by Alice Duncan
Since I really wanted to talk to Rupert Mullins, during a lull in the telephone nonsense I dialed Mr. Easthope’s home. Rupert answered the phone!
“Mr. Easthope’s residence,” he said in a voice stiff with the importance of his job, but I recognized it anyway.
“Is this Rupert Mullins?” I asked to be sure.
Silence greeted my question, and it occurred to me that Rupert might be nervous about talking to people since he’d been quizzed by the police and had a record and all. Besides, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that the vultures of the press had been bothering the residents of Mr. Easthope’s house all day.
“It’s Mercy Allcutt, Rupert. I don’t want to bother you. I just wanted to ask a few questions.”
“Oh.” Rupert’s sigh of relief carried all the way from Mr. Easthope’s house to my ear. “I’m glad it’s you, Miss Allcutt. The police and the press have been hounding me.”
“I’m sorry about that. I’m sure they’re just doing their job.”
“Hmm.”
So much for that. “Say, Rupert, did you see anything odd the night of the séance?”
“Odd?” He hesitated. “To tell the truth, Miss Allcutt, the whole thing was odd to me. We don’t have much truck with motion-picture people and séances and such-like nonsense in Enid, Oklahoma.”
I could appreciate that. “What I mean is, did you see anyone hanging around the house who didn’t seem to belong to the household or be one of the guests or anything?” That was a stupid question—after all, everyone there would have been new to Rupert—and I was about to withdraw it when Rupert surprised me.
“Well, there was this guy.”
I perked up instantly. “What guy?”
“I’m not sure. Updegraff—he’s the cook’s husband—went outside for a smoke and saw this guy smoking and slouching. That’s what Updegraff said. Slouching—in the shrubbery. He—Updegraff—asked the guy what he was doing there, and he—the guy—said he was supposed to be at the séance, but didn’t feel well. I thought that was kind of funny.”
I did, too, and my mind instantly fixed upon George Hartland. Had he been at Mr. Easthope’s house all along? Could it be George Hartland who’d perpetrated the dastardly deed? “Did Mr. Updegraff ask the . . . the guy for his name?”
“Yeah. I think he was a George something or other.”
Aha! I knew it! “Thank you very much, Rupert. This information is most helpful.”
Very well, so now I knew that George Hartland hadn’t been ill at his home that night. He’d been at Mr. Easthope’s house. Furthermore, he hadn’t come inside, but had skulked in the shrubbery. Fishy. Very fishy. I knew I ought to tell Phil Bigelow immediately, but I wanted to talk to Mr. George Hartland first. Phil would be upset with me if he ever found out, but that was just too bad. Let him do his own detective work.
During the very first case on which I’d worked—good heavens, had it been only a month ago?—I’d had good luck with the telephone book. Hoping luck would again prove to be my friend, I reached for said book and thumbed through it until I got to the H section.
Drat. No listing for George Hartland. What did that mean?
He lived with his mother! That’s probably what it meant. With thundering heart, I peered at the pages again, and voila! There she was, bold as brass: Vivian Hartland. I guess since she used another name for her column, she didn’t worry about getting too many idle telephone calls.
With trembling fingers, I lifted the receiver from the hook and dialed the number listed in the phone book. Some male person on the other end picked up his own receiver on my third ring. My heart soared into my throat.
“This is the Hartland residence,” said the voice. I thought it sounded rather tired and wan, but perhaps I was projecting.
“May I please speak to Mr. George Hartland? This is Miss Mercedes Allcutt calling.” My tone was very formal and unemotional, although my insides were leaping about like ballet dancers, and my nerves were jumping like several children on pogo sticks.
Silence greeted my polite inquiry. My insides jangled louder, and my heart started to sink.
And then, to my utter relief, the voice on the other end of the wire spoke again. “Miss Allcutt? Are you the Miss Allcutt who was at Mr. Easthope’s house the evening of my mother’s death?”
Hallelujah!
“The very one,” I assured him. “Is this Mr. George Hartland?”
“Yes.”
