by Alice Duncan
“There is no such thing as a classless society,” Mother said, eyeing me as if I were a bug in need of being stepped on. “Quality will always rise to the top. You are deliberately choosing to be less than your station in life demands of you.”
“It seems to me that the quality of which you speak was already at the top when I was born. There’s no earning it.”
“You were born into a level of society that requires you to behave in a certain way, Mercedes Louise. You’re deliberately misinterpreting my words.”
“I don’t believe I am at all, Mother. What you’re saying is that because our family is fortunate and has more money than most, I shouldn’t work for a living.”
“There is no need for you to work for a living, young woman. Indeed, you were fortunate to have been born an Allcutt. Yet you insist upon defying us and behaving in a manner that’s disrespectful of the family name.”
“How do you figure that?” It was tough, but I put the lid on my temper. If I lost it, Mother would have gained a point or two. At least that’s the way I saw it. “I’m earning my own living. How is that lowering myself from what you call my station in life or being disrespectful of the family name? If more women in our so-called class had to earn their keep and got jobs, they might understand what the world is really like.”
“What is this world of which you speak, Mercedes Louise? Do you mean the world of crime and dirty dealings? Do you mean the world of bomb-throwing anarchists? The world of Irish day-laborers? The world of cooks and servants? Do you mean the world of that vulgar woman in the lobby of the building in which you work?”
“Lulu’s not vulgar,” said I nobly, even though she actually kind of was. Poor Lulu.
Mother only looked at me for a moment, as if divining my secret thoughts. Then she sniffed and said, “Why in the world should a well-bred young lady wish to see or understand the world of underbred, unintelligent, unmannerly hooligans?”
“That’s not the world I mean!” I said, frustrated almost beyond bearing. “I mean the world of working-class people, who aren’t vulgar. Not being rich doesn’t mean you’re vulgar, for heaven’s sake. There are more of them than there of us, you know, and they’re becoming mighty peeved at not getting what they deserve from life. It’s not only anarchists who are straining at their bonds. Normal, law-abiding, everyday people are demanding more of a role in the leadership of this country, not to mention fair wages for their work.”
“Labor unions,” said Mother, as if the two words were filthier even than slime in the gutters.
Shoot, I hadn’t even thought about labor unions until that moment. I didn’t know beans about them, either, barring a couple of articles I’d read in newspapers, but I nodded, believing Mother had brought up a salient point. While my parents would never agree that it was so, I thought labor unions might be helpful to coal miners, railroad workers and so forth, although I couldn’t imagine unions assisting secretaries since our jobs weren’t generally dangerous.
Mother shook her helmet of neatly marcelled, pepper-and-salt hair. Not even a hair dared stray from its mooring on her head. Which means I caused more trouble than a hair, I guess.
“If you wish to compare yourself to criminal agitators or that person in the lobby of that building in which you work, or that miserable worm of a creature, Eugene Debs, so be it. I am ashamed to call you my daughter.”
That stung, but I’d be hanged if I’d show her how much. Lifting my own little chin, much as Chloe had done earlier that evening, I said, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mother. Perhaps one day, you will understand my wish to participate in what I consider to be the real America.”
Naturally, I didn’t mention the fact that I was determined to understand the “real” America because I wanted to write books about it. Mother would not merely fail to understand that particular longing, but would probably have me locked up in an insane asylum. There was no way in the entire world my mother would ever be brought to understand that what I was doing wasn’t actively evil.
I went to bed that night feeling more abused and mistreated than usual. And I was defiantly glad that I wouldn’t see my battleaxe of a mother before work the next day. In actual fact, I fumed half the night, wondering if I should get my own apartment. Other working women did it. Why not me?
* * * * *
The next day I woke up without the happy anticipation that had become customary for me during the past month. It didn’t take me long to recall the reason for this uncharacteristic mood of gloom.
Mother. My mother had come to town.
Chapter Four
That same morning, however, a welcome diversion from thoughts of my mother entered the Figueroa Building in the person of a new tenant. This wasn’t any old tenant, either, but an extremely handsome fellow named, according to the shiny brass plaque outside his office, James Quincy Carstairs, Esq.
