by Alice Duncan
“What?”
“He’s right, Mercy,” said Ernie, grimacing. “Please don’t yell.”
I transferred my stare of astonishment to him. “I’m not yelling! I don’t believe this!”
“Listen, Mercy, it’s just that the police pretty much have to see for themselves that what people involved in a murder say is true,” Phil said. “They can’t just take anybody’s word for anything when it comes to murder.”
It took me a second to untwist those sentences. When I did, I nearly exploded with wrath. “Do you mean to tell me that the representatives of the Los Angeles Police Department don’t believe me? Mercedes Louise Allcutt? From Boston, Massachusetts? Does that disbelief extend to you, Detective Philip Bigelow?” Except for a couple of times when dealing with my mother, I don’t think I’d ever been that angry in my life.
Phil held up a hand. The gesture was meant to be one of placation, I think, although I wasn’t in a mood to be particularly discerning at the time.
“It’s not that they don’t believe you,” he said. Then he instantly reversed himself by saying, “But you have to understand that most people don’t want to be involved in situations like these, and the police must be very careful about who they believe and who they don’t believe.”
“Your grammar is as hideous as your logic!” I told him. I’m not generally so mean to people, but I was truly quite angry at the time. “Anyhow, the woman was hit on the back of the head! Why would Ernie hit her on the head?”
“I don’t think he did, Mercy,” said Phil. He appeared as frustrated as I felt.
“Well, then,” I said, “if there’s no good reason for Ernie to have hit her on the head and thrown her down the stairs, why do the police suspect him?”
“Mercy, it’s just a fact of life in a situation like this,” said Ernie. I noticed he had a hand pressed to his head as if he were trying to hold it together.
“But it’s insane not to believe that what happened happened!” Indignant as all get-out, but conscious of Ernie’s pain, I lowered my voice and told Phil, “Just go upstairs and look at the ropes and gag yourself if you don’t believe me!”
“We’ve got everything in evidence, but the ropes and gag alone don’t mean anything. We don’t know what they were used for or who used them. You’re the only who saw him in them.”
“And nobody believes me? Or Ernie? Just look at him! He looks terrible!”
“Thanks,” Ernie said. I frowned at him, but all he did was grin back at me. I was right, though. He looked terrible.
“I believe you, Mercy,” said Phil, sounding as if he wished he were elsewhere. “But the police department has a big job to do, and we have to corroborate all the evidence that’s discovered at a crime scene. Unfortunately, there’s no corroboration of Ernie’s condition when you arrived at the Chalmers’ home, because no one but you saw him.” He eyed me for a second and said, “You said the servants were out?”
“Yes. The house was unlocked, and because I was worried about Ernie, I entered. I suppose that’s a crime too?”
Phil sighed. “No. I understand why you entered. I only wish you’d had someone with you and that the someone else had seen Ernie. The only story we have is yours, and you work for him. For all we know, you’re the one who tied him up in order to divert suspicion from him.”
“I beg your pardon?” My voice came out like sharp, pointy icicles.
“They think we staged the thing,” said Ernie wearily.
“They what?” That time my voice was more like a shriek. Both men winced.
Phil shrugged. “I know you wouldn’t do anything like that, but I’m not the only detective on the case.”
“But look at his wrists!” I said, lowering my voice slightly. “There are marks there! I wouldn’t tie him up so tightly! In fact, I doubt that if I’d tied him up there would be any marks at all, because the ropes wouldn’t have been on his wrists for very long.”
Phil appeared disgruntled, as well he should. “Listen, all of this is relevant. But the fact is I’ll probably be taken off the case, since Ernie and I are good friends. I suspect Detective O’Reilly will be assigned to lead the investigation.”
“Which is bad for me,” said Ernie wearily. “O’Reilly hates my guts. And vice-versa.”
“But that’s not fair! If you’re Ernie’s friend and they won’t let you handle the case, why would they give the case to a man who hates his guts?” Gee, I don’t think I’d ever said the word guts before.
Another shrug from Phil. “That’s just the way these things work sometimes.”
