The Orphan and the Mouse (20 page)

Still, you didn't want to say no to Mr. Puttley, and you didn't want to be late, either, or anyway not so late that Mr. Puttley would hear about it. Bayard was staying at a Broad Street rooming house, not far from Cherry Street. He made a vow to himself to turn in early. But first, he'd pay just a quick visit to a local saloon he knew. A couple of drinks wouldn't hurt.

Caro awoke in a room that was pitch-dark and smelled like mothballs. She was enveloped in sheets and a blanket, but she was not in a bed. She seemed to be lying on cushions on the floor. And she was still wearing her clothes.

Gradually, the previous evening came back to her. Called into Mrs. George's office, confronted with her ink-stained shoes, Caro had admitted to having been in the apartment, but had refused to say anything else. It was strange, but the more Mrs. George had ranted and raved, the easier Caro had found it to be quiet. She never told about Jimmy or seeing the money in the freezer. As for explaining why she had gone to the apartment in the first place—well, she couldn't, could she?

How could anyone have explained about the mice and the newspaper story and the key?

When at last Mrs. George's energy flagged, Caro saw clearly what Jimmy had known all along. In spite of the photographs and the plaques and the letters from famous people, in spite of Caro's desperate need to believe in her, Mrs. George was a sham. Caro wasn't sure where the money in the freezer came from, but she thought it had something to do with Baby Charlie. Was it possible to sell a baby?

Caro had to think through a haze of drowsiness to reconstruct what had happened next. After Mrs. George had calmed down, she had offered cookies and tea, and Caro had said yes gratefully. She was thirsty and hadn't eaten dinner. The tea had lots of sugar in it, but even so it tasted bitter.

After that, Caro didn't remember anything.

Now, even in her muddled state, she understood what must have happened. There had been something in the tea, some kind of sleeping medicine.

Caro could see a line of light under the door to the cramped space where she lay. Could she be in the boss's apartment? And it was morning. But what time? Was the man still coming in the automobile to take her away? Where was she going?

Not to the well-off family with the two little sisters. That beautiful picture had been a lie.

When Mrs. George realized that Carolyn wouldn't tell her what she'd been doing in her apartment or what she had seen, she had left her momentarily in Polly's care and used Mrs. Spinelli's telephone to call Judge Mewhinney for advice. He, luckily, thought of the prescription powder he took to help him sleep and rushed over with two doses for Mrs. George to stir into Carolyn's tea.

Later, he had carried the sleeping child upstairs.

Now it was morning. Mrs. George rose early but waited till the last moment to awaken Carolyn. When she judged it was time, she opened the door of the walk-in closet, turned on the light, and knelt by the makeshift bed on the floor. Carolyn made a face but did not open her eyes. Mrs. George shook her shoulders.

“Carolyn? Dear, it's time to get up. The gentleman will be here in a moment to take you to your new family. Remember? Today's the day!”

“I know.” Carolyn opened both eyes, and Mrs. George wondered if she'd been playing possum. “And I don't want to go.”

“Nonsense, of course you do. You're just sad to leave your
friends. But I assure you you're going to be much happier with your own family.”

Carolyn still didn't move. Mrs. George glanced at her watch: 7:25. Perhaps she shouldn't have waited so long to wake the girl. She didn't want Mr. Puttley's driver to be seen lurking around outside. There was no telling what type he might be.

“Carolyn dear, I must insist. On your feet now.”

“Where am I? Why didn't I sleep in my own bed? Why am I still in my clothes?”

Dear heaven, could the child move more slowly? “I'll tell you everything when you're awake enough to hear it.”

That worked. Carolyn sat up and rubbed her eyes. Mrs. George explained that she had been unwell the evening before, and so Mrs. George had decided to keep her upstairs in her own apartment as a precaution.

Did Carolyn believe her? How much did she remember? There was no way to know.

“I can't travel like this,” Carolyn complained. “I'm all rumpled. My face isn't even washed.”

“Yes, I know. My bathroom is here. There is a clean towel on the counter, and I've brought clean clothes up from your trunk.”

When, a few minutes later, Carolyn emerged dressed, Mrs. George steered her out the door and down the stairs.

“Ma'am, where is my trunk? My suitcase? Will I be able to say good-bye to the others?”

The sleeping powder must have been potent, Mrs. George thought. Carolyn's speech was slightly slurred, and she was much more petulant than usual. On the whole, though, it was just as well if she wasn't thinking too clearly.

“The driver will take your trunk to the car for you,” said Mrs. George. “And you already said your good-byes, don't you remember?”

“No,” Carolyn said. “I don't.”

Mrs. George didn't bother to contradict her. They were at the foot of the stairs now. Mrs. George's watch read 7:35. Mr. Puttley prided himself on the efficiency of his operations, so his man would be waiting. But when they stepped into the foyer, there was only Carolyn's trunk.

And whose voices were those she heard coming from the dining room? The exterminator was due shortly. The other children should have left for the park by now.

Could something have gone wrong?

Frank Kittaning had a cordial relationship with Helen George at the Cherry Street Children's Home . . . but he did not like her. The trouble was the disjunction between her personality and her job. She was cool, analytical, and authoritative, qualities that might have made her an excellent banker, business owner, or attorney. But instead, she ran a home for orphans, orphans she cared about primarily because they were the stock in trade of an orphanage.

Frank Kittaning liked children, and disliked the idea of a person indifferent to them being in charge. Still, he could find no fault with the Cherry Street Home, and in a job where he frequently saw children mistreated, this was a relief. The last thing an overworked child welfare inspector wanted was to make work for himself.

All of this is to say that Frank Kittaning was surprised when the switchboard rang through with a call from Helen George on a Saturday morning. By rights, he should not even have been at his desk. But he was working on the case of the baby's disappearance from the lying-in hospital, and a briefing with police was scheduled for later in the morning. He had wanted to take a look at the file first.

“This is Mrs. Helen George, headmistress of the Cherry Street Children's Home,” said the voice on the telephone.

“Yes, of course, Mrs. George. What can I do for you?”

“I am calling about something important, Mr. Kittaning. A mighty important problem that we are having here. Can you come over right now?” Mr. Kittaning thought he heard whispering in the background. “It's a problem with an orphan, I mean.”

Frank Kittaning rose from his chair, reached for his hat, and looked at his watch. “I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Thank you. Okay. Good-bye,” said Mrs. George, and the line went dead.

Mr. Kittaning's Packard was parked in the City Hall lot. He drove quickly, thinking that whatever the problem was, it must be serious. Mrs. George hadn't even sounded like herself.

Looking through the chipped marble portal that led to the foyer, Andrew took slow, even breaths and willed his heart to settle down. It was up to him to save the human pup that meant so much to Mary, and he would do it, too. Wasn't he the legendary art thief, the explorer of newsstands, the only rodent in all creation who had learned to read?

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.