The Orphan and the Mouse Read online

  The remaining noises were familiar—chair creaking, bottle opening, the susurration of the bottle’s contents. Then it was quiet but for Polly’s single comment: “What a surprise that will be for Her Majesty—a tiny mouse in her Frigidaire, cold, stiff, and dead.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The adults at the Cherry Street Children’s Home had their share of secrets, most of them well known to the children.

  For example, the children all knew—even Annabelle—that Matron Polly took a half-hour break each afternoon to drink a bottle of beer in Mrs. George’s private apartment. They had seen her going up the stairs. They had seen her coming back. They had smelled the beer on her breath and seen the bottles lined up for return to the store. They knew she was more cheerful after her break than before, so after was a better time to ask for a favor.

  The children also knew about the judge’s visits. Among the older ones, these visits were a source of both fascination and disgust. Ned claimed to have stolen the spare key from the boss’s desk, unlocked her apartment, sneaked inside, and tried a sip of the light brown liquid they drank—sherry, it was called. He said it tasted vile.

  Finally, the children knew that Mrs. George left the home each day between three and six in the afternoon to run errands and pay calls. This last was not a secret, but it did mean that the grown-up population was reliably diminished by one during those hours—a fact that could sometimes be used to advantage.

  Such was Jimmy’s plan that afternoon. But if he and Caro were going to unlock the boss’s apartment with the key the mice had left, he would need cooperation from the olders and the intermediates. To win them over, he had made a post-lunchtime circuit of the dormitories, the parlors, and the yard outside.

  “Listen.” He had made his voice conspiratorial. “I got something I gotta do I can’t talk about yet, but I’ll fill you in later. It’s in the boss’s apartment. And the thing is, obviously, I need to be sure I’m not bothered.”

  “You want us to warn you if the boss comes back early?” Ricky had asked.

  “The boss or anybody that might happen to go upstairs. We’re going in after Matron’s done with her beer.”

  “We?” Ricky had repeated.

  “Me and Caro,” Jimmy said. Then, to forestall teasing, he added, “It’s something secret. Caro found out about it.”

  “What’s the secret?” Ricky had asked.

  “A secret,” Jimmy had said. He could only imagine the reaction if he told them he was following instructions from a mouse. “You’ll help, right? Three bangs for the boss. One for anybody else.”

  When Mr. and Mrs. C. Philips-Bodbetter installed the hot-water heating system, they had not considered its usefulness for emergency communications. The children, however, had figured this out immediately. Anytime anything metallic struck a radiator, it could be heard throughout the home—even in the boss’s apartment.

  Jimmy was good at talking, and by the time he was done, everyone had agreed to be on the lookout.

  Shortly before four o’clock, just after Matron Polly had returned downstairs, Caro and Jimmy stood on the third-floor landing. With the old-fashioned key in her hand, Caro looked at Jimmy for courage. He nodded. She put the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door, which opened without a sound.

  Neither Caro nor Jimmy had ever been inside Mrs. George’s apartment. Of the orphans, only Ned had. The apartment was not large, and the door opened directly into the parlor, which was neat and cozy. Two doorways, one to the kitchen and one to the bedroom, led out of it. A writing desk stood to the left of the entry door. The sight of Gallico, napping on the chintz sofa, made the scene peaceful.

  “How do we know what to do now?” Caro whispered.

  “You don’t have to whisper,” Jimmy said out loud. “There’s nobody around.”

  “I’d rather whisper,” said Caro.

  It was Jimmy who spotted the broken inkwell. It had fallen onto the wood floor, splashing its contents there and on the rug, too. “Is that a clue?” Jimmy asked.

  Caro grimaced. “It’s a sticky mess, but look.” She pointed to a line of ink spots that traced a path toward the kitchen doorway.

  Jimmy knelt to get a closer look and grinned. “Little paw prints,” he said, “left by your friend the mouse, I guess.” He shook his head. “After today, nothing will ever surprise me again. Come on.”

  Feeling like the intruder she was, Caro tiptoed across the room. Jimmy, in contrast, strolled with arms and legs swinging, claiming the territory for himself.

  The paw prints became fainter the farther they moved from the overturned ink bottle. Then, in the middle of the kitchen floor, they became smeared and chaotic—as if the mouse had turned around and something . . .

  Jimmy and Caro had the same thought at the same time and looked up at Gallico. Was he really sleeping so innocently? Or had he been watching them?

  “Let’s take a look,” said Jimmy.

  The children turned toward the sofa. Gallico looked up and scrambled to get away—but too slowly to evade Jimmy’s hands. Mrrree-ow!

  “Guilty conscience,” said Jimmy.

  “Don’t hurt him,” said Caro.

