Cherry Ames 24 Companion Nurse (11 page)

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“Too much walking here this morning,” Mrs. Ogilvie suggested soothingly.

“That’s it,” Lady Liddy murmured. “Thank you anyway, all of you kind people.” She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath. Cherry wondered whether she was concealing some malady.

Martha Logan said, “Where is the Shah? Have we all forgotten to notify him that his wife is sick?”

“I’m afraid we did forget,” said Miss Hayden.

“Munro”—she addressed the guard who had sum-moned Cherry—“weren’t you to bring the Shah when you went to bring the nurse?”

“I was unable to fi nd the Shah, Miss Hayden,” the guard apologized. “I did look around for him a bit, but in view of this lady’s needing the nurse quickly—”

“You did the right thing, Munro,” said Mr. Carewe.

“Go fetch the Shah now, please.” The guard left the library. They all returned their attention to Lady Liddy, who swayed weakly in her chair. Cherry asked if there were some place where she could lie down, but Mr. Carewe said there was not—unless Lady Liddy wished to undertake traveling to his house.

“Oh, no, no,” the young woman said almost in panic.

“Thanks awfully, but I—No, really that’s not necessary.” The old collector did not seem any too eager, either.

Cherry glanced at Martha Logan. To Cherry’s practiced eye, her patient appeared more drawn—and “keeping going on her will power”—than Lady Liddy. “I’d better pay fi rst attention to Mrs. Logan,” Cherry thought.

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The Shah walked in, his mackintosh fl apping and hanging bulkily around him, followed by Munro, the guard. When the Shah saw his wife, he gave a cry and ran to her as fast as his portliness would allow.

“My poor dear, not another attack?” He bent over her, his white beard brushing against her face. “My poor darling—I must take you to the doctor at once!”

“We’ve telephoned for the nearest doctor,” Mr.

Carewe said, “not very near, I am afraid—”

“No, no, we can’t wait for the doctor to come here!

Thank you, Mr. Carewe, you are most kind,” the Shah said, and his voice rang out imperiously, “but I will take her to our friends’ doctor, who knows her condition.” He brushed aside reminders that the local physician was on his way. “Thank you, thank you, but no—My dear, can you stand if I support you?” Cherry stepped forward to help, so did their host and both guards, but the Shah insisted he could manage unassisted. He did not even wish his chauffeur to be called.

“We’ve been through this ordeal before,” the Shah said. “I have some medication in the car, to give Lady Liddy temporary relief. Now—up with you—very good!” He lifted the young woman to her feet. “Mr. Carewe, I am extremely sorry this depressing incident has happened in your house and that there is not time to discuss your magnifi cent collection—I owe you a thousand thanks—perhaps another time—” With his arm around his wife, puffi ng from exertion and still talking, the Shah guided her from the library, 96
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through the foyer, and out the main door—quite rapidly. Miss Hayden had to hurry after them with Lady Liddy’s handbag, which she had forgotten.

Their uniformed chauffeur, standing beside the imposing black car, sprang to open the car door for them and get Lady Liddy seated. He looked shocked—

and something else. Cherry was struck by an unsuit-able gleam in his expression, and then by the man himself. The chauffeur was stocky, powerfully built, dark-haired, and moved with vigor, as he jumped into the driver’s seat. Not at all the well-trained chauffeur, who should have helped the Shah in, too. The chauffeur looked more like a man used to working with his hands, or perhaps he was the Shah’s bodyguard.

“Funny,” Cherry thought, “I could swear I’ve seen this man somewhere before.”

“You’ve forgotten your catalogues!” Mr. Carewe called, waving the two booklets.

“My dear Carewe, you must think me ungrateful,” the Shah said, impatiently turning back for the catalogues. “I assure you I shall be profoundly in your debt—You have enriched us. Come and see us. My thanks to all—”

In haste the Shah trotted to his car, in such haste that he turned his ankle sharply. His left ankle, Cherry noted, as he caught his breath in pain. The Shah drew his coat around him and clumsily climbed into the car, slamming the door after him. Instantly the chauffeur started off, and the car streaked down the short driveway. The gate guard barely had time to open the
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entrance gate. The black car drove through and disappeared on the other side of the wall. They could tell from the motor’s noise that the car was speeding along the road.

