by Helen Wells
“We found out she needed an operation just before Richard went away. Since he left, Mother has been so upset that she refuses to undergo the operation. Our doctor agreed to defer it. No, Richard doesn’t know that. I think Richard did know there might be a lack of funds for the operation, thanks to this loan fiasco. An operation and convalescent care are expensive.”
So his mother’s health, too, weighed on Richard! Overdue loan—business in danger of being lost—his mother needing an operation—and Richard assumed it to be all his fault! It was enough to make anyone break down—if true.
“I must see your mother, Mr. Albee.” He started to object again, but Cherry stood firm. “Surely your mother is entitled to news about her missing son. It probably upsets her more not to know, and imagine all sorts of horrors. Telling her where and how Richard is would set her mind at ease, don’t you see? In the long run it would aid her health.”
“No, I can’t let you bother her. I’ll tell Mother myself about Richard.”
Would he? Even if he did, what partial or twisted version would he tell their mother?
“Mr. Albee, it is my duty, as Richard’s nurse, to talk with his mother. If you won’t let me see your mother, I will ask the Crewe police department to give her the news of Richard.”
He turned ashen, furious at being crossed.
“All right. All right. I’ll tell my mother to expect you at our house tomorrow morning at eleven. I think that will be convenient for her. I’ll prepare her for your visit.”
“In his own strange and unhappy way,” Cherry thought. Poor man. As a nurse she recognized that a person of inferior health and strength was often irritable, demanding, and had a chip on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Mr. Albee, and thank you for giving me so much of your time this morning. I’ll come back to Crewe tomorrow.”
He smiled mechanically, without enthusiasm, and had the secretary show her out of the plant.
“If Merrill’s story is true,” Cherry speculated as she drove back to New York, “then Richard is guilty of theft, or gross inefficiency, and of some irresponsibility toward his mother. But if Merrill’s story is not entirely accurate, then Merrill—or circumstances—may be at fault in part, too. What a load it would lift from Richard if I could prove that! Well, my next step is to find out whatever their mother can tell me—and Susan Stiles, too.”
CHAPTER XII
Two Key Interviews
AT LAST, SUSAN!
When Cherry had driven back to New York City and telephoned Susan Stiles this afternoon, saying it was about Richard, she sounded relieved and invited Cherry to come over at once. So here she was in Dr. Stile’s living room, aware that patients waited for him in his adjoining offices.
“I’ll be brief,” Cherry said. With a physician, and this friendly, concerned young woman, she felt free to discuss Richard’s amnesia. Susan and her father were shocked to learn that he was ill. They inquired warmly about him.
“We don’t know Richard or Mrs. Albee very well,” Susan said, “though we’re fond of them both, especially Richard. It’s Merrill whom we know best—or rather, I do.” Apparently Merrill was Susan’s beau.
Dr. Stiles murmured something, which Cherry did not quite catch, about Merrill’s being extremely critical of his brother, too critical.
“Why do you say that, Dr. Stiles?”
He was reluctant to talk about the Albees’ personal relationships. So was Susan. As a doctor, though, and as a doctor’s daughter, they understood why these facts were needed to help Richard’s recovery. They stressed Richard’s loyalty and devotion to his mother and brother. They told Cherry a little about the strain between Merrill and Richard.
Cherry produced the note signed “S,” handed it to Susan, and asked, “Did you write this to Richard?” Susan nodded her pretty head. “Would you mind telling me what it means? Or what led you to write it?”
“Well, I—I hardly remember what I wrote in it.” Susan accepted the note from Cherry and read it aloud. “‘It was good of you to tell me what you did last evening. At the moment I didn’t understand you. I hadn’t realized he’s’—that’s Merrill—‘under such a handicap. Now I do and I will make allowances. So don’t worry.’ Oh, now I recall what happened!”
Susan said that she had been a little impatient with Merrill over the small matter of his insisting on theater tickets for an inconvenient date, and she had unknowingly hurt his feelings. Richard had come to see her to smooth things out. He’d explained to her that Merrill, under the handicap of shaky health, never at ease or popular, was sometimes difficult—“but Richard insisted he’s basically a fine person.” He’d told Susan that she was the first girl Merrill had ever courted, and had asked her to be patient with him.
