“Would you care to dance?” Mr. Easthope yelled politely.
“Um, sure.” I needed to question people about Mrs. Houser, but I felt a little uneasy and decided to try to get comfortable first. “I need to put my handbag down somewhere.”
“Of course. I’ll find us a table.” Holding onto my arm, thank God, he maneuvered us through the throng to a table against a wall as far away from the band as he could get, bless his heart.
* * * * *
We danced for what seemed like hours, and I still didn’t feel comfortable enough to begin questioning the scantily clad maidens walking around the place hawking cigarettes. Poor Mr. Easthope was perspiring like a lumberjack in August (for that matter, so was I), but he never complained once. I swear, the man’s a saint. At any rate, we sat at our table to rest for a while, and I discovered that in my partner, I had a heretofore unrecognized-by-me resource.
Of course, I’d noticed all the ladies sneaking glances at Mr. Easthope. What red-blooded American woman wouldn’t want to feast her eyes on such a delectable bit of masculinity? But as soon as we sat down, all the cigarette girls in the room seemed to make a beeline straight at him. In other words, it hadn’t been necessary to wear us both out dancing. We could have sat at our table and been comfortable (more or less) and let the women swarm to us. Live and learn.
The first woman who appeared before us looked as if she were a trifle past her prime, and I wondered if it embarrassed her to work in such an outfit in such a place. She looked at me strangely when I spoke to her and asked her name. I honestly don’t believe she’d even known I was there until I talked to her.
“Dolly,” said she, her squinty-eyed gaze letting me know she didn’t think I belonged there, which was moderately discouraging. I mean, I hadn’t even really questioned her yet, and she’d already pegged me for a goody two-shoes. More than ever, I looked forward to Saturday.
“My name is Mercy Allcutt, Dolly, and I’m trying to find Babs Houser. Do you know Mrs. Houser?”
“Missus Houser?” Dolly laughed a most unpleasant laugh. “Yeah, well, maybe she is. And yeah, I know her. She lost or something? She didn’t show up to work.”
“Her daughter is worried. It seems she hasn’t been home since Saturday.”
Dolly whistled. “That’s not good.” Her eyes, which were heavily made up, popped wide open. “Oh, shoot, I wonder if the white slavers got her.”
Her words so shocked me that I pressed a hand to my squashed bosom. “Wh-white slavers?” Good Lord!
“Yeah.” Dolly lowered her voice, although that wasn’t really necessary. Leaning closer to me, she said, “I heard tell that the Chinks like to capture white girls and ship them to China to work as … well, you know.” She winked at me.
Actually, I didn’t know, but I was too embarrassed to ask. Maybe Chloe would clue me in.
Anyhow, Dolly didn’t wait for me to respond, but pointed at another girl, much younger than she. “That there is Gwenda,” Dolly said, indicating the girl. “Her and Babs are pals. Maybe you should go ask her.”
“Thank you!” I jumped up and hurried over to the girl Dolly had indicated, only then realizing that Dolly had probably sent me to the other girl so she could have Mr. Easthope to herself. I was learning quite quickly.
I waved at the girl, who had turned my way. “Gwenda!”
She appeared surprised that anyone should be hailing her. Pointing to her chest, she mouthed, “Who, me?”
I nodded, realizing it was no use screeching. I also realized that—and this is hard for me to say, since it speaks of a ridiculous degree of upper Bostonian snobbery—I experienced a great degree of apprehension in approaching a woman who was so skimpily dressed and who worked selling cigars in a speakeasy. I know, I know, the poor thing probably had no choice, and I was only being fussy. I tried to overcome my qualms. Truly, I did, even though I hadn’t quite done so by the time I reached her.
“You want me?” Gwenda asked, sounding as incredulous as she looked. “You want a packet of cigs? I’ve got some clove ones here that sometimes the ladies like.”
She’d pegged me as a lady, too. I had to do something about that. “Er … no, thank you. I need to ask you some questions about Babs Houser. I’m looking for her, you see.”
“Oh!” Gwenda’s expression of doubt transformed into one of joy. “Where is she, do you know?”
