by Helen Wells
“Is Mr. Lenk in?” Cherry asked.
“Mr. Lenk? We have no guest of that name.”
“Jacob Lenk. Room 405. Or has he left?”
The clerk said grudgingly, “He left with some man friend.”
Cherry was disturbed by the clerk’s evasive manner. “What friend?” she asked.
The clerk said, “You don’t believe me about this Mr. Lenk? Go up to Room 405 and see for yourself that he’s not there.” The clerk glared at her.
“Thank you, I will,” Cherry said calmly and climbed the stairs. Reaching the fourth floor, she became aware of someone close behind her. She turned. It was the boy she had seen in the garden.
“I’m coming with you to Mr. Lenk’s room,” he announced, “because I want to tell you something.” He walked with her along a hallway and led Cherry into the vacant Room 405, where Lenk’s tweedy clothes hung in the closet.
“Are you a friend of Jacob Lenk’s?” the boy asked.
Cherry explained how they had met, and gave her name. The boy held out his hand.
“I’m Robert,” he said. “Mr. Lenk was a good friend to me. I don’t like it that Mr. Lenk went off yesterday afternoon. He wasn’t well enough. That man insisted and insisted, and persuaded Jacob to go with him.”
“What man?”
“He drives a terrific sports car. A talkative little man called Shorty; he had a silly toy mountaineer.”
Cherry nearly jumped with surprise. “Tell me the details.”
“That’s about all I noticed,” Robert said. “The man said he drove up here to take Mr. Lenk to lunch. Mr. Lenk introduced me to him. He was an American,” Robert added, “like you, I guess.”
“Yes.” Cherry said to the boy, “So they drove off for lunch and Mr. Lenk has stayed away overnight. They may have taken a side trip.”
“With most people, I wouldn’t worry,” the boy said. “But Mr. Lenk is precise in his ways. He was supposed to stay here several days more. Besides, he didn’t fit in with that man. My parents said they didn’t like the looks of his friend.”
Cherry did not know what to think. “Well,” she said, “if Jacob Lenk does not come back for his clothes, that will be time enough to worry. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Robert said politely, and escorted her downstairs. Cherry saw he was still troubled when they said goodbye.
“Robert, I’ll be in Lugano a few days more,” she said. “I’ll phone you about Mr. Lenk.”
Cherry remembered her promise rather late on the day she was to leave. Luckily Robert was in when she phoned. The boy sounded confused at hearing from her.
“I don’t know exactly what to report to you, Miss Ames,” he said. “I haven’t seen Mr. Lenk again, but I can’t swear he hasn’t been back.”
“Really? What about his clothes?” Cherry asked.
“They’re gone. Two nights ago,” Robert said, “someone came very late for his clothes. I can’t find out who came. Another thing! Mr. Lenk promised to send me a postcard from his new job, and he hasn’t.”
“He still may,” Cherry said. “I’ll send you a postcard from my new job at a ski resort,” Cherry said. “Good luck.” They exchanged goodbyes and hung up.
Cherry was concerned about the report. She wanted to hurry over to the Pension Fleury and talk to that shifty desk clerk. When she told Marie all this, Marie said:
“Cherry Ames, if you are going to start playing detective, you may never board this afternoon’s train up to Eagle’s Peak. You wouldn’t want to miss it, would you?”
Cherry meekly shook her head. She knew that only one train ran each day to Eagle’s Peak, and Dr. Paul Portman was expecting her to report tomorrow morning.
By early evening she was high up in a cool, crystal-clear world. Snow-covered mountain peaks glowed in the day’s last rays of sun. The mountains cast vast shadows across the green valley below, where the village of Eagle’s Peak lay. When Cherry arrived at the village station in the midst of a crowd of laughing, singing young men and women carrying skis, lights were coming on in the narrow old streets. A few decorous Swiss residents got off the train with her, too. One couple walked with her across the bustling, cobblestoned square with its medieval well, to show her safely to the Chateau Nicholas. Here Cherry was expected.
