THE ENTIRE WARD GASPED AND STIRRED AND TOOK notice. Cherry looked up from reading Liz’s chart and saw a most attractive, dignified young man with a portfolio at the open ward door. It was Tuesday morning, near noon. Peggy Wilmot whispered loudly in Cherry’s direction: “I told you he’d come!”
“I’m James Foye,” the young man was saying to Dodo at the nurses’ station desk. “Your receptionist downstairs said I might ask the head nurse for permission to visit Mrs. Wilmot—though I know this isn’t visiting hours—”
Dodo was too dazzled to do anything except stammer. Miss Julia Greer came up and talked with the caller. He thanked her with real gratitude for permission to see her patient for a few minutes.
Peggy Wilmot was happy and encouraged to see him. He had brought flowers. Cherry tried not to overhear, though all the patients were openly gaping at the handsomest, pleasantest visitor the ward had ever had. “Isn’t he stunning?” Midge whispered. “So well dressed! And such beautiful manners. Who is he?”
“Business,” said Cherry.
Peggy Wilmot called Cherry to her bedside, and introduced James Foye to her. He surprised Cherry: she was on guard for someone sharp, and this young man had an air of simplicity, a straightforward, modest manner.
“I’m appalled to find my client sick enough to be in the hospital,” he said to Cherry. “She tells me, though, that all of you are taking excellent care of her.” His tone practically said, “Thank you for that.”
Cherry smiled at both of them. “Mrs. Wilmot is a cooperative patient. She’ll be all well and out of the hospital within two or three weeks.”
“Good. Then since she’s so much better,” the young man asked, “would it be all right if I talked to her, just briefly, about practical matters?”
“I’d rather not—” Cherry started, but Peggy begged, “Oh, please, just for five minutes?”
Cherry relented, and James Foye said, “Don’t go away, Miss Ames. This might interest you, too.”
He told them quietly of some exciting news. It was necessarily incomplete, because this was confidential information and the Pell Corporation did not want to disclose too much until it had clinched the deal. This was to be a very profitable venture, thanks to Cleveland Pell’s initiative and acumen. Pell’s competitors were already beginning to get news of it, so that rapid action by Pell and his clients was advisable.
“To tell you the truth,” James Foye said to Cherry and her patient, “I don’t yet know the full details myself, except that one of the businesses which we, that is, you, have been investing in—the Commonwealth Wool Company—is having a record upsurge. Orders for its products are pouring in! In order to fill them, Commonwealth is planning to expand. That will mean more money needed for machinery, a new plant, a larger staff—all as soon as possible. Please don’t talk about this,” James Foye requested them. “I’m entrusting this secret to you because as a Pell client”—he smiled at Peggy Wilmot—” and you Miss Ames, a prospective client—well, naturally, I’d like to see my clients do well on this deal.”
Peggy Wilmot’s dark eyes shone with eagerness. She reminded Cherry of a child playing an exciting game.
“I’d like to share in this Commonwealth expansion,” Peggy said, rather greedily. “Will the money I’ve already invested with Mr. Pell cover this, too?”
“We hope so,” James Foye said, “we’ll do our best for you. Some of our clients are advising us not to send along their weekly dividend checks—they want to turn them back for reinvestment.” Cherry started to ask whether or not this was a usual practice, but James Foye went on earnestly, “And a few of our clients, who recognize what an extraordinary opportunity Commonwealth offers, are investing additional funds. Though I’m not sure I’d recommend that for you, Mrs. Wilmot.”
“I could invest the rest of my insurance money,” Peggy Wilmot said. “I’d been thinking of it, anyway, when I was reading the latest Pell report—”
Cherry silently cried out, “Stop—stop! You may ruin yourself!” She said aloud, “The five minutes are up now. I’m sorry, but this is all that Mrs. Wilmot can stand at this stage of her recovery.” She regretted that Peggy had been excited even to this extent.
