by Alice Duncan
“Not much. I told them I arrived at Mrs. Chalmers’ house about eight o’clock last Thursday morning. She’d called and said she needed to tell me something important, and I had to get to her place early because I had an appointment with Phil at nine. I don’t know what she wanted to tell me, because I don’t think we got that far, although I honestly don’t remember. The last thing I remember is drinking tea, of all things, with her on her living room sofa.”
“You don’t remember anything else at all after that?”
“That’s right. I don’t.”
“But how did you get upstairs?”
“How the hell should I know? The last thing I remember is sipping that damned tea. Disgusting stuff, tea.”
“Temper, temper,” I said, trying to hold on to my own.
He sighed. “I don’t know how I got upstairs.”
“You had no bruises on your back or anything?”
“Bruises? What the hell would bruises prove?”
Pinching my lips together for a moment, I reminded myself that here was an innocent man who was suspected of murder, and who, if we didn’t learn the name of the real murderer, might well be tried and convicted of said murder. Therefore, rather than screaming at him, I said quietly, “If someone drugged you downstairs and then hauled you upstairs by your feet, you’d probably have bruises on your back and perhaps your lower limbs. Maybe even the back of your head. Of course, you might have staggered up the stairs yourself, but I should think you’d remember that.” Unless he was under the influence of drugs and Mrs. Persephone Chalmers. I decided to keep that bit of unpleasant thought to myself.
Ernie’s eyes opened a little wider, and he rubbed the back of his head. “Say, you might just have something there, Mercy Allcutt. The back of my head has hurt like hell for the past few days, and my back has felt like shit, too.”
Ignoring his foul language was putting a tremendous strain on my nervous system. However, I controlled myself. “Did you bother to look at your back in a mirror?”
“Well . . . no. My head hurt and . . . well, it was lower than my back that hurt, actually.”
“Lower than . . . Oh. I see.” His posterior had bumped against the stair steps, I presumed from his modest hesitation. That surprised me, actually, since I didn’t consider Ernie Templeton to be a particularly modest man. “Well, did you look at your . . . lower regions in the mirror?”
“Hell, no! I don’t go around looking at my butt in the mirror.”
“Well, you might want to do so this time, if it means clearing you of a murder charge.” My voice had risen in spite of my concerted effort to keep calm.
He didn’t speak for a moment, although his lips writhed as if a number of oaths were squirming to get out. At last he said, “You’re right.”
“If possible, you should have Phil take a look at you, too, just so he won’t think you’re making it up. In fact, it’s a shame they didn’t take pictures of your back at the scene of the crime at the appropriate time.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll have Phil Bigelow or anybody else looking at my ass! And I’ll be double damned if I’ll have anybody take pictures of it!” roared Ernie.
This latest outburst was too much for me. I rose stiffly from my chair and said, “Fine. In that case, I’ll continue my own investigation in my own way, without your help.”
As I marched toward the door into my own office, Ernie said, “Damn it, Mercy. Give a fellow a break, can’t you? You wouldn’t want me looking at your ass, would you?”
Would I? Well, that might just depend . . .
So shocked was I when that thought entered my mind, I stopped dead in front of the office door and whirled around. “Ernest Templeton, if you aren’t the most aggravating, horrible—”
He held up a hand, effectively stopping me in mid-rant. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should get a doctor or someone to look and see if I have any bruises. Not that bruises would prove that anyone hauled me up those damned stairs.”
“Nevertheless,” said I, regaining my control and my thoughts, which had scattered momentarily, “I shall place a telephone call to Dr. Vernon Piper, whose office is on the second floor of this very building, and set up an appointment for you. You can tell him why you want to know about bruises or not, as you choose, but it certainly wouldn’t hurt you to have that head of yours examined.”
With that skillful jab, I left Ernie’s office, sat in my chair, grabbed the Los Angeles telephone directory, looked up Dr. Piper’s number, and made an appointment for Ernie for that very afternoon. After that, I told Ernie about his appointment and went back to my desk.