“I just wanted to convey my heartfelt sympathy, Mr. Hartland. I’d only met your mother earlier that evening, but her death was an awful shock. I’m sure it’s even more horrid for you.”
“Thank you, Miss Allcutt.”
He sounded as if he was on the verge of tears, and I didn’t want him to be. I mean to say, if he was the killer, he should be happy, not crying, curse it. On the other hand, he lived in Los Angeles, and his mother had made a fortune (I presume she had, anyhow) from the motion-picture business, albeit in an ancillary profession. Perhaps George Hartland was a good actor after having been exposed to acting all these years. Or perhaps he’d done her in because he didn’t like her and only afterward realized that he’d killed the goose that laid the golden egg.
That last scenario sounded pretty far-fetched, so I settled on the actor possibility as the more probable.
Before I could analyze things further, Mr. Hartland spoke again. “I’m very glad you called, Miss Allcutt. You were among the last people to see my mother alive. You were one of the people who were with her when she died, and I wish you could tell me what happened.”
Hmm. Such an ingenuous question from a probable murderer. Then again, perhaps he wanted to ascertain exactly what people had seen in order to find out if anyone saw him on the fateful night.
“Well . . .” I said, starting off slowly and not quite knowing how much to tell him. Then I realized that I didn’t know a single thing about what had happened other than what I’d seen, so it wouldn’t hurt to tell him everything I did know. “I’m afraid I must tell you that I didn’t see much. I don’t suppose any of us did, because the room was pitch black. All the lights were out, you see, and the medium was . . . um . . . in a trance.” I decided that mentioning my personal skepticism to Mr. Hartland would serve no useful purpose. Better to stick strictly to the facts—which were that I hadn’t seen a solitary thing.
“You didn’t hear anything?”
“I’m sorry, but no, I didn’t.”
“And you didn’t see anything?”
“No. It was dark.”
“You didn’t hear any doors opening or anything like that?”
Interesting question. I wracked my brain, but it was empty. Well, you know what I mean. “No. I’m sorry.”
A sigh whiffled across the phone lines to my ear. “I figured as much.”
All right. His questions had been answered. It was time for some questions of my own before he decided to hang up his receiver. “But I understand that you were supposed to be there, Mr. Hartland.”
“Yes,” he said. “And now I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“You couldn’t make it?”
“I had a terrible cold in my chest.”
“Really?” I kept my tone of voice as sweet as I could. “I understand from the houseboy that you were seen by another employee at the house that night.”
Silence again. I hoped he wouldn’t hang up on me.
“That fellow Updegraff, I expect,” he said at last, contempt in his voice.
“Well, yes, Mr. Updegraff did say he saw you in the shrubbery.”
“Hmph. I wasn’t ‘in the shrubbery,’ for heaven’s sake. I had thought to go to the séance in spite of my illness in order to make my mother happy, but I felt too awful, so after lingering outside for a while to assess my ability to participate, I went home before knocking on the door.”
“Ah,” I said. “I see.” What I didn’t say was what I was thinking: a likely story. “Um . . . are you feeling better now?”
Touchy, touchy. “Yes. I’m so sorry, Mr. Hartland. It was a perfectly dreadful thing to have happened.
“Dreadful, indeed.”
“Um . . . do you think it’s wise to be smoking when you have a lung ailment?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Well, Mr. Updegraff told the houseboy, who told me, that you were smoking in the shrubbery. I should think that would have aggravated the cold in your chest.”
A second or two of silence ensued. “I . . .” More silence. Then he blurted out, “Listen, Miss Allcutt, this is nobody’s business, and certainly not yours, but I’ll tell you anyway. I didn’t attend that ridiculous séance because I saw that ass Carstairs going up to the door. I’d just arrived, and I decided I wasn’t going to go anywhere Carstairs went.”
Odd. “You don’t like Mr. Carstairs?”
“He’s a damned shark!” A pause. A sigh. “Sorry, Miss Allcutt, I didn’t mean to swear. But the man is after me, and I didn’t want to be in the same house as he. I didn’t trust him not to make a scene.”
