by Helen Wells
Cherry remembered Peggy’s saying it was a new, young firm, and mentioned this.
Mr. Alison nodded. “The Pell Corporation may he perfectly legitimate,” he said. “There are a great many investment houses, and the majority of them are honest and reputable. I also checked the First National Bank of Chicago, on whom Pell drew the check payable to Margaret Wilmot. The Chicago bank said the account is a perfectly good one, but they were unable to tell me anything about Pell’s business activities. Exactly where is Pell located, Miss Cherry? The Chicago bank gave me the Greystone Building as the Pell Corporation’s address, but have you a better street address for it?”
“The letter and bulletins I saw gave no address, merely a post office box number in Chicago,” Cherry said.
The bank officer frowned. He explained that the Greystone Building maintained a public secretarial service, where anyone could receive his mail and telephone calls, and hire a stenographer. The Greystone Building address was equally as anonymous as the post office box number.
“We should be able to find out about this Pell Corporation,” said Cherry’s father. “It’s too bad we don’t have a Better Business Bureau here in Hilton, as the bigger cities do. What do you think of asking the Chicago branch to check for us?”
“Will do.” Mr. Alison scribbled a note on his desk pad. “What bothers me, you see, is that anyone can call himself an investment counselor. There are thousands of individuals and firms all over the United States who do business under that title. Some of them are actually qualified to counsel. They charge a rather high, flat annual fee, and that’s all. But some of them send out investment service bulletins, giving free advice and making business predictions that have proved notoriously wrong. They don’t care if the investor loses his money by their advice, so long as they collect their buying and selling service fees.”
The bank officer continued, “If these so called investment counselors had any information that would earn big sums of money, they would use it for themselves. But you can’t tell some people that. There are always suckers who believe they can ‘get rich quick’ with inside information, who aren’t satisfied with a safe, reasonable return on their money, like U. S. Savings Bonds.” Mr. Alison added that an investor was merely gambling when he attempted to get returns of more than five percent annually.
But Peggy Wilmot was getting ten percent! Cherry and her father exchanged glances. It occurred to her that she hadn’t told her father Peggy received this not annually, but weekly. Cherry felt almost embarrassed to mention something so—so extreme. She said:
“But, Mr. Alison, suppose the client actually earns—and suppose the investment counselor doesn’t make any charge unless the client does profit by his advice—isn’t that arrangement all right?”
“The investment counselor doesn’t pay any damages, either, if the client loses. The client can lose everything, but the investment counselor is still ahead with his buying-and-selling fees. You see? That irresponsible sort of house always takes a share of the client’s winnings, but not of his losses. No, responsible investment counselors don’t generally use that sort of arrangement.”
Cherry was beginning to feel uneasy for her patient. “Mr. Alison, does this mean the Pell Corporation may—well, not be a safe place to entrust one’s money?”
“Not necessarily, if a client is willing to gamble. Foolish enough to gamble. I don’t know anything about the Pell Corporation, until we check, so it’s hard to answer your question. The questionable investment houses are so similar on the surface to reputable houses—they use advertising, bulletins, evaluation reports, dignified letters, dignified salesmen. The dishonest investment houses use that similarity to sell worthless securities.”
Cherry’s father asked Mr. Alison, “Doesn’t the U. S. Securities and Exchange Commission stop investment swindlers? I understand the SEC requires detailed and continuous reports, and places investment on the basis of reliable fact. Doesn’t this law protect Cherry’s patient?”
“Well,” Mr. Alison replied, “the Federal law makes it hard for sharples to operate, and the State Securities Division also keeps a close watch. But some swindlers can always flout the law, for a time. Even when the law closes dubious investment houses, the same operators often bob up again under different names or in an adjoining state. If Pell has any such record, the Better Business Bureau can inform us.”
Mr. Alison said, with some heat, that “respectable” racketeers—as contrasted with thieves and gunmen—robbed more people, and of more money, than gangsters ever did. The swindlers robbed persons with small incomes or any size income, and robbed them steadily, day in and day out. “Respectable” racket hauls ran into billions of dollars. He said:
“If newspapers printed all the news about swindlers and the injury they do to the public, most of the violent news about gunmen would appear on a back page—and the swindle rackets would be all over page one.