“Poor Lady Liddy must be dreadfully sick,” said the librarian, “if they’re obliged to rush her to a doctor at that speed.” She shook her head in sympathy.

“Turned his ankle. Well,” John Carewe said dryly, “now the doctor will have to have a look at both of them.” They all went back into the mansion. Cherry whispered to Martha that she would be wise to leave now, too. Martha whispered back that it was only eleven fi fteen, they had forty-fi ve more minutes left, and still a great deal to see. Mr. Carewe did not seem to expect them to leave, so she and Cherry started back upstairs.

They climbed slowly, resting every few steps.

“Isn’t the Shah fantastic?” Martha Logan said with a smile. “I’d hardly believe he’s real, if I hadn’t seen him on television.”

“That beard!” Cherry said. “But what’s on my mind is—what caused his wife to collapse. I couldn’t say so, but I wonder if she was faking.”

“Faking? Whatever for?”

“I can’t imagine. Unless she was bored here and wanted to leave. Of course,” Cherry said uncertainly,

“I don’t know how she
feels
—”

“Well—” Martha Logan started up the staircase again.

“Out with the notebook. Back to work.” At a landing she paused. “Oh, look at these miniatures! We overlooked them before.” She and Cherry 98
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studied the unbelievably detailed little portraits for several minutes, and made notes.

As they continued up to the second fl oor, the guard Munro came rushing down the stairs past them, crying out:

“Mr. Carewe! The Gainsborough in the Blue Room is gone—cut out of its frame! Mr. Carewe, sir! Four major paintings have been stolen from the second fl oor!”

Cherry and Martha stood aside as the white-faced guard ran past them. They stared at each other. Martha Logan said:

“This is terrible. I hope they don’t suspect us. We’d better go right back to the library and tell Mr. Carewe we’re willing to be searched.”

“That bulky topcoat the Shah wore slung over his shoulders—” Cherry said. “He was alone on the second fl oor while we all were taking care of his wife—”

“Yes, I’m afraid the Shah had time to steal the paintings,” Martha Logan said. ‘‘He must have carried a sharp knife and worked fast—”

“—and probably his topcoat has a false lining, so he was able to smuggle the paintings out of here,” Cherry said. “Well, his wife
was
faking.”

“At the speed their car was traveling,” Martha Logan said, “they must be miles from here.”

“What time is it?” Cherry glanced at her wristwatch.

“Eleven thirty. Fifteen minutes since they left.” When they reached the offi ce, Mr. Carewe was talking on the telephone to the police. He looked stunned;
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his veined hand holding the telephone shook, though his voice was calm.

“—two Romneys, a Reynolds, and the Gainsborough. That connoisseur took our very fi nest paintings! Pardon? . . . Of course I am certain it was Shah Liddy! Hasn’t all England been fl ooded with newspaper photographs of the Shah? Eh? . . .” John Carewe listened to the police at the other end. “No, I had not met the Shah before today. . . . Very well, I shall not expect you to send out a nationwide alarm until you check. . . . Yes. I understand. . . . As I said, a rented car, a black Bentley. Its license number? . . .My guard at the gate and my other guests’ driver believe its license number was—” He gave the number. “Yes, I shall ask the American ladies to stay here. . . . Then I shall expect you very soon.”

Mr. Carewe hung up. He did not repeat what the police had said to him. None of his subdued staff, much less his two American visitors, ventured to ask.

The elderly collector buried his head in his hands for a moment. Then he recovered himself and gulped down the brandy he had poured for Lady Liddy. Cherry felt very sorry for the old man; they all did. They talked only a little, in low, shaken voices.

Within fi fteen minutes, several detectives arrived.

One detective, who said his name was Spencer, took Martha Logan and Cherry aside in the library, and quietly questioned them. He appreciated their willing-ness to be searched, he said, but it was unnecessary; obviously they were not the thieves. They answered all 100
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his questions—preliminary questions—to his satisfaction. They volunteered what information they could.

