by Alice Duncan
“Yes. She’d begun taking a good bit of interest in Adelaide Burkhard Emmanuel’s message. I didn’t understand the fascination myself, but Persephone seemed to enjoy it, so I didn’t say anything to discourage her. As far as I was concerned, anything that made her happy, made me happy.” He sighed deeply, and I felt sorry for him again.
“I understand she spent a good deal of her time and money on the Angelica Gospel Hall. That didn’t bother you?” And what a brazen question that was!
“Not really. Persephone had money of her own. I didn’t even notice, to tell you the truth. I have my own business interests that take up most of my time.”
Investments, thought I. Like his son. As a female person, I was supposed to know nothing about such masculine pursuits. As a matter of fact, in the case of investments, I didn’t. But it wasn’t my fault. My father could have instructed me in investments just as he’d done my awful brother. But had he? Heavenly days, no! Women’s brains were too feeble to grasp such concepts. Phooey.
“I see. So she didn’t depend on you for her, um, living?”
He shrugged. “I supported her as her husband. That’s only proper. But as I said, she had money of her own. And, as I mentioned, her church participation made her . . . I don’t know if happy is the right word. On a personal level, she felt she’d discovered something to do that mattered in the world, if that makes any sense.” He sighed and shrugged again. “It didn’t make much sense to me, but she seemed to love it. She made friends with people there and invited them over for tea and so forth.”
“Yes, I believe I understand.” Personally, I’d prefer to donate my time and money to an animal shelter or some organization that would help poor people, but I wasn’t Mrs. Chalmers—which was a darned good thing, or I’d have been dead.
I continued with my investigation. “My employer, Mr. Ernest Templeton, was hired by Mrs. Chalmers to investigate the theft of some jewelry. Did you know about that, Mr. Chalmers?”
“Oh, yes. Persephone told me. A jade necklace and bracelet, and a diamond brooch she’d inherited from her grandmother, I believe, were the items stolen. I can’t imagine how.”
“You don’t believe a servant or visitor might have pilfered the gems?”
He blinked at me as if I’d just uttered the stupidest question ever spoken by a human being on this earth. “Our servants have been with the family for years, Miss Allcutt, and I doubt a casual visitor would have known the combination to our safe, or even where it is. The servants, either, come to that. I’m not in the habit of using it in front of the servants.”
“I see. But the items were taken from the safe?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Simon chimed in at that moment. “That’s what Persephone said. They were taken from the safe.”
Suddenly, Mr. Franchot looked at his son and said, “Say, you don’t suppose one of those people from that church might have taken them, do you?
Mr. Simon hesitated before saying, “Well, I don’t know, Pa.”
“The jewelry was kept in the safe. How could anyone know the combination to the safe?”
“And she did say they were taken from the safe,” reiterated Mr. Simon.
I eyed him for a moment, wondering why he’d repeated the bit about the safe. Did he suspect his stepmother had given the items to someone and then reported them stolen for some fell purpose unknown to her husband? Well, of course he did. He’d already told me as much when I’d spoken to him at the scene of the crime. I asked, “Where is the safe?”
“In this room, as a matter of fact,” said Mr. Franchot.
“Hmm. I suppose that if an acquaintance were visiting with her, Mrs. Chalmers might have gone to the safe to take something out to show the acquaintance,” I mused aloud.
“Hard to imagine. How often does one need to open a safe when one is entertaining guests?” said Mr. Franchot. “Besides, the safe’s behind that picture.” He waved at a picture of a horse on the far wall.
Good point. I’m sure my parents had a safe back home in Boston, but I didn’t even know where it was, and I couldn’t imagine Mother taking a friend to visit the safe.
“Did Mrs. Chalmers entertain guests often?” I asked.
Mr. Franchot shrugged.
Mr. Simon said, “As Pa said, she had her church friends over a lot. I can’t believe any of them are thieves, although I wouldn’t put much past some of the religious zealots I’ve met in my day.”