“And why would I tie up my own boss? For that matter, why would I have to? Why would Ernie kill Mrs. Chalmers? There’s no motive!”
“Well, one of my colleagues suggested that Ernie and Mrs. Chalmers had been . . . engaged in some sort of . . .”
Phil’s face turned a dull, brick red. I didn’t understand what he was trying to convey, so I prompted him. “Engaged in what?”
“Oh, Christ, Mercy,” said Ernie disgustedly. “Some cop thinks the Chalmers dame and I were playing sex games, and I must have accidently pushed her down the stairs.”
I was speechless. In fact, I don’t think I could have uttered a word if I’d tried.
Fortunately for me, Phil said, “You don’t have to be so blunt, Ernie.” He nodded his head toward me. In other words, he considered me too innocent to hear such things.
The awful truth was that I seemed to be exactly that. I gave myself a hard mental shake. “If they were playing . . . those kinds of games, why would Ernie hit her on the head?”
“I don’t know, Mercy!” Phil said, throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of futility and frustration. “Somebody only mentioned the possibility, is all.”
A silence descended among the three of us that lasted a good year or two. Then I asked, feeling desperate, “Well, what about fingerprints? Wouldn’t there be fingerprints on the ropes and gag? And has anyone found the weapon she was bashed with?”
“No weapon has been found. The only fingerprints they’re liable to find on anything in that room are yours and mine and those of Mrs. Chalmers,” Ernie told me. “Ropes don’t take good fingerprints. Anybody have any headache powders?”
I stared at him bleakly and ignored his question. “But . . . but . . .” I couldn’t even bring my stern Boston breeding into play in this situation. That’s probably because my mother would have preferred to be caught dead than have anything at all to do with the police and, therefore, I had no memories upon which to call. I cast a glance at the body of Mrs. Chalmers, which had finally been decently covered with something that looked like a sheet and recalled the younger Mr. Chalmers’ confession.
Somewhat cheered by this recollection, even though I still wasn’t sure I’d heard it exactly right, I said, “When I telephoned to Mr. Simon Chalmers, he said he knew his mother was dead.” When both men stared at me blankly, I said with some impatience, “Don’t you see? He already knew!”
Ernie and Phil exchanged a glance. Then Ernie said, “Mr. Simon Chalmers’ mother has been dead for years. Mrs. Persephone Chalmers was his stepmother.”
My euphoria at having already tagged the crook evaporated like steam from a teakettle. “Oh.”
“So I’m still their chief suspect.”
“I can’t believe this,” I finally said in something akin to defeat.
Ernie patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Mercy. I’ll figure out who did this. It sure as hell wasn’t me.”
“Of course, it wasn’t,” said I in staunch defense of my employer, even if he did swear too much.
With studied nonchalance, Ernie reached into an inner jacket pocket and pulled out the wretched flask that had so upset me the first time I saw him use it, and took a long swallow. I guess I could understand that he might be thirsty after having that gag in his mouth for . . .
“How long has Mrs. Chalmers been . . .” I looked around and lowered my voice. I didn’t want to upset M
r. Chalmers any more than he was already upset. Provided, of course, that he hadn’t done the deed himself. “How long has she been dead?”
“We won’t know that until the coroner gets here,” said Phil. He looked worried, which worried me. “I don’t like this.”
“Neither do I,” said Ernie.
“Nor I,” I said.
Plaintively, Ernie said, “Doesn’t anyone have any headache powders?”
I led him to the kitchen, where Mrs. Hanratty dumped a paper of powder into a glass of water and stirred. Ernie gulped down the resultant cloudy mess with a grimace of distaste.
“Thanks,” he said to Mrs. Hanratty.
“Humph,” said she. I got the feeling she blamed Ernie for not protecting her employer. I suppose I understood her attitude, although I didn’t appreciate it.