Warm smiles greeted her, followed by a pleasant jumble of friendly voices. She took an instant liking to the Nicholases, who had lived there for generations. Papa Nicholas, dignified and rosy, hospitably presided over his twelve guests at dinner, with help from gentle Mama Nicholas. Cherry liked their son, Val, on sight. Val—short for Valentine—was a sturdy ski instructor, about her own age.
“My school is located on the south slope of Mont d’Argent,” Val told Cherry. “To get up there you ride an open-chair ski lift or a small cable car. I would like to show you the ski runs, Miss Cherry,” Val said. “When are you going out on the slopes? Tomorrow?”
“I wish it could be tomorrow, Val. But we’ll make it soon,” Cherry said.
The Nicholas family’s good wishes stayed with her all night as she slept soundly in a comfortable feather bed. All next day Cherry continued to feel warmly and simply welcomed to this charming Alpine resort.
CHAPTER II
Emergency Hospital
CHERRY SPENT THE NEXT MORNING GETTING ACQUAINTED with the Swiss doctor, Dr. Paul Portman. He was a youngish man, tall, bulky, and placid. He showed Cherry the ten-bed ward, the Operating Room, and the small infirmary. The doctor had a nook of an office, facing the ward.
Surprised that there were no patients in the ward, Cherry commented on this. Dr. Portman explained to her with a grin and a shake of his head:
“Almost every day our rescue patrol brings in someone who has broken his arm or leg skiing. So unnecessary! I am a skier myself, I was born and raised in this valley, so I know. On holidays I often have several fractures to set. That’s about all I do treat here, you know. Broken arms and legs, sprained ankles, dislocated shoulders, strains from skiing. Occasionally, lacerations.”
Marie Swift had already told her that Dr. Portman, a general practitioner specializing in Orthopedics, was the village’s only doctor and that most of the time he was a “ski doctor.” Cherry knew that he treated other emergencies and sickness. “But if someone is in real trouble—a patient with a serious medical condition or injuries,” he explained, “we send him to the nearest big hospital, down in the city. It takes only twenty or thirty minutes to drive to Morten, and they have better facilities. Traction for one thing. We are a way station.”
A middle-aged man in white uniform came in from another room.
“Doctor, I’m leaving now.”
“One moment, Eugene. Miss Ames, Eugene Constant is our night nurse, from nine to nine. And this is Cherry Ames, our new day nurse.”
Cherry shook hands with the male nurse, who looked kind and reliable.
Dr. Portman said, “Sometimes Eugene hasn’t much nursing to do; other times he’s busy with several patients. But even when all the beds are empty, someone should always be here. Eugene is an excellent nurse, a good man to leave in charge.”
Eugene murmured, “Thank you,” smiled at them, and left.
Dr. Portman said, “And one of these days I want you to meet Mrs. Barth. She’s a local woman who helps us out at odd hours, and on Sundays.”
Dr. Portman showed Cherry the small cast room, the X-ray room, with the big X-ray table and an examining table, and a tiny darkroom.
“One can develop the X-rays in five minutes, and, as you know, a plaster cast will usually dry in about half an hour,” the doctor said. “As soon as the anesthesia wears off we can let our patient go back to his hotel, where he will be more comfortable and cheerful. We try not to keep patients here, but of course now and then I want to keep a patient here for a day or so, mostly for observation.”
Cherry had noticed that one corner of the infirmary held a small electric stove for heating Bunsen burners. In the supply room was a small refrigerator to hold
perishable materials. She inquired about meals for patients who had to stay at the infirmary.
Dr. Portman said, “We do not need a kitchen in an emergency clinic like this one. When we have a patient staying overnight, or for a day or two, Mrs. Nicholas supplies meals from her hotel kitchen. We phone for whatever food the patient needs, and she sends a waiter with it.”
“The food is so good at the chateau!” Cherry said. “It pleases all the guests, no matter what nationality they are.”
The doctor nodded. “By the way, Miss Ames, I understand you speak some Italian, as well as French?”
People from many countries came here to ski, Cherry knew, so that anyone working in this ski hospital needed several languages. Dr. Portman spoke German and French; his English was sketchy. When his English broke down, he switched to French. This was why he always hired an English or American nurse who could speak with him in a smattering of French or German. Cherry had obtained this job because she could struggle along in several languages.
