by Helen Wells
“Zelda Colt. Maybe she suspected Irene, too. That’s something I want to find out.”
They talked about the much needed audit. Grey said Irene Wick had been the only one to handle and see the books for two years now. Everyone else was too busy, too ignorant about bookkeeping. And if she were dishonest, which was still not proven, she could have falsified the books to cover up thefts. “So that the auditor will have a big, difficult job on his hands.”
They were approaching Manhattan Island. First Cherry saw, across the East River, a glow thrown up into the night sky, and then—in a brilliance of millions of lights—New York’s massed skyscrapers. Cherry was so excited by the spectacle that she nearly missed Grey’s saying:
“Last week was the poorest week for us so far. Low earnings? Or robbed blind, last week. We’ve got to stop Irene right away. Tomorrow, if possible.”
The workweek began on Tuesday morning, with everyone suntanned and refreshed. Including Mrs. Wick. She was full of good humor after her holiday. But when the salesman Bally dropped into the office and asked timidly if she’d enjoyed the holiday, Mrs. Wick burst out:
“Can’t you stay away from here? Haven’t I told you to stop bothering me? I’ll phone you when we need more medications and supplies. Is that clear?”
The few patients in the waiting room stared. As Bally left, Cherry remembered the payoff envelope handed over beside the dinosaur. Whatever his sales arrangements with the medical secretary were, Mrs. Wick clearly had the upper hand.
Grey had asked Cherry to phone him on the intercom as soon as Dr. Fairall came in on Tuesday morning. He arrived about ten-thirty. Grey, coming downstairs, found him in the office area reading today’s page in the appointment book. Dr. Fairall had just performed the Macklin surgery at the hospital. Though he showed the strain of two hours’ delicate, difficult work, he was beaming.
“How did it go, sir?” Grey asked.
“Good! Very good! Macklin has stamina. I expect him to be able to live a normal life again.”
“That’s good news—and skill,” Grey said admiringly. Dr. Fairall grinned, thumped Grey on the back, and said, “You’ll do as well.” Grey hesitated, then asked if Dr. Fairall would mind being reminded of—Grey glanced uncomfortably at Mrs. Wick who stood there at his elbow, working with an open file drawer.
“Well, of the matter we discussed last week,” Grey said.
Dr. Fairall’s face changed unhappily. “Oh, yes, that. Come in here, Grey.” They went into Dr. Fairall’s office, and the senior doctor closed his door.
Cherry and Irene Wick continued to work just outside his door, in the office area. They were not too busy today, even without the part-time R.N., who had left for the summer to take care of her children now on vacation from school.
Of course Cherry knew what the two doctors were talking about. Grey was reminding Dr. Fairall to call in an auditor immediately. She peered through her eyelashes at Irene Wick, sorting bills. Mrs. Wick’s expression was composed, but her eyes glinted with curiosity.
“Cherry, don’t you think Dr. Fairall needs a cup of black coffee, after that big job? I could bring it in to him.”
Cherry answered, “I rather think he’d say so if he wanted coffee.” She wondered whether Irene had overheard just now—or suspected? Cherry wondered whether her own expression was telltale.
Five minutes later Irene Wick opened Dr. Fairall’s door without knocking. Had she perhaps overheard her name? Dr. Fairall crossly sent her right out. “What’s he so secretive about?” Irene asked Cherry. “He never has secrets from me. Something’s wrong.”
Cherry shrugged. The morning went by without further incident.
At lunchtime Mrs. Wick served Dr. Fairall lunch in his office. That was about one o’clock.
What happened next stunned Cherry.
Dr. Fairall was scheduled to leave the office at three-thirty, for a four-o’clock meeting of a medical association where he was to read a paper. At three-twenty he buzzed for Cherry to come in. She found Dr. Fairall lying on the leather couch, resting, which was unlike him. Then she saw he was pale and near collapse.
“Cherry, I don’t feel right. Is Grey here?”
“Yes, Doctor, I’ll call him.”
Grey came downstairs on the run. When he arrived, Cherry left him alone with Dr. Fairall. She waited just outside the door in case she was needed. Mrs. Wick, she noticed, was chatting with a nervous woman patient, and seemed unaware that anything had happened to her employer. Cherry said nothing to the medical secretary. She went through the motions of deskwork until Grey called her in.