The young man apologized, immediately took his hat and briefcase, and said good-bye to Mrs. Wilmot. “I mean it when I say I’m at your service. Anything I can do to help, anything—”
“I know you mean it,” Peggy Wilmot said. “I depend a lot on your good advice. And I appreciate your coming to see me, and these flowers—” For a moment Peggy got all choked up. Cherry, standing there waiting, thought how emotionally dependent Peggy was, perhaps because of her handicapping illness. James Foye gave her a warm smile. Peggy Wilmot said, “Good-bye for now, Mr. Foye.”
Cherry escorted the young man to the ward door. He asked Cherry when she would find it convenient to let him explain the Pell Plan to her.
“Right now,” said Cherry. “It’s my lunch hour, if you don’t mind lunching in the hospital cafeteria.”
“Whatever suits you, Miss Ames,” he said pleasantly.
James Foye caused more head craning when he and Cherry walked into the crowded cafeteria. Dr. Dan looked a little jealous. James Foye wanted to pay for Cherry’s lunch, but when she said, “No, thanks anyway,” he did not press. They found a small table off by themselves, and sat down to talk over sandwiches and milk.
“Sorry it isn’t lobster and champagne,” James Foye said with a grin. “At the rate the Pell Corporation is earning, it could be.” He told Cherry about the time he had eaten lobster, when it was one of a catch he and some men had made in a small, pitching boat in rain and rough ocean off the Maine coast. He hadn’t enjoyed the lobster—“I still don’t, very much, after being so seasick that day.”
He was entertaining, ingratiating, a good companion. Cherry, however, steered the conversation to business.
First, James Foye told her, the reason he was in a position to help her—if she decided she was interested—was because of his connection with Cleveland Pell. “He actually is extraordinary, Miss Ames. In a speculative field where many investors merely gamble, Mr. Pell finds out the facts about the various businesses before we invest in them. Mr. Pell goes to their offices and factories, looks at their inventories, studies their balance sheets. He talks to their bankers and customers; he—”
James Foye talked so smoothly, so persuasively, that Cherry began to feel half hypnotized. What a power of speech this young man exercised! Every time she broke in with a question or two, he had the answers ready on the tip of his tongue, sweeping her along to his next persuasive point. Cherry felt uncomfortably that she was being submerged by the salesman’s carefully prepared, soundly psychological attack.
“I’m sure Mr. Pell is as outstanding as you claim,” Cherry interrupted. “Can you tell me whether his investment company is listed in any of the directories? My father would ask me to check, you see.”
“You’d be absolutely right to check,” James Foye said. “We aren’t listed yet because the company is so new. We will be listed soon, of course. In case you’re wondering about Mr. Pell’s standing, I’d like you to look at these. You’ll see he knows all the big people.”
From his portfolio, Foye took letters on the letterhead stationery of banks and business firms, addressed to Cleveland Pell, signed by the presidents and treasurers of these firms. He showed Cherry canceled checks made out for large sums to these persons, paid by the Pell Corporation. Foye spread out on the cafeteria table reports from businesses in several fields, data sheets, newspaper clippings, even geodetic survey maps for engineering a proposed dam in Colorado, and aerial photographs of a brand-new fruit ranch in California, with blueprints for its canning plant.
“Only Mr. Pell has this confidential information,” the salesman said to Cherry. “Now you see for yourself the sound basis on which Mr. Pell decides to invest.”
James Foye bombarded Cherry with names of Pell’s connections, episodes about businesses expanding and earning. Cherry grew almost dizzy under the salesman’s flow of eloquence.
“But isn’t ten percent return—every week—an unheard of thing?” she asked.
“Certainly it’s unheard of by run-of-the-mill investors,” James Foye announced forthrightly. “Certainly the routine, timid investor doesn’t even hear about this proposed dam. It needs a grubstake, that’s all. This dam will make money once the men who are planning it—men with vision—are given the capital which will let them start pouring concrete.”
Cherry opened her mouth to ask another question. Foye anticipated it.
