“WHERE ARE WE GOING?” CHERRY ASKED. THEY WERE OUT on the street in front of the hotel. It was a quarter to eleven, and John Ogden hailed a taxi.
“We’re going to the Illinois Securities Division,” he answered. “Get in, Miss Ames,” and he gave the driver a West Randolph Street address. The taxi started off. Ogden leaned back and muttered, “I should have had sense enough to be wary of a high-pressure salesman and get-rich-quick promises.”
“A patient of mine—I’m a nurse—is having the same experience as you are,” Cherry said. “Four dividends, and now nothing. Did you answer an ad? And later did the salesman call?” John Ogden nodded. “By the way, Mr. Ogden,” Cherry asked, “how did you find out Cleveland Pell’s address?”
John Ogden grinned. “I collared Foye in my friend Travers’s office, day before yesterday, and threatened to take him to the police on a charge of fraud. Foye didn’t want any trouble, so he told me to see his boss and gave me Pell’s address. Oh, here we are.”
The taxi pulled up before a government building. John Ogden insisted on paying the fare, and helped Cherry out. They went into the building, and while Ogden spoke to a receptionist, Cherry looked at a leaflet explaining the work done here. The Securities Division of the office of the Secretary of State for Illinois protected all Illinois investors by requiring two things:
One, securities or investments had to be registered, so this office could examine them and learn whether they were for honest or fraudulent businesses. It was illegal to sell unregistered securities.
Second, every person who acted as an investment adviser or salesman of investments must apply for registration. This meant he would take an examination and would be investigated for honesty and qualifications. Once registered, he would be closely scrutinized. Without registration, it was illegal to advise or sell.
The leaflet urged the public to consult the Securities Division “if you are in doubt as to whether a dealer, salesman, or securities being offered to you are registered.” The leaflet added that the law regulated securities in order to make sure that the investor received something more for his money than a worthless certificate.
Cherry sighed. If only Peggy Wilmot had asked a few questions before handing over her money!
John Ogden came back to Cherry and said a skeleton staff was there on Saturday, and they were to see a Mr. Atwood right away. The receptionist took them into a large office where several men were working at their desks, and introduced Cherry and John Ogden to Mr. Atwood, who was an attorney. He seemed to be in charge here.
“Sit down, please,” he said. “I’m going to call over one of our investigators and an accountant and a stenographer.”
In a minute or two, these three persons sat down around Mr. Atwood’s desk. They were quiet, intent, and sharp-eyed. The investigators, as well as the examiners, in the Securities Division were all attorneys. “Go ahead,” said Mr. Atwood to his visitors.
“First,” John Ogden said urgently, “the man I’ve been investing with, Cleveland Pell, and Miss Ames’s patient has been investing with—he has just slipped away from us. Miss Ames believes he took a large sum of cash and his clients’ uncashed checks from his office with him.”
The faces around Cherry tightened. “It’s possible,” said Mr. Atwood. “Let’s have all the facts. Miss Ames?”
Cherry briefly outlined her patient’s experience. John Ogden quickly told his story, and described the interview with Pell this morning. The officials broke in with a few questions that showed this type of swindle was familiar to them. Mr. Atwood said:
“This Cleveland Pell mailed out letters making exaggerated claims? He had no books or records to show you? He had complete power of attorney over your money? Hm. And when you tried to get a refund or some satisfaction from him this morning, he walked out on you.”
The investigator said to Mr. Atwood, “He’ll probably run true to form, and try to leave the country with his clients’ money. We’d better call the police.”
Mr. Atwood agreed but wanted to check with the Securities Division’s principal office in Springfield, the state capitol, about Pell’s application for registration. He asked the switchboard operator to put the call through immediately. Mr. Atwood also inquired about James Foye.
“Foye told me Pell has seven other salesmen, all selling in Illinois small towns,” Cherry said…. “No, I don’t know their names. This morning I met Miss Black, Pell’s secretary,” and Cherry described her. Mr. Atwood relayed all this information on the phone, too. The Springfield office said it would check and asked the Chicago office to wait, not to hang up.
In a very few minutes, Springfield reported that Pell’s application was under investigation but incomplete, nothing for or against Pell so far—and that neither James Foye nor any other salesmen for Pell had applied for registration.