Dr. Fairall was still stretched out on the couch, breathing hard, now with his tie and collar loosened, and his shoes off. To aid circulation? Has he had a heart attack? Cherry thought. A collapse from overwork in the heat of July? Or was it—
Grey said, “Cherry, bring the stomach pump from my office. And my kit and jacket, please—I’m going home with Bill. His wife is coming with the car.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Then Cherry asked, “Is it food poisoning?” Grey nodded. “From lunch?”
“Yes,” Grey said. Their eyes met. “Cherry, you’d better do some investigating around here.”
“I certainly will!” Cherry started for the door.
“Seafood in a spicy sauce—that’s what he said Irene served him for lunch.” Grey snorted. “Spoiled—since it made him sick. Why, he may be acutely sick for a week!”
Cherry nodded, and went quickly for the stomach pump and other things. If Dr. Fairall were sick for a week, that could prevent calling in an auditor for a while.
When Cherry came back carrying Grey’s jacket and instrument kit, she found Mrs. Wick peering into Dr. Fairall’s office, shock and horror all over her face.
“It’s happened!” Irene Wick whispered to Cherry. “I’ve asked him so often not to overwork!”
“Mmm,” Cherry answered, and sped past her.
“Cherry—wait—” Mrs. Wick reached out to detain Cherry. Irene’s hands shook so badly she dropped the case folder she was carrying. “Is he—Dr. Fairall—going to be all right?”
“We don’t know yet,” Cherry answered. “Excuse me—” and she closed the door on Irene Wick.
Cherry saw no reason to reassure the woman who might have poisoned Dr. Fairall. For food poisoning was a real and dangerous poison. If Irene Wick had served him spoiled or contaminated seafood, he could become critically ill.
Was the spoilage accidental? Or not?
To make the seafood spoiled and poisonous, Irene could simply have taken the dish out of the refrigerator in the lab, and left it standing uncovered for an hour or so—exposed outdoors in the July sun, in the backyard. The highly flavored sauce would mask any spoiled taste.
And if the spoilage were deliberate—? Did a delay in the audit, if she had found out about it, mean so much to Irene Wick? What did she plan to do with a few days’ grace? Falsify the ledgers? Cover up traces of her stealing?
“None of this is proven,” Cherry warned herself. Until and unless Irene Wick was proven guilty, she must be presumed innocent. That was the law. “I need to find proof,” Cherry thought.
Proof had to wait. Mrs. Fairall arrived. She, Cherry, and Grey managed to move Bill Fairall off the leather couch, down the hall—they avoided the waiting room in order not to distress any patients—out of the brownstone house, and into the car. Cherry went back to the waiting room alone, to three of Dr. Fairall’s patients and two of Grey’s. Fortunately, none of Dr. Lamb’s patients were there today. In fairness she had to advise the five patients that she did not know how soon Dr. Fairall or Dr. Grey Russell would return. Since all of them could safely and comfortably wait several days, Cherry suggested they make future appointments and leave now.
Next, Cherry had to deal with childishly frightened Dottie Nash. Cherry had gone into the laboratory, frankly checking the little lab refrigerator, the stove, and the few dishes for any traces of the food that Mrs. Wick had served Dr. Fairall for lu
nch today. No trace—no evidence—could be found. Cherry asked Dottie whether she, too, had eaten the seafood that Mrs. Wick had brought.
“No, Miss Ames. I ate a sandwich at Cob’s Coffee Shop.”
Cherry hunted up Irene Wick and asked, “What seafood dish did you serve Dr. Fairall today?”
“Délices de mer—it’s a combination of crab, shrimp, and lobster in a sherry-flavored, seasoned cream sauce. I cooked it at home this morning,” Irene said. “Why? I hope it didn’t disagree with him.”
Cherry did not answer her question, and asked, “Did you eat some for lunch today, too?”
“Why, of course. Well, only a taste, because there wasn’t enough for two full portions. The only reason I didn’t offer you some is because I know you prefer—”
The medical secretary went on excusing herself.
“Irene, did you bring the food in a Thermos?” Cherry asked. “I mean, from your house to here?” She had never seen a Thermos food or beverage jug here. Irene must know she could not lie on this point.