“Do you speak Italian, too?” Dr. Portman asked again.
“Yes, Doctor, very badly,” Cherry said. “I do better at Spanish.”
“That’s fine—I mean, that you can speak Italian at all.”
“Well, I may accidentally insult a French or Italian patient someday,” Cherry warned her employer.
Dr. Portman grinned. “I speak besides English and German a little Japanese. My wife and two youngsters are going to like you, Miss Ames. You must come to supper at our house soon.”
Cherry thanked him and asked the doctor about his children. One was six months old, he said; the other was three years old “and he considers himself a big boy.” They kept Jeannette Portman busy.
“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Doctor,” Cherry said, “about your little hospital. Where are the patients today?”
She realized that Dr. Portman would keep his patients in the hospital if necessary or desirable. She knew, too, from Orthopedics Ward experience as a staff nurse, that in most cases a cast could be applied and the patient sent home within a short time.
“Are they in their hotel rooms?” Cherry asked. Staying indoors in the old-fashioned, homelike chalets here could be pleasant, Cherry thought. She could understand how a patient with an arm or leg in a cast might enjoy a rest in his room in front of a fireplace, or outdoors on a sunny balcony.
“Yes, a few of the patients are at their hotels,” Dr. Portman said. “We’ll visit Mrs. Schmidt at her chalet later today—have to change her dressing. But most of them are—Will you come here?”
Cherry followed the doctor from his office into the infirmary. Its windows looked out onto the winding cobblestoned street with its church, shops, gardens, and a sidewalk café.
“Look down there, Miss Ames! Those people on their way to the ski lift—”
Cherry looked in surprise. A few with casts on arms and legs went merrily along with everyone else, sunburned, laughing. “They can’t ski with a cast on!” Cherry exclaimed.
“But they can ride up to the summit and enjoy the sun and air and companionship,” the doctor said. “It’s mild up there, provided it’s sunny.”
This was October. Skiing went on in these high peaks, the doctor said, until May. “I’ve skied here even in June. You land down in a meadow full of flowers.”
That afternoon three patients in casts came to the hospital, to have the doctor X-ray their healing fractures. He found that all were healing satisfactorily. They were fretting to be up on the slopes. Dr. Portman gave each one the same smiling advice:
“Want to avoid getting banged up again? Well, then, no matter how good a skier you already are—or aren’t—take some lessons from Val Nicholas. He is the best ski instructor there is.”
“That advice could cut down on your practice, Doctor,” Cherry teased her employer.
“I would be delighted. I would go into Obstetrics, always wanted to. One more question, Miss Ames. You can do laboratory tests, can’t you?”
“Yes, Doctor, those that can be done in the office.”
“Very good. I don’t expect you to be Eve Curie.”
Dr. Portman said he would want her to run a hemoglobin test tomorrow morning. He would take the blood sample from a patient, Mrs. Kerns, who was coming in then.
The next morning after Cherry had finished the blood test, the anemic expectant mother and Dr. Portman talked quietly at the far end of the ward about ways to build up her health. Cherry was preparing the test tubes for another patient when a noise outside caught her attention. Someone was parking a red sports car in front of the infirmary.
The infirmary door banged open and a husky man in sports clothes bolted in. He seemed to be in a bad temper, and was holding a wadded handkerchief to his hand.
“Are you a nurse?” he demanded. His looks, clothes, and talk were American. “I’ve had a little accident—hurts like murder.” He violently thrust out his left hand. “Here, help me. And hurry up!”
Cherry ignored his rudeness. “I’ll call the doctor, Mr.—?” Cherry waited a second for the man to supply his name. He did not. She noticed on his wristwatch band a metal disk bearing a medical symbol—a signal and warning that this man must have special medical measures. But this was not the right moment to inquire about that.
First Cherry asked, “How did you hurt your hand?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“I’m really not prying. We will have to know in order to treat you.”
“Oh, ridiculous! A cut is a cut, isn’t it? Now go call the doctor,” the man said.
“I will if you’ll please put that soiled handkerchief in the waste can. Here—” Cherry handed him sterile gauze for his hand. Though not bleeding, the wound looked raw and sore. He tossed away the crumpled handkerchief.