Mr. Simon was about thirty years old, and I wondered exactly how many religious zealots he’d met in those relatively few years. I didn’t ask.
“Anyhow, she didn’t entertain them in my library,” said Mr. Franchot. “I don’t know how the theft was accomplished.” His eyes thinned a bit. “In fact, as long as the thief was pawing around in my papers and her jewels, I don’t know why he didn’t take a whole lot of other things while he was at it. I keep some bearer bonds in there, along with a good deal of cash.”
“Yes. Interesting theft,” I said, thinking the same thing.
Mr. Simon cleared his throat. “Pop, I know you don’t want to hear this, but don’t you think Persephone might have taken the jewelry to sell for that church of hers?”
Father looked at son, not challengingly, but as if Mr. Simon’s words had hurt him. “But why, Simon? I didn’t care how much money she gave to that silly place. She could have given away all her jewelry, as far as I’m concerned. I’d rather have her back than any of those damned trinkets.”
“I know, Pa. I’m sorry.” In an aside to me, he said softly, “They weren’t exactly trinkets.”
I nodded to tell him I understood. Still, it didn’t seem as though I was getting anywhere with the jewelry angle, so I decided to try another tack before these two got sick of me and asked me to leave. “Did Mrs. Chalmers have any particularly special friends she saw more often than others?”
Mr. Simon shrugged. “I didn’t know her that well, to tell the truth.”
Mr. Franchot thought for a bit. “There was one woman she went places with a lot and who came here quite often. Mrs. Fincher? Mrs. Pincher?”
“Mrs. Pinkney?” I supplied helpfully.
With a slow nod, Mr. Franchot said, “Maybe that was it. Yes. In fact, I’m sure it was, because the woman’s husband actually had the gall to telephone me here at home one evening and demand that my wife stop leading his wife astray. Those were his very words, by God. And I’d never even met the fellow, much less had anything to do with him.”
“Good heavens. That sounds like an odd demand to make of a perfect stranger.”
“I gathered from further conversation that he was ranting about the church both ladies attended,” said Mr. Franchot drily. “I told him I had no control over his wife, and if he couldn’t handle her activities, how the devil should he expect me to? I beg your pardon, Miss Allcutt.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said with an airy wave of my hand.
But what he’d said was most interesting. Could Mr. Pinkney have become so annoyed by his wife’s involvement in the Angelica Gospel Hall that he might actually kill the woman he believed responsible for that involvement? The notion was certainly something to think about.
However, I believed I’d stayed long enough with these two men, one of whom was clearly bereaved—unless he was a better actor than John Barrymore, which would be a stretch for any man. Therefore, I closed my notebook, placed it and my pencil in my handbag, and rose from my chair.
“Thank you both very, very much for seeing me at such a miserable time for you. I do appreciate your cooperation and hope fervently that the villain who killed your wife will be found shortly, Mr. Chalmers.” To Mr. Simon, I said, “Thank you, too. You were very kind.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Allcutt. I wish you and your employer all the best in solving this crime.”
So, on that friendly note, I departed the Chalmers house, not a whole lot wiser than when I entered it, although I did most certainly intend to pursue the Mr. Pinkney angle.
>
By the time I left the Chalmers home, it was past my usual lunchtime, so I directed the cab driver, who had waited as requested, to drop me off at a small tea shop near the Figueroa Building. When I stepped inside, whom did I see but Lulu LaBelle! She hailed me with a wave of those bright red fingernails and a loud, “Mercy! Over here!”
So I joined her at the luncheon counter. She’d almost finished her own lunch, but she waited around for me to order and eat my own, which, probably because I was still annoyed with my mother, was a corned-beef sandwich. With sauerkraut. And lemonade. Honestly, if you haven’t tried corned beef, it’s well worth the effort, no matter what stuffy people who have grievances—unwarranted, I might add—against the Irish have to say about it.
Lulu, naturally, quizzed me about the events of the morning. “The police led Ernie away, Mercy! Whatever is going on?”
