by Helen Wells
Cherry nodded. The ski patrol was bringing the guest down on a toboggan and then to the hospital, the doctor said. He was going over to the base of the mountain to meet the toboggan and, if necessary, give emergency care. He left Cherry in charge of the hospital.
Dr. Portman had laid out a card for her to fill out for Hendrix. Cherry entered his name, today’s date, the nature of his injury, treatment given, medication prescribed, and she wrote: “Allergic to penicillin—medical disk.”
She thought about the engraved metal disk. Her glimpse of one side of it had shown the caduceus, universal symbol of medicine. She knew that the American organization Medic Alert—international in scope—used that symbol. Neither she nor the doctor had a chance to record the man’s serial number, which was on the other side of the disk.
The number should be noted on his card, in case the doctor needed more medical information about this patient. An infected injury, which had been neglected, could result in serious complications.
Cherry peeked in at the man on the ward. He was sleeping soundly. Softly Cherry tiptoed into the ward. The man lay on his back, snoring, one heavy arm flung out. The disk dangled free. Cherry stopped, her face uncomfortably close to his coarse, snoring face. She quickly jotted down the serial number and Medic Alert telephone number.
Without a sound she eased out of the ward. She copied onto his infirmary card his personal identification number and the telephone number of Medic Alert headquarters. It was located in the United States, in California; its telephone was always manned.
He should also be carrying an emergency card, Cherry thought. A card giving names of medicine, dosage, blood type, his relatives’ names and his doctor’s name.
Cherry whirled around in front of the infirmary’s coat rack. The man’s rumpled sports jacket hung there. She did not like searching in someone else’s pockets. Besides, this jacket—once she touched it—became almost the man’s living, hostile presence. She forced herself to look in the jacket’s inside pockets where a man usually kept his identification papers.
Nothing. Cherry poked with her fingers, in case a small card had gotten wedged out of sight. Still nothing. Well, the man might keep all his papers on him, in his trousers pockets. Or he might have carelessly jammed his papers into an outside jacket pocket, or into a wallet.
“Maybe that’s why that left-side pocket sags,” Cherry thought.
She reached in, touched something hard, cold, heavy—and pulled out a gun.
Cherry felt nauseated. She looked at her hand holding the ugly gun. Was it loaded?
She must get rid of it! If only she could get rid of that hateful man! Should she call the police? There was one paid police officer and also a small, volunteer police force in the little village of Eagle’s Peak, who like volunteer firemen were on call. She had heard Marie Swift mention the Swiss equivalent of state police, besides.
“I could phone—but suppose Hendrix woke up and overheard me? No, that won’t do. Run out and ask a neighbor to phone? What crime do I have to report? What complaint to make? None so far,” she thought. “It’s too easy for just anyone to get possession of a gun!”
She started to slip the gun back into Hendrix’s jacket’s left-hand pocket.
“What are you doing with my gun?” Hendrix stood in the ward doorway, wide awake and angry.
Cherry trembled with shock. She was unable to speak.
“You thought I didn’t notice you sneak into the ward.” Hendrix’s tone was changing from anger to amusement. “You didn’t suspect I was playing possum, did you? Well, I’m a great joker.”
“I’m looking for medical information, that’s all,” Cherry stammered,
“Sure, I know that. You’re only doing your job,” Hendrix said. He reached out and took the gun from her limp hand. “A gun ain’t nothing for a nice, sweet girl like you to handle.”
Cherry said, weak with relief, “I don’t want it.”
“I guess you don’t want me here, neither, huh?” The hard look returned to Hendrix’s face. “Well, you don’t have to worry, provided you forget you ever saw this gun, get me?”
How much longer would Dr. Portman be gone? She wished someone, anyone, would come. Hendrix put on his jacket, clumsily, over his bandaged left hand, then put the gun back into the pocket. He said:
“You didn’t answer me, Nurse. You going to forget about me and the gun? You’re not going to wonder what I’m doing around here? How do you know I ain’t a policeman or a detective?”
“I wasn’t planning to report you,” Cherry said coldly, “if that’s what you mean.” She began to grow angry.
“Promise?” he cajoled her.
“I won’t promise anything to a man like you. I don’t like being bullied, Mr. Hendrix.”