“I thought Richard was a darling to come and talk with me on Merrill’s behalf,” said Susan. “I was awfully touched by all the affection he has for his brother. I remember thinking ‘It’s almost as if Richard feels some special obligation to his brother—’”
Dr. Stiles was listening closely. He remarked to Cherry, “What my daughter and I cannot understand is why Merrill has been so little concerned that Richard suddenly went away, and sent no word home in several months. It’s true Merrill felt a degree of concern. He mentioned some personal difficulty of Richard’s—”
“Isn’t it too bad Richard got into this terrible mess about the bank loan?” Susan blurted out. Her father looked disapproving. Cherry quickly said that Merrill and the bank officer had already discussed the loan with her.
“It isn’t clear to me, though,” said Cherry, “whether Richard really did a terrible thing, or simply a mistaken thing.” She felt bound to defend him against Merrill’s criticism of him to these friends.
“You see, Susan?” said Dr. Stiles. “I told you we had only Merrill’s version of the story. Actually we don’t know what Richard has done, or why he went away. We should suspend judgment, and take Merrill with a grain of salt.”
“Well, I agree, Daddy,” said Susan, “that Merrill’s unconcern about Richard is pretty cold. I think we’ve been more worried about Richard than he has.”
Cherry told them that it was important for her to learn from them about Merrill, as well as Richard, since the brothers’ lives were closely linked. In the course of conversation it came out that Susan had been having frequent dates with Merrill for about a year now. He was courting her—lavishly. Too lavishly, Dr. Stiles said.
“Merrill has offered my daughter several expensive presents which she is not willing to accept. His presents are entirely too much, coming from a man Susan is not sure she wants to marry.”
Susan gave a shaky laugh. “The more I refuse, the more hurt Merrill feels and the more he redoubles his efforts. I wish he’d stop spending so much money on me. It’s embarrassing.”
“Sounds really lavish,” Cherry said.
“It’s ostentatious, that’s what it is. When we go out, it’s always to the most elaborate restaurants and night clubs. I’ve told Merrill that I could be just as happy with something simpler, but he—he seems to be trying so hard to please me. He even bought one of those luxurious foreign cars, and explained it was to take me driving.” Susan shook her head. “I don’t mean to be unappreciative, but it’s like living on whipped cream. Just too much richness.”
Her father frowned at Susan’s lack of reserve, but she said, “No, I’m even going to tell Miss Ames about the engagement ring. Either we tell her the facts or we don’t, isn’t that right, Daddy?”
Some months ago Merrill had bought Susan a very beautiful, very expensive diamond engagement ring, but she still had not accepted it. She was unsure of what she thought and felt about Merrill. Dr. Stiles remarked that Susan was right to have her doubts.
“It’s as if—” Dr. Stiles started. “Let’s say the lavishness of his courtship—Merrill’s very first courtship—suggests that he is unsure of himself. It looks almost as if Merrill is trying to buy my daughter’s affections. It’s the only exp
lanation I can think of. We went to the Albees’ house to a party last year, and while they live very comfortably, it’s not on the lavish scale Merrill offers Susan.”
Cherry wondered what Richard and Mrs. Albee thought of Merrill’s extreme generosity to Susan—or whether they were even aware of it. She hoped Dr. Stiles and Susan were not wondering what she was wondering—whether Merrill, in his frantic efforts to win Susan, could afford such presents, entertaining, and display. Cherry thought of the park attendant’s remark that the Albee business might be failing. She thought of Merrill’s ambiguous remark about a possible lack of funds for their mother’s operation. Short of funds. … Yet, according to Susan, Merrill’s lavishness continued right up into the present.
Was this heavy expenditure for Susan what the brothers were on poor terms about, just before Richard went away?
And if it was Merrill who had been spending heavily, why was it Richard who took out the loan—ostensibly for the business? Cherry wondered what the business books would show.