  “He wouldn’t’ve thought twice about hurting your mouse,” Jimmy said; then, with a deft motion, he flipped the cat over, revealing ink splotches on his belly.

  Caro let loose with a squeal, then hastily covered her mouth and whispered, “Oh, you wicked cat, how could you?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “I don’t think he did. There isn’t any blood, and the mouse tracks keep going. I think he tried, but the mouse escaped.”

  Jimmy dropped Gallico onto the sofa, where he began furiously to wash his face.

  Back in the kitchen, the children saw that the paw-print trail culminated at the base of the electric refrigerator.

  Again, they looked at each other. Then Jimmy nodded, and Caro pulled the silver latch.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Mary had never been so cold. To stay warm, she exercised—running in circles in the darkness, tripping and stumbling over comestibles that at any other time she would have been delighted to sample.

  What kept her from losing heart was thinking of Stuart Little. He had also been trapped in an electric refrigerator, he had also exercised to keep warm, and he had emerged with only a case of bronchitis . . . whatever that was.

  Even knowing the story of Stuart, Mary was startled by the noise, the rush of air, and the brilliant light when at last the door was opened. For a moment, she was blind, and then she saw to her joy and relief that it was the human pups looking in at her. The plan had worked! They had followed the trail of ink!

  Caro spoke first. “Oh, dear, you must be nearly frozen!”

  “Well, I am, as a matter of fact,” said Mary.

  “Poor little critter,” said Jimmy. “I think it’s hysterical.”

  “Who are you calling ‘critter’?” asked Mary.

  “It wants to tell us something,” said Caro.

  “You’re right about that,” said Mary.

  The boss’s hiding place was in a separate space behind a door at the top of the refrigerator box. If the children didn’t open the door and look inside, all Mary and Andrew’s efforts had been in vain. Anxious to convey this last bit of intelligence, Mary stretched to the utmost on her hind legs and extended her forepaws to point out the door.

  “Its paws are blue!” said Jimmy.

  “That’s just the ink,” said Caro. “I think it wants us to look in the freezer.”

  “Freezer—that’s it!” Mary squeaked, and now—work done—she sneezed and began to shiver in earnest. She would not wait to see the human pups’ reaction when they looked inside. She had to warm up soon or risk falling sick. So she dropped lightly from one shelf to the next until she reached the floor.

  “Wait!” Caro looked down. “Why did you leave us the key? Where is Charlie—do you know? Is Mrs. George in trouble? Is it . . . is it like the Aesop’s fable?”

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nbsp; Cold as she was, Mary turned back and studied the pup that loomed above her. I wonder if she is considered attractive, Mary thought. To mice, all humans—with their gross size, strange allocation of fur, inadequate ears, and complete lack of tail and whiskers—looked similar and similarly ugly. And their smell, which was comforting at a distance, was rank when you got close.

  For an instant, Mary questioned her decision to help humans at all, but then her eyes met Caro’s and she saw kindness, intelligence, and . . . yes, wonder.

  “I would answer if only you could understand,” she said. “And I would ask you questions of my own. Who is Louisa May Alcott? And why do humans kill mice but feed predators?”

  Caro looked at Jimmy. “The mouse is talking to us, Jimmy. I know it it is. If only we could understand.”

  “If only you could,” said Mary. “Now look in the hiding place; don’t trust the boss, and scurry safe—both of you!”

  Then she spun around, flipped her tail, and disappeared into the gap between the cupboard doors.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “She’s leaving!” With her pinkie finger, Caro waved good-bye, but she was too late; already the soft gray form was gone. “Where is it going, do you think?”

  “Search me,” Jimmy said. “Maybe there’s a whole kingdom of ’em in the walls.”

  “Do you really think so?” For a moment, Caro was so charmed by the thought, she forgot where she and Jimmy were standing and why.

  Jimmy shrugged. “After all that’s happened today, why not? But look, we’ve got to hurry, Caro. Ready?”

  Caro nodded. Jimmy reached for the handle and pulled open the freezer door. Refrigerator freezers were becoming widespread in 1949, and corporations were stepping up to provide people with foods to fill them. Besides two aluminum trays filled with ice, Mrs. George’s contained three boxes of Birds Eye frozen peas, two cans of Minute Maid frozen orange juice concentrate, and a stack of square packets full of something—meat, probably—wrapped neatly in white butcher paper.

  Caro shook her head, disappointed. Jimmy said, “I don’t get it.”

  “Unless . . . ?” Feeling bold, Caro reached in and removed one of the white packets. In her hand, the contents did not feel like meat but like sheets of paper. Caro couldn’t risk looking inside. She knew she’d never rewrap the packet the same way, which would tell Mrs. George that someone had been there.

