Fallen Angels

by Alice Duncan

  As soon as Lulu saw me, she jumped to her feet. “Oh, Mercy! Ernie told me about your mother. I’m so sorry!”

  Removing my hat and sinking slowly into the chair before Lulu’s desk, I whimpered, “It was awful, Lulu.”

  “Where’d she take you?”

  Lulu asked the question almost avidly, and I might have resented her tone except that I understood Lulu knew I’d come from “money,” as Ernie so inelegantly put it, because she’d told me Ernie’d ratted on me. Lulu came from the same small town in Oklahoma where her brother had originated. I’m sure she expected me to have gone somewhere grand. And I had. Not that I’d wanted to.

  “The Ambassador,” I said, still whimpering.

  “The Ambassador? Oh, my!”

  Lulu’s breathy voice told me how much she’d like to go to the Ambassador for a meal someday. Next time my mother ordered me to go to luncheon with her, maybe I’d send Lulu in my stead.

  But no. I couldn’t do that to Lulu. She didn’t deserve my mother any more than I did.

  “Did you see any stars?” Lulu asked.

  “Stars?” Had I seen any? Boy, I hadn’t even dared look around. I’d pretty much just tried to choke down my lobster thermidor and not wither under Mother’s blistering scorn. “I’m sorry, Lulu. I didn’t notice.”

  Lulu gasped. “You didn’t notice?”

  I’d have felt guilty except that . . . well, Lulu had met my mother. I only stared at her.

  She gazed sorrowfully upon me. “I’m sorry, Mercy. I’m glad my mother isn’t like yours.”

  “For your sake and Rupert’s, I’m glad, too.”

  As I’ve already mentioned, Rupert Mullins was Lulu’s brother. Mind you, Lulu’s last name was LaBelle, but she’d chosen it for herself, figuring LaBelle would look better on a theater marquee than would Mullins. She aimed to be discovered one day by a talent scout or a director or a producer. I wasn’t sure this was a sound plan on her part, since it didn’t seem to me that talent scouts were thick on the ground in the Figueroa Building, but I’d already carved out my own career. If sitting behind the receptionist’s desk was how Lulu planned to carve hers, who was I to judge? Anyhow, Rupert was employed by a dear friend of Chloe’s and, now, mine, Mr. Francis Easthope, one of the world’s most gorgeous men—but a really nice one.

  “But didn’t you even see one star? Not one little teensy little star?”

  I gazed as woefully upon her as she’d gazed upon me seconds earlier. “I’m sorry, Lulu. Would you like it if I took you to lunch at the Ambassador one of these days? I’m sure I’ll have a better time with you than with my mother, and it would be fun to look around and see if we recognize any picture people.”

  She gawked at me as if I’d lost what was left of my mind. “You can’t get into the Ambassador! You have to be famous to go there.”

  Puzzled, I said, “I’m not famous, and they let me in there today.”

  “But your sister is married to Harvey Nash, one of the picture business’s most important people! The Ambassador would let a Nash in.”

  Was Harvey really that important? Gee, I hadn’t known that. How fascinating. “Oh,” I said, befuddled for a moment. Then I thought of an answer to the Ambassador problem. “I can still take you. I’ll just ask Chloe to call for a reservation.” And then I’d bribe Houston when we got there, but I didn’t need to tell Lulu that part.

  Lulu clutched her clasped hands to her heart. I hoped she hadn’t just applied a coat of varnish to those pointy nails, or her alarmingly fuchsia dress might be ruined. “Would you do that, Mercy? Really and truly?”

  “Really and truly.”

  “You’re a real pal, Mercy.” There were honest-to-God tears in Lulu’s eyes.

  For some reason, having made Lulu happy lessened the debilitating effect of having spent the better part of an hour being vilified by my mother. It was a brighter Mercy Allcutt who climbed the stairs to the third floor of the Figueroa Building to begin my afternoon’s work. The understanding that Mother would soon be on her way to Pasadena as I climbed helped my mood, too. With any luck, she wouldn’t be marring the atmosphere in Chloe’s house when I got home from work, and I wouldn’t have to deal with her again for a few days, at least.