“N-no, I didn’t,” Irene Wick faltered. “I did pack the food carefully—practically insulated—”
“Grey says Dr. Fairall has food poisoning.”
“Then it was caused by his breakfast!” Mrs. Wick exclaimed. “Or by something he ate yesterday,” she insisted.
Cherry shook her head, and explained that food poisoning develops fast. Mrs. Wick’s eyes shifted under Cherry’s level, impersonal gaze.
“Well—then—I—I guess I’ve made a terrible mistake,” Mrs. Wick gulped out. “I wouldn’t harm Dr. Fairall for anything! You know how devoted I am—”
Maybe Irene Wick had made a terrible mistake. Or maybe not! One thing Cherry was sure of—that audit had to he made as promptly as possible. Secretly, without Mrs. Wick’s knowing. And without Dottie’s knowing, for she’d tell Mrs. Wick.
Cherry told this to Grey immediately on his return. He agreed that they could not wait until the end of that long, hot day. Together they went to call on Dr. Lamb at his apartment.
Then and there, the three of them telephoned the accounting firm that Dr. Fairall used to rely on. Grey explained the need to move with great care, so as not to arouse the medical secretary’s suspicions. If alerted, she might simply vanish.
The accounting firm was willing to do the job secretly and fast. The auditor would start Friday evening after Mrs. Wick went home, and work intensively over the weekend. The auditor, with at least one assistant, would remove the charge cards, ledgers, and all other financial records to his own office, and do the job there.
They arranged that Cherry would return to the office Friday evening to admit the auditor. She’d lend him the door key, and the keys to the file cabinets and Mrs. Wick’s desk. It was essential that the audit be completed, and the records back in place, before Monday morning when Mrs. Wick would come into work.
The accounting firm guaranteed to complete the audit by then. “We will telephone you on Saturday to make a progress report,” the head of the accounting firm promised. “After that, we’ll see.”
Cherry, Grey, and old Dr. Lamb then phoned Dr. Fairall’s lawyer, Arnold Goldsmith. Grey gave him a quick summary of the situation. The lawyer was concerned about Bill Fairall’s illness, and eager to be of help.
“I’ll be in constant touch,” the lawyer promised. “I’ll stay in town this weekend in case you need me. Don’t worry. Good luck.”
That night Cherry received a surprise telephone call. After finishing her stint at the office, and then a quick supper with Grey in a restaurant, she had returned to the Spencer Club apartment feeling quite sleepy.
“A shower and early to bed are good for that,” Gwen said. But ten minutes later Gwen called Cherry out of the shower. “There’s a woman on the phone named Colt or Holt, asking for you.”
“Wow! Do I want to talk with her!” Cherry grabbed a towel, wrapped it and her big terry robe around her and ran, dripping, to the telephone.
“Miss Colt? … Hello! This is Cherry Ames.”
The woman’s voice reminded Cherry of a woman she had known in rural Iowa—sensible, dependable, forthright, plain, and a good person. The voice of Zelda Colt on the phone said flatly:
“I’m calling you long distance from Maine. I received your urgent message, just now, when I telephoned my hotel. We’d better not talk too long and run up a big bill. All right, Miss Ames?”
Cherry replied, “I understand, Miss Colt. But it’s important to Dr. Fairall that you and I get something cleared up. I’ll pay for this call—”
“Oh, are you working for Dr. Fairall? Is that Irene Wick still there?”
“Yes to both questions,” Cherry said.
“Well, if that Wick woman is still there, I can guess why you left an urgent message for me!”
“Yes?… Did you have any difficulty with Mrs. Wick?” Cherry asked.
“Don’t you?” Miss Colt demanded. Then Cherry heard her sigh. “She cost me my job, Miss Ames. I don’t know what she said about me to Dr. Fairall—she must have told some lie—because before she came, Doctor relied on me. He knew I did my best—for him, for the patients—always—”
That voice didn’t suggest someone callous who’d refuse to help a sick or disabled person with a dress or a shoe.
“I’m sorry if you had an unfortunate experience,” Cherry said. If she could, she’d like to clear Nurse Zelda Colt’s reputation with Dr. Fairall. “I hope you’re in a happier situation now, Miss Colt.”