An examiner who had joined their group said skeptically, as Mr. Atwood hung up, “Remember the pair of stock promoters who were selling unregistered shares of Karmet Industries—worth around twelve cents a share and selling it for three dollars and twenty-five cents a share—the ones we arrested, but who got out on bail, then jumped bail and got away from us in Springfield? And remember, the local sheriff picked them up in Arkansas? Well, those crooks had applied for registration, too, just as Pell has. Proves nothing.”
The other officials nodded, and Mr. Atwood said:
“Unregistered investments, that’s another point. In what companies was Pell selling securities?”
Cherry and John Ogden answered together, “Commonwealth Wool, American Eagle Lead, a projected dam in Colorado—”
Mr. Atwood and his staff exchanged glances. “We’ve never heard of any of those firms,” Mr. Atwood said to the two complainants. One of his aides remarked that such obscure businesses, promoted by men like Pell, almost invariably turned out to be unsuccessful. Mr. Atwood shook his head. “Those firms are not only unregistered, I suspect they’re nonexistent. Pure bunco!”
Cherry hesitated. “But those impressive letters he and Foye showed us—”
“Those are often forged,” said Mr. Atwood, “on stolen stationery. The sharper’s racket depends on resembling a legitimate business.”
Mr. Atwood then telephoned the Chicago police and asked them to find Cleveland Pell. He relayed Cherry’s and Ogden’s descriptions of Pell, Foye, and Miss Black.
“I will get arrest warrants for Pell and Foye on charges of violation of the Illinois Securities Law,” Mr. Atwood said into the phone. “Listen, Captain Judd, this Pell may intend to abscond with his clients’ funds, so your men had better watch all airports, railroad terminals, and bus stations. What? … Yes, fine, Captain. We’ll alert the State Police to keep a watch for him on the highways. We also want to talk to his secretary, Miss Black. She may have some information—”
“Or she may have access to Pell’s books and bank records,” the Securities Division accountant cut in.
Mr. Atwood arranged with the police captain to coordinate their agencies’ efforts to locate Pell, and almost did not see Cherry’s frantic gestures.
“Mr. Atwood!” she exclaimed. “Mr. Pell said he wants to see me privately—later today, or maybe tomorrow.” She rapidly explained why.
“He does! Very good! … Captain, there’s a girl here who—” The Securities Division Chief explained. Then he listened. “Yes, we have…. Yes, we’ll lend it to her. If she’s willing…. All right, that’s understood, then.” He hung up.
Lend me what? Cherry wondered, and Ogden looked curious.
They planned to lend her a “Dick Tracy,” which was a radio transmitter concealed in a wristwatch or bracelet. It would permit the Securities Division investigators to listen in on Cherry’s conversation with Pell, within a radius of half a mile.
“We’ll be a whole lot nearer to you than half a mile,” Mr. Atwood said to Cherry with a smile. “That is, if you’re willing to place yourself in some degree of danger. I don’t want to minimize the risk. Pell may be armed, and in order to catch him, we may have to shoot it out. However, these ‘respectable’ swindlers don’t generally carry guns, Miss Ames. A con man like Pell depends on his powers of persuasion, his ability to act a part—and on his slippery lawyers. What do you think, Miss Ames? I can assure you you’ll have two or three detectives as close by as possible. But I don’t want to urge you to act as decoy.”
“Can’t I go in her place?” Ogden offered.
“That wouldn’t work because Pell mistrusts you,” Cherry said. She sat there, thinking. “How important is it for me to do this?” she asked.
“Well, if Pell actually contacts you,” Mr. Atwood said, “it would help us a lot. It’s quite easy, you know, to disappear in a big city like Chicago.”
John Ogden grinned at her. “You look as if you’re going through with it.”
“Yes, I guess I am,” Cherry said. She felt no great eagerness for this adventure, but she was in a key position, and it seemed to her irresponsible to refuse to help.
“I’ll do it,” she said to the Securities Division men.
They instructed her to return to her hotel and wait for Pell’s call. The instant she heard from Pell, she was to notify the Securities Division, no matter what the hour. Mr. Atwood gave her a special telephone number. The investigator fastened on her wrist a deceptively attractive bracelet.
“If you don’t phone us within a few hours, Miss Ames,” said Mr. Atwood, “we’ll phone you.” John Ogden said he would keep himself immediately available, too.
He escorted Cherry back to her hotel. She said good-bye to Ogden, and good luck, on the chance they would not meet again. Then Cherry went upstairs to her room. It was one P.M.