So I told her everything. Why not? Merely because Lulu didn’t come from a highly educated family didn’t mean she didn’t have a workable brain, something else my mother would never believe.
“Golly,” she said upon a gust of expelled breath. “What a pickle for poor Ernie. I’m glad you’re investigating, Mercy. Wish I could help, but I’m stuck behind the desk in the lobby.”
“I wish you could help, too, Lulu. I don’t like leaving the office so much, but . . . well, to tell you the truth, we don’t have a lot of work at the moment, and I figure nobody will miss me.”
Lulu nodded her sympathy. “I know. Ernie’s never had much business except when you put that ad in the Times.”
I gaped at her. “You know about that?”
“Sure. Ernie told me.”
“I thought he’d bite my head off, he was so angry with me for placing the ad.”
“I don’t know why, since it brought in business.”
Morosely, I said, “I think I know why. He was mad because he didn’t think of it himself. He is a man, after all, and many of them seem to be like that.”
Lulu grinned. “You’re probably right.” She sobered. “But say, Mercy, isn’t there some way I could help you investigate this murder? Investigation sounds ever so much more interesting than sitting at that stupid desk filing my nails and answering the telephone every two hours or so.”
My glance slid over Lulu, from her vibrant yellow dress, enlivened with an orange sash around the dropped waist, to her orange hat, to her violently red fingernails. “Well . . . you know, Lulu, one of the primary aspects of detective work is to be . . . well, inconspicuous.” That wasn’t actually anything Ernie had told me, but it made sense to me. “Um, I don’t think you’re very inconspicuous.”
After giving herself a once-over as I had done, she said, “Y’think so?”
“Well . . . yes. I mean, well, you favor such bright, lovely, lively colors. Nobody’d ever forget you once they saw you.” I then thought, far too late, to say something kind. “And no one could ever forget your beauty, either. Why, you have a face no man would forget.”
“Really?” She cheered up considerably, and I blasted myself for a fool for not mentioning the beauty angle earlier. Not that Lulu was a God-given beauty, but art had done a good deal to perk up what she’d been born with, which wasn’t bad to begin with, and she was definitely unforgettable, so that wasn’t even close to a fib. “Well, I still wish I could help.”
Something then occurred to me that was downright brilliant. Or maybe it wasn’t. But it couldn’t hurt. “I know! Why don’t you attend the Angelica Gospel Hall with me next Sunday?”
Poor Lulu must have thought I’d lost my sanity. “Do what?”
With a laugh, I said, “Don’t worry, Lulu. I’m not trying to convert you to Sister Emmanuel’s church or anything, but you see, Mrs. Chalmers had recently joined that church, and according to the people I’ve spoken with so far, she spent every waking hour and nearly every cent she had on the place. I went to church there last Sunday and met some people who knew her. Perhaps you can come with me, and we can both do some snooping.”
“Oh, gee, you think so?” Her face almost glowed for a moment before it fell again. “I dunno, Mercy. I don’t think I’d fit in very well with those folks.”
“I don’t fit in, either, Lulu, but they didn’t seem to notice.”
“But I don’t have any church clothes. All my clothes are bright.” She sniffed. “Bright colors make me happy.”
“I could let you borrow one of my dull working costumes.”
Her eyes began glowing once more. “Oh, would you? Really?”
“Sure. We’re about the same size.” I peered more closely at Lulu’s shapely figure. Lulu didn’t bother with a bust-flattener. “Or thereabouts.”
“Golly, Mercy, that would be swell!”
We were darned near bosom buddies by the time I’d finished off my dill pickle spear (yet one more thing for my mother to deplore if she ever found out about it) and walked together back to the Figueroa Building. As we walked, something else struck to me, but I decided not to bring it up with Lulu yet since to mention it at that moment would have been premature.
It hadn’t occurred to me that Ernie might have come back to the office from the police department, since I’d pictured him there, tied to a chair and with bright lights shining in his eyes while big, ugly coppers smacked him around with their billy clubs. Boy, was I wrong.
