by Helen Wells
“What is Dance going to do?” Cherry exclaimed.
Tom shrugged. “He’s remarkably calm in the face of trouble. What we all hope is that the missing items can be found. Dance claims he’s been victimized, and he’s asking the owner’s insurance company to give him a little time to let him cooperate with their detectives. But they’re not giving him much time—one to two weeks, not more. Insurance companies are tough, Cherry. I think they said Dance has to pay right after Christmas—unless the highboy is located, or the thief is caught and confesses where the missing things are.”
“You say ‘the things,’” Cherry observed, “as if you almost think the same thief took both the vase and the highboy.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t know what to think, at this stage,” Tom replied. “Some of the detectives said that. They believe both thefts were an inside job.”
“By someone like Mrs. Julian?” Cherry asked unwillingly. “But, Tom, why Mrs. Julian? Why not another insider like Miss Janet Lamb or Adam Heller or even Mr. Dance himself?”
“Because of all those people, only Mrs. Julian is without any family or any resources except her job. She’s the only one in Dance’s department who has real motive to steal. That’s why the police detectives, with store and insurance company detectives, are inclined to suspect her.”
“Does Mr. Dance suspect her, now that the highboy has disappeared?”
Tom shook his head. “Still, everyone is suspect until proved innocent. Let’s go talk a little bit to Anna Julian and see what we can learn.”
Together, they left the store manager’s busy office and walked across the sixth floor to the quiet of the antiques concession. Cherry was just as well satisfied that Mr. Dance was nowhere around.
“He’s probably upstairs consulting with the store detectives,” Tom muttered. He called, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Julian. Have you a moment?”
“I’m free, as you see,” Mrs. Julian said politely, coming up to them.
The woman’s pallor and strained look disturbed Cherry. Mrs. Julian must be badly shocked by the theft of the highboy, and she must realize, even if no one had told her, that this second theft could reflect on her.
“Mrs. Julian,” she said in concern, “I don’t at all like the way you look. I’d recommend that you go around the corner to see Dr. Murphy when you leave the store this evening, or sometime tomorrow.”
“Why, you sound quite serious, Cherry!”
“I am serious. I’ll write out the medical authorization form for you. Don’t you agree, Tom?”
“I certainly do. Would you mind answering one more question, Mrs. Julian?” She looked weary but smiled. “Did you see the pretended agent on Friday morning?”
“I saw several people in the department on Friday morning. I’m not certain, Mr. Reese, whether I saw the man Mr. Dance described or not. Mr. Dance handled that transaction personally, you know. Mr. Dance generally does take care of the really important sales himself.”
“Thank you,” Tom said. “Now we won’t bother you any more.”
“Thank goodness! Have you a moment to spare? Cherry, you remember the music box I showed to you on Sunday? Here it is.”
Cherry felt sorry to see the music box set out on one of the display tables. But Mrs. Julian seemed relieved to be able to talk about the music box rather than the theft, and matter of fact about parting with it. That is, if Mr. Dance were able to sell it for her, on his usual commission basis.
“Of course I’m sorry not to keep it, especially since it was a gift from my husband, but I could use the funds.”
She insisted on winding the music box and playing the minuet for them. All three stood listening to the odd, plaintive melody. Mrs. Julian seemed extremely nervous today, and inclined to chatter.
“Isn’t it remarkable that the first theft was of a very small object, and the second theft a very large object? Whoever is taking these things has expensive taste. I told Mr. Dance, poor man, that I’ve taken good care to insure my music box—”
Her chattering was not making a very good impression on Tom Reese. It was not like her, and Cherry recognized it as unease. Tom moved away, with a nod. Cherry whispered to Mrs. Julian:
“Try to relax. You mustn’t worry so.”
Cherry caught up with Tom in the corridor.
“Tom,” Cherry pleaded, “couldn’t you ask the various investigators and detectives not to be too harsh with her?”
He frowned. “They have to continue their investigations. I’ll do what I can, though.”