He moved closer, sour-smelling from soiled clothes and cigarettes. “Now I ain’t going to coax you much longer, see? Either you be nice, or else you might be sorry.”
“You wouldn’t dare harm me!” Cherry said, but she was not so sure.
“Who said I’d harm you?” Hendrix mocked her. “I said you’d be sorry. For a whole lot of reasons that you’d soon find out. And don’t think I won’t know what you’re up to.” Hendrix turned his bitter stare on her. “Because—get this—I’ll have some other people watching you. You’ll never know who’s watching you and reporting to me.”
Cherry felt numb and hazy, as if in a nightmare. She saw Hendrix light a cigarette and insolently drop the still-burning match beside paper-wrapped gauze on the counter. Cherry sprang to the sink faucet and splashed water on the flaming match.
Hendrix watched her, grinning, “See, kid? I’m not fooling.”
Cherry stared out the infirmary window at the man’s red sports car parked a few steps away. She wished she could see its license number. Children chasing a ball blocked her line of vision. It dawned on her irrelevantly that her fingerprints were on the man’s gun.
Hendrix nudged her. “Sell me some of that ointment, will you?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to buy it at a pharmacy. Will you pay your fee now?” Cherry said. She showed him that the doctor had marked a fee on the medical card.
Hendrix yawned and handed her a big bill. “Say, you’re a good-looking girl. I like snappy dark eyes.”
“I’ll get you your change,” Cherry said.
She went into Dr. Portman’s office for change. When she came back, the man had bolted. His change was sizable. Apparently he had something sizable to hide.
When Dr. Portman returned, Cherry had to wait to tell him these things. First he asked the two men from the rescue patrol to help him lift the stricken skier onto a bed. This done, they left. Cherry helped make the patient comfortable. Then Dr. Portman dictated to her some facts for this patient’s record. “Mr. Raymond has not had a heart attack,” the doctor said to her, “although I took all the precautions, of course.”
“I’m so glad,” Cherry murmured. She was still upset over Hendrix. She hoped Dr. Portman would not notice.
The doctor said, “Mr. Raymond is exhausted and chilled. We will keep him here overnight, to make sure he rests undisturbed. I’ll take an electrocardiogram later today, to check again.”
Dr. Portman instructed Cherry to let the man sleep, and when he awoke, to give him comfort measures and a light, warm meal. “Keep him warm and quiet. No visitors until tomorrow. Watch him for any complications. If any occur, I’ll send him to the Morten hospital.”
“Yes, I understand, Doctor,” Cherry said.
As Dr. Portman sat down to relax for a minute, he noticed his young nurse’s expression. “What’s the matter, Cherry?”
She smiled to ease his concern. “I’m sorry to have to tell you something unpleasant, Doctor.” She reported the Hendrix incident to Dr. Portman. The doctor listened and did not like what he heard.
“We get all sorts of people at a resort,” he said, “including criminals. What can we do about them? Not much, so long as they don’t make trouble.”
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“Yes, I see. But about that gun,” Cherry said. “Should we report it to the police as a—a sort of ounce of prevention?”
The doctor did not know what they could report. Possession of a gun was legal—unfortunately.
“I’m sorry that you had this bad experience,” he said. “Why don’t you take tomorrow afternoon off as well as Sunday, Miss Ames? …Why can’t I call you Cherry when we’re not with patients? …Anyway, Mrs. Barth here in the village can help me in a pinch. She’s a practical nurse,” Cherry began to feel better. “You go up on the slopes and enjoy yourself.”
He smiled at Cherry. She beamed back.
“Thanks, Doctor. I will!”
CHAPTER III
Val’s Ski School
VALENTINE NICHOLAS HAD HIS SKI SCHOOL IN TWO places—in a small wooden building in the village, and on the mountain. Cherry was to have a ski lesson first in the village, then up on the snowy slope.
They had met at breakfast surrounded by Papa and Mama Nicholas and their dozen international guests, in the sunny dining room.
“Where were you last evening? I looked for you,” Val asked. Cherry admitted that she had fallen asleep soon after supper. Val said, “I know. This high, thin mountain air can make you sleepy at first.”
