Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery)

by Alice Duncan

  An outhouse. Good Lord. I’d heard of outhouses, but I don’t believe I’d ever actually seen one. We Bostonians had indoor plumbing. “Um . . . that doesn’t sound so awful to me.”

  “It wasn’t. It was Halloween, for cripes’ sake, and kids always do stuff like that on Halloween.”

  Kids in my life didn’t, but my life and Lulu’s bore scant resemblance to each other.

  “But the cops locked him up overnight. Our parents had a fit. Will was only seventeen at the time, and he figured his life was over after he was arrested, and since I was living in California, he decided to run away and join me here.”

  “I see.” I still resented the fact that neither Rupert nor Lulu had told me about Rupert’s previous brush with the law, but I felt better about foisting him on Mr. Easthope. I mean it’s not as if Rupert Mullins had killed somebody or anything like that, and I was absolutely positive that Mr. Easthope didn’t have an outhouse. “Well, I can’t see that there’s much chance of the Los Angeles police connecting him with a broken arm in Oklahoma, if that’s any comfort. Besides, the woman at the séance probably died of a heart attack. Everybody thinks so.”

  Except me, who thought she’d been murdered. However, I didn’t for one second think Rupert Mullins had done it. Why should he? I’m sure he never once dreamed of such a thing. He’d seemed totally awestruck the night before. I couldn’t imagine him killing Hollywood’s leading gossip columnist. Such a scenario made no sense.

  I patted Lulu’s shoulder. “Please don’t worry, Lulu. I’m sure everything will turn out all right. Rupert seemed very happy in his job last night. It was just pure dumb luck that Mrs. Hartland died during the séance.”

  “Oh, Mercy,” she said, worries for her brother temporarily forgotten, “is it true she was really Hedda Heartwood? And that you actually got to meet Jacqueline Lloyd?” Her smudged eyes widened, and she stared at me with hungry intensity. I reminded myself that Lulu wanted to be the next Jacqueline Lloyd herself and took pity upon her.

  “Yes, indeed. Mrs. Hartland wrote her column as Hedda Heartwood. And Jacqueline Lloyd is as lovely in person as she is on the silver screen.”

  “Oh, my.” Lulu pressed folded hands to her bosom, squashing her handkerchief and looking enraptured. “Oh, my. You’re so lucky, Mercy.”

  Yeah, I guess I was, if you can call being at a séance where a woman died lucky. But I understood what Lulu meant. She’d give her eyeteeth to meet some of the people I’ve met through Chloe and Harvey.

  “Well,” I said upon a deep and heartfelt sigh, “I’d better get to the office. Ernie’s not going to be happy about last night’s affair, either.”

  “Thanks for helping Rupert, Mercy,” Lulu said, her rapture forgotten and her voice taking on a shaky, helpless quality. “I just hope the cops don’t nab him for murder.”

  The elevator doors closed upon a sob from the receptionist’s desk, and I sighed again as it lifted me to the third floor.

  You could have knocked me over with a feather when the elevator doors opened, and there stood Ernie Templeton, fists on hips, glaring at me as if I’d murdered Hedda Heartwood myself. Startled, I jumped a little and said, “Ernie!”

  “Damn it to hell and back again, Mercy Allcutt, what’s this Phil tells me about a murder at that damned séance last night?”

  I drew myself up stiffly, annoyed with this uncalled-for attack upon my sensibilities so early in the morning. Wasn’t it enough that I had to put up with my horrid mother without having to put up with attacks from my heretofore not-too-impolite employer? Yes, it was, darn it.

  “Don’t you dare yell at me, Ernie Templeton,” I said through clenched teeth. “And who said anything about murder?”

  “Phil told me all about it, damn it.”

  “Stop swearing,” I said crossly, swerving around Ernie and heading to the office. “And none of it was my fault.” I paused and turned. “Did you say Mr. Bigelow is now calling Mrs. Hartland’s death a homicide?”

  “They think she was poisoned.” Ernie stomped past me and went to the office, where he opened the door and stood scowling at me until I passed him and entered my formerly soothing place of work. Today it looked as if I was fated to find no comfort anywhere.

