“The police can’t enforce laws that don’t exist,” Ernie reminded me. Not that I needed a reminder.
“There should be,” I repeated stubbornly.
“Yeah, maybe. But the fact remains that there aren’t. Now we have to solve the poor woman’s murder, and I’m afraid I can’t take your hunches about Mr. Godfrey as proof of anything, much less that he killed June Williams.”
“They’re more than hunches, confound you! There’s proof!” Against all the lessons in deportment my mother drummed into my head, I pointed at the piece of paper on Ernie’s desk.
“Oh, yeah. Take a look at this, Phil.” Ernie handed Mr. Bigelow the note from my supposed adorer. “I hope she’s wrong, but Mercy here thinks the killer might be after her now.”
Mr. Bigelow’s face took on a troubled cast. He was serious when he looked from the card to me. “Where did you find this, Miss Allcutt?”
“On the office floor when I came to work this morning. It looked as if somebody had shoved it under the door over the weekend.”
“Is the building locked on Saturdays and Sundays?”
“I … don’t know.” I turned a questioning glance upon Ernie, who shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Some of the lawyers’ offices are open on Saturday until noon.”
Mr. Bigelow nodded, and I said, “Ah.” I’d forgotten that most businesses were open five and a half or six days a week—if I’d ever known it. The realization made me appreciate Ernie, who allowed me two full days off over the weekends.
“Well, that doesn’t help us much then,” said Mr. Bigelow.
Focusing his attention on me, Ernie said, “I don’t want you to go out alone, Mercy. If—and it’s a big if—but if the same madman who pursued Miss Williams has transferred his affections—”
“Affections? Ha!” I know it was impolite to interrupt, but I couldn’t help myself.
“Yeah, but listen to me,” Ernie went on. “Whatever you call ’em, I don’t want you going out alone. You hear me?”
“Of course, I hear you. I’m sitting right in front of you.” For some reason, I was annoyed. I suppose he had only my interests at heart, but I didn’t appreciate being handed down orders from my employer. They reminded me too much of my mother’s orders which had restricted me from doing anything at all, ever.
“I know you’re sitting in front of me,” Ernie said with a perfectly tremendous glower, “but I want you to understand that this is serious. A woman’s been murdered, for God’s sake.”
“There’s no need to take that tone with me, Ernest Templeton. I fully comprehend the situation. I will take care never to be caught out alone where Mr. Godfrey can get at me.”
Ernie’s face took on the same thunderous cast it had taken that night at Mr. Fortescue’s house. “Damn it, you don’t fully comprehend! You keep saying it’s Godfrey, but we don’t know that. It could be anybody on God’s green earth!”
I huffed. “Yes, yes, you keep saying that.”
“He’s right, Miss Allcutt,” Mr. Bigelow said. I got the impression he was attempting to inject calm into a heated situation. “We really don’t know who killed that woman, or if Godfrey or anybody else you might know was involved. For all we know, Godfrey might just be a poor sap who honestly believed his fiancée had run out on him. Ernie just wants you to be careful.” He grinned. “Secretaries like you are hard to come by.”
Whatever that meant. However, I perceived that it would do no good to argue with the two stubborn men. And, anyhow, their advice was good, however little I wanted to have it shoved down my throat. “Very well. I shall be careful.” I pinned Mr. Bigelow with a sharp look. “You are going to talk to Mr. Godfrey, aren’t you?”
“Of course. We have to talk to everyone who knew the poor woman or who might have had an interest in her life and death.”
“Good.”
“And you won’t go anywhere alone.” Ernie, of course, still glaring.
I glared right back at him. “I will be careful.”
He heaved a huge sigh and spoke next to Mr. Bigelow. “I’ll make sure to see her home after work. And pick her up in the morning.”
I felt my teeth grinding together, but I spoke not, sensing it would be not merely futile, but perhaps unwise.
A pause ensued, during which I suppose we were all gathering our separate thoughts. Then Mr. Bigelow spoke. “You mentioned Babs Houser’s gone missing.”
“Yeah. Her kid wants to find her.” Ernie took his flask out of his coat pocket, uncapped it, and sipped its contents. And it was only about nine o’clock! I hope I hid my distress at this evidence of a dependence upon alcohol that I could only deplore.
