by Helen Wells
When Tom, who usually was lighthearted, grew so serious, something was wrong. Cherry asked him about the store’s attitude, and he gave her a direct answer. As a store executive, he knew fully the gravity of what Anna Julian would have to face. He described, rather grimly, store methods of dealing with suspect employees, and of possible penalties to Mrs. Julian.
“For example,” Tom said, “she’d not only lose her job at Thomas and Parke, but she’d be blacklisted with every store in town, for future employment. Eventually the word would get around to stores and galleries in other cities, as well.”
“Tom, that won’t really come to pass, will it?”
“We’ll do our best not to let it happen.”
She told him that, at her request, Mrs. Julian planned while in Boston to check with the antiques dealers’ association headquarters on Dance and possibly Otto. Tom was reassured to hear that.
For a while they talked around and around the matter of the two thefts, trying on their ideas for size, Tom said. Cherry wondered about whether Dance himself might have played a part in the disappearance of the highboy. Tom half agreed her idea might not be farfetched. No one but Dance, he pointed out, had seen or talked to the so-called agent. Dance’s story on the highboy was the sole information they had. Encouraged, she ventured that maybe, only maybe, Dance himself might have been involved in the theft of the tiny Ming vase. But Tom would not go out on a limb for that hypothesis, lacking any facts to go on.
“We need facts,” he said over coffee. “Say, what kind of a date is this? Who are we?”
“Reese and Ames, confidential agents. Bring us your problems.”
“Our problem, young lady, is where shall we go next? Too early for dancing. Drive? A movie? No! I can’t talk to you in a movie.”
They settled for a drive, rolling along the speedways which circled Manhattan Island. At the right side of them rose the lighted, towering city; on their left flowed the night-black East River, alive with lighted ships and spanned with long, lighted bridges.
“It’s a fairyland of lights,” Cherry said, enjoying herself. “You’d think it was a giant carnival.”
“Isn’t New York fabulous? See how pale the stars look in comparison. Are you warm enough?”
Tom swung the car around the tip of the island near Wall Street, and they drove uptown along the broad Hudson River with the immense city buildings rising like cliffs above the river. As they drove, they talked, and Tom told Cherry something about himself. He came from Pennsylvania, where his parents still lived, in a lovely mountain town; he’d attended the University of Pennsylvania, served a hitch in the army, and found his first job at Thomas and Parke.
“I liked it so well I just stayed.”
“The store apparently likes you, too. Didn’t they promote you awfully fast?”
“I earned my promotions. I’ve worked harder in New York than anywhere else in my life. Everybody does here. It’s the terrific competition, the New York pace. I love it. Work hard, play hard. Speaking of play—”
It was ten o’clock, and Tom declared it was time they went somewhere to dance. He had a favorite place he’d discovered, not yet famous and crowded, and he wanted Cherry to know he didn’t tell everybody about it—“only my favorite people.”
It was just a small place, with photographs of musicians on the walls, and a dance floor approximately the size of a postage stamp. Only two couples bothered to dance; everyone else sat listening intently to the music of the jazz quintet. Cherry found the coffee here another pleasant surprise. They served twenty different kinds of coffee, from all the countries of the world. Cherry chose Viennese coffee, a big creamy cupful heaped with whipped cream. Tom enjoyed a demitasse of black pungent Italian expresso, served with a bit of lemon peel.
“Sometime,” Tom promised, “we’ll come here and go straight through the coffee list. We’ll try all twenty kinds, between us.”
“If we drink that much coffee all in one evening, we won’t be able to sleep for a week!”
“Right, Nurse. I forgot. Want to dance?”
They danced well together. They returned to their table for more coffee, more music, and completely lost track of the time. Only when the musicians left their instruments and walked off for a break did Tom remember to look at his wrist watch.
“Guess what time?” Tom asked.
“Eleven. Or a little bit more.”
“It’s midnight. Not that I care. I can stay up all night and feel fine tomorrow.”
“Well, I can’t,” Cherry said. “And tomorrow is a working day.”