If I knew, I wouldn’t be looking for her, would I? I didn’t point this out to Gwenda, who gave every indication of being a very sweet, if dim, bulb. “No, I don’t know where she is, but I hope to find her. Her daughter is worried.”
“So am I. This ain’t like Babs.” I’m sure that if she didn’t have that tray slung over her shoulder, poor Gwenda would have been biting her fingernails.
I stuck out my hand. “My name is Mercy Allcutt, Gwenda. I’m happy to meet you.”
After looking at my hand dumbly for a moment or two, Gwenda took and shook it. It was obviously a new experience for her. “Oh.”
“Why don’t we sit down for a minute?” I suggested, thinking that might help her relax. Silly me.
“Oh, I can’t sit down, Miss Allcutt. I’d get fired.” She looked around with apprehension.
“We don’t want that to happen,” I assured her. “But I would like to know if you can think of anything that might help us find Babs.”
Her face fell. “You’re looking for her, too?”
“Too? You mean other people have been looking for her?”
“Well, her gentleman friend come here asking for her.”
“Her gentleman friend?” I recalled Mr. Templeton saying something snide about an uncle when Barbara-Ann came to the office. “What’s his name?”
“Matty Bumpas. I think he’s a real stinker, but don’t tell Babs I said so.”
“I won’t,” I promised. How could I? “So her … uh … gentleman friend doesn’t know where she is either?”
Gwenda shrugged, almost losing her tray. “Guess not.”
“Hmm. Can you think of anything Babs might have said to you that might indicate where she is? I mean, did she seem worried about anything or anyone, or did she say she was afraid of anything or anyone.”
“Oh! Yeah! Now that you mention it, she did say she was afraid of a Chink.”
I think I blinked. A chink? Why would anyone be afraid of a chink? “Um …”
Suddenly, both Gwenda and I jumped about a yard in the air at a roar that came from directly behind me. “What the devil do you think you’re doing in this joint?”
Gwenda screamed. Fortunately, nobody else heard her due to the aforesaid noise level. I spun around, my heart in my throat, to discover Mr. Templeton! He seemed to be in a rather bad mood, but I was incredibly happy to see him. “Oh, Mr. Templeton, you do care!”
Stammering “I gotta go,” Gwenda raced away through the swarm faster than I’d have believed possible, dodging and weaving like a boxer in the ring—if what I’ve heard about the fights is correct.
Although I was thrilled to see him, Mr. Templeton did not seem similarly enraptured. Why, I knew not. He repeated, not quite so loudly, “What the devil are you doing here in this dive.”
“The same thing you’re doing,” I said, feeling bright and cheerful and ever so much more comfortable now that I knew he wasn’t the old meanie he’d portrayed himself to be in front of Barbara-Ann. I’d heard before that men are hesitant to demonstrate their softer tendencies.
“I sincerely doubt that,” he said. He said it through gritted teeth, too, for some reason. “What the hell are you doing here alone?”
I thought it was sweet that he cared about my welfare, even if I didn’t approve of his language. I assured him, “Oh, I’m not alone. A friend came with me.”
As if by magic, Mr. Easthope appeared at my side. I saw Mr. Templeton’s eyebrows lift until they nearly receded into his hairline.
“Is anything the matter?” Mr. Easthope seemed concerned.
I took him by the arm, feeling v
ery warm and protected. I know women don’t really need to be protected by men—most of the time—but I have to admit to being gratified at that moment that I had two such staunch and handsome supporters. “Mr. Easthope, please allow me to introduce you to my employer, Mr. Ernest Templeton. I understand you two may have met before.”
Taking in Mr. Easthope and the words of my introduction, Mr. Templeton seemed to grow taller as he stiffened. His face flushed a little, and he didn’t look significantly gratified to know I wasn’t alone.
Mr. Easthope, on the other hand, appeared a trifle nervous. Nevertheless, he held out his hand like the gentleman he was. “How do you do, Mr. Templeton?”
After scowling at the hand for a couple of seconds, Mr. Templeton shook it. “Easthope.” He didn’t expound on his comment.
Feeling a little nervous myself, I started to chatter. “Mr. Templeton is here to find that little girl’s mother, Mr. Easthope, just as I am. She works—that is to say, she used to work here, you see.”