“Thank you for your kindness to Anna Julian.”
“It’s for you, too, Cherry,” he said. “I just hope you aren’t wrong about her.”
His remark set Cherry to thinking back over her conversations with Mrs. Julian. With Mr. Dance, too, for that matter. What persistently came back to Cherry was Mrs. Julian’s remark: “Mr. Dance doesn’t know too much about antiques, he cheerfully admits it.” That was plainly the reason he needed Mrs. Julian with her wide, firsthand knowledge of antiques. While she was not a scholar, like Mr. Otto, she easily outstripped Miss Janet Lamb and Adam Heller. Probably Mr. Dance could get some other knowledgeable assistant, but not as inexpensively as Mrs. Julian. No wonder he kept her on.
Yet this entire situation raised a tantalizing question. If Mr. Dance didn’t know much about antiques, why was he in this business? True, he was an experienced businessman, or the store would not have given him a contract and floor space. But why was he in antiques?
Well, Cherry reasoned, there were immense sums of money to be made in the sale of, for example, the highboy. Just think of what ten or even five per cent of the sale price of the highboy would have put in Dance’s pocket! Since he obtained the antiques on consignment from their owners, the emphasis was on selling—on the commercial aspect of the antiques business. “Then,” Cherry figured, “Mr. Dance is in this business for the profits to be made, and he relies on Mrs. Julian and Mr. Otto and probably others for their specialized knowledge.”
Mr. Otto … She walked along ruminating. “Then why,” she asked herself suddenly, “was Willard Dance so agitated that time Mr. Otto called him up at the store?”
The scene flashed back into her memory—his saying, “Otto shouldn’t phone me here,” and the way Dance quickly covered up his agitation in front of the people in his department. The way Dance had said half-humorously, “That Otto never gives me any peace …” That incident was rather extraordinary. Mr. Dance had covered up so fast, she hadn’t fully noticed it at the time.
But why didn’t he want Otto to telephone him at the store? The store seemed the logical place to discuss antiques. Cherry recalled that Adam Heller had answered the telephone that day. Did Dance not want anyone to take Otto’s messages? Otto had not left any message with old Adam Heller. What was so secret, that Dance didn’t wish his assistants to know it?
Cherry could not find any answers, but a nameless, uneasy doubt about Willard Dance formed in her mind. A doubt of Otto, too? Well, she didn’t know anything about Mr. Otto. It was Mr. Dance who had acted upset.
In fairness, Cherry tried to remember if being upset and excited was a regular part of Mr. Dance’s temperament. No, every time she had seen him, Willard Dance had been affable and easygoing.
Another curious thing occurred to Cherry. Mr. Dance had operated his concession for many months and no thefts had ever occurred before. Now all of a sudden two thefts occurred, and within ten days of each other. Could Mrs. Julian be involved? But Mrs. Julian had been with the department ever since it opened, and her personal situation had been the same then as now.
Some vague uneasiness about Dance persisted. Still, Cherry had nothing tangible to go on. She wondered whether Mr. Otto, who was an experienced and established art expert, entertained any suspicions toward Willard Dance.
CHAPTER VII
Strange Markings
IF THERE WERE FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS IN THE THEFT investigations, Cherry did not hear about them. It was maddening
to work next door to the store manager’s office and across the floor from the antiques department, where developments of some sort must be taking place—and not know about them! Cherry didn’t think it a good idea, though, to bother Tom Reese any further. As for Mrs. Julian, the kindest thing one could do for her was to let her alone for a few days. Besides, Cherry found she had quite enough work to do, the balance of this first week of December, in her medical department.
She was on the train Friday morning going in to work when her attention was caught by a woman seated across the aisle. About fifty, she was a bigboned, fleshy, powerful woman in a mannish suit and unbecoming hat—big blunt features, big square hands like a butcher’s. But it was what she was doing with the newspaper that puzzled Cherry. The woman was marking it with a red pencil, and she never turned the page once during the train ride.