To my mind, this points out the importance of general maintenance and upkeep. When Ernie Templeton first hired me, the Figueroa Building was a most unprepossessing building. The old maintenance man, Ned, did a very poor job of keeping it clean, swept and polished. Mr. Emerald Buck, the maintenance man who’d been hired after I pushed Ned down an elevator shaft—for good reason (it wasn’t merely a whim on my part)—had the place looking like a bright new day. I doubt that Mr. Carstairs, a newly minted but increasingly bright coin in the lawyering business, would have bothered with the Figueroa Building had it retained the aura of dilapidation permeating it when I first started working there.
Mr. Carstairs had himself a perfect gem of a secretary, too. I discovered this when, along about two in the afternoon, I toddled down the hallway two offices, knocked lightly on Mr. Carstairs’s door, and peeped in. A young woman whom I’d viewed from my office window carrying boxes looked up from organizing her desk and smiled brightly.
“May I help you?” she asked in a crisp, but friendly, voice. It was the perfect tone for a secretary to adopt in my humble opinion, and already I admired her.
She looked the perfect secretary, too. Her dark hair was modestly shingled and shone in the electrical lighting. She wore a sober, lightweight gray suit and dark-rimmed spectacles. Her brown eyes were quite pretty behind the glasses, but her overall attractiveness did not diminish her businesslike appearance. Anyone entering Mr. Carstairs’s outer office would instantly know this was a professional woman working for a professional man. Indeed, she personified the image I strove to achieve. In fact, since I had no role models of my own to follow, working outside the home being anathema to my family, I wondered if perhaps I hadn’t just found a model in this woman.
I walked up to her desk, extending my hand. “How do you do? I’m Mercy Allcutt, and I work in number three-oh-three, for Mr. Ernest Templeton. Mr. Templeton is a private investigator.”
She shook my hand warmly. “It’s so nice to meet you, Miss Allcutt. My name is Sylvia Dunstable.”
We remained smiling at each other for a second or two, I on my feet, she on her chair, before she said, “Won’t you be seated, Miss Allcutt? I’m happy to meet another tenant here.”
“Thank you.” I took the proffered seat, pausing only to remove from it a couple of files. I was terribly impressed. Ernie and I had a couple of files, too, and I kept them in pristine order, but I doubt they were as interesting as these. Even if they were, Miss Sylvia Dunstable had ever so many more of them to work with than did I. Ernie’s business wasn’t exactly booming. “I’m so glad the Figueroa Building seems to be attracting more people.”
“Yes,” she said. “I must admit I was rather surprised when Mr. Carstairs said we were moving in here, but the building is ever so much nicer than when I saw it last.”
“Indeed it is. We strive to improve our image all the time.”
She looked at me with lifted eyebrows, and I think I blushed.
“I mean the management is taking much better care of the business than it once did.”
“I see. Well, the management seems to have done
a smashing job so far. Mr. Carstairs was perfectly correct to move here. The rent is lower than it is in some more fashionable places, and it’s certainly not what you might call fancy, but that’s a good thing in my opinion, since Mr. Carstairs’s clients prefer to maintain a degree of anonymity that can be difficult to achieve in some parts of the city.”
“My, yes,” I said, thinking it interesting that Ernie’s clients weren’t the only ones who didn’t want the world nosing into their business. It crossed my mind that perhaps Ernie had selected this building for that same reason, but that notion only lasted a second. The low rent was what had attracted Ernie; I was certain of it.
We smiled at each other again.
“Your work must be so interesting,” I said, hoping to hear all about the stars, which was silly, really, since I lived with Harvey Nash and saw picture people all the time. But when those picture folks were at Harvey’s house, they just seemed normal. I guess I wanted to think that movie stars were different from the rest of us, even though I knew they weren’t. I swear, Los Angeles has a lot to answer for. Imagine the whole world having its perception warped like that!
“It’s not interesting very often,” she said with a laugh.