“Why ever not? He’s after you? What do you mean? Is Mr. Carstairs some kind of criminal?”
“No, no, no. But he thinks I am.”
Perhaps this telephone call hadn’t been such a good idea after all. It only seemed to be confusing me more than I was already. “I . . . um . . . don’t understand.”
“I owe the man money, if you have to know. I’d hired him for some legal work a while back, and I haven’t yet come up with the funds to pay him back. And I didn’t want him dunning me at a party, for God’s sake!”
“Ah. I see. Well, I guess I can understand that.”
“The cops won’t understand. You can bet on that.”
Oh, I was sure they would.
At last Mr. Hartland said, “Well, I really need to go, Miss Allcutt. There are so many preparations to be made.”
“Yes, I’m sure there are. Please accept my most sincere condolences, Mr. Hartland. I didn’t know your mother well, but she seemed a lovely woman.” Oh, very well, so she’d seemed kind of sharp and foxy. That doesn’t mean she wasn’t nice, too, does it?
“Thank you. And thank you for your call.” It sounded to me as if he only tacked on the latter because he believed he should be polite.
With a sigh, I hung up the receiver. Then I picked it up again and dialed the number for the Los Angeles Police Department and asked to speak to Detective Bigelow. When I was told that Detective Bigelow wasn’t in and was asked if I’d like to speak to another detective, I hesitated for only a heartbeat before I politely declined the switchboard operator’s offer. Best not to entrust my intelligence to another detective since, according to Ernie, everyone in the L.A.P.D. except Phil Bigelow was a crook. I wasn’t sure I believed that blanket condemnation of an entire city department, but I doubted that keeping my intelligence to myself for an hour or so would matter much.
It turned out not to matter at all, since Phil Bigelow strolled into the office with Ernie Templeton approximately five minutes after my conversation with George Hartland ended. They went directly to Ernie’s office and I followed them. I was pretty excited for about the first minute and a half of my revelations, and I hadn’t even arrived at the telephone call yet.
Ernie interrupted first. “You did what? Why the devil would you spend any time at all in the library looking up alkaloid poisons, much less the entire hour?”
I frowned at him, annoyed by so trivial a question. “Well, you’re going to have to know what kind of poison did her in, aren’t you?”
“Not I,” said Ernie, the fiend. “That’s Phil’s job. It’s assuredly not yours.”
“Well, I’m interested!”
“Mercy, the police are on the job, believe me. And the pathologist will probably be able to tell us what kind of poison killed the woman pretty soon.”
I felt like an idiot, and I didn’t like the feeling one tiny bit. “It doesn’t hurt to do independent research,” I said stolidly, lifting my chin.
“It might hurt you, damn it,” said Ernie, determined to be annoying. “Butt out, Mercy. This is a job for the police.”
Glaring, wishing I could throw my secretarial notebook at his head, I said, “According to you, there’s only one honest policeman on the entire force, and that’s Mr. Bigelow here.” I didn’t mean to whack Phil on the shoulder when I made that broad gesture with my hand. And I’m sure I didn’t hurt him, since I do believe I connected with a shoulder pad, but the incident was embarrassing nonetheless. I said stiffly, “I beg your pardon.”
“Think nothing of it.” Phil was trying not to laugh, blast him.
“He is the only honest cop on the force, but that doesn’t mean the others can’t do their jobs if there’s no bribery involved.”
“Hey,” said Phil in mock outrage.
Ernie shrugged. “It’s the truth. But I do trust the force to work on this one. There’s no incentive for them not to. Who cares enough about Hedda Heartwood’s murder to pay anybody to cover it up?”
“How can you say that?” I demanded, stung. “According to everyone I’ve talked to, she was the gossip center of the Hollywood universe.”
“Yeah, but unless they break into her house and steal her notes, nobody’s going to know what she knew.”
That hadn’t occurred to me, but it sounded like a plausible thing for a murdering gossipee to do. “Do you think they might?”
“Naw. The cops have the place under surveillance and Phil’s in charge. He’s got men he trusts, more or less, not to accept bribes.”
