have been among them, but instead he went back to the intermediate boys’ dorm, lay down on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.
Alone among the children, he knew exactly what had happened. Caro must have stepped in the ink. Mrs. George had seen the footprint, looked for the ink-stained shoe, found it. So Mrs. George knew that Caro had been in her apartment today, but Caro had not told her that Jimmy had been there, too. If Caro had told her, by now Jimmy would be in trouble, too.
Caro was loyal, a true friend.
But now where was she? Hidden somewhere, most likely. Mrs. George must be afraid she might say something to someone else about what she had found. Tomorrow, Caro would be safely out of the way. She would disappear . . . just like Charlie.
Jimmy didn’t believe in any nice family with two little girls. He knew more about these things than Caro. He knew from the other boys that there were orphanages much different from Cherry Street, ones that took kids in and made them work like slaves, didn’t even send them to school.
Was Mrs. George such a monster that she would send Caro to a place like that?
Jimmy was
independent, self-sufficient, and accustomed to making his own way. But right now, he felt hopeless and alone. Wherever Caro was tonight, Mrs. George was not going to let Jimmy near her. And tomorrow would be too late. A man was coming in an automobile to take Caro away.
With Melissa’s help, Jimmy had saved the mice. But how was he going to save Caro?
Wait a minute. With Melissa’s help . . . Jimmy had the beginning of an idea. Maybe there was something he could do.
Chapter Fifty-One
Bayard Boudreau thought of himself as a driver, and when some acquaintance at the bar chanced to ask how he made his living, that was what he answered. There was a little more to it, but no sense alarming his new friend or taking the chance he might be a cop or, worse, FBI.
Bayard had also noticed, over the years, that a certain type of accommodating lady was impressed by the pistol in his jacket. Whether the lady took him to be lawman or outlaw didn’t necessarily matter, and he didn’t go to great lengths to clarify, either.
Bayard had never stopped to think much about what some might call the moral implications of the business enterprise of which he was a part. It was illegal, he knew that, and because he regularly had to cross state lines, he could be put away for a lot of years if he was dumb enough to let the feds catch him. But he figured the right or wrong of running a workhouse for kids nobody wanted was not up to him. That was Mr. Puttley’s lookout.
Anyway, he had only had to use his gun in the line of work the one time when the kid tried to pull a penknife on him. The look of fear on the brat’s face when he saw the gun had been downright comical. And he hadn’t actually shot the kid. Mr. Puttley wouldn’t have liked that. A swift blow to the temple with the gun butt had been enough. After that, the brat was quiet as could be.
On the whole, Bayard Boudreau liked his job. It wasn’t hard, and the pay was all right. Just about the only thing Bayard Boudreau did not like was getting up early. So when he telephoned Mr. Puttley to find out about that pickup the next morning and learned it was scheduled for seven-thirty a.m., he felt pretty grumpy about it.
Still, you didn’t want to say no to Mr. Puttley, and you didn’t want to be late, either, or anyway not so late that Mr. Puttley would hear about it. Bayard was staying at a Broad Street rooming house, not far from Cherry Street. He made a vow to himself to turn in early. But first, he’d pay just a quick visit to a local saloon he knew. A couple of drinks wouldn’t hurt.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Caro awoke in a room that was pitch-dark and smelled like mothballs. She was enveloped in sheets and a blanket, but she was not in a bed. She seemed to be lying on cushions on the floor. And she was still wearing her clothes.
Gradually, the previous evening came back to her. Called into Mrs. George’s office, confronted with her ink-stained shoes, Caro had admitted to having been in the apartment, but had refused to say anything else. It was strange, but the more Mrs. George had ranted and raved, the easier Caro had found it to be quiet. She never told about Jimmy or seeing the money in the freezer. As for explaining why she had gone to the apartment in the first place—well, she couldn’t, could she?
How could anyone have explained about the mice and the newspaper story and the key?
When at last Mrs. George’s energy flagged, Caro saw clearly what Jimmy had known all along. In spite of the photographs and the plaques and the letters from famous people, in spite of Caro’s desperate need to believe in her, Mrs. George was a sham. Caro wasn’t sure where the money in the freezer came from, but she thought it had something to do with Baby Charlie. Was it possible to sell a baby?
Caro had to think through a haze of drowsiness to reconstruct what had happened next. After Mrs. George had calmed down, she had offered cookies and tea, and Caro had said yes gratefully. She was thirsty and hadn’t eaten dinner. The tea had lots of sugar in it, but even so it tasted bitter.
After that, Caro didn’t remember anything.
Now, even in her muddled state, she understood what must have happened. There had been something in the tea, some kind of sleeping medicine.
Caro could see a line of light under the door to the cramped space where she lay. Could she be in the boss’s apartment? And it was morning. But what time? Was the man still coming in the automobile to take her away? Where was she going?
Not to the well-off family with the two little sisters. That beautiful picture had been a lie.