“Where the hell have you been?” he yelled as soon as I walked through the door into the outer office. It looked as if he’d been roaming the office searching for me, as if I might be hiding in a desk drawer or something. Oh, dear.
Bracing myself against another of his assaults upon my senses, I told the truth. “I went to the Chalmers house, where I interviewed the two house servants and the two Misters Chalmers.”
“Christ.” And Ernie, clutching his hair in both hands, staggered back to his office and all but fell into his chair.
I followed him into his lair, which I consider mighty darned brave of me under the circumstances.
“How many times have I told you to stay out of this investigation, Mercy?” Ernie’s voice was calm now, but I knew he wasn’t.
“Too many to count,” I said, standing erect and dignified before his desk.
“And you refuse to obey my direct orders.”
“Yes.”
“And if I fire you, you’ll continue to investigate, right?”
“Right.”
“Shit.”
“But I discovered some things that I think you ought to know,” I said, even though I hadn’t really.
He didn’t let go of his hair, which was quite a mess by this time, but he looked up at me. “Yeah?”
“I know, for instance, that Mr. Simon Chalmers thinks Mrs. Chalmers took her jewelry and sold it to give to the church and only called you in as a cover-up. I know that the jewels were kept in a safe behind a picture of a horse in Mr. Chalmers’ library, and that nothing but the jewelry was taken. I also found out that none of the servants know where the safe is or what the combination to it is.”
“So he thinks.”
“Exactly. So he thinks. However, I also learned that Mrs. Gaylord Pinkney’s husband—Mrs. Pinkney was evidently one of Mrs. Chalmers’ greatest friends—called Mr. Chalmers and demanded that he stop Mrs. Chalmers from leading Mrs. Pinkney astray by involving her in the Angelica Gospel Hall.”
Ernie said, “Huh.”
“Naturally, since he was perfectly content with his wife’s involvement with the Hall, Mr. Chalmers ignored Mr. Pinkney’s demand and told him not to call again.”
“Going to church being better than running around with another man, I guess,” grumbled Ernie.
I decided to ignore this salacious comment. “I also learned that Mrs. Chalmers entertained people from the Hall at her home quite often.”
And then I couldn’t think of anything else to say, so I shut up.
Ernie lifted his head and tried to smooth his hair down. His attempt was not awfully successful. “That’s it?”
“T
hat’s more than we knew before,” I told him sharply. “And I fully intend to pursue my own inquiry with Mrs. Pinkney. Perhaps she knows something she hasn’t told me, but that will emerge with shrewd questioning.”
I ignored Ernie’s “huh.”
“What’s more, I’m going to her home, and I’m going to attempt to meet her husband and find out exactly why he’s so adamant against his wife’s involvement in that church. Mind you, while I can almost appreciate Mrs. Emmanuel’s message of love, I’m no convert. But attending church services does seem a fairly innocuous thing for a woman to do, and I don’t understand her husband’s strenuous objections to it. She could be out robbing banks or something instead, don’t you know.”
I resented that blasted eye-roll Ernie was so fond of employing in my presence. Rather than reacting to it, I sat myself down on one of the chairs in front of his desk and said, “How long did the police keep you? Were they kind to you? They didn’t hit you or anything, did they?” My worry leached into my voice, and I was embarrassed to hear it.
“Hit me? Hell’s bells, Mercy, we live in the twentieth century. People don’t torture people in order to get information nowadays.”
“That’s not what I’ve read in certain books,” I told him.
“Books,” he dared to grumble, as if he thought my statement was idiotic because I’d read about such things in books. Ernest Templeton, in whose desk I’d discovered, my very own self, an issue of Black Mask, in which appear many, many stories featuring the police giving innocent citizens less than lovely treatment in their departments. Huh, himself, blast the man.
“Nevertheless, I want to know what happened at the police station,” I told him, my voice registering the fact that I was serious and would brook no nonsense from him.