I’d actually read about Mr. Carstairs in the newspaper a time or two. He seemed to be establishing himself as an attorney to the people in the motion-picture industry. I’d seen his name in connection with Mr. Thomas MacCready, a fellow who’d acted in a couple of cowboy pictures, and Miss Jacqueline Lloyd, a newish actress who had made quite a hit in the melodrama Whispering Oaks. I’d seen that one, and thought Miss Lloyd had been stunning as the orphaned Lillian, a maiden taken cruel advantage of by Mr. Wallace Reid, who had seduced and abandoned her. Well, his character had. I’m sure Mr. Reid is a gentleman of impeccable character. Chloe and I had seen the picture together and cried buckets through most of it.
But back to the matter at hand. “I’m so happy to have another secretary to talk to,” I told Miss Dunstable eagerly. “I’ve only had my job for a little over a month, and I’m sure you can give me some valuable pointers on organization and so forth.”
She blinked once or twice and said, “I’ll be happy to help in any way I can, Miss Allcutt.”
“That probably sounds . . . um, unusual,” said I, noticing her puzzled expression. Little did she know. Since I didn’t want to go into my family background and how useless I’d been in the world until Ernie’d hired me, I only said, “I’m so new at this secretarial business, you see. I’ve only had my job for a month or so. This is my first job, too.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.”
“Have you worked as a secretary long?”
“Several years.”
She didn’t look very old, but perhaps she’d started young. I didn’t think it would be polite to ask her age. “Oh, I’m sure you know ever so much more about secretarial organization than I.” I popped up from my chair, deciding I’d made enough of a fool of myself for one day. “I’m so glad you and Mr. Carstairs decided to move into our building. I won’t keep you from your organizing. I’m sure you have a ton of work to do.”
She sighed. “Yes. I really detest moving offices. There are so many files and things to put in order.”
I’d said, “Yes,” although I didn’t know that from experience, when the door behind Miss Dunstable opened, and there stood Mr. James Quincy Carstairs in the flesh. It was pretty good-looking flesh, too. In fact, Mr. Carstairs could easily have passed for one of the movie actors he represented. He wasn’t quite as tall as Ernie, but he, unlike my employer, was clad in a well-cut summer-weight tan suit. He wore his dark hair slicked back a la Rudolph Valentino, and had one of those little pencil-thin mustaches. To tell the truth, I’m not much of a fan of those types of mustaches, but they were becoming all the rage in the flickers, so I suppose any man who worked with actors as Mr. Carstairs did might want to wear one.
He’d opened his mouth to say something to Miss Dunstable when he spotted me. His mouth closed and then he smiled. He had the whitest, most perfect teeth I’d ever seen. “Well, well, well, what do we have here?” He took a step forward and looked as though he wanted to shake my hand.
As I’d had etiquette drummed into me since birth, I forestalled a lapse on his part (the lady is supposed always to initiate hand-shaking) by sticking my own hand out. “How do you do. I’m Mercy Allcutt, and I work down the hall for Mr. Ernest Templeton.”
“Ah, so you work for Ernie, do you? James Carstairs here. And I presume you’ve met Miss Sylvia Dunstable, the most efficient secretary on the planet.”
“Yes, we’ve just met.” I glanced back at Miss Dunstable for a moment and returned my attention to him. “You know Mr. Templeton?”
He chuckled. “Everyone knows Ernie Templeton, Miss Allcutt.”
Did Mr. Carstairs sound a little snide? I couldn’t tell. “I didn’t know that.”
“He’s quite well known in criminal circles.” Seeing my shocked expression, Mr. Carstairs elucidated. “He used to be a policeman.”
“Oh. Yes. I did know that.” I guess Mr. Carstairs figured Ernie’s police background explained his odd comment. Not that it mattered, and I did have a job to do down the hall. “Well, I’d best be going. I’m so glad you’ve joined us here in the Figueroa Building.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Miss Dunstable.
“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Allcutt,” said Mr. Carstairs.
I almost floated back to my office. My elevated mood suffered a quick puncture when I opened the door and saw Ernie glowering at my empty desk.
“Where the devil have you been?”