“Spoken like a true New Yorker. Waiter! Check, and the pumpkin chariot.”
Outside, Tom urged her to try “just one more little place, for ham and eggs,” but Cherry knew her eyes were heavy and her nose must be shiny.
“Cinderella has to go home now,” she said. “Thanks all the same, Prince.”
“Where did we park the pumpkin chariot? Oh, my gosh, I can’t remember where I parked the car!”
Up one street and down another they wandered. Tom called under his breath, “Here, Chrysler! Come on out, nice old Chrysler! Hey, W843, answer your master!”
Cherry was convulsed with laughter. They finally located his car on East Fifty-fifth Street. “I do this all the time,” Tom admitted.
“You ought to train your boy to sound his horn when you call him.”
“All right, Cherry, all right. I know it’s me who’s lost. Where to?”
For tonight, Cherry was staying over at No. 9. Tom drove her down to the Village in ten minutes and saw her safely inside the door.
“Tom, it’s been a delightful evening. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you for the date, Cherry. Let’s do it again soon—if I don’t mislay the car.”
“Now good night, unless we should say good morning.”
“That’s right! See you first thing tomorrow morning on the elevator. Three cheers for Thomas and Parke!”
CHAPTER IX
Private Gallery
“NIGHT LIFE ISN’T FOR ME,” CHERRY SAID, YAWNING. Bertha, squeezed in the kitchenette, handed her a glass of orange juice bright and early Thursday morning. “I feel as if I’d been asleep only two minutes.”
“I hated to wake you,” Vivian said sympathetically. “Here, you carry the tray of coffee things and I’ll take the rolls and plates.”
Bertha followed them. Then little Mai Lee and tall Betty Lane came staggering sleepily into No. 9’s small dining room. “Slug-a-beds,” Bertha said. “You should try living on a farm like my family’s, and wake up with the chickens.”
“The chickens would never see me,” Betty promised. She collapsed onto a chair. “How was the date, Cherry?”
Cherry was obliged to recount every detail, but she would not divulge the address of Tom’s pet place.
“You’re a meanie,” said Mai Lee. “You know how I love small jazz units.”
“Honestly it isn’t my place to tell about,” Cherry said. “But I’ll ask Tom for permission to tell you. The fascinating places there are in New York!”
“That place sounds dreamy,” Betty said. As nurse-companion to an elderly woman, she was fairly confined. “Wouldn’t you love to know about all the places in this town? The other day my employer, Mrs. McIntosh, received an invitation in the mail to visit a private art and antiques gallery, in a Long Island mansion, if you please.”
“A what?” Cherry asked sharply. “What was the name of the place or the owner?”
“I think it was called Otto Galleries.”
“Cherry,” Bertha objected, “you’re not eating a thing.”
“Sorry, Bertha darling, I will—in a minute—Betty, do you think I might see that invitation?”
“Oh, I’m afraid Mrs. McIntosh threw it away several days ago. You know, she’s interested in antiques. But, poor lady, she doesn’t often feel well enough to leave her apart—Why, Cherry, what are you so excited about?”
“Betty, try to remember!” Cherr
y urged her. “What did the invitation say?”
Betty and the other girls were staring at her. Betty answered:
“It was a printed invitation, but it seems to me the envelope was handwritten. Mrs. McIntosh is on so many mailing lists I don’t quite—Anyway, it was apparently one of those invitations that’s sent to selected lists of persons. And it said you could see this collection of antiques in the collector’s home. By appointment.”
“It wasn’t a museum, was it?” Cherry frowned. “The art and antiques were for sale?”
“Well, Mrs. McIntosh said, ‘I’m not going to buy another thing,’ and threw the invitation away.”
“Just one more question. Where on Long Island was the private gallery?”
Betty Lane shrugged. “I don’t remember—yes, perhaps I do. There was the name Woodacres on the invitation. But whether that’s the name of the house or an estate or even a village somewhere on Long Island—”
“Thank you very much indeed!” To the other girls, Cherry promised to tell them the whole story some day. That is, if she ever found out all there was to know.