  Wondering what more she could do, Caro noticed something else—an envelope on top of the second packet. Jimmy saw it, too, and didn’t hesitate. He took it, detached the three paper clips, pulled it open, and looked.

  What Caro saw inside the envelope almost stopped her heart in her chest—hundred-dollar bills! Caro had never in her life seen even one, and here was a whole stack!

  Jimmy fumbled the envelope—in the process dropping a paper clip to the floor—and stared. “If this was ours, we could have anything . . . go anywhere . . . Caro, let’s take it! Let’s take it and run. Please? We wouldn’t be orphans anymore. No one would know.”

  Jimmy’s blue eyes were wide, and for an instant, Caro’s mind went blank. Then it flashed thoughts at her in frenzied succession: Jimmy doesn’t care about my scars. He likes me just because I’m Caro. He wants me to go with him.

  It’s too scary. It’s too dangerous.

  But all that money? We would be all right. We would be far away. We would be like a family, a family of two.

  Finally, she blinked and said, “We can’t. It isn’t ours.”

  “It isn’t hers, either, I bet—the old witch,” Jimmy said. “She stole it or something. Otherwise, why is she hiding it?”

  Caro shook her head. No. She wouldn’t believe it. In an uncertain world, you had to believe in something, and Caro believed in Mrs. George. There was a good explanation for the money. There had to be.

  Clank! Clank! Clank! The sound of the alarm made them both jump.

  “The boss—she’s coming!” Hurriedly, Jimmy clipped the envelope and slammed the freezer shut.

  “Wait—you missed one.” Caro retrieved the third paper clip from the floor, opened the freezer, and—fumbling a little—affixed it. Then she laid the white paper packet on top so that the freezer would look just as they had found it.

  After that, the two children ran. In the doorway, Caro turned back and took one step inside. Gallico was asleep on the sofa once again. Mrs. George would be furious about the spilled ink, but she wouldn’t associate it with the children. Was there any possible clue to their visit?

  Nothing she could see.

  Outside on the landing, Jimmy locked the door, and then, for a few seconds, the two stood and listened. All was quiet, so, on tiptoes, Caro and Jimmy hurried down the stairs.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Mrs. George had completed her Friday calls with unusual efficiency and thought she might indulge herself with a brief nap before dinner. The last few days had been difficult. With so much on her mind, she had not slept well.

  Before going upstairs, Mrs. George paid a visit to the kitchen. There she reminded Mrs. Spinelli that the exterminators were coming after breakfast in the morning and the children would be spending the day at Fairmount Park. They would need packed lunches.

  Mrs. Spinelli responded with her usual truculence. Ascending the stairs, Mrs. George thought certainly there must be a reliable cook somewhere with a more accommodating disposition. If such a person could be found, she would be quite happy to give Mrs. Spinelli her walking papers.

  Upstairs in her apartment at last, Mrs. George advanced only a few steps before she spotted blue blotches on the carpet—ink, it looked like. What in the name of . . . ?

  She turned back toward the door, surveyed her writing desk, the broken inkwell, the mess on the floor . . . and forgot all about taking a nap. She was wide awake now—and angry.

  The cat! He knew he was in trouble, too. He was hiding. And Mrs. George knew where.

  “Gotcha!” She reached under her bed, gripped the scruff of Gallico’s neck, pulled him roughly into the light, and held him up.

  He was too scared to protest. As expected, she found ink . . . but it was on his abdomen instead of his paws.

  Why would that be?

  Mrs. George dropped the cat to the carpet and aimed a kick, but Gallico was prepared and scooted back under the bed, out of her way.

  “I’ll deal with you later,” she said, and then returned to the parlor, where she knelt to examine the line of spots on the carpet and the wood floor. They looked like smudges, but they might have been animal tracks. Whatever they were, she now saw, they were too small to have been made by a cat.

  Could it be those detestable mice?

  The more she thought, the more likely that seemed. A mouse must have knocked over the ink bottle by chance, then made the tracks on its way to the kitchen in search of food.

  Mrs. George was still angry. But there was some comfort in knowing the mice would get their just deserts in the morning. As for the cat, maybe he wasn’t to blame for the ink, but she did not regret her outburst. Any decent cat would have done his job and caught the mice. Once again, Gallico had let her down.

  Mrs. George’s cleaning supplies were kept in the pantry closet beyond the kitchen. She retrieved what she needed—a bucket, detergent, a rag, rubber gloves—then went back to the parlor and began to scrub.

  It was only when she was down on her hands and knees addressing the stain by the writing desk that she noticed something . . . another footprint outlined in blue ink. It had not been made by a cat or a mouse but by a shoe, and the shoe was not her own. It was a child’s shoe, and it belonged to someone who had stolen into her apartment while she was out.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  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.