She spent a long, restless afternoon waiting for Pell to call. She had Room Service send up some lunch. Then she tried to read, but she kept thinking about what the Securities Division men and the police were doing on the Pell case this afternoon—and what this would eventually mean to Peggy Wilmot. Would Peggy ever get any of her money back? Or would Pell go scot-free?
Cherry remembered that this coming week was the week Peggy Wilmot was to start walking again. How was Peggy feeling now? Cherry’s thoughts flew back to her ward. Would it help Peggy when she told her, on Monday, that the Pell situation was in the hands of the Securities Division and the police—and that Peggy’s interests were being safeguarded? Cherry hoped the news would calm Peggy, so that she would continue to improve.
The afternoon seemed interminable. Cherry sent a bellman for picture postcards and stamps, and wrote to her old friends, the other nurses in the Spencer Club, at 9 Standish Street in New York. The bellman came back and took Cherry’s mail, since she did not dare leave her room.
Still the afternoon dragged on. In her silent room Cherry read. She listened to the radio. No news about Pell. Mostly she speculated about where Pell, his account books, and his silver flask were right now and what his next move could be. Outside her windows, daylight was fading and the street lights came on.
The phone rang. Cherry jumped as if she had been shot. She ran to answer it.
“Hello? Cherry Ames? … This is Mr. Atwood.” She recognized his voice, this was no trick on Pell’s part. “You haven’t heard from Pell yet? … All right, just wait. Listen, Miss Ames, we’ve done a lot this afternoon that you should know about, in case Pell calls you—”
Mr. Atwood said he had instructed the telephone operator here at Cherry’s hotel to cut off his call at once if Pell’s call came through for Cherry.
“I’ll be quick,” Mr. Atwood said, and rapidly briefed Cherry on what had happened in the seven hours since she had left his office.
First and most important, the local police, acting with the Securities Division, were searching Chicago and its environs for Cleveland Pell.
The Securities Division investigators and police had promptly raided Pell’s deserted office in the hotel, intending to impound his books. They found huge unpaid bills from a stationer, a photo-offset printer, a typist agency—Pell had apparently mailed out thousands of “advisory” letters. As they expected, they found only a few unimportant records in the file. Pell must have taken the key records with him when he fled.
From the hotel desk clerk, the investigators had learned Miss Black’s home address. “We located Pell’s secretary at home,” Mr. Atwood said, “and the woman was scared enough to talk. She knew Pell’s business was a racket, but protested that she simply had a job there. She’s being held on a charge of collusion. Miss Black gave us a good deal of information—and if Pell calls you, you may need to know some of this—”
The secretary insisted she did not know where Pell had gone today. She did not know his home address, except that he had boasted he had recently rented a fine house in an exclusive suburb. The police learned from an alert patrolman in that suburb which houses had new residents, and located Pell’s showy house—but Pell was not there. No one was there. No bonds, no sucker list, no safe-deposit keys, no leads of any sort. Neighbors said Pell lived alone, lived lavishly, gave lavish parties.
“We hardly think,” Mr. Atwood said, “that Pell will dare return to his house. But if he does ask you to meet him there, or wherever, agree to it—and notify us. And please go, we’ll ensure your safety.”
Cherry said she would go. Her secret meeting with Pell began to loom as an actuality.
“Pell’s secretary,” Mr. Atwood said, “insisted that she had never seen any bonds—maybe there never were any—and didn’t know where Pell kept his books. She said that he was secretive; he never allowed her to handle anything important, and her job was mainly to keep clients away from Pell.
“But the secretary did supply us with the names of Pell’s eight salesmen.” A check by Springfield showed not one of them was registered with the Securities Division. “Miss Black swore she didn’t know their home addresses or their whereabouts—except for a lead on Foye. He’s downstate selling and is due back in Chicago tomorrow morning. He and Pell have a lunch appointment at noon. The secretary doesn’t know where. Try to find out from Pell the name of the restaurant or hotel, Miss Ames, so we can nab the salesman there.”
“Will do,” said Cherry. “If Pell calls.”
She hoped the police would find Pell before he ever called her. Mr. Atwood held out no such hope. He was saying that the Securities Division staff had checked this afternoon with the officers of all Chicago banks, in an effort to learn where Pell banked his money, suspecting he had several accounts in several banks, and where he rented a safe-deposit box—in short, where he kept or hid the money taken from his clients.