I turned to Phil. “So you really do trust them?”
Laughing, Ernie said, “He ought to. Easthope paid them a bundle to investigate the case and find the murderer.”
I think I gasped. “That’s awful, Ernie Templeton.” My own personal outrage was genuine and was clear to hear in my voice. “The police department has to be bribed to do its job?”
Ernie only nodded.
“Well, then, if you truly believe law enforcement in Los Angeles is so very corrupt, I will not butt out of the case.” Boy, I’m glad my mother didn’t hear me say that. “I will persist in attempting to bring the villain to justice.”
“Really, Mercy, it’s probably best if you don’t meddle—um, I mean, it’s probably best if you don’t get involved in this. We’re talking murder here, you know.” I got the feeling Phil was attempting diplomacy, but his words fell far short of his goal.
“I am not meddling, Detective Bigelow. I am attempting to assist your precious police department in solving a crime. I should think you’d appreciate my involvement. Aren’t the newspapers always writing about the public being apathetic to the growing crime situation? Well, I’m not apathetic! And I don’t have to be bribed, either!”
Ernie leaned back in his chair, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “Christ.”
“And you,” I said, pointing at him, thereby breaking another cardinal rule of my childhood, “can just stay out of it!”
The front legs of Ernie’s chair hit the floor with a thump, and he leaned forward on his elbows. “You’re my secretary. I’ll be damned if I’ll sit back and let you get yourself into trouble again.”
“What do you mean, again?” cried I, even more outraged. “I caught your blasted murderer for you last month, if you’ll recollect.”
“How could I forget,” muttered Ernie. “You damned near scared me to death.”
“You damned near got yourself done to death,” added Phil.
“Oh, bother the both of you!” I started to storm out of Ernie’s office, but then I remembered the conversation I’d had with George Hartland. Pausing at the door to the outer office, I pondered whether or not to reveal my information. I didn’t want to. Not to those two beastly men.
However, my job was to serve the public . . . Well, technically, my job was secretary to a private investigator, but I wanted to serve the public, so I
swallowed my pride and turned to face my tormentors once more. I thought rapidly as I struggled to decide on the best way to reveal my news. If Phil already knew all about it, I’d be embarrassed. If he didn’t, I’d feel great triumph. Determining to frame my intelligence carefully, my jaw was stiff when I said, “Did you know that Mrs. Hartland’s son was at Mr. Easthope’s residence on the night of the murder?”
The starts of surprise from Ernie and Phil gratified something deep within me. Petty, I know.
Phil said, “Huh?”
Ernie said, “What the hell?” Then he frowned at me. He would. “How the devil do you know that?”
By that time my chin was so high, it almost pointed at the ceiling. Lowering it only enough to make my words understood, I explained. “I know that because I spoke to Rupert Mullins. He told me that Mr. Hartland was discovered by Mr. Updegraff in the shrubbery, smoking a cigarette.”
“By God,” muttered Phil.
Ernie only sputtered.
I forged onward. “So, upon that intelligence, I took the initiative and placed a telephone call to Mr. Hartland’s residence, which is really his mother’s home. There, I am pleased to report, I spoke to the man himself. And before you interrupt me—” I spoke more loudly, because I could tell that Ernie was set to spring—“let me tell you that Mr. Hartland told me himself that he was not ill the night of the séance.”
“Damn it, Mercy!” cried Ernie, furious.
I paid him no mind. “He saw Mr. Carstairs entering Mr. Easthope’s house and detoured to the garden, where he smoked a cigarette and pondered. It turns out that he owes Mr. Carstairs money from when Mr. Carstairs represented him in a legal matter. He was afraid Mr. Carstairs would bring the matter up during the party.” I felt like adding a so there to my narrative, but I restrained myself.
Both men stared at me for several seconds. It felt like several hours to me, but I wouldn’t let on. Finally, Phil murmured, “Well, I’ll be . . . um . . . That’s very interesting, Mercy. Thank you.” Phil has the instincts of a gentleman, even though he persists in keeping low company.