A funny look crossed Mr. Bigelow’s face. “Yeah? Well, I suppose any mother’s better than none. The force has been watching Matty Bumpas for a while. Do you suppose he has anything to do with her disappearance?”
“I don’t know, but Mercy and I did a little investigating the other day, and here’s what we discovered.” Ernie proceeded to lay out what had transpired the day we had visited Han Li’s shop in Chinatown. As Ernie spoke, Mr. Bigelow began to smile.
“Han Li, you say?” The smile on Mr. Bigelow’s face widened into a wicked grin. “I’m so glad to hear that. And Matty Bumpas was worried, was he? Aha!”
He rubbed his hands together in what looked very much like glee to me. I couldn’t account for this reaction, although I suspected it had something to do with Mr. Bumpas’s criminal career and a perceived (by Mr. Bigelow, not I) opportunity to put him behind bars. Poor Barbara-Ann! To be saddled with a mother who fraternized with low criminals!
“Do you think Mr. Bumpas was involved in Mrs. Houser’s disappearance?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” admitted Mr. Bigelow, “but we’ve been watching him for a long time now. We’re pretty sure he’s involved in bootlegging off the coast. If he’s taken to dealing with Han Li, he might be in even deeper sh—er—trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
Mr. Bigelow shook his head. “Not sure, but the department has been eyeing Han Li in connection with a rash of opium problems that’s hit the L.A. area.”
Opium! I felt my eyes open in gratified amazement. To think that I, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, from an old and exceedingly—one might even say excessively—proper Boston family, might actually have met a real, live, honest-to-goodness bootlegger and drug dealer and lived to tell the tale! Why, it was positively thrilling.
Since I didn’t expect the two gentlemen in the room with me to share my sentiments, I kept them to myself.
Wouldn’t you know it? At exactly that moment in time, the outer office door opened, and the nod Ernie gave me told me that he expected me to perform my secretarial duty and greet the customer. So I did, and with alacrity, too, because I didn’t want Ernie to become annoyed with me. Besides, I wanted to prove to Mr. Bigelow that I was an efficient secretary, since it had occurred to me that his comment about “secretaries like you” might have been meant as a subtle form of sarcasm.
Gripping my notebook and pencil, I left Ernie’s office—and almost ran smack into Mrs. Von Schilling, who was not merely clad in another elegant and expensive costume, complete with black gloves and a veiled hat, but who was carrying Rosie in her arms.
Delighted to see the dog again, if not her mistress, I cried, “Rosie!” and reached out to pet her. She wagged her stubby tail and licked my hand. Mrs. Von Schilling smiled a secret, sultry smile at me, although I don’t know why she bothered. I wasn’t a man who could be influenced by such a demonstration of her feminine wiles.
Rosie had undergone a transfiguration. Since Sunday—or, more likely, Saturday night, curse it—Mrs. Von Schilling had had her groomed and trimmed, and she wore two tiny red bows in her ebon locks, pinned to the fur beside her ears. She looked the very essence of a rich woman’s pet. I felt a stab of sorrow on Rosie’s behalf. She was worth so much more than to be an ornament adorning a female seductress! I have to admit she looked happy, th
ough. Rosie, not Mrs. Von Schilling. Mrs. Von Schilling looked merely mysterious. As usual.
However, that wasn’t the point. I marched to the business side of my desk and sat in my chair, folded my hands on my desk, and tried my best to look professional. “May I help you, Mrs. Von Schilling? I’m afraid Mr. Templeton is occupied with another … client at the moment.” I wasn’t sure exactly what Mr. Bigelow was, and I knew very well he wasn’t a client, but I wasn’t sure what else to call him. An associate, I guess, but I didn’t think of that word in time.
“That’s fine, dear,” she said in her low-pitched purr, taking the chair beside my desk. “I don’t really need to see him. I came primarily to see you.”
“Me!” My voice registered my astonishment.
“Indeed. Mr. Templeton told me what an integral part you played in getting my darling Rosie back.” She buried her painted lips in Rosie’s freshly washed fur. Rosie tolerated this indignity with aplomb. There’s a lot to be said for breeding, as my mother always told me.
“He did?”
“Indeed. Ernie told me that if it wasn’t for you, Rosie might still be in the clutches of that evil man.”