“We suspect Pell banks under a pseudonym,” Mr. Atwood said. “We’ve got to know that false name if we’re ever to return the clients’ money to them—even part of it. Keep your ears open for any names, Miss Ames. He might be tired and excited and careless by now, and drop a name. Just be alert. Of course Pell may never give you a chance to find out these things, or events may move so fast—But try. We’ll be listening to your Dick Tracy radio…. Everything understood?” Cherry said yes. “You’re a good citizen to cooperate like this,” Mr. Atwood said. “Thanks,” and he hung up.
The phone did not ring again. Cherry called Room Service for food. She kept the radio turned on. Not a word about Pell was broadcast, undoubtedly so as not to alert him. She spent a long, tense evening. Around ten o’clock she grew sleepy and wondered when, or whether, she should go to bed.
Just then the phone rang. Cherry answered.
The voice sounded far away, but it was as courteous and assured as ever.
“Am I calling too late, Miss Ames? Awfully sorry,” Pell said. “I fell asleep and just now woke up. You know how lazy a Saturday can be.”
A smooth excuse, Cherry thought, and wondered where he was. In hiding, since he had not dared go home—Pell evidently was taking no chances on Ogden’s threat to go right to the Securities Division.
“No, I suppose it’s not too late, Mr. Pell,” Cherry said, then waited.
“I thought you might have gone back to Hilton by now, or were spending the evening with friends or with Mr. Ogden, or something like that,” said Pell.
“No, I haven’t seen Mr. Ogden since I was in your office this morning,” Cherry said. She thought she heard Pell sigh in relief. “I’m free this evening. And I’m free for lunch tomorrow if you are,” said Cherry.
“I have a luncheon engagement tomorrow with Jim Foye, to talk business, so I can’t—”
Cherry interrupted him. “If I wouldn’t he intruding, could I join you toward the end of your lunch? Lunch would be so much more convenient for me, Mr. Pell.”
“I’m sorry about the lunch,” Pell said, “but if you’re sure it’s not too late, Miss Ames, I’d appreciate seeing you this evening. It will take me at least thirty or forty minutes to get into town—if I can find a cab out here.”
Where was he? Criminals often used a motel on the outskirts of a city for a hiding place. Or was he at a crony’s place? “I thought we could have a cup of coffee together,” said Pell. “I do need to talk to you. And I now have Mrs. Wilmot’s money to return to you. I made it my business to get the money together this afternoon, as a special consideration to you, Miss Ames.”
She did not believe that come-on for an instant. “We-ell,” Cherry pretended to hesitate, “this evening, then.”
“By the way, Miss Ames, about your own investment. I hope it’s not less than five thousand—so we’d have an adequate sum to invest for you.” Cherry lied shamelessly and said it was seven thousand. “Good. I can double it for you. Be sure to bring it along—er, that is, since you’re going back to Hilton soon. Even a day’s delay can cost you profits.”
“Where shall I meet you?” Cherry asked.
“Do you know where Grant Park is?” Pell asked her. “It’s between the Outer Drive on the lake, and the Loop. There’s an immense parking lot near there. I want to pick up my car—” He mumbled a story about having lent his car to a client who promised to leave it at the parking lot for him.
“Yes, I know that parking lot,” Cherry said. “But how will I ever find you among those hundreds of cars?” She thought it was shrewd of Pell to choose a huge, anonymous place. Or perhaps he really did want his car—to make a getaway.
Pell was answering her question of how to find him. “There’s a coffee shop at that parking lot. Why don’t we meet there? You’d be comfortable in there, Miss Ames, and in case I’m a little delayed, I suggest you order coffee. Take a seat in the window,” he said in a joking tone, “so you can see me coming. One if by land, two if by sea, you know.”
She forced a laugh and agreed to his arrangements. Pell thanked her, and hung up, just as the telephone operator cut in, saying, “Deposit ten cents for the next three minutes, please.” So he had phoned her from a public booth somewhere.
Immediately Cherry asked her hotel telephone operator for the number Mr. Atwood had given her. A man’s voice answered, one she did not recognize. Cherry identified herself and repeated the conversation she had just had with Pell.
“Right, Miss Ames,” the man’s voice said. “I’ll notify Mr. Atwood and Captain Judd. We’ll have plainclothesmen stationed at the coffee shop and around the parking lot well before the time you get there. Don’t glance around for them, though.”
