This assignment would be a piece of cake.
That’s what he told himself. But he sure wished Mary were with him instead of sick with chills and fever in her nest.
Andrew had been terrified when he saw Mary become entrapped in the cold white box. That had never been part of the plan, and he had feared she wouldn’t survive. The wait for the human pups to come upstairs, follow the ink tracks, and open the door to the box had been agonizing. Then, miraculously, his Mary had emerged unhurt, had returned to him safely.
Never in his eventful life had Andrew been so happy . . . until she had begun to sneeze and shiver. Andrew ordered her to bed, and she went obediently enough, but she would not let him nurse her. Instead, she insisted he continue to spy on the boss. Thus he learned about Caro’s ink-stained shoes and subsequent confinement.
He had been reluctant to report this to Mary in her weakened state, but she insisted on hearing everything and suffered the consequences. If he didn’t save Caro now, he feared the effect on Mary might be dangerous indeed.
So here he was with one final chance. He had all the confidence in the world that he was the mouse for the job. All he lacked was a plan.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Bayard Boudreau pulled up at the curb outside the Cherry Street Home at 8:05 a.m., only a few minutes—well, half an hour—late. He was unshaven and there were lead-colored bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. Worse yet, the stink of his breath was fierce, on account of his having eaten sausage and sauerkraut for supper the night before.
In the morning light, he would concede that he shouldn’t’ve had that last glass at the bar. The sun was brighter than it had any right to be, and he had a splitting headache. So help me, he thought, if that brat I’m driving today so much as speaks, I am going to clock her.
A tall, white-haired biddy opened the home’s heavy wooden door, and Bayard said good morning just as nice as you please.
“You’re late” was all she said—little suspecting how lucky she was he didn’t clock her, too, what with his headache and the sticky air and the bright sun and how hot it was. He hated summer. He hated daylight. He hated this evil old woman.
“I’ll need some help with that trunk, ma’am,” he told her.
“I’ll find someone,” she said. “Meanwhile, this is Carolyn.” With her chin, she indicated a plain-looking girl who had something wrong with her right hand and arm. Burns, it looked like. She was frowning and pale. “Would you please help her out to the car? You can do that, can’t you? Let’s get this over with as expeditiously as possible . . . for the child’s sake.” The woman smiled a cottonmouth smile.
“Hustle her on outta here, that’s what you’re saying, ma’am?” Bayard said. “All right. I hope I know my job. Come on then, girly-girl. You’re comin’ with me. Car’s waiting.” He reached for the child’s hand, but she stepped away. “Now, that’s hurtful.” He frowned and tried to look sad instead of angry.
“Go along with . . . uh . . . Mr. Puttley didn’t give me your name, sir?”
“Boudreau.”
“Go along with Mr. Boudreau.”
“Who’s Mr. Puttley?” The child took another step back.
Mr. Boudreau looked around him and noticed the marble, the chandeliers, the high ceilings. This was a nice place, quite a contrast to the conditions where the little girl was going. He could already see he didn’t like her, not that there were any children he did like. He felt the weight of the gun in his jacket.
“Mr. Puttley is your new papa, dear,” the old biddy said smoothly.
Bayard bit his lip to keep from laughing.
“I’m not going,” the child said, and she planted her feet. “I don’t like this man. Please . . . please, Mrs. George, don’t make me go.”
A flicker of something—sympathy?—crossed the woman’s face. For his part, Mr. Boudreau felt only irritation. He knew it was important that he not lose his temper. Mr. Puttley had warned him. But honestly, what was a guy supposed to do? Jesus Christ himself couldn’t’ve stayed meek and mild when faced with an old witch and a stubborn little girl who kept you from getting your job done.
As it was, he’d have to drive all night. Mr. Puttley wouldn’t like it if he was late.
With his last ounce of self-control, Mr. Boudreau spoke politely. “With your permission, ma’am. I have a schedule to which I must adhere.” So saying, he encircled Carolyn with his arms, picked her up, and heaved her over his shoulder.