Or had Merrill been paying for Susan’s entertainment out of some personal funds that he might have saved or inherited?
“I have no right to discuss with the Stileses this very private business of the Albee family,” Cherry thought.
She stood up to go. “Thank you both ever so much. I’m going to see Mrs. Albee tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” said Dr. Stiles, and Susan smiled. “I think news of Richard will help her. In my opinion, Mrs. Albee is as much worried as ill.”
A surprise was waiting for Cherry at the Spencer Club’s apartment that evening—an airmail letter from Dr. Hope, propped up on the mantel.
The psychiatrist wrote, briefly, that their patient had been asking where Miss Cherry was and suspected she was contacting his family. Richard was upset at any prospect of a reunion.
“Reuniting Richard with his family,” Dr. Hope wrote, “will be hard to effect. It probably will prove hard for everyone involved. A reunion may not even be possible or desirable. At the moment we can’t foresee an answer to this. Much will depend on what information you bring back from Crewe.”
Cherry could only hope that things would work out for Richard and his family. Her visit to Mrs. Albee tomorrow loomed up more urgent than ever.
Olivia Albee received Cherry in her upstairs sitting room. In appearance she reminded Cherry of her son, Richard, slender and dignified. She seemed to be a gentle, intelligent woman, firm in a quiet way. Cherry could see she was not well from the slow way she moved, but she held herself erect and smiled.
“I’m so happy to have news of Richard.”
“Richard sends you his love, Mrs. Albee.” Cherry felt it was all right to tell this fib, out of kindness. “I’m Richard’s nurse, and Mr. Merrill probably told you—”
“He told me a little.” The mother’s voice trembled. “Exactly what is wrong with my son Richard? Please don’t feel you must spare me.”
“I’ll tell you the truth, Mrs. Albee.” And Cherry did, gradually, and with tact, stressing Richard’s progress toward recovery.
Mrs. Albee, though saddened by the news of his amnesia, said, “How grateful I am that Richard is in good hands at your hospital! It’s a relief to know, at last, where he is and how he is. You can’t imagine how helpless one feels—is—when a member of one’s family disappears.”
Mrs. Albee had wanted to institute a search for Richard. “But I could not ask for statewide alarms, because Richard was well when I last saw him and able to take care of himself.”
“Really well?” Cherry asked cautiously.
Olivia Albee reflected. “Not quite like himself. He was very quiet, and thin, and nervous. I knew he was overworked. When he suddenly went off, I didn’t know what to think. Then Merrill showed me Richard’s letter of good-bye and gave me to understand that Richard left voluntarily—had deserted us, in a way, and did not wish us to find him.”
Yes, that was what Merrill wanted to believe, but was it true? Evidently Mrs. Albee had wondered, too, for she said:
“I did ask Richard’s friends for news of him. Everyone was very kind, but our efforts came to nothing.” Mrs. Albee’s appeal to the Crewe police was not taken too seriously, in view of the good-bye note and Merrill’s statements.
Mrs. Albee wanted to hear in detail all about Richard. Cherry softened the harsh parts, and described how much Richard was liked by the other men on the ward, and how bravely he was working to get well. Olivia Albee smiled, and touched her eyes with a handkerchief.
“How could I have been so blind not to perceive that he was under a great strain? I should not have simply taken Merrill’s word for so much, either. I’ve come to realize, Miss Ames, that Merrill keeps me in ignorance about Richard”—she hesitated—“and about other matters. Merrill insists it’s to ‘spare’ me—and that is so unnecessary.”
In her relief at finally having news, Olivia Albee talked freely to her son’s nurse.
“My sons are always so considerate of me. They think I’m not aware of the tension existing between them. I suspect they’ve quarreled recently, Miss Ames.” Cherry remembered Richard “making up a story” of two men quarreling bitterly in an office.