She rushed off to work, thinking how valuable this piece of news about the Otto Galleries might turn out to be. A real and important find! Mr. Otto might certainly be running a bona fide gallery and business.
Or he might be a receiver, an outlet for stolen goods. Sending invitations to a select list of patrons was a recognized method used by all art dealers. Still, Cherry reflected, it would give a not-too-honest dealer a chance to screen his potential customers. He could easily keep out anyone he wished. Also, housing the art objects and antiques in a private house would give Otto a chance to keep secret whatever he had for sale—if secrecy were advisable.
But by the time she approached the store, Cherry had some second thoughts. In the first place, what if there were a connection between Elbert Otto and Otto Galleries? She happened to know of Mr. Otto as an art consultant, but there was no reason why he should not also run his own gallery, perhaps as a secondary business. The fact that he operated it in a private house, possibly his home—well, how usual or unusual was that?
At the sixth floor, Cherry stopped first in the antiques department. Miss Janet Lamb was already there, her gray head bent as she lovingly dusted a Chinese figurine of rose quartz. They said good-mornings, hoped Mrs. Julian was having good weather in Portland, and then Cherry asked:
“Would you clear up a question for me, please? I’d like to know whether dealers in arts and antiques often have their galleries in private houses? Or in their homes?”
Miss Janet Lamb smiled gently. “My dear child, so much depends on what the dealer can afford. In many New York galleries, the dealer has his own apartment in back of the exhibition rooms. Or sometimes he maintains a large, even elaborate household upstairs, over the gallery. Or, if he wishes, he may live elsewhere, and maintain two addresses, one for business, one for residence.”
“I see.” Cherry had been about to ask whether she knew the Otto Galleries, but whether Miss Lamb did or didn’t, she might mention to Mr. Dance that Miss Ames had queried her. Cherry did not want any complications, certainly not any she could prevent.
“Well—ah—Miss Lamb, are you familiar with any art or antiques galleries on Long Island?”
“There’s the Old Barn, and Mrs. Polly Matthew’s Antiques Fair, and dozens of smaller places. You know, my dear, everyone with her grandmother’s old claptrap to sell fancies she’s in the antiques business.”
Cherry laughed. “I’ll be careful not to buy any old buggy whips. Thank you very much, Miss Lamb.”
Cherry moved into the corridor, thinking that Miss Lamb had not mentioned the Otto Galleries. Why not? Was it a secret, or rather, with its selected list of clients, had it not come to Miss Lamb’s attention? Or, more likely, was it something recent and not yet generally known? It occurred to Cherry that Mrs. Julian had never mentioned the Otto Galleries to her, not even when they discussed Mr. Otto yesterday. True, Mrs. Julian had made it clear that she had only a slight acquaintance with the formidable Otto. Still, it was odd.
As she did routine desk work, another part of Cherry’s mind was busy with tantalizing questions. There were no patients yet; Gladys Green would not report in today until two P.M., the late shift. So Cherry had a little time and quiet in which to reflect.
First question. Were the Otto Galleries owned by Elbert Otto? Probably, since Otto as a last name was not common. Cherry got out the Manhattan telephone directory, but no Elbert Otto was listed. Then she borrowed the Long Island directory from the personnel department, and looked up Otto. Yes, there was the listing:
Otto, Elbert—
Woodacres, North Rd.… . CRanston 5-4122
The telephone exchange name—wasn’t there a village called Cranston on Long Island? Cherry did not know where North Road was, but Aunt Kathy might.
Having the name and address did not answer her big questions. Even if she visited Woodacres, she would want to have some advance information about what she was walking into. Cherry wished Mrs. Julian weren’t in Portland, but in Boston where she could check with the headquarters of the antiques dealers’ association.
“But I can check, myself! There must be a branch of the dealers’ association here in New York City.”
Cherry was not certain of the association’s name, and asking that question in the antiques department might arouse suspicion. She consulted the Manhattan telephone book, and at last found the number she wanted. Cherry wrote it down and tucked the note carefully in her purse.