From there I telephoned the Pinkney residence and asked to speak with Mrs. Pinkney. Curse Ernie and the entire Los Angeles Police Department. If they didn’t intend to prove Ernie didn’t kill that idiotic woman, I did.
“Oh, Miss Allcutt,” said Mrs. Pinkney in a breathy voice. “I’m so glad you telephoned!”
She was? My goodness, I hadn’t expected this. “Um . . . well, I wanted to know how you were getting along, you know,” I said, thinking it a feeble thing to say.
“I miss Persephone dreadfully,” she told me with meaning, “and I just discovered something I think you should know. Perhaps I should telephone the police, but—”
“No!” I cried, interrupting her. Rude, I know. “Please, Mrs. Pinkney. I . . . I’m sure I’ll be happy to hear what you’ve discovered. Then, after we’ve discussed the matter, we can decide if the police should be told.”
Curse Ernie and the entire L.A.P.D., I wanted to be the one to break this case.
“Oh, thank you, Miss Allcutt. You relieve my mind. Won’t you please come to tea tomorrow afternoon, then? It will be such a relief to get this off my chest.”
“I will be delighted to take tea with you tomorrow afternoon, Mrs. Pinkney,” I said, meaning it absolutely.
Chapter Eleven
Lulu went home with me that night. I think Chloe was surprised, but she was as gracious to Lulu as she was to all her guests. So was Buttercup, who loved visitors from all stations in life. Shoot, Buttercup even welcomed my mother when she came to visit, although her enthusiasm had not thus far been returned, my mother being who she was.
“We’re only here to get Lulu some boring clothes to wear to the Angelica Gospel Hall on Sunday,” I explained.
Chloe waved her hand in an airy gesture. “Well, that should be easy, given your wardrobe.”
“She doesn’t like my taste in clothes,” I said in an aside to Lulu. “I keep telling her my wardrobe is suitable to my profession, but she still doesn’t approve of it.”
But Lulu wasn’t listening to me. Or to Chloe, either, for that matter. She was gazing about her as if she were looking upon some kind of royal castle in Europe. I guess Chloe’s house was pretty fancy, but I was used to fancy. Lulu, clearly, was not.
“Golly,” she whispered, as if she didn’t want to speak too loudly for fear of disturbing any lingering angels. “I’ve never seen such a great place before, much less been inside one.”
Chloe took this comment in stride. She’d met Lulu before when I’d introduced the two of them at the Figueroa Building, and she knew all about how Lulu and her brother had come to California from some dinky little town in Oklahoma. “Thank you. I’m fond of our home here on Bunker Hill, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to move before too long.”
“You’re going to leave all this?” Lulu was dumbfounded.
I explained. “Mr. Nash’s company is going to be moving to a place called Culver City, which is west of here, and he wants to build another house closer to his business. In Beverly Hills, I think.” I looked to Chloe for confirmation, and she nodded.
Lulu’s mouth fell open for a second before she breathed reverently, “Beverly Hills? Where Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford live?”
“Yes. And tons of other motion-picture folks, too,” I said crisply, wishing to move the conversation ahead. My opinion, not that it matters, was that Lulu was
far too in awe of moving-picture people, who were, after all, only human beings like us, except they were luckier and looked better on the screen than most of the rest of us do. “Let’s go upstairs to my room, Lulu, and we’ll find you something to wear to church on Sunday.”
“Okay.”
Lulu’s voice was very tiny. I got the impression she felt small in such grand surroundings. That was silly of her, too, if she knew it. Chloe had related to me the stories behind lots of motion-picture people, and I could have told Lulu about many so-called stars who’d come from backgrounds similar to her own. Or worse, even, although the picture companies’ publicity people generally lent them romantic backgrounds in order to thrill their fans. Telling other people’s stories wasn’t my business, however, so I restrained myself. Still, I didn’t think Lulu needed to be quite so overcome with the glory that was Chloe’s home, especially if the plan that had begun churning in my noggin came to fruition.