‘Well, besides the thin air,” Cherry said, “I was tired out from a—from the strain of something that happened at the hospital yesterday.” She wanted to tell Val about the incident, and he seemed interested to hear.
But not here and now; they had to go to work. Cherry’s holiday would start at noon. Val said he would be instructing at his ski school in the village all morning. “I’ll wait for you there and give you a lesson then, if you like.”
“Oh, fine. But I didn’t bring my skis or poles,” Cherry replied. “Clumsy to carry when traveling.”
“My father keeps spare skis and poles for our guests. We’ll lend you some,” Val reassured her.
“Thanks very much. Anyway,” Cherry added, grinning, her black eyes sparkling, “I did bring my ski boots.”
“How good a skier are you, Cherry?”
“Fair. Fair to good but out of practice. I’m very good at leaving my sitzmark.”
Val smiled and asked, “Can you wedeln? That means wag.” Cherry looked at him, surprised. “I see you can’t,” he said. “I’ll teach you. It’s a fast, graceful way to ski.”
“With a name like wag?”
Val smiled again and stood up from the table. Cherry realized he was huskier than she had thought from quick first impressions. He was four or five inches taller than she was, built solidly as a rock, blue-eyed with light-brown hair.
Shortly after Val had left, Papa Nicholas came over and led her to a large hall closet, opening the door with a flourish.
“Here, Miss Cherry, all kinds, all sizes of skis and poles. Val said you would need some. I beg your pardon that the closet is a little untidy.” Papa Nicholas picked up suntan oil and a knitted ski mask.
“We need an extra boy here to help us,” he said to Cherry. “Maybe,” he mumbled, “someone like Toni, only my wife doesn’t like him. Now then, Miss Nurse! How tall are you? Let us find you just the right length in skis and poles—”
Val’s father, like many in the high mountain countries, had learned to ski soon after he learned to walk. He was so enthusiastic about skiing that it took Cherry ten minutes, and Mrs. Nicholas’s amused help, to break away from him. She walked quick-step to the small hospital.
Dr. Portman had Cherry assist him as he checked over Mr. Raymond, yesterday’s patient who had collapsed on the slope. The man was in no danger; a good night’s sleep and the doctor’s reassurance had helped him. Cherry made the patient more comfortable. Then she helped Dr. Portman take care of a man who came in with a very bad cold. When they finished, at about eleven o’clock, Dr. Portman said she was excused for the rest of the beautiful day.
“Go outdoors, Cherry,” the doctor said. “Go up on our Mont d’Argent. Or try Mont Vert, that’s the next peak.”
“Thank you, Doctor!” Cherry said. “You know I came here expecting to work a full day every day except Sunday.”
“I know you did,” Dr. Portman said. “Some days we do work intensively. As a rule, though, there isn’t a great deal of nursing you can do for a ski doctor. Not like medical cases. So you are going to have plenty of free time for skiing. And romancing,” he teased her.
“Well, uh, and when do you go skiing, Doctor?”
“Every chance I get—while you stay here. Fair enough?”
So Cherry walked back toward the Chateau Nicholas, to change out of her white uniform and into ski clothes. Along the picturesque main street, she admired Eagle Peak’s attractive shops.
Sheer willpower got her past the display of sports clothes and then the fragrant chocolate shop. She paused before a display of magnificent Swiss watches. Some were unbelievably thin and tiny, some cost hundreds of dollars. All of them—said a Swiss woman who was window-shopping—were the finest watches in the world, made under exacting government standards and inspection. One watch that told the time, date, and the day of week reminded Cherry of that odd man she and Marie had befriended in Lugano. What had become of Jacob Lenk? He had been wearing a similar watch.
“Speaking of time,” Cherry said to the Swiss woman, “excuse me—” and sprinted off.
A little later, clomping along in her ski boots and carrying the borrowed skis and poles on her shoulder, she knocked on the door of Val’s ski school.
Val opened the door. The instant he did so, a swarm of very small children in ski clothes burst out, squealing, jumping, some hanging onto a short, dark young man and shouting, “Toni! Toni!” Behind them came parents and nursemaids. Cherry was surrounded. Someone cried, “Toni Rubberlegs!”
