by Alice Duncan
However, that is neither here nor there.
“Good,” said Mr. Easthope. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’ll really try to help, sir,” said Rupert in a rush of words. “And I really need a job.”
That sentence ended in something of an “Oomph,” and I realized that Lulu had elbowed him in the side when I saw Rupert rub his ribs. To prevent further violence, I said, “I think this will work out very well for all concerned. Don’t you, Mr. Easthope?”
“Indeed I do.”
Mr. Easthope then went on to tell Rupert what he expected of him in terms of houseboy and spy duties and how much he intended to pay him. Rupert, who still had a glazed look about him, might or might not have been listening. I have a feeling he was so desperate for work that he would have taken anything anybody offered him at that point in his life. Lulu looked happy about the pay arrangement, so I guess the wages were all right. From personal experience, I only knew what my own were. I hadn’t a single clue how my pay stacked up against anybody else’s, since I’d had no experience working until Ernie hired me, and I didn’t know anyone else in the working classes to ask. I mean, you can’t just waltz up to a secretarial stranger and ask her what she’s making, now can you?
At last Mr. Easthope stood. Rupert jumped to his feet, too, I guess believing he shouldn’t remain seated if his employer was standing. To my mind, this proved he had decent instincts even if he appeared a trifle rough around the edges.
“I’m so glad we could meet and settle this matter, Rupert,” said Mr. Easthope. I guess that a fellow, after he’s been hired on as a houseboy, no longer qualifies as a mister. “Would you like to come along with me now, or do you have to pack some things first?”
“Um . . . I guess I have to pack.” Rupert cast a desperate glance at Lulu, who nodded. He nodded, too, relieved. “Yeah. I’ll pack some stuff and get to your place as soon as possible.”
“Very well. You know the address.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mr. Easthope had given his address, that of a swanky bungalow on Alvarado Street, and I’d written it down in case Rupert was too befuddled to do so.
“You can take the bus there, Will,” said Lulu. “I’ve got the schedule.”
“Okay,” said Rupert docilely.
“I’m very pleased to have you on my staff,” said Mr. Easthope, shaking Rupert’s hand once more. He turned to me. “The next séance is set for tomorrow night, Miss Allcutt, scheduled to start at eight o’clock. Will that be all right with you?”
You bet, it will! “Yes,” I said in a polite, dignified voice. “That will be fine. I’ll be there at eight.”
“Come a little early if you will. I’ll introduce you to Mother and the . . . d’Agostinos.” He spoke the spiritualists’ name as if it was bitter on his tongue—which it probably was.
Oh, goody. That meant I’d get to leave Chloe’s house even earlier than I’d anticipated. Hiding my glee with difficulty, I said, “That won’t be any problem at all. I’m looking forward to it.”
Heaving a large sigh, Mr. Easthope said, “I wish I were. I’d like to wring their necks.”
I didn’t fault him for that. “I understand. Perhaps, with my assistance and that of Rupert here, we’ll have this problem fixed before too long.” I smiled at Rupert, who nodded vigorously.
“You bet I’ll do my best, sir,” said he.
Giving us one of his spectacular smiles, Mr. Easthope said, “Thank you both very much. With two such enthusiastic assistants, perhaps my troubles are on their way to being solved.” And he left the office as elegantly as he’d arrived.
Lulu, who evidently had been holding her breath for several seconds, let it out with a whoosh when the door closed behind Mr. Easthope. “Oh, boy, is he one honey!” She sagged in her chair and fanned her face with her meticulously groomed hands.
“He seems real nice,” said Rupert, sounding diffident.
“He’s very nice,” I assured him. “He’s one of the best. And he’s a great friend to my sister and me.” I added myself there at the end to boost my own morale, which had flagged considerably since the advent of my mother into my life in California. Not that I didn’t consider Mr. Easthope a friend, but I really hadn’t known him all that long or that well. He was Chloe’s bosom buddy.
“Well,” said Lulu, getting up from her chair with what looked like a good deal of reluctance, “I gotta go back to work. Can’t leave the lobby unattended, even though Mr. Buck said he didn’t mind watching it for me for a few minutes.”