“I understand,” said Cherry. “Anything more?”
“Well, Pell probably told you to take a window table because he has no intention of coming into the coffee shop where anyone could corner him. He may watch for you to leave. If he doesn’t show up after a reasonable time, walk up and down outside the coffee shop. Okay? … Act as if you trust him…. Good luck.”
Since the parking lot was nearby, she had ample time to make herself more presentable. In her summer dress, with her dark curls tied back by a ribbon, Cherry thought she looked as if she were going to some pleasant appointment—instead of to a secret and uncertain meeting with a swindler. She fastened the Dick Tracy bracelet on her wrist, picked up her handbag and gloves, and started out.
She took a taxi rather than be late, and arrived at the coffee shop early. Following Pell’s instructions, she sat down at a table in the broad front window and ordered iced coffee. She felt nervous. That man alone two tables away, reading a newspaper—the two men lingering over coffee at the counter—were they plainclothesmen? For all she knew, one or more of them could be Pell’s men. Or random customers. Cherry was careful not to glance again at the men. Instead, she looked out the window, watching for Pell.
Outside in the night the parking lot stretched away for blocks, a sea of parked cars, with long, narrow, empty lanes between the cars. Overhead, arc lights glared in the black sky. Only a few people were around, and these drove swiftly away.
Where was Pell? He was later than he’d said he would be. Why didn’t he come? Cherry wondered whether the police would be able to trace his phone call and pick him up before he reached her—or whether they wanted to. She didn’t think so, because the Securities Division men seemed to hope that, in talking to her, Pell would make some incriminating statements or give some information. Otherwise, the authorities would have a struggle to get information out of him. Or perhaps the police needed some incriminating statement from Pell as a basis to arrest him at all. Cherry didn’t know the technicalities, but in any case, she would follow orders.
Time went by. Cherry watched even more closely than before. When a taxi pulled up in the driveway and waited, it seemed to her that this same yellow taxi with one huddled occupant had paused outside her window a few minutes earlier.
On an off-chance, Cherry hurriedly paid for her coffee and walked out of the coffee shop. She saw out of the corner of her eye that the man with the newspaper had left, and the two men at the counter still sat there. She moved into the driveway, and Pell called out in a low voice:
“Hello, there! Please come over and get in.”
The man in the taxi wore glasses and a hat pulled low over his face, but she recognized Pell’s heavyset figure. She was reluctant to get in a car with him. He might try to flee by car, and if the police had to shoot, she’d be caught in the cross fire. Pell might even use her as a shield.
“Get in,” he insisted softly, and swung the taxi door open.
She had no choice. She realized Pell was not such a fool as to get out of the taxi and try to flee on foot. She got in, and trusted that the tiny microphone on her wrist was working.
Pell apologized for being late. “I decided we could talk more privately in a taxi, so if you don’t mind—”
He tapped the driver on the shoulder and handed him a folded bill. Apparently the financial arrangements had been settled beforehand. The taxi started to move.
“Where are we going?” Cherry demanded.
“We’re just going for a ride, while we talk. I’ll drop you off at your hotel, and come back here to pick up my car. Listen, Miss Ames, I hope you didn’t believe Ogden—”
She resignedly leaned back against the seat as the taxi circled out of the parking lot.
“No, Mr. Pell, I don’t believe Ogden,” Cherry said. “I think it’s a shame he talked to you the way he did. I know what a lot the Pell Plan has done for Mrs. Wilmot—”
“Good girl.” The taxi shot out of the parking lot onto Lake Shore Drive. Pell called out to the driver, “Stay in the fast lane! Now, Miss Ames, tell me as one friend to another. Are you still in touch with John Ogden? Did he—er—go to the Securities people this morning? I have to know.”
“No, he didn’t,” Cherry said, looking into Pell’s face with a show of sympathy. “And, yes, I know where to reach him.”
Pell’s hand closed warmly over hers. “Will you help a much-misunderstood man? Can you talk Ogden out of making a complaint? Can you talk some sense into him? Listen, I’m rich, I can easily meet all claims—make him see I’m an honest man—”
A car in the slow lane caught up to them. Their taxi driver increased his speed. Cherry was unable to see whether the other car still followed. Pell watched, then went on:
“Of course you wouldn’t press any charges against me, would you? Or let Mrs. Wilmot do that? You have too much good sense—why worry because one customer like Ogden gets scared? Why, I have big money deposited in several banks, three in Chicago alone—” He stopped short.