The old witch looked startled for a moment, then relieved. “It’s for the best.”
The little girl felt placid in his arms as he moved toward the door. He had been wrong about her. She wasn’t going to give him any trouble. Maybe the witch had slipped her a Mickey Finn to slow her down.
The woman put her hand on the knob, turned it, and pushed open the door. Oh—the sunlight. Terrible! Mr. Boudreau felt a stab of pain at his temples and in the same instant something else. The girl transformed into a wildcat, kicking, scratching, and punching to get free at the same time she threw back her head and screamed—right into Bayard Boudreau’s ear.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Mr. Donald liked the kids at the Cherry Street Children’s Home, even admired them, truth be told. Most were a darned sight more confident than he had been at their age. Growing up in a children’s home himself, he had learned not confidence but obedience, a lesson reinforced by the United States Army.
Now his superior officer was Mrs. George and his standing order to make sure the Cherry Street kids did what they were supposed to. Usually, he was pretty good at it. The kids seemed to like him okay. He thought maybe in a couple of years he’d take advantage of the GI Bill, go to college, study to be a schoolteacher.
But this was the kind of morning that made a guy rethink his future. Matron Polly didn’t feel well. Mrs. George was busy upstairs. In other words, Mr. Donald was flying solo . . . and wouldn’t you know, something had gotten into these kids.
There had been Rice Krispies cereal for breakfast that morning, along with eggs and toast. The children had just been served when Jimmy and Melissa pushed back their chairs, stood up from the table, and walked out of the room. Did they so much as pause to ask permission? Not those two. And Mr. Donald couldn’t very well follow them either. Who would have minded the others?
A short time later, the miscreants returned . . . but no number of demerits would induce them to say where they had been. When at last breakfast was over and the dishes cleared, Mr. Donald felt relieved. Fairmount Park would be just the thing for these characters. Let them run off their orneriness in the great outdoors.
“Line up two by two,” he told them. “Our bus will meet us in the alley. We’re going to leave through the kitchen and then the back door.”
“Why are we going out the back door?” Virginia wanted to know.
“Where’s Caro?” Betty asked.
“Want Caro!” Annabelle shouted.
So that was it, Mr. Donald thought. The kids were upset after all that business with Caro and her shoes last night. He didn’t know where the girl was, either. The whole thing was mysterious. Mrs. Spinelli, like always, had a raft of dark theories, but none worth crediting.
“Something’s going on out front,” Jimmy said. “Who’s with me?”
“Me!”
“Me!”
“All of us!”
The door between the dining room and the foyer was closed, but Jimmy raised his hand, and the children—by now an enthusiastic mob—advanced in his wake. Mr. Donald had lost control.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
First in dismay, then in panic, Mrs. George watched events unfold.
That fool of an unwashed driver dropped Carolyn to the floor, where she landed with a thump. Then, from behind, came children’s voices, followed by a veritable herd blasting into the foyer, shouting and carrying on.
Hurrying after, ineffectual, came Mr. Donald.
“We want Caro! Where’s Caro?”
What had come ov
er her model orphans? This was too much to absorb all at once.
And Carolyn, sweet, responsible Carolyn, had become a screaming banshee! Mrs. George’s well-controlled world was turning topsy-turvy at the worst possible moment.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Caro had read the word hysteria in books but never understood it till now when she was fully in its grip—fighting the horrid smelly man who had dared to pick her up like a sack of vegetables. Then he dropped her, and she hit the floor—Ow!—and after that she heard Jimmy’s voice shouting, then all the kids’.
The horrid smelly man, now in the doorway, shouted in fury over the din. “Shut up! For the love of Pete, would you all just—” And out of his jacket, he pulled something black and shiny—a gun.
For a moment, time stopped to accommodate this new reality. Then Annabelle burst into noisy tears, and Jimmy rushed forward as if fists were an adequate defense against bullets.
“Just you wait right—” Mr. Donald tried and failed to restrain Jimmy.