“Say, where do I know you from?” asked Mr. Templeton, ignoring me completely. Really, the man was very annoying at times.
Mr. Easthope cleared his throat. “Ah … I believe we met during the Taylor investigation.”
“Huh. That mess.” Mr. Templeton’s voice dripped with contempt, as if the Taylor investigation was all Mr. Easthope’s fault.
“Er … yes.”
“Well, Taylor aside, I don’t know how anyone could bring a lady like Miss Allcutt to a dive like this.”
Mr. Easthope’s eyes opened wide, and he began to look frightened. I didn’t like this at all, so I answered Mr. Templeton’s veiled accusation.
“He only brought me here because I was going to come by myself if he didn’t,” I said heatedly. “There’s no reason for this rancor on your part, Mr. Templeton.”
He said, “Huh,” at me and turned to Mr. Easthope. “You’d probably better take her home now. I’ll cover this place.”
“That’s probably better,” I admitted. “You have ever so much more experience than I.”
I don’t have any idea in the world why Mr. Templeton rolled his eyes and looked disgusted. However, I know for certain that Mr. Easthope was relieved to get out of the Kit Kat Klub. I was too, if you want to know the truth.
Five
The next morning, I was pretty tired from my late night, but I chalked it up to experience and didn’t let it bother me. I also returned Mrs. Biddle’s cleaning supplies to her. She didn’t thank me, but looked at me rather as if she suspected me of being the family’s skeleton. I think she believed my parents had shipped me west so that I couldn’t embarrass them back home.
So be it. In spite of my lack of sleep, I felt buoyant, and I fairly danced to Angel’s Flight and to work. The weather that morning was kind of foggy, not, in actual fact, unlike the insides of my head, which were slightly jumbled, notwithstanding my good mood. Chloe had already told me that sometimes Los Angeles weather in June and July was overcast, but this was the first evidence of the phenomenon I’d seen so far.
Lo and behold, I didn’t have to track Ned down in his closet that morning! He was there, at the reception desk, talking to Lulu, when I arrived at the Figueroa Building. They both looked up when I entered the building.
“Good morning,” I said, cheery.
“ ’Lo,” said Lulu.
Ned straightened, smoothed his shirt, and said, “Hello, Miss Allcutt. How are you today?”
Lulu stared at him. “You feeling okay, Ned?”
He frowned back. “Fine, thanks.”
“Huh.” She picked up an emery board and started filing away.
“I’m glad you’re here, Ned, because I need you.”
He lifted his eyebrows in a suggestive manner, which I found quite off-putting.
“To oil a chair,” I elaborated, making my voice stern.
“Be happy to,” he said.
“Have you finished fixing the elevator?” I asked pointedly.
“Not yet.”
“Too bad. Then you’ll have to walk up three flights again, I guess.” With a sweet smile, I added, “You might consider bringing everything you need the first time, Ned, so you won’t have to climb up and down stairs as many times as you did yesterday.”
Lulu said, “Ha!”
Ned shuffled off, and I climbed the stairs.
Although my thoughts were slightly unfocused, I was delighted when I saw that Ned had done a fine job on the door, and that anyone visiting Mr. Templeton from now on would not only be able to find his office, since the hallway lights now worked, but would be able to read his entire name and profession. Well, they could read the initials of his profession, at any rate, since Ned had replaced the I in P.I. As I put my small handbag in my desk drawer, I breathed a sigh of satisfaction.
I, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, was a working girl. I had a job. An important job. Withdrawing a lined tablet from the top center drawer of my desk, I determined that I should write down all the information I had uncovered the night before while at the Kit Kat Klub.
Before I got started, Ned showed up with the oil can. “What needs to be oiled, Miss Allcutt?” He made sheep’s eyes at me. Good Lord.
“Mr. Templeton’s chair,” I said.
“In that office?” Ned pointed.
Where did he think Mr. Templeton’s chair was? I only said, “Yes.” I said it nicely, too, since I was starting to think poor Ned’s stepping stones didn’t quite reach his front door, if you know what I mean.
