"DISTRICT NURSE"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 19 January 1939, Page 12

"DISTRICT NURSE"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

BY

FAITH BALDWIN.

CHAPTER XI (Continued.)

“Like me? I don’t," said Ellen, smiling faintly, "play around much, after all. By the way,” she went on, changing the subject, “I saw you the other night. In the Napoli. We were going out of the door —Pete and I —and you were coming in a side door, and sitting down with Gilda Esposito, and some man.” She wrinkled her brow. "Fontana, isn’t he? A young Italian, I saw him at the Espositos’ once.” “Who, me?” asked Jim astonished. "I haven’t been in the Napoli for months." She thought, "he’s lying." She said, stubbornly, "As if I wouldn’t know you! Don’t be silly.” “But it wasn’t me," he protested. “I tell you I haven’t been near the place. Well, perhaps she’d been mistaken. She hadn't seen, very clearly, the face of the man who had gone up to Gilda s table. She had, she supposed, recognised Jim by his walk, the set and swing of his shoulders. It didn’t matter, anyway. Why on earth should he lie about it? It didn't make sense, she told herself. She was always ielli ig herself things didn’t make sen.-:?. It was some days later that she saw Gilda. Ellen had made her last call for the day and had returned by subway. Coming up the stairs crowded with people she thought she saw Gilda just ahead of her and hurried to catch up with her, but lost her in the crowd. Arriving at the street level, she looked for her but did not see her agnm. Then, she did see her, walking swiftly gra-e--fully ahead 01 her, on the way home. Ellen increased heT pace, but was halted by lights crossing a’side street, and Gilda had slipped across as they were changing. On the opposite side of the street a car was drawn to th? curb, its engine running. A blue ea”, a sedan, Ellen noted mechanically. There was a stationer’s shop at the corner, the outside newspaper stand crowded witn people who picked up papers, threw down pennies and disperse!. There were two half-grown boys about, cutting up monkeyshines with a grocer’s wheelbarrow. “Gilda,” called Ellen.

Gilda didn’t hear. Now she was passing the car. Some one must have spoken to her from within it. for she stopped a moment and turned inquiringly. The door opened. Some one reached out.

The door shut. Gilda was gone. The car pulled out, suddenly, swiftly . . . . Friends of Gilda’s, giving her a lift home? But she lived only a block, two blocks away. Ellen reached a corner. The boy who had been holding the wheelbarrow had dropped it —and the other boy in it —with a clamorous sound of crashing metal. “.Tees,” said the boy to the other, “did ye see dat?”

“See what?" asked Ellen. They had not seen her come up to them. They knew her, well enough. One was the stationer’s son. He grinned at Ellen.

“I mean,” he explained, “it looked funny, what I mean. That was the Esposito dame, wasn’t it, coming home? The car’s been there, half an hour. We didn’t pay no attention, see? Cars wait here to pick up people from the subway, see? But she goes along, easy like, and some one shouts something from the car and she stops and then, first thing we know, they yank her in and drive off.”

‘Probably friends,” said Ellen; but she was frowning. “She hollered,” said the other, younger boy, suddenly.

“Gwan! I didn’t hear no holler," said the stationer’s son.

“Wash your ears,” advised his comrade. “I heard her holler. Not loud. Sort of surprised. Then, she quit." “You didn't, I suppose, look at the number of the car while it was standing here?” asked Ellen.

“Naw,” said both boys, amiably, but then one remembered. It hadn’t borne a New York state license plate, but a New Jersey one, he said. He didn’t notice the number. Ellen went on home. Somehow, she couldn’t dismiss the incident from her mind. On the surface it was absurd to think—anything. Gilda had met out of town friends, Ellen’s common sense argued, who’d gone to her house and found she wan’t home as yet; and who’d driven to the subway, to wait for her. And surprised her. That was why she had screamed, if she had screamed. The youngsters’ testimony was probably not very reliable, that was all.

But in the morning she still remembered. The little gnawing at her brain was not to be quieted. She went to the Esposito shop at the noor hour, wondering what she would say. She'd say nothing. A friendly call —I happened to be in the neighbourhood, something like that. Esposito was not inside the shop, nor his wife. The helper jerked a thumb upstairs. Outside, as she had entered she saw Mike's taxi standing, waiting. She went upstairs, thoughtfully. Mike didn't, as a rule, get home for dinner. Why should the. sight of the taxi have filled her with such an unreasoning anxiety? She knocked at the door. No answer. She knocked again. She could hear voices. She pressed herself against the panels. Now she could hear weeping. She knocked again. "It’s Ellen Adams." she called, and then, the sesame that had opened so many closed doors . . . the visiting nurse." The door opened. Mike looked, out at her, stocky, short Mike with the heavy shoulders and the friendly smile. He wasn’t smiling now. And his eyes were bloodshot.

He said, "Come in,” and looked beyond her as if he expected to see something he didn't know exactly wh.at— or whom.