Meanwhile, from her vantage on the floor, Caro was the only one to see a soft gray form streaking toward Mr. Boudreau’s unsuspecting shoe.
Chapter Sixty
Mrs. George saw Jimmy elude Mr. Donald’s grasp and rush forward.
She saw Mr. Boudreau raise his gun. She saw the flash and heard the report, so loud it seemed to suck the air from the room as it echoed in her skull. For a moment, she thought she herself had been shot.
Then the ringing in her ears was replaced by renewed shrieking, wailing, and shouting. Someone was on the floor, someone else was caterwauling—having a fit.
This last was Mr. Boudreau, but what in the world asked him?
He was jumping, stomping his feet, and shrieking like a bee-stung two-year-old. “Make it stop—get it away from me—help me-e-e!”
At that moment, the front door opened and light flooded in. “My goodness—Mrs. George, what is going on?”
Frank Kittaning had arrived.
Mrs. George didn’t stop to answer, didn’t look back to learn the source of Mr. Boudreau’s distress, didn’t even look down to see who it was that lay on the floor with a bullet in him. Instead, she turned on her high heels and ran.
Chapter Sixty-One
It would be inaccurate to say that Mary Mouse was fighting for her life. In truth, she felt so miserable she had almost surrendered.
She knew she lay in a bed of fine sawdust and fresh, clean paper shreds in her own nest. She knew her paws had turned blue, but she wasn’t sure why. She knew that Andrew had fussed over her incessantly, trying to make her comfortable. The tiny portion of her awareness that felt anything felt gratitude for this.
And where was Andrew now? A rescue mission, was that it? But Mary could not remember who it was that needed rescue.
Doesn’t matter, Mary thought, letting sick misery overcome her, and with it visions like waking dreams. She saw her own dear mama and papa, long dead, and her youngest pups, Millie, Margaret, and Matilda. Were they dead, too? And if they weren’t, why didn’t they come to see her?
She saw her mate, Zelinsky. He was dead. She was sure of that. She remembered an argument they’d had and felt guilty all over again.
I’ve lost so much, she thought. I guess it’s time I join the dead myself.
Then came a new vision, this one more solid than the others, a gangly shadow that blocked the light from the passageway. This vision—a large and somewhat unkempt male—seemed glad to see her but anxious, too.
Now she recognized him—Andrew Mouse, the legendary art thief, and he began to fuss, as was his way, annoying in his solicitude. Visions were never annoying, were they? Andrew must be real. He smelled real.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Some dinner? At their breakfast, the children had that grain you like—the puffy one that crackles on the tongue. I could bring you some.”
Returning to herself, Mary didn’t care about food. “Caro?” she squeaked.
Andrew nodded. “Bit of a story to that, a good one. There I was, my dear, asking myself how to singlehandedly save the day. Then such a ruckus ensued! A giant noisome human! Rioting pups! Gunfire! Fortunately, I had a plan. It required split-second execution and utter disregard for my life and nostrils, but—”
Mary squeaked with the last of her strength. “Caro?”
“Ah,” said Andrew. “Cut to the chase, you’re saying. Well, here it is, then: She’s been through a lot but no injuries sustained. I think she will be fine.”
Mary felt a flood of relief, and with it new strength. She shifted, and when Andrew tried to prop up her head, she let him.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I will have some dinner after all.”
“Ha ha ha ha ha!” said Andrew. “I will be right back.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
One good thing about being shot, you got an awful lot of sympathy . . . especially if you bled a lot, and Mr. Donald had. Something else good: You got to lie in bed while people brought you candy and flowers. Finally, once you got settled in at the hospital, you had plenty of time to think.
Mr. Donald had used that time to sort out all that had happened in those few minutes in the foyer at the Cherry Street Home . . . with one exception.
He didn’t know what had startled the man who shot him—Bayard Boudreau, his name was. He had learned that later. Why had Bayard Boudreau missed? And why had he had a fit?