“That was nice of him,” I said, thinking Mr. Emerald Buck was a real gem, even as his name implied.
So Lulu and Rupert left my office, and I glanced at the prettily decorated wall clock I’d bought and put up my very own self. It was a little past three, which meant I had less than two hours of perfect tranquility before I had to return to Chloe’s house and endure another evening in my mother’s company.
Unfortunately, the afternoon was sped along by the entry of James Quincy Carstairs, who tapped on the office door and entered about ten minutes after Lulu and Rupert had fled. He peeked around the doorframe and spied me seated at my desk, wishing I had something to do. “Ah, Miss Allcutt.” He stepped into the office.
“Good day again,” I said, happy to see him, and not merely because he was a handsome man. The awful truth about Ernie’s business was that . . . well, there wasn’t much of it. I’d just been contemplating Miss Dunstable’s files and wishing I had some of my own to organize.
“So this is Ernie’s office, is it?” said Mr. Carstairs, looking around. “I must say it’s nicer than I anticipated.”
My reaction to this comment was mixed. One the one hand, I didn’t think it spoke well of my employer. On the other hand, it did speak well of my decorative abilities. It was, after all, I who had put the rug on the floor, the pictures and the clock on the wall, and made sure the windows were washed, the brass plaque polished to a high shine, and the wooden furniture buffed until it gleamed.
“Mr. Templeton’s business is quite lively,” I said, lying through my teeth. My overall self was vaguely nettled by what it perceived to be Mr. Carstairs’s unpleasant attitude toward Ernie, and it goaded me into the fib. I know there’s no valid excuse for lying, but I’m weak in some areas of my character.
Mr. Carstairs’s eyebrows lifted ironically. “Is it now? Well, I must say I’m happy to hear it. Ernie is a good fellow, and he was an honest copper, which was a nice change from the usual kind. Sometimes. At other times, his honesty was a little annoying when it got in the way of doing business.”
Doing business in this case meant bribing the coppers so they wouldn’t interfere with Mr. Carstairs’s clients, no doubt. I vividly recall Mr. Easthope telling me about the botched investigation into the murder of Mr. William Desmond Taylor, and how Ernie had tried his best to keep it clean but had been foiled at every turning. In fact, it was the Taylor case that eventually led to Ernie’s resignation from the police department. He was too disgusted by the shenanigans surrounding the case to remain in an organization for which he’d lost all respect.
That being the case, there was nothing at all vague about my state of nettled-ness now. I said coldly, “I think it’s a shame that the police need to be dishonest for businesses to prosper in Los Angeles.”
To my surprise, Mr. Carstairs beamed at me. “I figured that’s what your opinion would be. God, I love naiveté.”
That comment irked me, and I was about to say so when Ernie’s door opened and Ernie himself stepped into the outer office. Spotting our visitor, he leaned against the door frame, crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Mr. Carstairs without favor. “Thought I heard voices out here. Figured it might be a client. You have a case for me, Carstairs?”
His voice was colder than I could recall ever hearing it.
“Not at the moment, but I might be able to throw some business your way one of these days.”
If that wasn’t a sneer on Mr. Carstair
s’s face, I don’t know a sneer when I see one. My hackles rose instantly. “We’re so busy, Mr. Carstairs, I doubt that Mr. Templeton would be able to take on your case.” I gave both men a sweet smile. Ernie rolled his eyes, which I didn’t think was very nice of him. After all, I was leaping to his defense, for pity’s sake!
“Ah.” Mr. Carstairs gave me a knowing smile, and I suppressed a strong urge to heave my pencil holder at him. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to get at it. Don’t want to interrupt your busy schedule.”
“Thanks,” said Ernie sarcastically.
“Good day to you, Mr. Carstairs,” said I. Then I immediately started thumbing through my lined green secretarial pad. Fortunately, I’d been practicing my shorthand, so the pad was full of notes that I was pretty certain Mr. Carstairs couldn’t read. He didn’t need to know that I’d written “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party,” and “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs” five hundred times in succession. For all he knew, my notes were taken in pursuit of a very important case.