“My snow bunnies,” Val said to her. “Come in. We have just finished this morning’s class lessons, and now it’s your turn—What?” Val turned as the other boy called to him. “Excuse me, Cherry…. No, I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that,” Val called back. “See you later on Mont d’Argent, Toni. Hm? I don’t know yet which run—I’ll have to see what this girl can or can’t do.”
“Can or can’t do what?” Cherry asked.
“What you can do on skis in soft or hard snow, or difficult or easy runs. Oh, maybe you mean what Toni can’t do? He wants to be a ski instructor at my school. I have two other boys teaching here. Toni is a wonderful skier, but he isn’t trained and certified to teach. So he isn’t entitled to wear our red jacket.” Val touched his sleeve with its official yellow stripes. “You’ll notice he wears only a red sweater. It’s too bad. I’m sorry about Toni.”
“The children like him,” Cherry said.
“Yes. He clowns for them on skis. Everybody likes Toni. Except my mother! For no reason! She says she distrusts him. It’s not fair, and it’s not like her, either.” Val flushed under his rosy tan. “I should not talk like this.”
“I’d rather talk about Val and his snow bunnies,” Cherry said.
Val smiled admiringly at this attractive, lively girl, with sparkling dark eyes and rosy cheeks. He said, “I will talk about me if you will tell about you. Agreed? And while we get acquainted, you must stand on one foot for as long as you can.”
Cherry tucked up one foot. “I feel like a stork. What for? Limbering before skiing?”
“Yes. Now tell me everything about you.” The young man started packing away the equipment that the children had used.
“Well, I lost a tooth when I was five. My worst subject in school was mathematics—my twin brother Charlie was great at it. Now he’s an engineer, an aviation engineer. Oh yes, home is a small town, Hilton, Illinois, and Charlie and I have just about the best parents anywhere.”
“Except mine,” Val said. “My brothers and sisters would say so, too. Yes, younger than I am. Away at school. What else about you?”
“Hm! Well,” said Cherry, wobbling on one foot, “I like children and nursing most. And I hate tomatoes a
nd—and liars.”
“I hate tomatoes and liars, too,” Val said. “Stand on your other foot now, Cherry. Yes, I know it’s not easy in heavy ski boots…. What were you going to tell me this morning—about something yesterday at your hospital?”
They sat down on a bench. Cherry asked Val if anyone was around to overhear. No one, he said. The other two ski instructors were teaching students up on the slopes.
So Cherry told him about Harry Hendrix, his red sports car, the gun, her own fingerprints left on it—and the cut on the man’s left hand caused by some sharp metal object.
“A broken ski could cut like that,” Val said. “You’ve noticed the steel edges of skis?”
“Of course that could be it!” Cherry said.
“Have you any idea where the man came from?” Val asked.
“No, and no idea where he was going next.” She shrugged. “Well, he’s gone. For good, I hope.”
Val got up. He pulled her up off the bench, too, saying, “Would you rather go back to the chateau for a hot lunch, or ride up Mont d’Argent with me and eat sandwiches out in the sun? Cook always gives me enough for two or three people.”
“Now what do you think I’d rather do!” Cherry said. “One more question, please. About Hendrix’s red sports car—have you seen a car like it?”
She described it—a low, miniature, squarish car, probably inexpensive, probably English-made. But Val shook his head with its mop of light-brown hair. “I see dozens of red sports cars, Cherry.”
“I’d like your advice on something else,” Cherry said, remembering Jacob Lenk. She told Val of her meeting with the stricken man. “He works for the Gold Ribbon Watch factory in the Jura region, Val. Could you arrange a long-distance phone call for me? I’d like to find out if he’s all right.”
“Glad to, after our lesson. Now, let’s enjoy the sun.”
They walked from the ski school building to the nearby lifts going up Mont d’Argent. In the shedlike terminal Val obtained a pass for Cherry so that she need not buy a ticket each time she wanted to go up and down the mountain. They waited with twenty-five or thirty young men and women, most of them carrying skis, for the big cable car to come down. Cherry was glad to see two of Dr. Portman’s patients here, a girl with her arm in a sling and a boy with his leg in a cast, chatting and laughing and enjoying themselves, anyway.