Ernie and I returned to the living room and I got my first look at Mr. Simon Chalmers a couple of minutes after that, because a police officer escorted him into the room. I eyed him thoughtfully. He looked like a younger, spryer version of his father, whom he approached with what seemed like touching solicitude. I’d learned early in my career as a private investigator’s assistant—I mean secretary—that it was best not to take anything for granted. For all I knew at that point in time, Simon Chalmers had cracked his stepmother on the head and dumped her down the stairs. And then gone out to play golf? I eyed him some more. His current clothes didn’t look anything at all like the stupid knickerbockers my brother always wore when he went out to play at golf tourneys. Perhaps Simon Chalmers was an employee of the Sierra Vista Golfing Academy. Or whatever its name was.
“I’d like for you to make a statement to one of our officers who takes shorthand, Mercy,” said Phil, interrupting my survey of the younger Mr. Chalmers. “Is that all right with you?”
No. It wasn’t all right with me, mainly because I was mad at Phil Bigelow and the entire L.A.P.D. However, for Ernie’s sake, I agreed to be interviewed. It would have been easier for me to go back to the office and type out a statement, but I sensed that would be going against another one of the department’s idiotic rules.
I tried not to let the young officer who took my statement know exactly how put out I was that my words, which he took down using the same Pitman method of shorthand that I used, might not be believed. His face—I looked at his shield, and it said his name was Officer Ronald Bloom—was about as expressive as a block of granite, so I couldn’t tell if he believed my story or not. At any rate, it didn’t take long to relate it in its entirety to him.
He closed his notebook, which was just like the ones I used at work, and nodded his head. “Thank you, Miss Allcutt. I’ll have this typed up, and then you’ll have to sign it. Would you prefer to come to the station or have someone bring it to your home?”
I thought about offering to type it up myself, but didn’t. If these people weren’t going to believe anything I said, why should I help them? “I expect you or one of the other representatives of the law will be visiting Mr. Templeton’s office tomorrow sometime. Just bring it there, why don’t you?” I smiled sweetly at him. “I did tell you I was his secretary, did I not? Don’t you believe that, either?”
Officer Bloom didn’t bat an eye over my sarcasm. “It’s not my business to believe people, ma’am. I’m just supposed to get the story.”
Oh, brother. He made his job sound like that of a newspaper reporter. “Very well. Bring it to Mr. Templeton’s office tomorrow, and I’ll sign it—if the typewritten version of my report corresponds to the story I told you.” I gave him a good, hot frown. “It’s not my business to believe people, either, Officer Bloom, but I won’t sign any statement that is incorrect in any way.”
“You’ll have the opportunity to read it over and make corrections,” he said. I got the feeling he was accustomed to people being unpleasant to him, which made me wonder why anyone would want to be a police officer, if all they got was guff from folks. Ah, well. Mine was not to reason why, as the poet wrote. That’s always sounded redundant to me, by the way. Not that anyone cares. But I really don’t think one should put a “why” after the word “reason.”
Oh, never mind.
When Officer Bloom walked away from me, I glanced around the room and saw that Ernie was being interviewed by Phil and another fellow who, I presumed, was also a detective because he was wearing a suit rather than a uniform. The fellow who wasn’t Phil had an unpleasant grin on his face, and I wondered if he was Detective O’Reilly. For Ernie’s sake, I hoped not. O’Reilly looked as if he’d enjoy locking Ernie up for a number of years, and I aimed to ask Ernie exactly why he and O’Reilly didn’t like each other. I’m sure the fault, whatever it was, lay with O’Reilly.
I thought the poor fellow—Ernie, I mean—needed to go home and lie down, but I suspected he was going to be detained for some time yet, especially if the police actually suspected him of murder, or wanted to, as I imagined was the case with O’Reilly. I shook my head. Ernie might be lots of things, but I didn’t for a minute believe he’d kill anyone. Anyway, how could he have killed Mrs. Chalmers if he’d been tied up and drugged at the time the murder had been committed?
Then I reminded myself that nobody believed me about that, and Phil had actually suggested I might have tied Ernie up myself in order to divert suspicion from Ernie, which was so ridiculous as to be . . . well, ridiculous. What an absolutely stupid day this had been.