When the door closed gently behind Mr. Carstairs, Ernie hooked a thumb in its direction. “You like that guy?”
After a second or two of thought, I said, “I’m not sure. I do like his secretary. She seems most efficient, and I’m hoping to gain some secretarial tips from her.”
“What for?”
I looked at Ernie, feeling as blank as I’m sure I looked. “Um . . . I beg your pardon?”
“We have no work. What’s the point of being efficient? I should think you’d want to drag out your work so you don’t get bored.”
“I’m never bored,” I assured him. It was the absolute truth, too, at least for the time being. True, when I ran out of things to prettify, I might succumb to ennui, but I could always bring a book to read during dull moments. “Anyhow, your kind of business waxes and wanes. We were really busy for a while there.”
“Huh,” said Ernie, and he turned and went back into his office.
Oh, dear. I hoped he wasn’t going to decide he didn’t need a secretary because there was so little work to do. Then and there I decided to do what I could do to drum up business.
* * * * *
I think I survived that evening with my mother only because I knew salvation was only a day away, in the form of the upcoming séance at Mr. Easthope’s house. Poor Chloe appeared frazzled. She’d been sick that morning, which, I understand, is a common complaint among women who are expecting, a fact that makes me wonder why women bother having children at all, although I’d never admit that aloud.
Mother’s presence during the day had certainly not contributed to Chloe’s peace of mind, and I felt more than slightly guilty that I had a job to which I could escape. Mind you, I didn’t feel guilty enough to stay home with her.
Anyhow, I had business to attend to before I went to the office that morning. After dinner the night before, I’d gone to my room, pleading work as an excuse. And, by gum, I did work, too. By the time I went to bed, I had composed a perfectly splendid advertisement to place in the Los Angeles Times Classified section under the heading “Services Rendered.” My ad read:
Discreet, professional, confidential investigation services
Suite 303, Figueroa Building, 7th and Hill
Broadway 6-3062
All right, I know it doesn’t look like much, but I was attempting to get in everything I wanted to say in as few words as possible. I’d decided not to use Ernie’s name, since I ultimately determined his name didn’t matter for the newspaper. It was enough to give a description of the services he could provide and a means of getting in touch with him (through me, of course, at the office). I was very pleased with the result and I hoped Ernie wouldn’t mind since I’d also decided not to tell him about it, mainly because I suspected he’d object, although I don’t know why he should. It seemed only logical that a person advertise his business. Perhaps he didn’t want to spend the money for an advertisement, but that didn’t bother me since I was using my own funds and had lots of them from which to draw. He probably wouldn’t like that, either, being a man and stubborn and all, so I figured not telling him about it was my best option.
My business at the Times office didn’t take too long, and I was only about five minutes late for work. Since Ernie never got to the office until long after I did, he’d never have to know about my errand that morning. Unless he read the posting in the Times. I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about it. But there was no point worrying. After all, the advertisement would first appear in the next day’s edition, so I had a day to prepare myself.
It turned out that I didn’t have to prepare anything, because other events transpired that made so trivial a thing as an advertisement in the Times fade into insignificance.
Chapter Five
Mr. Easthope’s bungalow on Alvarado Street was an extremely elegant abode and I liked it a lot. Unlike Chloe and Harvey’s house, you didn’t need to take Angel’s Flight in order to get to the heart of the city from Alvarado Street. The heart of the city was right there, surrounding it.
I don’t know what you think of when you hear the word bungalow, but my mind’s eye had pictured a lowish building, small and cozy. Mr. Easthope’s house was nothing like my mental picture. Set back from the street, it was one of several houses in a courtyard with a grassy strip separating two walkways leading to the houses. A pretty gazebo had been built at the far end of the grassy strip, and Mr. Easthope’s place was the last house off the right-side walkway. Two stories, it was surrounded by riotously blooming flowerbeds which gave its otherwise formal visage a soft, approachable demeanor. It was truly a charming house, although I don’t think I’d have called it a bungalow if anybody cared to ask me, which nobody did. Anyway, it was a great place.