  When I entered the office, I saw that Ernie’s door was shut. Darn. He must have someone in there with him. I hoped it wasn’t an L.A.P.D. officer like that O’Reilly character who’d come to arrest him. I removed my hat and put it and my handbag and gloves into the drawer where they always resided when I was at work and wondered if I should knock on the door and ask if Ernie needed me.

  He very seldom needed me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t need me at that particular moment, particularly if the L.A.P.D. was giving him the third degree. Whatever that was. Or whatever mean-tempered L.A. coppers did to people.

  Mind you, having held my own against my unreasonably formidable mother for an hour didn’t exactly make me yearn to deal with yet more difficult people. Still and all, Ernie was my boss, and as a loyal employee it was my duty to make his working life easier in any way that I could.

  Steeling my nerves—I seemed to be doing that a lot in those days—and squaring my shoulders, I retrieved my secretarial notebook and a sharpened pencil from the cunning little pencil cup I’d bought in Chinatown and headed for Ernie’s door. There I rapped sharply. If the police had Ernie tied to a chair and were shining a bright light in his eyes, I aimed to stop them, by gum.

  “Yeah?”

  Hmm. Ernie’s voice didn’t sound as if he were being coerced into confessing to a murder he hadn’t committed. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath for courage and opened the office door.

  Phil.

  Well, nuts. Here’d I’d had Ernie being tortured, and the only person in his office was Phil Bigelow, detective with the L.A.P.D. and Ernie’s best friend. What’s more, Ernie’s feet were propped on his desk and he had his hands behind his head, cupping it as he lounged back in his swivel chair.

  “Good luncheon, Mercy?” Ernie’s grin was positively wicked.

  I wanted to heave my secretarial notebook at him, but even I realized the impulse to be unfair. After all, Ernie couldn’t have known of my worries on his account.

  “My luncheon was hellish, thank you, Ernie.” I don’t believe I’d ever used a word like hellish before. For some reason, saying so shocking a word bolstered my courage. I turned to Phil. “Have you caught Mrs. Chalmers’ murderer yet, Phil?”

  A duet of heavy sighs filled the air.

  Phil answered first. “Not yet. But we will. We’re working hard on it. Don’t forget, it’s not my case. It’s O’Reilly’s.”

  I huffed my opinion of that circumstance.

  “And they don’t need any help from you, Mercy,” Ernie added, as if he hadn’t already told me that six or seven hundred times already.

  “I’m sure,” I said, using as much sarcasm as I was able to use, which wasn’t a whole lot. No matter how much I wished it were otherwise, I had been reared by my mother, after all.

  “Have a seat,” said Phil cordially.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

  “She can’t add anything to what she’s already told you, Phil.” Ernie’s voice exuded peevishness.

  Feeling the need of a target at the moment, although I don’t really know why, I turned on my boss with fury. “And how do you know that, Ernest Templeton? I’m the one who found Mrs. Chalmers, after all, not to mention you. For all either of you know, I killed the stupid woman!” For the life of me, I don’t know why I said that.

  Ernie had the everlasting gall to burst out laughing.

  When I squinted at Phil, I could tell he was trying not to do likewise.

  Very well, I knew I was a most unlikely suspect as a cold-blooded murderer. Still, I didn’t like being laughed at. Sniffing, I took up Phil’s offer to sit and sat.

  You may have noticed that I neglected to mention that the men in the office rose from their chairs upon my entry into it. That’s b
ecause they didn’t rise upon my entry. They remained seated solidly on their chairs. I think this behavior, rather than being ungentlemanly in terms prescribed by my mother and father, only means that secretaries were considered by the populace in general not to be ladies. Not that secretaries were thought of as scarlet women or anything else in that sense, but rather that we weren’t considered the types of ladies for whom gentlemen rose politely upon their entry onto a scene. We secretaries were of the working classes—or most of us were, anyhow—and, therefore, not ladies in the gentlemen-rising sense of the word.

  But that’s neither here nor there, although the behavior of the two men helped solidify my opinion that people like my mother didn’t know anything at all about the real world.