Curious, Cherry wriggled in her seat so that she could see a little better without blatantly craning her neck. The woman was marking the page of antiques news. How could anyone stay at the same page for over half an hour?
When the train pulled into Pennsylvania Station, Cherry made it a point to stand close behind the woman with the newspaper, trying to see what the woman had underlined. Suddenly the woman turned half around, frowning down at Cherry. Cherry’s heart pounded as if she had been caught eavesdropping.
“Sorry if I’m crowding you,” she murmured.
The woman nodded, and Cherry was able to take a closer look at her. She had the bulging eyes and high flush of someone with a temper. She turned around and folded the marked page inside.
Then the passengers began moving onto the station platform. Cherry kept the woman in sight. Most people, having read the newspaper on the train, threw it into one of the waste bins. But this woman tucked it firmly under her arm, as if that newspaper were valuable. Cherry lost her as the crowd mounted the stairways to street level.
How strange to mark up a newspaper in that way! Was it a game? An English lesson, perhaps? Well, in a big city one found all sorts of odd people and queer things going on.
“Possibly there’s some simple, reasonable explanation,” Cherry thought, dismissing the incident from her mind.
That morning Cherry’s first patient was an elderly man who was supervisor of the shipping department. Cherry had already looked up a health report about him, and had found something interesting. Carl Jones had a heart condition. The store had offered this long-time employee a position in some other branch of work which would be less wearing for him. Carl Jones, out of pride, had refused.
Now he walked into the medical department complaining that he felt “a little tired.” Cherry knew better than to scold or question.
“Very well, Mr. Jones, perhaps you’d like to rest. There are cots in the next room.”
“Well, yes, maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”
Cherry left the man quite alone for half an hour. Partly so that he would rest, mostly because she did not wish him to think the nurse was fussing over him. Carl Jones wanted people to think that he was an active, able man, heart condition or not.
Presently, she rapped and went in to see Mr. Jones. He swung his legs off the cot when he saw her and sat up straight.
“I’m fine again now, Nurse.”
“I’m sure you are.” Cherry sat down. Some patients, particularly men, and particularly older people, hated to admit any personal weakness.
“I’ll just have to check your pulse, Mr. Jones.” Cherry took his wrist between her thumb and forefinger, counting. Then, without letting him notice, she counted his breathing rate. Both pulse and respiration were too rapid.
“I told you I was fine,” the man said defiantly.
“You pretty nearly are. What brought on the tired feeling?”—for tired was as much as he would admit at this point.
“Nothing, I tell you!”
“All right, if you say so.”
Cherry wrote in her notebook, looking matter of fact. Her notation was unimportant but her impersonal, authoritative manner calmed Mr. Jones. She waited; the silence lengthened.
He said evasively, “I had a hard day yesterday. Didn’t sleep so well last night, either.”
Cherry nodded sympathetically. “I think the pressure of Christmas shoppers gets on everybody’s nerves. I, for one, am looking forward to going home for Christmas.”
She chatted lightly about her home in Hilton, and how living on Long Island was a nice change. That is, she completely changed the subject and Mr. Jones forgot to be on guard.
The man cleared his throat. “Ah—I suppose I was crazy to move a big packing case by myself. Oh, well—but it’s not only that! Some of the extra helpers we hired temporarily—they’re green kids—don’t know the job. They do everything wrong! It exasperates me.”
Cherry nodded and let him talk. She did not say he must not overexert himself nor grow exasperated. She did not warn, “Watch out for a heart attack, Mr. Jones.” Instead, she suggested that the longest way round is the shortest way home.
“Well, Miss Ames,” he said at last, “I feel a lot better. Thanks for letting me air my grievances. I guess—I guess I’d better take things a bit easier.”
“It might pay off.”
“You sure opened my eyes, Miss Ames.”
“You opened your own eyes.” This way he was really convinced, and would remain convinced, that he must face his heart condition realistically.