  I must admit, however, that it was kind of nice to know my suspicions were correct and that I hadn’t merely been dramatizing the events of the prior evening. Ignoring Ernie’s fierce glower, I went to my desk, placed my handbag and hat in my drawer, sat in my nice rolling chair behind my desk, folded my hands and placed them on my blotter. “As I wasn’t the one who poisoned her, I fail to comprehend why you’re berating me, Ernest Templeton. I had absolutely nothing to do with that woman’s death.”

  “Damn it, you’re always getting mixed up in things. Why is it that whenever you show up, things happen?”

  “That’s not fair and you know it!” I cried, peeved and working on a glower of my own. “I’ve never, ever been involved in murder.” Before he could contradict me, since that was something of a fib, I hurried on. “And I’d never attended a séance before last night. I’m sure no one in the entire house full of guests knew murder was contemplated before it happened. Well, except for the murderer. Anyhow, when I left Mr. Easthope’s home last evening, the doctor was still calling the death a heart seizure, and so was Mr. Bigelow. What kind of poison was used?”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” snarled Ernie, slamming the front office door. “You’re not getting involved in this.”

  I sighed heavily and with sarcasm. “It looks as if I’m already involved in it. Not that I want to be.”

  “Huh!”

  “I don’t! Darn you, Ernie Templeton, none of this is my fault!”

  “She’s right, Ernie,” came a voice from Ernie’s office. Startled, I turned and espied Mr. Phil Bigelow lounging on the doorway. “It’s not technically her fault.”

  “Oh, good morning, Mr. Bigelow.”

  “Good morning, Miss Allcutt.”

  “My, aren’t we formal today? Didn’t you two share a murder just last night? What’s with the ‘Miss’ and ‘Mister’ stuff?” Ernie’s tone was quite nasty.

  But I had just registered the latter part of Mr. Bigelow’s greeting and didn’t take Ernie to task. “What do you mean, it isn’t technically my fault? None of last night’s doings were my fault!”

  Mr. Bigelow shrugged.

  Ernie said, “Huh” again.

  The telephone rang just then, sparing Ernie and Mr. Bigelow a tongue-lashing from me. I picked up the receiver and barked, “Mr. Templeton’s office. Miss Allcutt speaking.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the wire. I guess the person was taken aback at my abrupt tone, and I felt at fault. Softening my voice, I asked pleasantly, “May I help you?”

  That did the trick. The person who’d called began pouring out her tale of woe, and I set up an appointment for her that very day. When I asked how she’d learned of Ernie’s business and she said she’d read about him in the newspaper’s classified section, my mood brightened considerably. I’d been so engrossed in other matters that I hadn’t even checked the Times to see if our ad had been printed, but this was confirmation of a most encouraging nature that it had been.

  When I hung the receiver on the hook, I realized both Ernie and Mr. Bigelow still stood in my part of the office. I smiled cheerfully. “You have an appointment at ten o’clock this morning, Ernie. Miss Ethel Ginther wants you to find her missing uncle.”

  “Her missing uncle? How the devil did her uncle get lost?” Ernie didn’t appear especially gratified to know that he had a new client. How typical of him.

  “I guess he left home and never went back again. Her aunt is distraught.”

  “So why didn’t her aunt call me?”

  Irked, I snapped, “Because Miss Ginther is helping her poor aunt, who is in a total state.”

  “Oh, brother, this should be fun,” grumbled Ernie. He and Mr. Bigelow returned to his office and closed the door behind them.


  Extremely annoyed, I’d pushed myself up from my chair and intended to dash after them to get the particulars about Mrs. Hartland and why the police now believed she’d been poisoned, but the telephone rang again. Huffing, I sat once more and picked up the receiver. This time I made sure my voice was inviting when I said, “Mr. Templeton’s office. Miss Allcutt speaking.”

  This time too, I recognized the voice on the other end of the wire. “Miss Allcutt, have you heard the news?”

  It was Francis Easthope, and he sounded dreadfully shaken. My sympathy was instantly aroused. “Oh, Mr. Easthope, I just this minute heard about it. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh, God.” I could envision him running a hand through his splendidly groomed hair. “I need Mr. Templeton’s help. Do you think he’d be willing to take the job?”

  This puzzled me a trifle. I was pleased that he’d thought of Ernie in this time of crisis, but wasn’t altogether sure why he’d done so. “What do you mean? Aren’t the police investigating?”