Chloe had offered me the use of her little car, an open and sporty Roadster, in which she tootled herself around the city (Mother, naturally, didn’t approve, believing women had no business driving and should always be chauffeured everywhere, and then only in closed conveyances), but I hadn’t thus far in my sojourn to the west coast learned to drive very well. So I took Angel’s Flight to Broadway, and from there I hailed a cab. Mother didn’t approve of that, either. I guess you were supposed to get a servant to hail a cab for you, too, if you were a female. Stupid rules.
Rupert opened the door when I rang the bell, and we smiled at each other. “How are you doing, Rupert? How’s your job so far?”
“It’s swell, Miss Allcutt. Mr. Easthope is a very nice gentleman, and his place is swell, too. I have a swell room all to myself, too.”
From this I deduced that Rupert enjoyed both his employment and a very small vocabulary. I was happy for him about the job situation. “I’m so glad to hear it.”
“Yeah, it’s swell. I really do thank you for arranging it for me.”
“All I did was get the two of you together,” I said modestly as Rupert took my wrap and led me to Mr. Easthope’s living room. To get there, we traveled a hallway with a perfectly spectacular Persian runner guiding our way. There were fabulous pictures on the walls, too, and a beautiful padded bench next to a charming table adorned with a crystal vase filled with roses. “Oh, my, I do like the way he’s decorated his home.”
“Yeah,” said Rupert, sounding wistful. “Isn’t it swell?”
“Swell,” said I. A feeling of joyful freedom, almost of abandonment, swept through me as I uttered the slang word, use of which was forbidden in my mother’s home. While I believe Rupert might be well served if he learned another adjective or two to convey his rapture with his employment and his surroundings, and while I believe one should be polite in company, I, as a budding novelist, do not approve of censorship, even though I was born and bred in Boston, home of the banned-book brigade.
As soon as we got to the living room, Rupert straightened, took on a heretofore unnoticed by me air of dignity, and said in a voice an octave deeper than his normal speaking voice, “Miss Allcutt.” Then he stepped aside and I
entered the room.
I’d only had an opportunity to register the overall loveliness of the décor when Mr. Easthope leapt to his feet as if he’d been anticipating my arrival with some anxiety. The way he rushed over to greet me, and his obvious mien of relief, led me to believe that he was in a state of nerves, poor fellow. He took both of my hands in his.
“Miss Allcutt! I’m so very glad you could come this evening.”
“How do you do, Mr. Easthope? I’m looking forward to the séance.” If I’d ever learned how to do it, I’d have winked at him to demonstrate my complicity in his plan. Instead, I gave him a knowing smile.
With flattering eagerness, Mr. Easthope led me over to a grouping of people that included two older ladies as well as a man and a woman who could only, I deduced, be the spiritualists. I came to this conclusion after a glimpse of their clothing and air of studied mystery, and I was right. After introducing me to his mother, Rosemary, and one of her friends, Vivian Hartland, Mr. Easthope’s manner cooled considerably when he turned to the man and the younger woman.
“And this is Miss d’Agostino,” said he.
I held out a hand to the woman, who was, I hate to admit, perfectly lovely. She had alabaster skin, black hair and dark eyes, wore a drapey black gown on her slim form and, all in all, made me think of Gypsy queens and fairy-tale princesses. She extended a limp hand to me, and I shook it probably too heartily for her comfort. But, darn it, I don’t like people who take advantage of gullible old ladies.
The man seated next to her had stood upon my entry into the room. He, too, was good-looking, tall, dark and elegant. With a pale face, extremely dark, penetrating eyes and thick black eyebrows, he looked rather like my mental image of a Spanish grandee, not that I’ve ever seen a Spanish grandee. He bowed gracefully over my hand when Mr. Easthope introduced us and said, “Charmed to make your acquaintance,” in an accent I didn’t recognize. Was d’Agostino an Italian name? Would it matter, considering they’d undoubtedly plucked it out of the air?