“These swindlers are heartless, conscienceless criminals,” said Mr. Alison. “They high-pressure their victims. They subject their clients to terrific pressure. Honest companies don’t do this. I’d be interested to see some of Pell’s so-called evaluation reports that you mentioned, Miss Cherry—chances are fifty-fifty they’re bunco, just lies and promises.”
By now Cherry was alarmed. She decided she’d better tell Mr. Alison all that Peggy Wilmot had told her. So—as the bank officer’s eyes widened—Cherry told him that the Pell Plan was paying her patient ten percent weekly.
“But that’s preposterous!” Mr. Alison exclaimed. “It’s impossible, absolutely impossible, for any company to pay that and remain in business!”
“Weekly!” Cherry’s father was aghast. “How long can such payments go on? Maybe for a few payments—and meanwhile the swindler persuades his victim to ‘invest’ every dollar he has. I’ve heard of such ‘sure things’ where the victim was milked dry.”
“This must be either a swindle,” said Mr. Alison more calmly, “or a mistake. Do you think your patient is confused as to how much return she is to receive, Cherry? A sick person sometimes doesn’t think straight.”
Cherry felt shaken. “I’ll ask my patient,” she said. Possibly Peggy Wilmot had told her a distorted story, and she had taken it too seriously.
“Cherry,” said her father, “did your patient receive any guarantees or receipts from Pell? Any shares in the businesses he invests her money in? That is, did she get anything tangible in exchange for her money?”
“Well,” said Cherry, “she received a certificate. I gather it’s a sort of receipt.”
“Is that all!” her father snorted.
“Now wait a minute,” said Mr. Alison. “The certificate may be all right, depending on what it says.”
Cherry had to admit that she did not know how the certificate read—whether the Pell Corporation made any guarantees to its client, whether the client gave Pell limited or absolute control over her money. Cherry explained that her patient kept the certificate in her safe-deposit box.
“She probably doesn’t know fully what the certificate says, anyway, or doesn’t understand,” the bank officer said. “Never mind, the certificate isn’t the most important question at this point. Try to find out more exactly from your patient, Cherry, about her arrangements with the Pell Corporation. I’ll call the Better Business Bureau in Chicago.”
Mr. Alison said he would also check with the Securities Division of the Illinois Secretary of State at Springfield, the state capitol, to find out whether Cleveland Pell was registered as an investment counselor, as required by state law. “And meanwhile let’s not leap to conclusions about the Pell Corporation.”
CHAPTER IV
Fair Warning
“AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT BUD JOHNSON SAID TO THE Director of Volunteers?” grumpy, skinny Mrs. Jenkins demanded indignantly of Cherry in the ward doorway. “Bud said, ‘Be reasonable, see it my way.’ Humph! These junior volunteers!” Mrs. Jenkins was fussing about Bud’s remark, while the rest of th
e hospital enjoyed a good laugh. It was such a hot day, this third Thursday in July, too hot to fuss about anything.
Cherry said to Mrs. Jenkins, “Well, the Jayvees have their good points. The youngsters on my ward are proving so helpful that today Miss Greer accepted Midge and Dorothy as full members of our nursing team.”
Mrs. Jenkins was astonished. She opened her mouth to object, but no sound came out. Like the rest of the hospital, she had great respect for Julia Greer. She retreated down the corridor, and Cherry watched her, thinking of another of Bud’s catchphrases. It was one she’d like to tell that old cross-patch: “It’s nice to be nice—try it.”
However, Cherry reflected, Mrs. Jenkins probably had not heard about Dave McNeil; he was a natural leader and troubleshooter. This week he persuaded Lillian Jones not to resign, no matter how hard Dietary Kitchen was on her feet. And he had averted a crisis when Dodo Ware’s mother telephoned and said to Miss Vesey: “Can’t you fire my daughter? We want to go on a short trip, but Dodo won’t leave her hospital job in order to go with us.” Dave had called on Mrs. Ware and persuaded her to schedule their trip for a weekend, when Dodo was not on duty.