On Saturday morning the medical department did its usual brisk business in bruised, banged, and misplaced children. By now Cherry and Gladys took small fry and parents in stride. The youngsters always made remarkably rapid recoveries, and Cherry found that keeping a large jar of hard candies in full view was efficacious. A modest supply of toys was useful, too, except that one small girl loved the medical department’s doll so much that she cried when she had to go home.
Executives did not often show up in the medical department, but on Saturday morning a man supervisor did come in, to ask Cherry to talk with a woman “who has been a frequent visitor to the clinic.”
“What is her name?”
“Katie Saunders. Surely you know her. She’s been in and out of here many times.”
Cherry did not recall the name, nor did her assistant. She looked through the file cabinet but found no card for that name.
“Miss Ames, she says she’s been here several times a week. Don’t you give your patients a pass or slip or some such thing?”
“Only when it’s necessary for them to leave the store or apply for a leave of absence,” Cherry explained.
“Well, I’m sick and tired of having one of my crack salesclerks floating off to the medical department, while you don’t even keep a record—”
“I’d like to have a talk with this Katie Saunders,” said Cherry. “I’d like to study your absent-and-leaves report, too, if you don’t mind.”
Katie Saunders was a pretty, blond woman who had no intention of telling the nurse anything. Cherry took a firm stand with her.
“How long have you been with Thomas and Parke, Miss Saunders?”
“Twelve years. For your information, Miss Ames, I pull down the highest commissions selling in the French Room.” She gave Cherry a contemptuous look that said, “I’m an old-timer and I know all the tricks, so don’t try to cross swords with me.”
“Isn’t it remarkable, Miss Saunders, that in twelve years there’s no record of your making any visit to the medical department?”
“It’s remarkable that you don’t keep your records in better order!”
“That will do,” Cherry retorted. She produced the supervisor’s absent-and-leaves report.
“Flu. A cold. A headache,” Cherry read from the supervisor’s report. She studied the woman, “You look in the pink of condition to me. Look here, Miss Saunders. Either you tell me where you actually were, when you claimed to be in the medical department, or I’ll send you around the corner to the doctor for a complete medical checkup.”
“I won’t go�
�.
“You’ll go, or you’ll risk losing your job. Now the truth, please, Miss Saunders.”
“You’re kicking up quite a fuss about this two-by-four first-aid corner, aren’t you?” the woman snapped.
“I’m defending my professional reputation. Don’t think it’s simply your word against mine, Miss Saunders! I have written records and can back up what I say. You haven’t any proof at all.”
“All right, all right!”
Coolly, almost as if she were amused, the saleswoman recounted what she had been doing for a long while now. She was perfectly well, but whenever there was a rush period, she conveniently developed a “headache.” When there was a too strenuous sale, she faked a coughing spell.
“And where were you?” Cherry demanded.
“Enjoying a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, or having a cool drink in the women employees’ lounge. Or I could always duck into a washroom.”
Cherry sent a written report to Katie Saunders’s supervisor. Fortunately not many people in the store were as odious as that woman.
The rest of Saturday was pleasanter. Though busy, the medical department’s most serious case was a man with a sprained wrist which had to be plunged repeatedly into very cold water. Cherry did not like to administer this uncomfortable treatment, but the icy water did reduce the swelling at once. She strapped the man’s wrist firmly, and he was able to return to work.
As Cherry expected, the balance of Saturday was filled mostly with small fry. Quite a number of salesclerks, too, reported to the store hospital with headaches, backaches, and just plain “nerves.”
“I suppose we can expect an increasing number of ‘casualties’ the nearer we come to Christmas,” Cherry remarked to her assistant during Saturday’s one lull.
Cherry had already worked out split-shift schedules for Gladys and herself, since the store was now open from nine A.M. to nine P.M. They took turns with the two shifts, which were nine A.M. to five P.M., and two P.M. to nine P.M. Sometimes Cherry came in to work at eight A.M., to put the clinic in readiness, and left at four P.M.