“Of course there’ll be government participation, too,” he said. “Look at this letter to Pell from a Colorado state senator saying he will introduce a bill to vote government funds to help build the dam. But private investors are needed, too.”
Cherry felt dazzled. Imagine herself helping indirectly in building a dam and swerving the course of a mighty river!—so that the desert would be irrigated and grow green with crops and be populated with new towns!
She noticed James Foye studying her. She abruptly came to her senses.
“I’d have to talk over any investment beforehand with my local bank,” she said. She decided against mentioning the Better Business Bureau and the Illinois Securities Division—that might scare Foye off.
James Foye frowned, even at her mention of the local bank, then shrugged and said, “By all means, though that wastes a lot of precious time.” He was looking at her cagily, as if with mental reservations. She put on a deprecating smile and said:
“At least, my father would want me to ask there first. He’s awfully conservative, though. He’s too old-fashioned to invest in anything himself. I don’t go along with his ideas.”
The salesman smiled back at her and relaxed. “I respect conservative views in investment, like your father’s, but in view of what Cleveland Pell’s acumen has done for me, personally—” The young man leaned eagerly toward her, across the table. “Listen, Miss Ames. A few months ago I held a routine job at a modest salary. I was making a slow, small return on my small savings at the bank. Just plodding along. I could have plodded for the rest of my life. But I took a risk on the basis of Mr. Pell’s advice—I invested my salary and commissions from him in the businesses he believes are comers. I had only a couple of hundred dollars when I went to work for Mr. Pell, and now, I’ve bought a fine house, I own a car—and I’ve piled up a hundred thousand dollars in the last few months! That’s what the Pell Plan has done for me.”
Cherry looked suitably impressed. She didn’t know what to believe. Was Foye exaggerating, or lying? In that case he was an awfully good actor. Or if his story were true, if he’d actually made such huge, sudden profits, there must be something dishonest in this scheme—in view of Mr. Alison’s sober warning. But she pretended enthusiasm.
“It’s fabulous. Peggy Wilmot thinks I ought to be an investor,” Cherry said.
“I think so, too,” James Foye said. “With large sums of money to be made—Incidentally, I mentioned to Mr. Pell that I was coming down to see you at Mrs. Wilmot’s request.”
“Oh, did you? I’d consider it an honor to meet Mr. Pell sometime.” A talk with Pell, Cherry thought, might yield still fuller and more direct information. The salesman was silent. Cherry added, “That is, if Mr. Pell usually sees his clients.”
“He wants to,” James Foye said apologetically, “but he just hasn’t the time. Believe me, Miss Ames, he’s a busy man. He travels a great deal, inspecting business ventures, so you can understand …”
James Foye explained that the clients dealt directly with the salesmen, and with Mr. Pell only by mail. Very few of the investors ever went to Mr. Pell’s office. They invested by mail. Cherry wondered about Mr. Pell’s staying behind the scenes.
“Perhaps I could write or phone Mr. Pell?” Cherry asked. “I’m perfectly happy and satisfied to deal through you, Mr. Foye. I’m sure you know that. It’s just that every now and then I run up to Chicago, so if I had Mr. Pell’s address, I’d stop in a minute to see him. All Mrs. Wilmot or I have is that post-office box number, you know.”
The young man grinned. “You are astute. Now, honestly, Miss Ames, would Mr. Pell have eight sales representatives on his staff if he himself had time to see our customers? I’ll be glad to do this for you, though—as soon as Mr. Pell does have any free time, I’ll try to arrange an appointment for you. Will that satisfy you?”
His offer did not satisfy Cherry at all; he was merely avoiding giving her Pell’s address. She could not insist, though. She must not alert the salesman to the fact that she was suspicious of the Pell Plan. Foye was replacing the reports, maps, and letters to Pell in his portfolio. She wondered whether that was because any of the letters to Pell gave an address for him.
Cherry glanced at her wristwatch. Foye redoubled his sales talk.
“Let’s consider your financial situation realistically, Miss Ames,” he said. “You’re in a salaried profession which is stable but won’t ever make you rich. However, you’re young, and if you start young and invest regularly out of your salary, your earnings will mount up.”