We walked up the staircase, Buttercup scampering ahead of us, and came to my room, where Lulu stopped in the doorway and looked around. She remained stunned, if I were to guess by her demeanor. “Gee, Mercy, this is . . . this is . . .” Her words trailed off.
It was? I glanced around, too, and had to agree that the room was quite pleasant. Very well, it was more than pleasant. In truth, Chloe’s upstairs had suites of rooms, one on the east wing, where Chloe and Harvey slept; one in the middle, the so-called Green Room, where my mother and other guests were lodged when they visited, and which was kept empty most of the time; and one in the west wing, which was where I lived. There were two other bedrooms upstairs, one flanking each side of the Green Room.
Anyhow, my suite included a sitting room, where I had a sofa, chair, desk (upon which sat my trusty typewriter), and a fireplace; a bedroom, which was smaller than the sitting room; a walk-in closet where I kept my minimal wardrobe; and a bathroom of my own. As I gazed about me, I realized the Nash house truly must seem like a dream-fantasy home to Lulu.
And that only reinforced my own belief that we Allcutts were not naturally good people, but had been darned lucky. What if the first Allcutt’s bank had failed? What if another Allcutt had been a flagrant drunkard or wastrel who’d squandered the family’s fortune? No one, including my family, could tell me that people, any people, were born to their stations in life because of some decree from God, blast it! The King of England would just be Joe Blow from the docks but for a quirk of fate, for Pete’s sake.
And no matter what my mother might say, I’m still not a Socialist. So there.
But that’s neither here nor there. I did acknowledge Lulu’s flabbergastation (is that a word?), since I felt obliged to do so.
“It really is a pretty swell place, isn’t it?”
“Swell?” Lulu kept goggling. “It’s fantastic. Fabulous. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
“It’s nice to have money, I reckon.” My voice was uncharacteristically dry.
“Well, you should know.” So was Lulu’s.
Her words humbled me. “Yes. You’re right. I should, and I do. And it is nice to have money, Lulu, but I swear to you, money isn’t everything.”
“Yeah. That’s what everybody who has money says. You’ll never hear somebody who doesn’t have enough to eat saying that money isn’t everything.”
I thought about that for a moment. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”
With a deep sigh, Lulu said, “But it’s not your fault I was born poor and you were born rich. Let’s see your boring clothes, Mercy.”
“Good idea.” I took her to the closet, and there we selected several outfits that would work nicely for Lulu’s stint as a visitor to the Angelica Gospel Hall.
By the time she’d tried on about three different things, we were both nearly hysterical with laughter. I’d never realized how much fun it was to have a friend to do things like this with. I’d always enjoyed Chloe’s company, but this was different. In spite of the differences in our backgrounds, Lulu and I had become real, honest-to-God friends, and I valued her.
“Oh, my sweet aunt Fanny!” Lulu gasped at one point, holding up a gray worsted suit in front of her and staring into the full-length mirror on the door of the closet. “I look like a Salvation Army lady!”
Dabbing my eyes, I said unsteadily, “I don’t think Salvation Army ladies wear bright red lipstick and nail polish. But the suit is perfect.”
Lulu turned and stared at me. “Perfect! I look like an undertaker’s assistant!”
We both whooped at that one, but eventually that was the outfit we selected for Lulu to wear on Sunday.
By that time, Chloe had come upstairs to see what all the hilarity was about, and she, too, started laughing. But Mrs. Biddle interrupted us to tell us that dinner was ready.
Instantly, Lulu stiffened. “Oh. Hey, I don’t want to butt in or anything. I didn’t mean to stay this long.”
God bless my sister. She said, “Nonsense. If you’re going to be working with Mercy to solve this crime and are actually going to wear that monstrosity to church on Sunday, the very least we can do is feed you.”
So Lulu stayed for dinner. Only the three of us partook of the meal, since Harvey had to attend a business dinner at the Ambassador.
“Say, Chloe, how about you make reservations for Lulu and me to have lunch at the Ambassador one of these days? I told her all about our luncheon with Mother there, and she’d love to see the place.”