Dodo had turned out to be completely reliable, despite her bounce and giggles. She was doing a first-rate job, especially in relieving at the nursing station: keeping supply records up to date, tactfully watching to see that only authorized persons entered the ward, answering the ward telephone.
As Cherry re-entered the ward, Midge sped toward her carrying an ice bag and a towel. She was on her way to the small ward kitchen, to fill the ice bag and bring it back to Nurse Corsi.
“Hi,” said Midge as she passed. “I got Miss Hattie Hall to smile. Fixed her hair for her.”
“Well, cheers,” said Cherry. Considering that the patient was flat on her back, Midge’s hairdressing must have required some skill.
Cherry consulted the head nurse on a few points, then started her nursing chores. She treated the ambulatory and convalescent patients first. This afternoon these women would be taken to the hospital auditorium to see an amateur vaudeville show. The nurses, younger doctors, and some of the Jayvees were putting it on, and it was the talk of all the wards. Young Liz fretted because, being in traction, she could not attend.
“I want to hear Dr. Dan sing,” said Liz.
“Never mind, I’ll sing to you,” said Cherry, “if you don’t stop me. Now let’s give you some back care.”
Because of the constant pressure caused by lying nearly motionless in bed, good back care was needed to stir up circulation and to avoid bed sores. Cherry pressed down on the mattress and slipped her hand in, being careful not to disturb the alignment of Liz’s broken heel bone, and rubbed Liz’s back. Poor Liz’s arm and legs were still all scrapes and bruises from her fall, but nothing much could be done to hasten their healing.
Mrs. Davis in the next bed was set up because she was going to the vaudeville show. Liz whispered to Cherry, as she rubbed, that the was in a great deal of pain today, and her medicine had not helped much. Mrs. Davis did not know that with her osteoarthritis—a degenerative disease of old age, her joints having undergone much wear and tear—she probably was never going to be free of pain. But Liz knew, and it saddened her.
“The vaudeville show will help her,” Cherry said softly. “And you help her, Liz, by practically adopting her.”
“Wish I could do more. I’m young and strong, in spite of this shattered heel bone,” Liz said.
“You wanted to help Midge and Dodo,” Cherry reminded her. “I could ask one of them to show you how to make swab sticks.”
“Well, that’s not much, but it’s something,” said Liz, who seemed less restless.
Peggy Wilmot was feeling better today, she announced as Cherry came over to change her position in the bed. Cherry was careful to rest the bed covers on the footboard, not on the patient’s feet. Today Dr. Watson had ordered the physical therapist to bring the diathermy machine to Peggy’s bedside; it provided extra heat, sending electric waves through the tissues below the skin. That would improve Peggy’s circulation and hasten healing. Diathermy could be used now because the inflammation of Peggy’s knees and wrists was subsiding. This was progress, Cherry thought.
“Did the diathermy treatment feel good?” she asked Peggy.
“Yes, it did. That’s not the only reason I feel better,” Peggy said. “Another dividend check came in the mail this morning. Every Thursday like clockwork!”
She wanted Cherry to help her endorse it, then mail it to her bank for deposit. Cherry promised to do so as soon as she gave Miss Hall her medication, and took care of quiet Mrs. Swanson. By the time Cherry had done these chores, the ambulatory patients had left for the vaudeville show, in care of Miss Corsi and Midge. The head nurse was working at her desk. Liz and Dodo rolled bandages, other patients napped. Orthopedics was quiet and peaceful.
Cherry sat down at Peggy Wilmot’s bedside, glad of this chance to talk. For a moment she wondered whether to tell her patient what the bank officer had found out: that there was no record of the Cleveland Pell Corporation. But any sick person, and particularly an arthritis patient, should not be alarmed or upset. Besides, hadn’t Mr. Alison said not to leap to conclusions about the Pell Corporation? Cherry remembered that the bank officer wanted to see the advisory reports Pell was sending out. She rested her hand on the pile of Pell brochures on Peggy’s bedside table.