  “The police?” I’d never heard him sound contemptuous before. “I was there for the Taylor investigation, remember? I wouldn’t trust the L.A. police department to investigate a schoolyard bully.”

  Oh, dear. I’d read all about the William Desmond Taylor murder and the botched job the police had made of it. In fact, I may have mentioned that it was that failure in police procedures that had led Ernie to quit the force and go into private practice. The L.A.P.D. truly did have a dismal reputation. It was a shame that good people like Mr. Bigelow had to endure being tarred with the same brush the corrupt police were.

  “This awful murder is going to affect the entire picture business, and I need to know that it will be cleared up and that no taint will mar the studio.”

  “I understand. I’m sure Mr. Templeton will be able to help you.” Knowing Ernie and his antipathy toward Mr. Easthope, I was sure of no such thing. But I didn’t have any such prejudices, and I would help him if Ernie wouldn’t. I had no idea how I’d do so, but I had faith in my investigative abilities.

  “Are you? Then will you set up an appointment for me? I tell you, I’m nearly out of my mind, and Mother is a wreck.”

  “Mrs. Hartland was her good friend, wasn’t she?”

  “Lord, yes. They were friends from the cradle practically. Mother is inconsolable.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Easthope. I’m sure this terrible crime will be solved soon.”

  “I hope so,” he said, sounding as if he didn’t think anything good would ever happen again in the entire future of the world.

  “Can you come in at eleven this morning? Mr. Templeton has an appointment free then.” He had the whole morning free except for that one appointment at ten, but I didn’t want to say so aloud.

  “Thank you, Miss Allcutt. You’re a godsend.”

  Tell that to my mother. I didn’t want to say that aloud, either, so I merely closed our conversation and hung up the receiver.

  And then I barged in on Ernie and Mr. Bigelow.

  Chapter Eight

  “I’ll be damned if I’ll work for that faggot!” I don’t think Ernie had quit glaring since I’d arrived at work that morning.

  “I don’t know what you have against Mr. Easthope,” I retorted angrily. “He’s a perfectly lovely gentleman.”

  “He’s lovely, all right,” muttered Ernie, sneering.

  Mr. Bigelow snickered.

  I’d have stayed to argue, but I heard the outer office door open, so I whirled around and stormed out of Ernie’s office. I’d have slammed the door, except that I’d been reared never to do such a thing. Sometimes I think my upbringing will oppress me forever.

  My mood changed instantly when I saw Sylvia Dunstable and Mr. Carstairs in my office. “Good morning,” I said, happy to see my new neighbors.

  Mr. Carstairs looked as if he’d been doing some hair-mussing that morning, along with Mr. Easthope. “Good? It’s catastrophic, if you ask me.”

  Oh, dear. Another distraught gentleman. “You’ve heard they now consider the death a homicide,” I said, slumping into my chair and waving the two newcomers into the chairs facing my desk.

  “Yes. Murder. And I was there with Jacqueline Lloyd.” Mr. Carstairs allowed Miss Dunstable to sit before he sank into a chair.

  “I keep telling Mr. Carstairs that there’s nothing for him to worry about,” said Miss Dunstable. “After all, it’s not as if he did anything wrong.”

  “I was at a séance, for God’s sake, where a murder took place, for God’s sake, with a client, for God’s sake. It won’t matter if I’ve done anything wrong or not. My career is ruined.”

  “Tut-tut.” Miss Dunstable looked with disfavor upon her employer. “Haven’t you ever heard that all publicity is good publicity, Mr. Carstairs?”

  “Not murder,” he insisted.

  Miss Dunstable and I exchanged a speaking glance. Well, there were two speaking glances involved, actually, but you know what I mean. I thought she was right. I’d read about Mr. Carstairs before I’d ever met him, which meant, in my mind, that he wasn’t scornful of publicity. So why should this be any different? I could imagine great opportunities for him to speak to the press about how terrified his client was, how he aimed to protect her, and all sorts of things like that. Why, the man could become something of a hero if he played his cards right.