Lulu’s eyes went big. I’d have bet anything she’d thought I’d forget about my promise to feed her at the Ambassador. But not Mercy Louise Allcutt. By gum, I stick by my friends.
“Sure. I’ll call Houston tomorrow. When do you want to go?”
So we set a day—the following Wednesday, to be precise—and by the time dinner was over, Lulu and Chloe were as thick as thieves, which made me happy. Chloe’s chauffeur drove Lulu home after dinner—yet another first for her, and one she cherished and couldn’t stop talking about at work for weeks—and Chloe, Buttercup, and I were left to ourselves, staring at each other in the living room.
“If Mother ever finds out . . .”
“I don’t care if she does find out,” I said defiantly. “It’s far past time Mother stopped thinking of herself as better than the rest of the world and believing she knows precisely what everyone in it should think and do. The only thing Mother has is more money than most of the rest of the world, and that doesn’t make her any holier or better than anyone else. I like Lulu, and she hasn’t had our advantages.”
“I’m not arguing with you,” said Chloe with a grin. “I like her, too.”
That made me happy.
* * * * *
The first thing I did when I got to the office the next morning was telephone Mrs. Pinkney’s house to confirm our appointment for tea that afternoon. If anything, she sounded even more eager to see me than she’d been the day before. I wasn’t sure Ernie would approve of my plans, but by that time I didn’t care what he wanted.
He strolled into the office a little past nine, as usual, only looking a trifle more haggard than was normal for him. I guess being suspected of a heinous crime will do that to a fellow.
I followed him into his office. “What did the doctor say yesterday?” I asked him before he’d had time to shed his hat and coat and fling his feet onto his desk.
Before he answered, he followed his morning routine, then sat in his chair and glowered at me. “I have bruises.”
“Did the doctor write that down in a report for the police to see?”
“A report? How the hell should I know?”
Sweet Lord, give me patience, I prayed, not awfully sanctimoniously. In an even voice, I said, “How do you expect the police to understand that you were bound and gagged and dragged upstairs in that pernicious house if the doctor or someone else doesn’t tell them about the injuries you incurred during the process?”
“I’ll tell Phil. He can talk to the doc.”
Well, that
was a little better, although I was far from satisfied. “Did the doctor say the bruises were consistent with my conjecture?”
“I don’t know if he’s ever seen anyone who’d been bound and gagged and hauled up some stairs, but yeah. He said they probably were consistent with your conjecture.” He spoke the last word in a nasty tone, which left me unimpressed.
“I’m the one who thought of it,” I reminded him. “And I’m also the one who made the appointment for you to see the doctor.” Then I remembered something I hadn’t done, and I burst out with the worst words I’d ever uttered in my life: “Hell and damnation!”
Ernie blinked at me.
I turned as hot as a roasted potato and slapped my hands over my face. But what an idiot I’d been! “Darn it, Ernie, we should have had the police take photographs of your wrists. They were all red and chafed from that stupid rope. Oh, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t I think of this then, when it might have done some good? If they’d taken photographs of your wrists, anybody with a lick of sense would understand that I couldn’t have tied you up! You’d been tied up for hours, not the short time I was in the house. And that can be proved by telephoning the taxicab company.” I was pleased that I’d thought of the cab company.
“Well, they didn’t take pictures, so that’s that,” said Ernie.
I turned my fury on him. “Or why didn’t you think of having them take pictures? You’re the so-called detective in this outfit!
He blinked again. Very mildly, he said, “I was still under the influence of whatever drug I’d been given.”
“If you’re going to blame—”
He interrupted me by raising his hand and saying. “I’m not blaming you for anything, Mercy. You’re right. Somebody should have thought to take pictures of my wrists. Or at least look at them. I don’t know why Phil didn’t do that at the time.”
“I don’t, either. He should do his job better than he does, Ernie Templeton. I don’t care if he is your best friend. Stupid policemen. No wonder you quit the force if they’re all such idiots that they don’t do things like take pictures of injured people when a suspicious death has occurred.”