I’d begun my list when Ned appeared before my desk again, staring at me rather like a hungry dog might stare at somebody who was eating a steak in front of it. “I oiled the chair.”
“Thank you.” Another smile.
“Anything else you need?”
“No, thank you. I don’t believe so.” I remembered the elevator. “Wait! The elevator. That really does need to be repaired, Ned.”
“Yeah, but I meant is there anything I can do for you.”
“Oh. No, I don’t think so.” I tacked a “thank you” onto my sentence, because that’s the way I was reared. Boston, don’t you know.
He seemed a trifle let down, but he left. Thank God, I might add. He was becoming kind of a nuisance. I returned to my pad and my list.
Disappointment had barely begun to overtake my enthusiasm when Mr. Templeton showed up. I glanced from my pad, wishing I’d had more concrete information to write on it, but cheered by his presence. We could discuss the Houser matter, and I’m sure he’d have some valuable suggestions that I could jot down in my almost-empty pad.
“Good morning,” said I, noticing as I did so that Mr. Templeton didn’t appear as jolly as I felt.
He said, “Huh.” Then he went to his office, threw his hat at the coat rack, and plopped into his chair. I know he did those things, because I rose and followed him.
His brow furrowed. He rocked back and forth in his chair twice. He glared at me. “What the hell happened to my squeak?”
“Your squeak?”
“Yeah.”
“I had Ned oil your chair.”
“Oh, you did, did you?”
His mood was starting to affect my own. “Yes, I did. It was noisy and sounded most unprofessional. I should think you’d thank me, not growl at me.”
“Huh.” His furrowed brow did not smooth out. “I kinda liked that squeak. It spoke to me.”
“It spoke to everyone,” I said sourly, by this time thoroughly disgruntled with my irritating employer.
“I bet it didn’t give them comfort on stressful days, though.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but he didn’t look like it. “I liked it.”
“For heaven’s sake, why are we talking about your stupid chair? We have more important things to discuss.”
“Yeah? Like what?” His glower was really quite magnificent. “Like you showing up at the Kit Kat Klub with that fairy last night?”
With that fairy? What was the man talking about? “What fairy?”
<
br /> “That Easthope character. Huh!”
“Mr. Easthope was very kind to accompany me to that place.” Was Mr. Easthope a fairy? Whatever did that mean? I determined to ask Chloe. It was probably some term specific to Los Angeles, or perhaps to the moving-picture industry, which seemed to have spawned a language all its own.
“He was an ass to take you there, and you have no business in a place like that.” He sounded awfully stern. “For God’s sake, the joint could have been raided.”
Oh, my, that possibility hadn’t crossed my mind. I was about to tell him that, in a conciliating sort of voice, when he mumbled, “Of course, they’ve probably paid the L.A.P.D. not to raid the place.”
That comment changed my mind for me. “Well, then, there’s no reason for this unreasonable attitude on your part, is there?”
I thought it was a pretty good rejoinder, but evidently Mr. Templeton wasn’t buying it. “You damned fool. You were as out of place there as a kitten in a lion’s den! I forbid you to go anywhere like that again.”
“You can’t forbid me to do anything,” I pointed out.
“Yes, I can. It’s a term of your employment.”
I knew he was kidding that time. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop talking about that wretched place, can’t you? We have more important things to talk about.”
“Yeah?” he repeated. “Like what?”
He had a very effective sneer. It made me want to hurl my secretarial pad with the lined green pages at him. “Like Babs Houser, is what! Whom, I mean.”
“Nuts to Babs Houser. I’ve got to find Mr. Godfrey’s fiancée.”
That stopped me short. “Who’s Mr. Godfrey?”
“The fellow who came in yesterday. He hired me to find his fiancée.”
“That fat man with the sweaty face and the piggy eyes?”
“That’s not very nice, Miss Allcutt.” But he grinned, the fiend.
“Well, I didn’t care for his attitude.”
“Tsk, tsk.”
In spite of my distaste for Mr. Godfrey, not to mention my annoyance with Mr. Templeton, my curiosity was piqued. “What happened to his fiancée?”
“Disappeared. Kaput.” He snapped his fingers. “Like that.”
Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) Page 6