Jimmy had lunged at Mr. Boudreau to save Caro. Mr. Boudreau had produced a gun and aimed. Mr. Donald had reached for Jimmy, and Mr. Boudreau had fired.
But before Mr. Boudreau fired, something had caused him to jump and jerk the gun upward so that the bullet went over Jimmy’s head and hit Mr. Donald in the shoulder. Down Mr. Donald had fallen, wondering if he was going to die . . . and thinking that would be ironic after he’d fought a war for three years without suffering a scratch.
Then, Mr. Donald remembered from the comfort of clean sheets in a peaceful, orphan-free room, Mr. Kittaning had arrived. Mr. Donald had always liked Mr. Kittaning, and from that moment his confidence had swelled. He was not going to die, and Mr. Boudreau was going to get his just deserts.
The hospital’s visiting hours began at seven-thirty p.m. Mrs. Spinelli brought Jimmy by to see him.
“Hello, Donald.” Mrs. Spinelli spoke very softly. “Are they treating you good?”
Donald tried to sit up to say they didn’t have to speak in funeral voices, but pain shot through his shoulder and he gasped, convincing his visitors he ought to be treated with the reverence afforded someone who would soon reside with angels.
“I’m okay, yeah,” Donald finally managed. “Is there any news?”
“You mean about the boss? Oh, boy, you’ll never believe it,” said Jimmy. “She got arrested! The policeman caught her trying to hotfoot it over the bridge to Camden in her automobile. They recognized the license plates after the description went out on the police radio. Mr. Kittaning explained it all to me.”
“And that Mr. Boudreau fellow, he’s been arrested as well,” said Mrs. Spinelli.
“That’s not any surprise, of course,” said Jimmy. “He shot you!”
“Yes,” said Mr. Donald.
“But he was trying to shoot me,” said Jimmy.
“Yes,” said Mr. Donald.
“What do you say to Mr. Donald, Jimmy?” Mrs. Spinelli nudged him with her elbow.
“Thank you,” said Jimmy.
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Jimmy shrugged and twisted his face as if he was embarrassed.
“But what was Mr. Boudreau up to?” Donald asked. “Was he trying to kidnap Caro?”
“In a manner of speaking, he was,” said Mrs. Spinelli. And she explained about Mr. Puttley, who kept kids like prisoners in a horrible place where they couldn’t go to school and had to work like slaves. “Apparently, government authorities have tried to shut him down, but he paid off whoever he had to, and till now always stayed one step ahead.”
Ji
mmy had nodded enthusiastically throughout Mrs. Spinelli’s recitation. Now she paused and his words gushed forth. “With Mr. Boudreau trying to shoot me, they’ll have enough to get Mr. Puttley, too, Mr. Kittaning says. Gosh, it’s awful to think if Caro had ever had to go to a place like that. And Mrs. George was all ready to pack her off. They were in it together—her and Mr. Boudreau.”
“But why did Mrs. George want to send Caro away?” Mr. Donald asked.
“Because Caro knew about the stolen babies!” said Jimmy. “And so did I, only Mrs. George didn’t know I knew. There was that baby Charlie she took for that movie star, and maybe other ones besides. If she’d known I knew, she would’ve been wanting to send me to work for Mr. Puttley, too!”
Mr. Donald thought Jimmy sounded wistful, as if he wanted some of Caro’s drama for himself.
“How do they know she stole that baby?” asked Mr. Donald.
Jimmy and Mrs. Spinelli both tried to explain at once, with the result that the story took twice as long as it should have. In the end, Mr. Donald understood that the police had spoken to the baby’s mother, and she had described the lady who took her baby away—a description that fit Mrs. George to a T. The baby himself had been located with Joanna Grahame, and she had agreed to return him to his rightful family.
“She was mostly wanting to make sure she got a full refund—that’s the way she said it, according to Mr. Kittaning, ‘a full refund,’ and it was a pot of money, too. I never knew there was so much money in selling babies,” said Jimmy.
“It sure was lucky Mr. Kittaning showed up when he did,” said Mr. Donald.
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