When Dr. Portman came in, he examined the hand. “It’s a good thing you didn’t hurt your right hand,” he said. “That would be inconvenient.”
“I’m left-handed,” the man said.
“How did you happen to cut yourself?” the doctor asked.
“Oh—just an accident. Mind if I smoke?” The man fumbled in his jacket pocket for cigarettes. He needed matches.
Cherry knew that any doctor objected to smoking in his scrupulously clean infirmary, and wanted key questions answered. Dr. Portman said, “Go ahead. Sorry I haven’t a match. May I see the Medic Alert disk you’re wearing? …. It says you are allergic to penicillin. That means no penicillin for you, sir. By the way, did you cut yourself on anything rusty? Nails—machinery—Thank you, Nurse,” said the doctor as Cherry brought a book of matches and a saucer for an ashtray.
The man gave Cherry an unfriendly stare. “Your nurse was questioning me, too, only she don’t know enough to ask about anything rusty.”
Cherry stifled a quick indignant surge of feeling. Dr. Portman ignored the insult. So did Cherry, and calmed down, wondering about this hostile man. Was he always nasty and a bully?
He lit a cigarette as doctor and nurse waited. He took three or four puffs, then restlessly snuffed it out.
“Well, I’ll tell you the truth, Doctor,” the man said. “I did cut myself on something rusty, and then I fished a splinter out of this cut, too, see—”
Dr. Portman said in a doubtful voice, after studying the injury, “I don’t see any splinters nor any punctures. That’s fine, of course. When did you cut your hand? Some infection has set in, as you can see from the redness and swelling here. Yesterday? Two days ago?”
“Yes, yes, yesterday.” The man jerked his hand away. “It throbs. It’s sore!”
“You’ve neglected it,” the doctor said.
“Couldn’t help it,” the man mumbled as the doctor placed a thermometer in his mouth.
The reading was about normal, Dr. Portman murmured to Cherry, though pulse and respiration—the man’s heartbeat and breathing—were rapid. As if he were very tired.
Cherry, meanwhile, had set out a basin of hot water, soap, and sterile gauze
bandage. Dr. Portman cleaned the man’s wound, being careful not to start fresh bleeding. He applied an antiseptic ointment, only at the edges of the cut, and bandaged it lightly. Cherry assisted him, then cleared away and cleaned the equipment.
“I am going to give you a prescription and I’ll want to see you tomorrow,” Dr. Portman said as he started writing on his prescription pad.
The man protested that he was “just driving through.” That he was on a business trip.
“Well, you can have this prescription filled anywhere,” the doctor said. “Since you’re allergic to penicillin, you’d better not use any patent remedy; many of them contain penicillin. I want you to use only the medicated ointment I am prescribing for you. The main thing,” Dr. Portman cautioned him, “is to keep that injury clean. Starting tomorrow morning soak the hand in hot salt water, before applying the ointment. I’ll need your name for this prescription—”
The man’s face turned almost as pale as his hair, a drab sand color. “Ah—Hen-Hendrix. Harry Hendrix,” he added after a pause.
“I beg your pardon?” The doctor leaned forward.
“Harry Hendrix.”
Cherry wondered why the man had hesitated in giving his name. As the doctor finished writing out the prescription, she kept her face expressionless, but she felt very uneasy about this hostile patient.
“Miss Ames, I think Mr. Hendrix should have a cup of hot tea and a little rest or nap after this session,” Dr. Portman said.
The man accepted. He seemed suddenly exhausted, deflated.
“No tea,” he said. “Sleep.”
Cherry led him into the empty ward to the first bed, and brought a light blanket. Hendrix took off his jacket, which he dropped on the next bed, then removed his shoes. He piled onto the bed, rolled up in the blanket, and instantly fell asleep.
Cherry picked up the man’s jacket and carried it to a coat rack in the infirmary. The jacket felt heavy and the left pocket sagged as she hung it up. A child standing at the half-opened door watched her.
“Miss Ames,” Dr. Portman said, “Marie, here, has brought word that a man up on the slope is not feeling well. Apparently nothing too serious—he’s new here and not acclimated to the altitude, and he climbed too much.”