The Orphan and the Mouse (19 page)

Jimmy couldn't believe his ears. Even now that she'd seen the money, Caro wouldn't listen to reason.

“Mrs. George is doing some kind of organized crime deals—like Bugsy Siegel,” he argued. “There's a lot of gangsters in Philadelphia, Caro. You can read about 'em in the paper any day. Who else hides that kind of money in the kitchen instead of putting it in the bank?”

“Mrs. George is no gangster,” Caro said. “You only have to look at her to see that. You are talking nonsense.”

“Oh, I am?” Jimmy said. “Well, you talk to mice, so I'd say we're even. Either way, you're not leaving tomorrow. We have to get to the bottom of this first.”

The two children were in the front piano parlor, where they had gone for privacy after coming downstairs. The furniture in that room had belonged to Mrs. Philips-Bodbetter's mother. When she died, Mrs. Philips-Bodbetter had ordered it sent to Cherry Street because it did not match the decorating scheme of her modern house. Now Caro threw herself so vigorously onto an antique settee that its walnut joints creaked. Then she looked up at Jimmy, and there were tears in her eyes.

“I have to believe, don't you understand? This is the only chance for a real family I will ever have.”

Jimmy was scared seeing Caro like this and decided to lay off. But that didn't mean he was giving up. Whatever Mrs. George had planned for the next day, it was a trap. He wouldn't let Mrs. George spring it on his friend. He would find some way to stop her.

“I have to pack,” Caro said after a moment. “But there's one other thing. The exterminator.”

Jimmy saw what she meant. The mice had helped them or tried to anyway. It was their turn to help the mice. “But what do we do?” he asked.

“I have an idea,” Caro said. “You'll have to work fast . . . while Mrs. George is still upstairs.”

She explained, and he agreed. Then he made her promise to meet him later.

“But when?” Caro asked. “There's supposed to be a going-away gathering after dinner. That's what Matron Polly told me.”

“After that, then,” Jimmy insisted.

“Okay,” Caro said. “Right before lights-out. We can meet back here.”

Caro's instructions required Jimmy to go first to Mrs. George's office and after that to find Melissa. She was in the north parlor reading the new Archie comic book—this one with Jughead on the cover. Jimmy was grateful she was by herself.

“Use the telephone?” Melissa's eyes widened when he told her what he wanted. “But . . . I've never dialed one before, let alone spoken into it. I wouldn't know how.”

“It's easy. I'll dial for you. Then I'll give you the receiver, and you talk into it like you're talking to me.”

“But how do you even know what telephone number to dial?” Melissa asked. Jimmy showed her the paper where he'd written it down. She was impressed, but she was not done arguing. “I don't like mice any more than anybody else does,” she said.

“We're not doing it for the mice, exactly,” Jimmy said. “We're doing it for Caro. And before you ask, I can't tell you why. Maybe later I can.”

Melissa teased him. “Jimmy: Man of Mystery—it sounds like a new radio hero.” She shrugged, rolled her comic book into a tube, and stood up. “Okay, sure, why not? What's a few more demerits?”

It wasn't really in Jimmy's vocabulary to say thank you. So he didn't. He just started walking. “Mrs. Spinelli has a telephone in her office. She won't hear us. She's too busy clanking pots while she makes dinner. Come on.”

The cook's office was in the back corner of the home, across a narrow service hallway from the kitchen. For the second time that afternoon, Jimmy was entering unfamiliar territory. In summer, it was stifling hot in this part of the ground floor when Mrs. Spinelli was cooking, and Jimmy felt his shirt dampen with sweat.

The door to the closet-sized office was open, probably for ventilation. Inside, the desk was tidy, the only paper on the blotter a neatly written list for the coming week's grocery delivery. The black telephone was beside the blotter.

Jimmy had gotten the number from the address book Mrs. George kept on her desk: Delaware 2-2618. Now he looked at the dial on the telephone. The truth was, he had never used a telephone, either, but it seemed as if it should be easy. He knew he was supposed to dial 3 and 3, which corresponded with
D
and
E
for
Delaware
—then the rest of the number. He put his finger in the hole next to the 3 and brought the dial around till it stopped.

“I think you have to lift up the receiver first,” Melissa whispered. “Then you listen for a hum. That's the dial tone.”

“Sure,” Jimmy said. “I knew that.”

He tried again. The process—twisting the dial, releasing it, and waiting as it fell back—seemed to take forever, but at last the seven digits were complete. Then—as if it were a hot potato—he handed the receiver to Melissa, who put it to her ear and frowned.

This part also seemed to take forever. Why wasn't Melissa talking? Wasn't there anybody at the other end to answer the telephone? He had a terrible thought. Could the business be closed? If it was closed—what would happen then?

Finally—to Jimmy's great relief—Melissa spoke, and her voice was an uncanny imitation of the boss's. “Hello? Yes, hello? This is Mrs. Helen George at the Cherry Street Children's
Home. I wish to cancel the services of your exterminator gentleman who previously was appointed to come here tomorrow morning.” There was a pause, and she said, “Yes, that is correct. And you are mighty welcome, for sure. Good-bye.”

Melissa hung up the receiver, took a deep breath, let it out, and grinned. “I did it!”

“Why did it take so long before anybody answered?” Jimmy asked.

“She said she was the after-hours answering service,” said Melissa. “She said she'd make sure they got the message.”