“Peggy, I wonder if I might borrow some of these reports and special letters? Just to study them for a few days.”
“Why, of course—no, wait.” Peggy looked troubled. “Excuse me, but I’ve been planning to study them again myself. I’m sorry, Miss Cherry. Anyway, we could easily get copies for you by writing to Chicago.”
Cherry hid her surprise at the refusal.
“Yes, it is possible to write for copies,” Cherry agreed peaceably. “Never mind, thanks, it’s not too important.” Cherry had an idea that Mr. Alison—or she herself—would learn less from the high-flown brochures than through making direct inquiries. If Mr. Alison or her father advised writing for copies, then she would do that.
“Tell me something, Peggy,” Cherry asked. “How did you find out about this investment counselor in the first place?”
Peggy’s face brightened. “Just by being alert and open-minded to business trends, I guess. I heard a radio announcement that offered—let’s see—‘Pell’s Report on Ten Growth Investments,’ I think it’s called. For one dollar. Well, I mailed a dollar with my name and address to a post-office box in Chicago, and back came the most interesting report! A regular eye opener! Then a few days later the salesman called on me. Mr. Pell has several salesmen.”
“Oh?” said Cherry mildly. “Well, sending a salesman is the usual procedure.”
“Except that this salesman—his name is Jim Foye, James Wadsworth Foye—isn’t at all like the usual salesman who tries to get you to buy something,” Peggy Wilmot said. “Mr. Foye came to explain to me what the Pell investment service can do—and can’t do. He’s more like Mr. Pell’s personal representative than a salesman. Very much of a gentleman, a very well-educated young man, I’d guess, and such good manners. And he’s so proud to be associated with Cleveland Pell! Called him a financial wizard—”
From the salesman’s description, Pell apparently was a big and respected figure in the world of investment advisers. Although Pell was a newcomer, he was already making a brilliant record, surging to the top of his field. His new company offered investors a unique opportunity, and Foye had shown Peggy Wilmot letters from important businessmen, even bankers, subscribing to the Pell Plan. But Jim Foye had stressed to Peggy Wilmot that she must make her own decision.
“Honestly, Miss Cherry,” Peggy said, “I never met anyone so courteous and obliging—except for my husband, of course. I wasn’t feeling very well and Mr. Foye offered to make a special trip back to Hilton, when I felt better.”
“That was good of him,” Cherry agreed. “So you didn’t start
in with the Pell Plan on your first meeting with the salesman?”
“No, although,” Peggy said, “we talked at length about my financial and personal situation, so that Mr. Foye could help me judge whether the Pell Plan was right for me. He knows an amazing lot about business, and financial investments, and he was understanding about a woman’s point of view. Really he helped me think through my problems and my future plans, Miss Cherry. More than the local banker or any of Arthur’s business acquaintances did.”
“Mm-m.” Cherry debated silently whether the salesman had been of genuine help, or whether he had merely been gathering information and winning Peggy’s confidence.
“Why, Jim Foye even took me to dinner,” Peggy said, “before he took the plane back to Chicago. And he urged me to go see Dr. Fairall first thing the next morning. I should have taken that advice too.”
Cherry did not know what to think of the salesman’s solicitude. All that was clear was that Peggy felt she had found a real friend in him, and a benefactor in the Pell Plan. Cherry sighed. She hoped this was so, but it was almost too good to be true—at an incredible ten percent every week. Businessmen did not generally play Santa Claus.
Peggy Wilmot went on talking: “—so Mr. Foye had left a contract with me. Then he called me up from Chicago or somewhere in Illinois—he travels—to see how I was feeling, and what I’d decided. Well, after a few days I signed the contract and sent the Pell Corporation a chunk of my insurance money.” Peggy lay very still in the bed, then said, “In fact, I sent a good big chunk of it. Three quarters of it.”
She named a big sum, and Cherry suppressed a gasp. To entrust such a sum to Pell on mere hearsay!
“I’d never get ten percent anywhere else,” Peggy pointed out. “I’m getting a tremendous break here.”