  That being the case, I added my support to that of Mr. Carstairs’s secretary. “I believe Miss Dunstable is correct, Mr. Carstairs. Why don’t you compose a letter to the various newspapers deploring not merely the murder—not, naturally, that there’s anything mere about murder—but telling people how upset Miss Lloyd has been, and how you’ll do everything you can to cooperate with the police, how your duty is to protect your client, how the villain must be caught and punished, how you’ll do anything in your power to see that justice prevails, and things like that. You’ll appear to be a logical, caring person who wants to see immorality crushed.” Morality had become a big issue since the Fatty Arbuckle affair of a few years prior. Not to mention the Taylor murder and perpetual gossip about liquor and drugs—John Barrymore and Mabel Normand spring to mind—being used by people in the motion-picture industry.

  Miss Dunstable practically beamed at me, so it seems I’d offered a sensible suggestion. I did admire her. She was so . . . efficient. And she looked every bit the professional secretary. That day she was clad in a sensible, lightweight gray suit with matching shoes. She was also levelheaded and didn’t fall apart in a crisis as the men around us seemed to be doing.

  “Miss Allcutt has a very good idea there, Mr. Carstairs. You should attack the problem, rather than allowing the problem to attack you.”

  Well put, I thought, although I didn’t say so.

  Mr. Carstairs, who had buried his head in his hands, lifted said head and peered from one of us to the other. “Do you really think so?”

  “Indeed I do,” said Miss Dunstable firmly.

  “Yes,” I said, also firmly. “Don’t allow the publicity to affect you negatively. Use the newspapers for your own good and that of your client.” It’s a good thing my mother wasn’t there to hear me say that.

  Ernie’s office door opened, and Mr. Bigelow took a step out, then stopped. Ernie was right behind him, and he frowned when he saw we had company.

  Mr. Carstairs rose from his chair.

  “Carstairs,” said Ernie, not warmly.

  Mr. Carstairs nodded. “Templeton.”

  With a sigh, Miss Dunstable stood, too. “We’d best be getting back to the office, Mr. Carstairs. I can deliver letters to the Times and the Herald Examiner this morning, and they should appear in tomorrow’s editions. If I get there early enough, the evening editions might carry them.”

  “Right,” said Mr. Carstairs.

  And with a wave and a “thank you” for me, the Carstairs contingent vanished.

  “What the hell was he doing here?” asked Ernie, whose mood had not improved. He hooked a thumb at the office door.


  I was spared delivering a stinging retort by the telephone, which started ringing just then. Shooting a scowl at my hateful employer, I picked up the receiver. “Mr. Templeton’s office. Miss Allcutt speaking.”

  This time the potential client on the other end of the wire needed to hire Ernie to trace his wife’s movements, since the caller suspected her of dire doings with a neighbor. I suppressed a sigh. The trouble with a private investigator’s line of work is that there’s so much distasteful stuff involved.

  Technically, I know, murder is sordid, too. In fact, it’s a heinous crime against man and God. But at least it’s interesting sometimes. Mrs. Hartland’s murder had definite points of interest. But trailing a straying wife only seemed repugnant to me. Nevertheless, I set up an appointment for the gentleman, Mr. Richards, to see Ernie at two o’clock that afternoon.

  The telephone rang all morning. Some of the callers only wanted to ask about Ernie’s fees, but some of them had what might prove to be actual cases for us. By lunchtime, the entire day was crammed with appointments and my hand was tired from writing. I still hadn’t told Ernie about the advertisement I’d placed in the newspaper.

  At noon his office door opened and he exited, shrugging into his coat and slapping his hat on his head. “Come on, kiddo, we’re going to Chinatown for lunch.”

  I blinked at him. “We are?”

  “Yeah. I’m sick of talking to clients and listing to the blasted telephone ring. Besides, I want you to tell me exactly what happened last night.”

  I sniffed even as I reached into my desk drawer to retrieve my hat and handbag. “I thought you weren’t going to assist Mr. Easthope.”

  Francis Easthope had showed up at approximately five minutes until eleven that morning, proving how eager he was for Ernie’s help in solving Mrs. Hartland’s murder. I don’t know what Ernie said to him during their appointment, but poor Mr. Easthope didn’t appear any too happy when he left. I’d have questioned him, but I was busy on the telephone, which truly was becoming a nuisance by that point in time. Still, my initiative proved that advertising one’s services aided in attracting customers.