“I wouldn’t dream of making any charge,” Cherry declared. “Whatever for? Especially since you’re going to return Mrs. Wilmot’s money.”
Pell released her hand. “Yes. Providing neither you nor she presses charges. I might even offer Ogden—See here. Would she accept a third of what’s due her—or even half? And the rest in a week or so?”
“I’ll ask her,” Cherry murmured. To her annoyance, Pell pressed her hand again.
“You’re a nice girl. I’ll show my gratitude for your friendship, believe me. There are a few special plums among my investments and I promise you, Miss Ames, they can be yours.”
“The Colorado dam?” Cherry prompted him.
“Yes, the dam, and American Eagle Lead is a fast-growing business, worth putting your money into.” He had named two unregistered investments. “So is a brand-new shipping firm, just organizing now—” Cherry heard a car behind them come steadily closer. He talked fast. “I’ll make you rich. Trust me. The money you plan to invest—you have it with you, haven’t you?”
Cherry answered in an innocent voice, “I do want to invest with you, Mr. Pell. But naturally I didn’t bring the whole seven thousand dollars to Chicago with me. Only two. And since I was coming out alone so late at night, I left my money in the hotel safe.” He stiffened. She said, “I’ll mail you a check, first thing Monday! Shall I send it to you at the post-office box number? In your name, or—or what?”
He hesitated. “I’ll get in touch with you. I’ll phone you in Hilton next week and give you the details then.”
“I hope you’ll be arrested by then,” Cherry thought. Where were the police? How long must she talk? She saw it was useless to try further to learn any alias, but she noticed something on the taxi seat. On the far side of Pell were two large, bulging briefcases. One was the one he had taken out of his office this morning, apparently stuffed with cash and clients’ checks.
“You certainly are loaded down,” Cherry said, half-humorously, indicating the briefcases.
“Oh, those are my records and list of clients. I always do a little desk work over the weekend.” Pell invited her to notice the luxurious leather of his briefcases. “I live well, Miss Ames. I can afford to. You’ll be able to, too. Listen, about mailing me your check—I may relocate. Another state. So don’t be surprised, Miss Ames.”
By now the taxi was speeding through a dark residential section. Cherry murmured, “I hope you have enough money with you to pay for this long ride.”
Pell chuckled. “I have plenty of money with me.”
“I think you’re terrific,” Cherry breathed. She hid her alarm. The ordinary-looking car beside them was not the same car as before, and now the taxi turned off onto a street that could only lead out of the city. Yet it sped past all the entrances into the Lincoln Highway.
“Take the secondary road,” Pell called out to the taxi driver. “The back road I told you about.”
“Listen, mister, I want the rest of my tip now!” the driver yelled back.
“I’ll give it to you when we reach that private airfield, driver!” Pell shouted. “Then I’ll pay you the fare to drive this young lady back to her downtown hotel.” He turned to Cherry and apologized.
“This is awful for you, I know, and I’m sorry. But you can thank John Ogden for this! I can’t help myself as long as he wants to persecute me—”
The driver, grumbling, swung the taxi onto a dark road that would rapidly lead into open country. Cherry heard another car behind them. Two cars?
“This is an awfully long ride,” she protested to distract Pell. “Really! Dragging me all the way out here!”
Judging by the glow of headlights, the other car was gaining on them. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Yes, two cars were coming. One shot out ahead of their taxi and swung sideways in the road, braking and making a roadblock. The taxi was obliged to slow down. As it did so, the second car drew up alongside and several men leaped out.
“All right, Pell, get out! We have a warrant for your arrest, issued on the complaint of the Illinois Securities Commissioner, on charges of violating the Illinois Securities Law, by operating a get-rich-quick fraud and obtaining money under false pretenses. Get out! You’re under arrest!”
Pell shrugged and climbed out of the taxi.
A police captain came up to Cherry. “Are you all right, Miss Ames?”
“Yes. I—I guess I am, thanks.” She suddenly felt very tired.
“You did a fine job, young lady. You asked exactly the right—”
In the dark road a fight broke out as Pell strained to get free of his captors. The police captain steered Cherry away from the struggling men. He helped her into the rear car.
“We’ll take you home very soon,” he said. “You’ve had enough for one day.”