He looked around for scrap paper, then took three letters out of his pocket and scribbled figures on the envelopes.
“Let’s say you can invest this amount every week,” he said. “Though some people mortgage or sell their belongings for cash to invest when a real opportunity comes their way!”
Cherry resisted this dangerous suggestion. She said she had only her salary and a legacy from a great-aunt; she had sold the car she’d used when a rural nurse. James Foye nodded and went on figuring. The staff people around them in the cafeteria were getting up from their tables to report back to work, the ones on one-to-two-o’clock lunch hour began to come in. Cherry grew restless. She still had not learned anything definitive.
James Foye handed her some figures, which she scanned. His plan for her was well reasoned; he had immediately grasped what her circumstances would permit. She glanced at the other envelopes he was figuring on; one fell down on Cherry’s side of the table. She picked it up and quickly read its return address: Cleveland Pell, Suite 321, Hotel Carlton, Chicago. She would remember that address. She replaced the envelope on the table, with the Pell address face down.
“Frankly, Miss Ames, I’d like to clinch this sale,” James Foye said, “because I honestly feel the Pell Plan is in your best interest. I’d especially like to see you act promptly, today, so you could profit by the big forthcoming deal I was describing to you and Mrs. Wilmot.”
He paused to give Cherry a chance to reply. She hesitated, as if considering what to do. Not that she had the faintest intention of handing over any money to Foye! She hesitated for so long that the salesman said courteously:
“Well, think it over. I don’t want to hurry you, or urge you too much. If, in your own best judgment, this plan is for you, you can mail in this form with your check—” James Foye handed her a printed form for investors, bearing the post-office box number. It looked like an application form, but Cherry wondered whether it was a contract. “I’ll be glad to answer any further questions when I come to Hilton again,” said the salesman. “Or you may write to me in Chicago.”
“I will certainly think about this, Mr. Foye,” said Cherry, rising. “I’m more interested in the Pell Plan than you perhaps realize.”
Foye stood up, too, and picked up his hat and portfolio. He thanked Cherry for giving him her time and attention. “Since you are genuinely interested, Miss Ames, I’ll expect to hear from you. Is that right?”
He seemed encouraged, as if Cherry had half agreed to invest. Cherry let his impression stand. She escorted him through the maze of hospital corridors to the main door, and there they said good-bye.
On her way back to Women’s Orthopedics, Dr. Dan Blake saw her and paused. “Who was the tall, handsome stranger you had lunch with?” he asked.
“A salesman,” Cherry said. “A faker—I think. I wish I knew for certain.” Cherry shook back her dark curls and sighed. On two or three earlier occasions, she had confided to Dr. Dan her concern about Peggy Wilmot’s investment. “Dan, remember I told you about that Pell Corporation? Well, this man today is one of their salesmen. He was trying to sell me.”
“Oh, that’s why you paid such close attention to him,” Dr. Dan said. “Did you learn anything?”
“Yes, but I’d better tell you another time,” Cherry said. “Excuse me, Doctor, or I’ll be late on the ward.”
Late in the afternoon, after changing from her white uniform into her dress, Cherry quickly read through the printed form. It was a contract, which made Cleveland Pell the investor’s agent, with full power to use the money for any purpose he saw fit. In small print the form absolved the Pell Corporation from responsibility “in case of investment losses beyond the control of this corporation.” That phrase could be interpreted to cover anything and everything, Cherry thought. Mr. Ames regarded the Pell application form as dubiously as Cherry did, when she showed it to him later, and repeated the salesman’s talk. Like Cherry, her father could only say:
“We don’t know what to believe about the Pell Corporation at this stage. Hope the State Securities Division finishes their investigation of Pell soon.”