I noticed Mr. Simon Chalmers sitting dejectedly on a sofa in a corner of the room and decided it might be a good time to speak with him and learn what I could about Mr. and Mrs. Chalmers and how they lived, since there had to be something in their lives that had led to Mrs. Chalmers’ decease in so disturbing a way. Perhaps the younger Mr. Chalmers had resented his stepmother’s presence in his life. Or maybe he feared his father would leave her all his money, and had done her in to prevent the possibility. That was a good thought. I strolled over and sat on the sofa beside Simon.
He glanced at me and rose about halfway. Manners. Evidently, Mr. Simon Chalmers had been taught some, too. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said politely, if a trifle dully.
“I’m Miss Allcutt. I’m the person who telephoned you with the unfortunate news.”
“Oh. Well . . . thank you, I guess.” He gave me a wan smile.
“This is a terrible thing, isn’t it?” Sympathy oozed from every word I spoke.
“Ghastly,” he agreed.
“I’m awfully sorry about your stepmother.”
“Thank you.”
Hmmm. This conversation, so far, was going nowhere. That was probably because of my own good manners. Therefore, I decided to drop any remnant of Boston from my demeanor and reached out to touch Mr. Chalmers’ arm. “It must be simply horrid for you and your father to lose someone so very close to you.”
He didn’t seem alarmed by my boldness. He only nodded and appeared sad. “Yes. It’s terrible. I feel really sorry for Dad. He’s crushed.”
In truth, it had been Mrs. Chalmers who’d been crushed, but I didn’t say so.
“Indeed,” I said, virtually bleeding compassion. “How long have your father and Mrs. Chalmers been married?” I braced myself for a rebuff, but evidently the younger Mr. Chalmers was accustomed to Los Angeles behavior and didn’t seem to realize how rude I was being.
“Oh, about five years, I guess.”
“I see.” I shook my head to show how much sympathy I felt for him. “Your father must be devastated.”
Simon shot a glance at his father and nodded. “Yeah. He sure is. Devastated is the word for it, all right.”
I tried to discern by the expression on his face if he approved of his father’s love of his—Simon’s—stepmother. The English language really needs another pronoun, although this isn’t the place for that discussion, I suppose. “You must have been very fond of her, too. After all, she’d been your mother for five years.”
For the first time, a glint of humor appeared on Mr. Chalmers’ face.
“I was grown up when they met and married. I didn’t know her that well, but she was all right.”
“All right?” I lifted what I hoped was an expressive eyebrow.
Tilting his head to one side in a sort of considering posture, Simon Chalmers thought for a minute. “Well, she was nice,” he said. “I was happy for my dad, because he’d been really lonely since my mother died. But Persephone was a little . . . I don’t know.”
And then, darned if he didn’t lift his right hand, point his first finger, and twirl it beside his head in the classic gesture one makes when one is trying to convey a degree of mental instability about another person. Ha! So he’d noticed that fey characteristic in Persephone Chalmers, too, had he?
I bit my lip for a second and then decided to plunge ahead. “You know,” I said softly, “I work for Mr. Templeton, the private investigator whom Mrs. Chalmers hired to find her stolen jewelry.”
He made a kind of “pfff” noise. I don’t know how else to describe it, although it indicated to me that Mr. Chalmers was as unsure about the stolen jewelry as he was about his late stepmother’s sanity.
I lifted another eyebrow. Or maybe it was the same one I’d lifted before. “You didn’t believe her jewelry was stolen?”
“Oh, sure, it was stolen—or at least taken—but I don’t think there’s much mystery about where it went.”
“Oh?” Now I was genuinely surprised. “What do you mean? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Heck, no. I don’t mind. But you see, my stepmother had recently joined that crew of crazy folks at the Angelica Gospel Hall and was a devoted follower of Adelaide Burkhard Emmanuel. Sister Emmanuel, she calls her. Called her. I think somebody from the Hall took the jewelry.”
“Oh. My goodness. I’ve read a good deal about Mrs. Emmanuel’s work. That’s an amazing church she built.”
“The money of deluded people like my stepmother is what paid for that building,” Simon Chalmers said with a flat note in his voice that told me he’d disapproved of his stepmother’s contributions to Mrs. Emmanuel’s cause.