Stiffening, offended, I said, “I went down the hall to welcome our new neighbors. In case it’s escaped your notice, a new tenant has joined us here in the Figueroa Building.”
Ernie said, “Huh. Yeah, I saw. Carstairs, of all people.”
“He seems very nice,” I said, regretting that I sounded slightly defensive.
Sneering, Ernie said, “He’s slick. I’ll give him that.”
“If being well groomed is considered ‘slick,’ I suppose he is,” said I, going to my desk chair and seating myself with something of a flounce.
“Just watch out for him, is all I have to say.”
“And exactly what does that mean?” I asked.
“He’s a devil with the ladies,” said Ernie, twirling an imaginary mustache like the villain in an episode of The Perils of Pauline.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ernest Templeton. I’m sure Mr. Carstairs has absolutely no interest in me.” Which was moderately depressing, actually. I mean, I’m not ugly or anything. In fact, I’m rather nice looking. However, I didn’t doubt for a second that if a man could choose between, say, Jacqueline Lloyd and Mercedes Louise Allcutt, he’d select the former. Miss Lloyd, at least on screen, was perfectly stunning, which beat “nice looking” all hollow.
“Well, just watch out, is all I have to say.”
I said, “Hmm,” and pretended to be looking for something in my desk drawer.
It was Lulu LaBelle and her brother Rupert Mullins who rescued me. I’d asked them to visit my office, and they were early for the appointment we’d set for two-thirty that day. I smiled at them both, though, considering them in the light of salvation from Ernie’s too-penetrating gaze and snippy commentary.
“’Lo, Ernie,” said Lulu, taking one of the chairs in front of my desk.
“Afternoon, Lulu,” said Ernie, friendly again. “This your brother?” He smiled at the nervous young man who’d accompanied Lulu and who now stood beside her chair fidgeting.
“Yes. Ernie Templeton, please say hello to my brother Rupert Mullins.”
The two men shook hands, Ernie at ease, as ever, Rupert looking as though he might faint. I hoped he wouldn’t act like a frightened rabbit when Mr. Easthope arrived. If Ernie scared him this much, how much more might he be affected by the smashingly handsome Mr. Francis Easthope?
/> I found out a second later when Mr. Easthope entered the office. Ernie nodded at him before retiring to his own office. Mr. Easthope stood at the door, smiling upon Lulu and Rupert. For a second, it looked as if brother and sister both might swoon, but Rupert, who had just seated himself, sprang to his feet once more and Lulu, putting a hand to her no-doubt palpitating bosom, only gazed soulfully at the vision of graceful masculinity lingering by the door.
Since this was my party, sort of, I got up, too, and made introductions. Mr. Easthope was suavity itself as he shook the hands of the Mullinses. Lulu recovered from her semi-swoon enough to say, “Pleased to meetcha.” Rupert nodded and gulped.
I waved to the chair beside my desk. “Please, Mr. Easthope, won’t you be seated? I’m hoping that Mr. Mullins will be able to be of use to you, both in doing the duties of a houseboy and in helping rid your home of invaders.” I smiled brightly.
“Ah, yes. Has Miss Allcutt told you about my problem, Mr. Mullins?” Mr. Easthope asked politely.
After gulping again, Rupert said, “M’sister did, sir. She told me about them fakers taking in your mama.”
Mr. Easthope’s eyebrows rose slightly, and he seemed to be contemplating Rupert’s response. I wondered if Mr. Easthope was faintly disappointed, as I was, by the naive and ill-spoken Rupert. However, as so many people have said before, beggars can’t be choosers. Rupert was here, available, and needed a job, and he might well be smarter than he appeared. He certainly wouldn’t be the only bright person in the world who, through lack of opportunity, had failed to achieve a first-class education. At least that’s what I’d read often enough.
Surreptitiously eyeing both brother and sister from the corner of my eye, I wasn’t sure about that. It might well be that both Lulu and Rupert had been given ample opportunities to learn grammar and had simply avoided doing so. I know good and well that I managed to avoid learning very much in the mathematics classes I’d been forced to endure when I was in school.