When her assistant came on duty at two P.M., after an uneventful morning in the medical department, Cherry left on her lunch hour. Her first stop was a telephone booth. She dialed the dealers’ association number. A man’s voice answered, a pleasant voice.
“I wonder if you can tell me, please,” Cherry said, “where I can locate Elbert Otto?”
“Otto? Is he a member of the association?”
“I’m not sure,” said Cherry. “I know he is an art and antiques consultant and works with dealers, but whether he is a dealer—?”
“Just a moment, I’ll look it up.” A pause, then the man’s voice came on again. “Yes, we do have an Elbert Otto as a member. We have two addresses for him. Do you want to write them down?”
Two addresses! This was news!
“I’m ready,” said Cherry. “Please go ahead.”
“Our records show Otto Galleries listed at 625 Madison Avenue—I beg your pardon, this commercial address was given up just a short time ago. We have a home address for Mr. Otto—it’s Woodacres, North Road, Cranston, Long Island. Presumably Mr. Otto operates his gallery in his home now,” said the man, “that is, if he operates it at all.”
“Thank you very much for your advice,” Cherry said, and hung up.
Why had Otto given up his city gallery? Unable to afford two rentals? But between the two locations, why had he chosen the less accessible Long Island address? It was his home address. Cherry recalled Miss Lamb’s saying that sometimes dealers combined galleries and apartment, or sometimes they needed separate living quarters. Cherry considered dashing up to 625 Madison Avenue on her lunch hour, to try to learn whether that building was entirely commercial or whether it housed living quarters, too. But she would never make it, there and back, on her lunch hour.
“Anyhow, now that Mr. Otto is no longer at that address, it probably would be wasted effort for me to go up there. The real question is: Did Otto move his gallery to his house for a business or economy reason—or for some other reason?”
The thing to do was to go to Woodacres and find out.
Cherry’s first impulse was to rush to Woodacres and improvise her way once she got there. But Aunt Kathy and Gwen, who knew about the thefts and Mrs. Julian’s predicament, insisted on talking things over first, before attempting to get into Woodacres.
“You’ve said yourself, Cherry,” Aunt Kathy reminded her at home that same evening, “that Dance, or Otto—or both!—mig
ht not be honest men. If Otto is up to something questionable, an uninvited guest might not be welcome. Particularly you, Cherry. You might be conceivably putting yourself in danger if you go to Woodacres.”
Gwen laughed, then quickly apologized. “Forgive me, Aunt Kathy. But telling Cherry Ames that a place or person is dangerous—well, you’re wasting your breath.”
Cherry made a face at Gwen and turned to the older woman. “There’s a lot of truth in what you say, Aunt Kathy. I don’t want to walk in blindly. I know it’s asking for trouble to enter houses or buildings one knows nothing about. Very well, then, let’s see what we can learn about Woodacres.”
“I was hoping,” Aunt Kathy said, “that you’d drop the idea of going there at all.”
“I can’t. Don’t you see? If I’m ever to help Mrs. Julian—” Cherry again explained her reasons.
Gwen refused to take Cherry seriously. She called her “Miss Sleuth,” and declared Otto was probably selling rare old hooked rugs made last week in a factory in Trenton, New Jersey.
“Very funny,” said Cherry, after Gwen had joshed her all the following evening, too.
“Stop teasing her, Gwen,” said Aunt Kathy. “Even though I wish Cherry would forget the whole matter, I can see it means a lot to her. It could be an awfully serious thing for Mrs. Julian.”
Gwen hooted. “Why, Aunt Kathy! I think you’re becoming intrigued yourself.”
Her aunt suggested they change the subject.
Saturday evening was unseasonably balmy. The three of them were just coming out of a restaurant, after dinner, and felt pleasantly lazy. They walked over to Gwen’s parked car.
“Look at the moon rising over the trees,” said Gwen. “Let’s go for a drive. Who wants to be chauffeur?”
“I’ll drive,” said Aunt Kathy. “It’s safer that way. No criticism intended, of course.”
Sitting three abreast, with Gwen in the middle and Cherry beside the window, they rode along through the suburban town, then out onto the highway.