Chapter Fifty-Three
When Mrs. George realized that Carolyn wouldn’t tell her what she’d been doing in her apartment or what she had seen, she had left her momentarily in Polly’s care and used Mrs. Spinelli’s telephone to call Judge Mewhinney for advice. He, luckily, thought of the prescription powder he took to help him sleep and rushed over with two doses for Mrs. George to stir into Carolyn’s tea.
Later, he had carried the sleeping child upstairs.
Now it was morning. Mrs. George rose early but waited till the last moment to awaken Carolyn. When she judged it was time, she opened the door of the walk-in closet, turned on the light, and knelt by the makeshift bed on the floor. Carolyn made a face but did not open her eyes. Mrs. George shook her shoulders.
“Carolyn? Dear, it’s time to get up. The gentleman will be here in a moment to take you to your new family. Remember? Today’s the day!”
“I know.” Carolyn opened both eyes, and Mrs. George wondered if she’d been playing possum. “And I don’t want to go.”
“Nonsense, of course you do. You’re just sad to leave your friends. But I assure you you’re going to be much happier with your own family.”
Carolyn still didn’t move. Mrs. George glanced at her watch: 7:25. Perhaps she shouldn’t have waited so long to wake the girl. She didn’t want Mr. Puttley’s driver to be seen lurking around outside. There was no telling what type he might be.
“Carolyn dear, I must insist. On your feet now.”
“Where am I? Why didn’t I sleep in my own bed? Why am I still in my clothes?”
Dear heaven, could the child move more slowly? “I’ll tell you everything when you’re awake enough to hear it.”
That worked. Carolyn sat up and rubbed her eyes. Mrs. George explained that she had been unwell the evening before, and so Mrs. George had decided to keep her upstairs in her own apartment as a precaution.
Did Carolyn believe her? How much did she remember? There was no way to know.
“I can’t travel like this,” Carolyn complained. “I’m all rumpled. My face isn’t even washed.”
“Yes, I know. My bathroom is here. There is a clean towel on the counter, and I’ve brought clean clothes up from your trunk.”
When, a few minutes later, Carolyn emerged dressed, Mrs. George steered her out the door and down the stairs.
“Ma’am, where is my trunk? My suitcase? Will I be able to say good-bye to the others?”
The sleeping powder must have been potent, Mrs. George thought. Carolyn’s speech was slightly slurred, and she was much more petulant than usual. On the whole, though, it was just as well if she wasn’t thinking too clearly.
“The driver will take your trunk to the car for you,” said Mrs. George. “And you already said your good-byes, don’t you remember?”
“No,” Carolyn said. “I don’t.”
Mrs. George didn’t bother to contradict her. They were at the foot of the stairs now. Mrs. George’s watch read 7:35. Mr. Puttley prided himself on the efficiency of his operations, so his man would be waiting. But when they stepped into the foyer, there was only Carolyn’s trunk.
And whose voices were those she heard coming from the dining room? The exterminator was due shortly. The other children should have left for the park by now.
Could something have gone wrong?
Chapter Fifty-Four
Frank Kittaning had a cordial relationship with Helen George at the Cherry Street Children’s Home . . . but he did not like her. The trouble was the disjunction between her personality and her job. She was cool, analyti
cal, and authoritative, qualities that might have made her an excellent banker, business owner, or attorney. But instead, she ran a home for orphans, orphans she cared about primarily because they were the stock in trade of an orphanage.
Frank Kittaning liked children, and disliked the idea of a person indifferent to them being in charge. Still, he could find no fault with the Cherry Street Home, and in a job where he frequently saw children mistreated, this was a relief. The last thing an overworked child welfare inspector wanted was to make work for himself.
All of this is to say that Frank Kittaning was surprised when the switchboard rang through with a call from Helen George on a Saturday morning. By rights, he should not even have been at his desk. But he was working on the case of the baby’s disappearance from the lying-in hospital, and a briefing with police was scheduled for later in the morning. He had wanted to take a look at the file first.
“This is Mrs. Helen George, headmistress of the Cherry Street Children’s Home,” said the voice on the telephone.
“Yes, of course, Mrs. George. What can I do for you?”
“I am calling about something important, Mr. Kittaning. A mighty important problem that we are having here. Can you come over right now?” Mr. Kittaning thought he heard whispering in the background. “It’s a problem with an orphan, I mean.”
Frank Kittaning rose from his chair, reached for his hat, and looked at his watch. “I can be there in ten minutes.”
“Thank you. Okay. Good-bye,” said Mrs. George, and the line went dead.
Mr. Kittaning’s Packard was parked in the City Hall lot. He drove quickly, thinking that whatever the problem was, it must be serious. Mrs. George hadn’t even sounded like herself.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Looking through the chipped marble portal that led to the foyer, Andrew took slow, even breaths and willed his heart to settle down. It was up to him to save the human pup that meant so much to Mary, and he would do it, too. Wasn’t he the legendary art thief, the explorer of newsstands, the only rodent in all creation who had learned to read?
The Orphan and the Mouse Page 12