  I sat, and Ernie and Phil remained seated. Then, sensing Ernie was a lost cause, I turned my attention to Phil. “You did know, did you not, that Mrs. Chalmers was a recent convert to the Adelaide Burkhard Emmanuel school of religion and spent tons and tons of money there? Mrs. Emmanuel is the one who built that gigantic Angelica Gospel Hall.”

  “Sister Emmanuel,” Ernie corrected snidely.

  “Right,” said Phil. He did not say it as Ernie might have: that is to say with biting sarcasm. He only said it.

  “And that Mr. Simon Chalmers, Mr. Chalmers’ son, resented her spending a lot of his father’s money at the place.”

  Phil’s right eyebrow rose. “He did?”

  Aha! I’d managed to tell him something he hadn’t known before! I’d have smirked at Ernie, but I didn’t do things like that. Very often. “That’s the impression I got when I spoke to him yesterday. That he resented it. He sounded quite scornful about her affiliation with the place, anyway.”

  “Hmm,” said Phil. “I didn’t get impression that the elder Mr. Chalmers minded his wife’s involvement with the Hall. In fact, he said he didn’t mind at all.”

  A little deflated, I said, “Mr. Simon Chalmers told me the same thing. He said his father loved his stepmother and didn’t care what she did.”

  With his left eyebrow lifting to join his right one, Phil said, “He didn’t express that exact sentiment to us when we spoke to him.”

  “I imagine he didn’t,” I said, and rather drily, too, I admit.

  “Damn it, Mercy, will you stay out of this investigation?” Ernie. Mad at me. Again.

  I sighed.

  Phil said, “Face it, Ernie. She was an important witness at the scene. She’s the only witness, in fact. She’s the one who found the body. And, according to the two of you, you. You know darned good and well that O’Reilly will pin this on you if he can. He’s hated you ever since you told him what you thought of him during the Taylor investigation. The more people we can get on your side, the better off we’ll be. Under the circumstances, Mercy almost has to be involved in the solution of the case.”

  Exactly what I’d said. So why was it, I wondered bitterly, that Ernie would probably agree with Phil when he absolutely refused to agree with me?

  But I was wrong about that.

  “Damnation, Phil! You know how she butts in! For God’s sake, she’s almost been killed twice in the past couple of months because she insists on getting herself mixed up with suspects in murder cases. I don’t want her any more involved with this one than she absolutely has to be!”

  “I’m right here, Mr. Templeton. You can just as easily speak to me as to Phil.”

  “I’ve already spoken to you!” Ernie roared. “Talking to you is like talking to a pile of rocks. You don’t listen!”

  Rolling my eyes, something I don’t believe I’d ever once done in Boston, I tutted.

  Phil, the rat, said, “He’s right, Mercy. You really don’t need to be involved any further in the case than you already have been unless O’Reilly needs to question you again. We have your statement, and if you remember anything else you might have seen or heard there, just telephone me. All right? Don’t do any running around on your own.”

  “Running around on my own?” Indignation swelled my bosom. Well, I didn’t see it actually swell my bosom, but you know what I mean. I stood so quickly, my chair almost fell over backward. Phil caught it and righted it. “I don’t plan to do any running around on my own, Detective Bigelow. Thank you so much for your tender concern for my welfare!”

  Right before I slammed the office door, I heard Phil mutter a quiet, “Whoops.”

  Ernie’s office door opened even before I’d managed to sit in my chair. I glared at it to see Phil standing there, looking sheepish.

  “I’m sorry, Mercy. I don’t know why I said that.”

  “I do,” I said grumpily. “Neither you nor Ernie think I have a lick of sense.”

  “That’s not true.” He seemed to hesitate for a minute before pulling a folded paper from his inside coat pocket. “Um, I brought the statement you gave Officer Bloom. I’d appreciate it if you’d look it over and sign it.”

  I heaved a big sigh. “Very well. Hand it over.”

  So he did. I waved at the chair next to my desk, and Phil sat while I read every single word of Officer Bloom’s report on the statement I’d given him the day before. I had to correct his punctuation once or twice and his spelling a few times, but other than that the statement seemed complete.