“Oh, yes! I’m working for a fine young doctor in New York, an internist—” Miss Colt gave his name, which Cherry recognized. “Also I have a job offer from”—she named a leading hospital—“on the basis of my earlier references.”
Well, Miss Colt must be a good nurse with decent attitudes, Cherry thought. The medical secretary had lied!
As tactfully as possible, she told Miss Colt that she needed whatever information the nurse could give her about Irene Wick.
“You don’t trust her, do you?” said the nurse. “Neither did I. Couldn’t prove anything, but I noticed—well, too many tricky little practices. You know what I mean?” Cherry said Yes, and then inquired if Miss Colt knew anything about a woman named Bunny. “Bunny? … No. … And how Irene Wick honeys up to the doctor!”
They agreed that Dr. Fairall was brilliant and a dynamo, but in some ways an impractical man. He was too dedicated a doctor to mistrust other medical personnel.
“Does he still work so hard?” Miss Colt asked. “And go in for so many outside interests?”
Cherry said, “Yes, but now he isn’t well—”
“I’m not surprised to hear it!” Miss Colt interrupted. “He had a breakdown—exhaustion—once while I worked for him. He went away for periodic rests. And in the emergency he did the most awful thing! So Irene could keep his business moving, she said. Miss Ames, you pay attention to this! Dr. Fairall gave Irene Wick power of attorney—power to write letters and checks, and sign his name to them! She may still have power of attorney!”
Cherry caught her breath. “You mean Mrs. Wick may be able to draw on his checking account?”
That was exactly what Zelda Colt meant, and was worried about. Because, she said, she had always had a strong suspicion that Mrs. Wick was stealing from Dr. Fairall—“and stealing from Dr. Lamb and a young relief doctor, too. I never found out just how she worked it. But I suspected that was why she was so eager to get rid of the outside accountant firm, and handle the bookkeeping all by herself.”
Cherry relayed this information in person, privately to Grey. He relayed it to Dr. Fairall’s lawyer and to the certified public accountants. To do so, Grey left the office and used a public telephone blocks away. This was done the next morning, Wednesday.
Early that evening Grey and Cherry left the brownstone house separately, for Mrs. Wick’s benefit. They met half an hour later at the lawyer’s office in another part of the city.
The lawyer, Arnold Goldsmith, was a tall, lean man with prem
aturely white hair. As he ushered them in, he asked Grey with concern, “How’s Bill Fairall now?”
Grey was able to report that Dr. Fairall was much better—still miserably sick with food poisoning, but not in danger. The lawyer said that if Mrs. Wick had deliberately poisoned Dr. Fairall she should be prosecuted. But how would they ever be able to prove it was anything but what Mrs. Wick had called it—“a terrible mistake”? Impossible.
“Well, now, Miss Ames, Dr. Russell—you want advice and possibly action from me, but you haven’t consulted Dr. Fairall first. I don’t like that.”
“Only because Dr. Fairall is too sick to be consulted.” Cherry was glad the lawyer was conscientious.
“All right,” the lawyer said. “Suppose you give me the facts.”
So they told him about Mrs. Wick’s suspected stealing, and her suspected graft from Bally. Assuring the lawyer they could provide details later, they came to the immediately urgent fact: Mrs. Wick might still have power of attorney for Dr. Fairall.
“If she has it, I’m afraid she might misuse this power now that Dr. Fairall is sick,” Cherry said. “Maybe make one last, big haul. What’s to prevent Mrs. Wick from writing and signing a big check, made out to cash, drawn on Dr. Fairall’s account—say, for several thousand dollars? Or everything the doctor has in the accounts? Then she could simply vanish.”
Grey nodded in agreement. But Arnold Goldsmith said, “An employer entrusts an employee with power of attorney for an essential reason—to keep the business running in his absence. Surely Dr. Fairall wouldn’t turn over his checkbook and bankbooks to just anybody.”
“Mrs. Wick’s references are open to question,” Grey said.
The lawyer frowned. “That’s not so good. Hmm.”
He asked them several questions, which they answered.
“Well,” the lawyer said at last, “the thefts are presumed, not proven until the auditor’s report is made. We have to wait for the auditor’s report before we can accuse that medical secretary—even indirectly. All we can do is wait. And keep your mouths shut around that Mrs. Wick!”