The detective picked up Cherry’s remark that she may have seen the Shah’s chauffeur somewhere before.

“Would you think about that, Miss Ames?” the detective said. “We shall want to talk with both of you again today, after we’ve obtained more information. Will you stay here? Or where shall we fi nd you?”

“At Wayside Inn near Windermere,” Martha Logan said. “We’re returning there as soon as you tell us we may leave. . . .”

“Just a moment,” Cherry interrupted. She saw with concern that Martha Logan all at once looked exhausted. The excitement of the theft and of being questioned by the police, on top of an hour and a half’s close study of the collection, had been a great strain.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Logan,” Cherry said earnestly, “but I don’t think it’s advisable for you to undertake the drive back to the Wayside Inn just yet. You’d better rest as soon as possible—no, not here. I know you don’t want to impose on Mr. Carewe, as upset as he is. Anyway, I mean somewhere quiet where you can lie down.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Martha Logan admitted.

“Somewhere where you can have a quiet lunch, too.” It was noon now. Cherry turned to the detective. “Mr. Spencer, is there any place nearby where we could go?”

The detective thought. “There is a modest inn about fi ve minutes’ drive from here. The Cat and Fiddle.

Would that do?”

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Cherry said that would be a great help. The detective offered to tell their taxi driver the route. He waited while they said brief thanks and goodbye to Mr. Carewe and his staff. The collector, between his distress and the presence of the police, scarcely heard them.

Then Mr. Spencer accompanied Martha Logan and Cherry out to their taxi. Edwin, their driver, was being questioned by a stout detective.

“All clear with this man,” said the stout detective to Mr. Spencer.

“Very good, Geoff. I think the sergeant needs you in the house.” Mr. Spencer turned to Edwin, and gave him directions for reaching The Cat and Fiddle. The driver soberly nodded and helped Martha, then Cherry, into the old sedan. The detective said to them:

“Wait for me at The Cat and Fiddle, will you please?

I’ll be along as soon as I can.” c h a p t e r v i i

At The Cat and Fiddle

as their taxi pulled out, they slowed at the gate to let another car enter. Cherry heard the gate guard speak to the man driving. He was the doctor who had come to treat Lady Liddy. Cherry and Martha Logan exchanged wry smiles.

“Martha—just an idea—” Cherry said. “Would you like to have that doctor treat
you?”

“So the poor man won’t have come this distance for nothing?” Martha Logan joked. “Thanks, but all I need is what my nurse prescribed.”

She leaned back against the seat and half closed her eyes. “How could a man of the Shah’s eminence and wealth stoop to stealing? Trading on his famous name to gain entry to the museum—getting in past the guards—fl attering Mr. Carewe into admitting him and his wife!” Martha shook her head. “I’ve heard about collectors with such a consuming desire to possess 102

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fi ne paintings—or the money the art will bring—that they’ll resort to underhanded methods. Bribery, trick-ery, shameless deals, a few even hire thieves. But what happened today—I can’t believe it!”

“Martha, you mustn’t allow yourself to become so excited,” Cherry said. “Naturally, you’re upset after the morning we’ve had. But please try to relax now.” Martha smiled and was quiet. Cherry called to their driver to go more slowly and gently. They drove along hedge-enclosed roads, with meadows and woods beyond. After a few turnings, they came to the inn.

The Cat and Fiddle was small and weather-beaten and must have been there a very long time, Cherry thought. They entered a modestly furnished sitting room, where a pleasant-looking man in a sweater came to receive them. He said he was Mr. Munn, owner of the inn, and he would be pleased, as they requested, to furnish them with lunch. He saw immediately that Mrs. Logan was tired. “If you wish to rest, madam, we have vacant rooms now that the season is over.”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Logan had better lie down,” Cherry said, over her patient’s humorous protests. The innkeeper called, “Agnes!”

A tall, strapping, rosy woman wearing an apron came in. Mr. Munn instructed the maid to prepare a downstairs bedroom, and in a few minutes Cherry settled her patient there for a nap, closing the door.

The innkeeper told Cherry that a hot lunch for them and their driver would be ready in about thirty or forty minutes.

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