Cherry also told the head nurse something of what was going on. Miss Greer inquired what the young salesman wanted, and of course was entitled to know because of her concern for the patient’s welfare. Warmth of interest in an arthritic’s problems was essential for successful nursing care of one of these discouraged and apprehensive rheumatoid patients. Besides, the head nurse did not want any excitement—whether enthusiasm or possible disappointment—to upset Peggy Wilmot just when she was making good physical progress.
This week was a record week for the ward. Liz was out of traction, with her heel in a walking cast. She was learning to walk on crutches. Miss Hattie Hall, after some difficulty in getting out of bed, was practicing in the walker—a waist-high metal frame, open at the back. Her sour disposition had noticeably sweetened with the lessening of pain. Even Mrs. Davis, on Dr. Watson’s order for more pain-relieving medication, was comfortable. She gamely raised herself to sitting position at will, by using the trapeze bar that hung over the bed from the Balkan frame. Mrs. Swanson was able to wash her hands and face herself, which did wonders for her morale, though the nurse still washed her back and legs. One of Nurse Corsi’s patients, a nice motherly woman, was well enough to go home, with ringing congratulations and some envy from the occupants of both rows of beds. And Peggy Wilmot this week began to do bed exercises.
When Dr. Watson ordered these rhythmical calisthenic exercises, he told Peggy, “Our aim is to limber up and strengthen your knees and wrists. Get your circulation moving. The rest of you will be pretty stiff by now, too. You be a good girl and do the exercises the physical therapist works out for you. It’s hard work, but if you want to go home without any deformities, all shipshape—exercise!”
Peggy Wilmot looked slightly scared and said, “Yes, Doctor.”
Cherry was present during this talk, and again when Betty Chase, the physical therapist, taught the patient some simple exercises. Cherry stood by and counted aloud while Peggy did each exercise three times. Peggy made faces from discomfort when she did the “bicycle” exercises with her feet and legs.
“That’s enough for a start,” Betty Chase said at last. “Rest, now. Two exercise periods a day. We’ll gradually make them longer. I’ll come back. Or if I’m delayed, your nurse will supervise for me. Right, Miss Ames?”
Cherry nodded, and said to Peggy, “You did extremely well. Better than most. Why, you’ll be graduating to the hospital swimming pool in a week, if you keep up the good work.” She knew patients must be encouraged to do the sometimes taxing bed exercises.
“I am getting well, aren’t I?” Peggy exclaimed. She still was afraid to believe it; her morale was still shaky.
Midge and Dodo were a great help with the recuperating patients. Midge coaxed Liz to drink the extra milk she needed for calcium for her healing bone. Dodo helped Peggy Wilmot to feed herself, a big gain, only cutting her meat for her. Peggy was still anxious about being handled roughly, still in some pain, but Dodo was solicitous and patient and did not hurry.
Both Jayvees paid special attention to patient recreation, Midge writing letters for Miss Hattie Hall who dictated them to her, and Dodo reading aloud to Mrs. Davis. With one particularly discouraged woman, Dodo gently brushed her hair and sprinkled a little toilet water on her pillow. Small attentions, but, as the head nurse said, kindness was as important in its way as medicine.
Dodo was growing up rapidly through her work in the hospital. She no longer broke into giggles at every turn, and she had stopped mooning after Dr. Dan Blake. So that Cherry was astonished when, in the middle of Wednesday afternoon, the youngster came up to her in tears.
“Oh, what I did! I was taking Mrs. Davis’s chart to Dr. Watson’s office, and I went in without knocking, and—well—He came out immediately and said, why didn’t I knock, didn’t I know any better, would I like it if a person walked in on my doctor and me!” Dodo gulped back her tears of mortification. “I apologized and waited outside for the patient to finish with him. Then I apologized to the lady when the nurse wheeled her back to the ward. Do you think Dr. Watson will ever forgive me?”
“I’m sure he’s forgiven you already,” Cherry said. “It isn’t like Dr. Watson to be impatient. He probably was thinking hard about the patient’s case, that’s all.”
Dodo sniffled and smiled. “I hope so. You know, I love being around doctors and nurses. I just love working in a hospital.”