Mrs Esposito was crying, there in the corner, She had a shawl dragged over

her head and eyes. She was crying noisily, she was rocking to and fro. The air was blue with, cigarette smoke. Esposito explained, coming forward, trying to smile. "You must excuse my wife, she is upset . . ." Ellen asked, "Gilda?”

Mike came closer so suddenly, so almost tigerishly, that she drew back. Esposito touched her shoulder. He jerked his head at Mike. The door closed. Was locked. Ellen said, steadily, as the apron fell from Mrs Esposito’s hands, and exposed her distorted, her entirely terrible face . . "It is Gilda. isn’t it? Did she come home last night?" There was a dreadful silence. Esposito then said, "No,” heavily. "No,” he repeated after a minute. “She didn’t come home.” "I saw her,” said Ellen, "that’s why I came. I .”

‘Where —where!” They were crowding around her. Mrs Esposito, understanding, was clutching at her with frantic hands, “mia figlia. mia figlia .” Ellen reconstructed, briefly, tersely, the entire swift scene as she had seen it. \ ’ To her astonishment, after Mike's rapid translation to his mother, there were no exclamations. Nothing. There was simply silence. Then Esposito said, “It is as we thought.” “What did you think?” Ellen asked. “You mean, you thought she had been —been kidnapped? But no, in this day and age, a grown girl . . that’s too absurd.” She knew it wasn't absurd. One read of such things every day, one heard of them. There was still no answer. Mrs Esposito was crying again. Ellen heard a name repeated over and over. “Fontano . . Fontano . . There were other words . . which Ellen heard and understood and tried to piece together . . the word disgrazia . . too soft in sound for its bitter meaning; the sombre word morte . . “Brutto!” raved Mrs Esposito.

Mike turned on his mother. What he said must have shocked her into silence. She sat there rocking, the shawl over her face. This was a mad household; mad in their curious, secretive way. Ellen spoke decisively. She addressed Esposito. She asked, “You think she has been kidnapped by some one? Why didn’t you go to the police, Idst night?” He said, “What good would that do, and shrugged. They wouldn't believe us. They'd say she was —that she went —of her own accord —I know.”

“Then I’ll go,” Ellen cried at him, “as soon as I can. And take those boys with me, the boys who saw the car. One says he heard her scream. Oh, why didn't I come here, last night?” she said. “Think of the hours we have wasted.”

Mike said, “What’s the use? This is our job; we’ll see it through.” His dark strong hands were curled into fists. Esposito laid a hand on his arm. “Wait —if —if she can do anything?”

Ellen cried, “Of course T can, Mike, be sensible. This isn’t Italy, Sicily, this is America. You don’t have to bother with vendettas and things while meantime—Gilda. Let me go to the police . . and see what T can do. I’ll go alone . . And . . .’’

Suddenly she put her arms about Mrs Esposito, kneeling beside her, there on the floor, while the two men stood back, silent, unhappy . . . “Mia Figlia . . mia figlia . . .” “I know. We’ll bring her back,” said Ellen, “but first you must help, you must tell me what you know, and what you suspect." There was no ’immediate reply. After a long time, during which she alternately pleaded and commanded, bringing her every natural resource of eloquence and tact and understanding to bear on the situation, Mike spoke, with the sulleness of shame. “It was Fontana . . ." he said . . "if she wouldn’t marry him ” He left the sentence unfinished, and relapsed into his painful brooding silence. Ellen looked from one to the other. Esposito’s dark face was rigid, his features carved from some swarthy metal in which only his eyes lived. His wife’s face was, by now. almost unrecognisable. z "That." argued Ellen sharply, “is absurb . . but ” she turned to Mike, “have you tried to see Fontana, do you know where he lives?” "I know. He ain’t there," answered heavily, "No one knows where he is." lie added, after a moment. "If they did, they wouldn’t tell. He’s up to his thick neck in some racket or other. He clamped his lips; and said no more.

“Gilda never liked him," Esposito added. I forbade him to come here. He is not for Gilda.”

"Mia figlia." wailed Mrs Esposito, monotonously . . and then clutching at an English word, childish, tragic, she said—“spoiled" . . and was silent, rocking.

A quiver passed over Esposito’s iron face. Mike cursed, under his breath. Ellen rose.

"I’ll report to my office," she said, “and get leave to go to the police station. After school, when I can round up those two boys.” Some one, possibly Esposito said heavily, “too late . . ." She whirled on her heel al that, grey eyes enormous.

“No,” she said, “you are not to think it. No matter what has happened.”

She turned to Mike. “You come with me.’ she said, "or your father." And then, "No. meet me there." she looked at her watch, “say, at four o'clock. She frowned and bit her lip. So much precious time wasted, "Go on before that,” she said, changing her mind. “I'll come as soon as I see the boys. Meantime, tell your story."

(To be Ccntinueuj