“As if I couldn’t see,” their mother went on, “the sad contrast between the two boys all the time they were growing up. Merrill has had a hard time. He’s often been ill and in pain. He never was strong enough to take part in sports and school clubs. He has tried to be outgoing and likable—he’s made pathetic efforts. But as a result of his poor health, and of—let’s not hide facts, Miss Ames—of his rather self-centered nature—Merrill was never popular. And Richard had always been so very popular, and took part in and won school track meets and swimming meets—” Mrs. Albee sighed. “Perhaps if his brother Richard had not afforded such a contrast to him, Merrill might have had a happier time of it.”
“How did Richard feel about this?” Cherry asked.
Mrs. Albee hesitated. “Merrill put quite a few demands on him. He sometimes ridiculed him, for a joke. Richard is good-natured, and he took it in stride. He would do anything in the world for Merrill.”
It sounded to Cherry as if Richard was so loyal to his older brother that he never saw—or perhaps would not admit, even to himself—that Merrill was cold and envious.
“To me, of course,” Mrs. Albee said, “each is infinitely dear in his own way. I do think Merrill has an easier time now that he is a grown man, and in charge of a business for several years—he feels more assured now.”
Cherry said that in the course of visiting Crewe on Dr. Hope’s instructions, she had met Merrill’s friend, Susan Stiles, yesterday.
Mrs. Albee’s face lit up. “Susan is a dear girl. She’s good for Merrill. His first romance, and he is taking it with desperate seriousness. Too much so. So seriously that he has—” Mrs. Albee frowned and fell silent.
“May I ask why you say too seriously?” Cherry hoped to find out whether Mrs. Albee knew how lavish Merrill’s courtship was—what large expenses it involved. She wondered if Richard had known.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything,” Mrs. Albee said. “I don’t really know how Merrill’s romance is progressing, even after a year. Perhaps he is too self-conscious to tell me. And he doesn’t know I’ve discovered—” Mrs. Albee shook her head. Half to herself she said, “I see him primping before his dates and looking ever so worried and earnest—like a young boy who is not sure of himself.”
That was Dr. Stiles’s comment, too. Cherry asked what it was Mrs. Albee had discovered. But the woman’s eyes filled with tears and she would not answer.
Cherry did not press. Instead, she guided the conversation to the brothers’ boyhoods. Mrs. Albee talked about the swimming mishap. “The ‘accident,’ or rather its aftermath, made quite a difference in his life, and naturally in Richard’s, too.”
“Mrs. Albee, I’m aware of Merrill’s having contracted rheumatic fever,” Cherry said. “Do you think that the unfortunate swimming episode was R
ichard’s fault in any way?”
“No. It was entirely Merrill’s own fault.”
“Do you think, though, reasonable or not, that Richard blamed himself in any way? Or that Merrill blamed him?”
Mrs. Albee looked upset. “It’s hard to say. What an odd question! I—I hope there was no blame.”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Albee, but do you think that Richard’s devotion to Merrill was due to pity because of Merrill’s illness?”
“No. Richard has always loved his brother. Even before the illness, he was intensely loyal and affectionate toward his big brother.”
And Merrill, in his shame at being outdone in so many respects by Richard, had not found it in his nature to respond to Richard’s love. Cherry sighed. Mrs. Albee was trying to excuse Merrill.
“Although the illness was due to his own youthful lack of judgment, and perhaps Richard’s too, Merrill has paid dearly for it.” Their mother recalled how Mr. Albee had favored Merrill after his illness, feeling the delicate son needed more spending money, a car, extra consideration in view of his impaired heart. “Richard felt it was only fair. Not I. Their father meant to do the right thing, but in effect he only encouraged Merrill to be selfish,” said Mrs. Albee. “Then the time came for Richard to graduate from Junior High School and enter Senior High School, where Merrill was a senior—Merrill had lost a year of schooling because of his illness, you see. I insisted the boys attend separate high schools. And later on I insisted that my husband give the boys equal shares in the business.
“I realize Merrill was disappointed—he had believed he was going to control the business. Considering Merrill’s disappointment I’ve wondered how well the boys got along together in the business. In front of me, they put up a show of amity. But I noticed that they never told me much about the business, especially not Merrill. That is why I made inquiries, just recently, and that is how I discovered—” She was unable to go on.