Jimmy sighed with relief. He had put on a good show for Melissa, but really he had been scared of failing and scared of getting caught. They could still get caught if they didn't hurry.

For the length of time it took Jimmy and Melissa to return to the foyer from Mrs. Spinelli's office, they reveled in their accomplishment. Once in the foyer, however, they realized that something had happened, something strange. Except for the girls on kitchen duty, all the children were gathered there, along with Matron Polly and Mr. Donald. It was unnaturally quiet, and everyone looked worried.

“What is it?” Melissa asked Betty.

Betty shook her head. “We don't understand it, either, but the boss asked Matron to look at all the girls' shoes.”

“Our shoes?” Melissa couldn't help looking down at her own, which were lace-up oxfords, same as everyone else's—nothing remarkable about them. “Do I have to show her mine?”

Betty shook her head. “Not anymore. She must've found what she was looking for. Matron sent Caro to the boss's office. She hasn't come out yet.”

“But what's the matter?” Melissa asked. “I don't understand.”

Betty bit her lip. “It's something bad, Melissa. The boss was in a fury. I've never seen her like that.”

Caro was not at dinner.

And Mrs. George did not come in to make announcements.

Instead, it was Matron Polly who told the children about their field trip to the park the next day. They would leave early because the exterminator was coming to take care of the mouse problem.

Melissa and Jimmy looked at each other, but neither smiled. After what had happened since their telephone call, they didn't feel like smiling.

“Where's Caro?” It was Ricky who asked Matron Polly the question they were all thinking. Dinner was over, but the children were still seated at the two long tables in the dining room. Standing before them, Matron Polly looked uncomfortable.

“I believe she is with Mrs. George,” Matron Polly said.

“But why?” Barbara asked.

“And why did she pack her things?” asked Virginia.

“And what's the matter with her shoes?” asked Annabelle.

Matron Polly, usually the most placid of women, lost her temper. “Carolyn has been adopted. She is leaving tomorrow morning. I believe she is spending her last evening with Mrs. George in her private apartment. That's all I know. Now, you
children—you be quiet, all of you. It's nothing to do with you.
You hear me?
”

Adopted!

Imagine that! Sure, she was nice as could be, but she had those awful scars!

And why was it a secret? Weren't they going to say good-bye? It almost never happened that older children were adopted, but when it did, they always said good-bye.

Disconsolate and puzzled, the children dispersed. It was still light outside, and some of the boys went out to the yard to play kickball. Jimmy would have been among them, but instead he went back to the intermediate boys' dorm, lay down on his bed, and stared at the ceiling.

Alone among the children, he knew exactly what had happened. Caro must have stepped in the ink. Mrs. George had seen the footprint, looked for the ink-stained shoe, found it. So Mrs. George knew that Caro had been in her apartment today, but Caro had not told her that Jimmy had been there, too. If Caro had told her, by now Jimmy would be in trouble, too.

Caro was loyal, a true friend.

But now where was she? Hidden somewhere, most likely. Mrs. George must be afraid she might say something to someone else about what she had found. Tomorrow, Caro would be safely out of the way. She would disappear . . . just like Charlie.

Jimmy didn't believe in any nice family with two little girls. He knew more about these things than Caro. He knew from the other boys that there were orphanages much different
from Cherry Street, ones that took kids in and made them work like slaves, didn't even send them to school.

Was Mrs. George such a monster that she would send Caro to a place like that?

Jimmy was independent, self-sufficient, and accustomed to making his own way. But right now, he felt hopeless and alone. Wherever Caro was tonight, Mrs. George was not going to let Jimmy near her. And tomorrow would be too late. A man was coming in an automobile to take Caro away.

With Melissa's help, Jimmy had saved the mice. But how was he going to save Caro?

Wait a minute.
With Melissa's help
 . . . Jimmy had the beginning of an idea. Maybe there was something he could do.

Bayard Boudreau thought of himself as a driver, and when some acquaintance at the bar chanced to ask how he made his living, that was what he answered. There was a little more to it, but no sense alarming his new friend or taking the chance he might be a cop or, worse, FBI.

Bayard had also noticed, over the years, that a certain type of accommodating lady was impressed by the pistol in his jacket. Whether the lady took him to be lawman or outlaw didn't necessarily matter, and he didn't go to great lengths to clarify, either.

Bayard had never stopped to think much about what some might call the moral implications of the business enterprise of which he was a part. It was illegal, he knew that, and because he regularly had to cross state lines, he could be put away for a lot of years if he was dumb enough to let the feds catch him. But he figured the right or wrong of running a workhouse for kids nobody wanted was not up to him. That was Mr. Puttley's lookout.

Anyway, he had only had to use his gun in the line of work the one time when the kid tried to pull a penknife on him. The look of fear on the brat's face when he saw the gun had
been downright comical. And he hadn't actually shot the kid. Mr. Puttley wouldn't have liked that. A swift blow to the temple with the gun butt had been enough. After that, the brat was quiet as could be.

On the whole, Bayard Boudreau liked his job. It wasn't hard, and the pay was all right. Just about the only thing Bayard Boudreau did not like was getting up early. So when he telephoned Mr. Puttley to find out about that pickup the next morning and learned it was scheduled for seven-thirty a.m., he felt pretty grumpy about it.