  I eyed Phil narrowly. “So where do I sign it?”

  He pointed to the bottom of the page. “Right there, please.”

  So I signed my full name, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, and thrust the paper at Phil.

  “Don’t be angry with Ernie, Mercy. He’s only concerned about your welfare.”

  I said, “Huh,” and pretended to type something.

  Phil sighed, rose, and left the office.

  Chapter Six

  Thank the good Lord and distance, our mother had already left for Pasadena by the time I got home from the office. According to Chloe, she didn’t plan to grace us with another appearance until Sunday evening, when she’d invited herself to dinner.

  “She expects to see motion picture stars when she dines with us,” Chloe said upon a deep and mournful sigh.

  Hugging Buttercup to my bosom, I said, “I thought she deplored stars and everything else about the motion-picture industry.”

  “Of course she does,” said Chloe, still mournful. “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to meet some stars anyway.”

  “Hmm,” I said, thinking the matter over. “That’s probably so that she can deplore them to their faces.”

  “Probably.” Chloe plopped herself down on the sofa. “May I borrow Buttercup for a moment? I need some comfort.”

  Although I, too, needed comfort, I handed Buttercup over to my sister. All things considered, Chloe probably needed more solace than I at that moment. After all, I’d only been peeved by luncheon with my mother and conversations with two idiotic men. Poor Chloe had endured our mother almost the entire day. She not only deserved Buttercup; the woman deserved a medal of valor or something.

  “How about I get you and Harvey a toy poodle for Christmas?” I asked, thinking the idea a particularly bright one even as it occurred to me.

  Chloe actually cheered up, so I guess I was right. “Oh, Mercy, would you? I’d love that! Then our little tyke can grow up with a dog. Every child needs a dog.”

  I pondered her statement for a second or two. “Neither of us ever had a dog. Neither did George.”

  Chloe only looked upon me with something akin to derision in her expression.

  “You’re right, of course. But real children do need dogs.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Chloe. “And I would love to have a little Buttercup of my own. Or my child’s own.”

  “You know, it’s actually fortunate for the dog that George never had one.”

  “Too true. Can you imagine what the poor creature would have endured if it had been entrusted to George’s tender mercies?”

  “Hideous thought.”

  “Any dog worth its salt would have died of boredom,” Chloe said.

&nb
sp; “Precisely.”

  “Can you imagine that a woman actually went so far as to marry him?”

  “Well,” I said after pondering the question for a heartbeat, “yes. I knew her better than you did, so I do understand. She’s every bit as ghastly as George.”

  “Hard to imagine.”

  “I know, but it’s true.”

  With another sigh, Chloe said, “No wonder Mother approves of her.”

  She was right about that, so I went on to a more pertinent subject. “So where are you going to get stars to come and dine with us on Sunday?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’ll ask Harvey. He’s probably got some of them hanging around the studio somewhere.”

  “They aren’t all on location somewhere?” I was beginning to get the hang of the picture industry lingo. “On location” meant that the actors, cameramen, directors, and so forth were filming at a remote spot some distance from the studio, generally in the desert somewhere in San Bernardino County.

  “Heavens, no. They’ve built an entire western town in back of the studio. That’s where they film most of the western pictures these days. It’s cheaper than transporting them all to the Mojave Desert.”

  “Interesting. But do you think Mother would be happy with a western actor? I suspect she’s more the John Barrymore type.”

  “Not likely,” Chloe scoffed. “He’s always got a drink in his hand.”

  “Oh, dear. No. Mother wouldn’t like that one little bit.”

  “But I’ll find one or two of them somewhere. Harvey’s crews are always building sets at the studio. They don’t just film westerns there.”

  It occurred to me that we were discussing human beings as if they were some sort of exotic species of animal, and I decided to change the subject. “Do you know what time Mother will be arriving on Sunday?”

  “No, but I doubt that she’ll arrive any earlier than six or seven. I’ll set dinner for eight.”

  “Oh, good. Because I want to do something else in the morning, and I don’t want Mother to know about it.”