Oho. So he was Ernie to her, was he? And just exactly why had Rosie been in the clutches of Mr. Fortescue, anyhow? Exactly whom had Mrs. Von Schilling been visiting that had resulted in blackmail? I didn’t feel it was my place to ask, although curiosity gnawed at me. “Well, that’s very kind of Mr. Templeton. I’m sure he exaggerated.” Of course, I wasn’t sure of any such thing. In fact, I had been the heroine of the piece, but I was too modest to say so.
“Nonsense. He told me exactly what you did. And I wanted to come here today to give you this token of my appreciation.” She opened the handbag on her lap and removed an envelope, which she held out to me.
Taken aback, I didn’t reach for the envelope. Rather, I put my hands in my lap and stammered, “Oh, but … really, Mrs. Von Schilling, I can’t … it wouldn’t be proper to …”
Ernie’s door opened at that point, and both Ernie and Mr. Bigelow emerged. Mr. Bigelow’s eyes opened very wide, and he nodded to Mrs. Von Schilling. I guess he didn’t even notice me with her in the room.
“Oh, Mr. Templeton, I’m so glad I caught you.” Dropping the envelope on my desk, Mrs. Von Schilling wafted to her feet. “Rosie and I came to thank you.” She cast a disinterested glance at me. “And Miss Allcutt, of course.”
Ernie’s blue eyes twinkled. “Of course. That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Von Schilling. Please let me introduce you to Detective Phil Bigelow, from the Los Angeles Police Department’s detective bureau. If you ever decide to further pursue the matter we just handled, Phil’s the guy to go to.”
“How do you do, Mr. Bigelow?” She held out a black-gloved hand, and looked up at him through pounds of mascaraed eyelashes and that stupid veil.
“Fine, thanks.” Mr. Bigelow gulped. “Here’s my card if you ever need me.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and managed to come out with a card, which he handed to the lady. I use the term loosely.
“How kind,” she murmured.
Tearing his gaze from the seductress with a visible effort, Mr. Bigelow turned back to Ernie and held out a hand. “Well, I’ll see you later, Ernie.”
“Yeah, Phil. Let me know what you find out.”
“Will do.”
Mr. Bigelow forgot all about me, I guess, because he didn’t offer me a farewell before he stumbled out of the office, obviously still under the influence of Mrs. Von Schilling. I really hated that woman.
That being the case, and because I didn’t want anything she might decide to give me, with the possible exception of Rosie, I picked up the envelope on my desk, stood, and thrust it at her. “I can’t accept this, Mr. Von Schilling. Thank you very much.”
She glanced languidly from the envelope to me. “Don’t be silly, Miss Allcutt. It’s merely a small token of my appreciation.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t accept it. Mr. Templeton pays me an adequate salary.”
“Fiddlesticks. If you won’t take it, donate it someplace.” And that was it for me. Dismissing me as if I were some kind of lackey, she turned to Ernie, took his arm, and said, “Oh, Ernie, I must tell you what happened.”
And they went into his office and shut the door.
Well!
Twelve
I scowled at the envelope, wondering what to do with it. I didn’t want any of her old money. I had plenty of my own money, blast it. I wanted to tell her so. For some reason, even though I knew very well that money didn’t equate to moral worth, I wanted that awful woman to know I was her equal in every way. That I recognized the urge to be foolish didn’t make it go away. Nuts.
It was money, wasn’t it? She couldn’t be giving me anything else, could she? Contained within this envelope couldn’t be, say, a certificate granting me rights to a little tiny poodle puppy, could it? It seemed unlikely. Mrs. Von Schilling didn’t strike me as a woman with the imagination to consider giving anyone such a gift. I’m sure she never thought further than money—well, and protecting herself from the consequences of whatever action had lost her custody of Rosie, which I’m sure was immoral if not illegal. Hmm …
The front office door opened, diverting my attention from the envelope and the outrageously annoying Mrs. Von Schilling, to the person who entered.
“Barbara-Ann! How good to see you!” It was, too. After Mrs. Von Schilling, I’d have almost been happy to see Ned, but not quite.
She directed her somber gaze at me. “How come?”
Poor child. She looked as though no one had ever been glad to see her before. “Because I’m interested in your case, Barbara-Ann. Here.” I patted the chair beside me. “Take a seat.”
“Okay.” She did so, and reached a grubby hand into an equally grubby pocket. Really, the child needed parents. “I found this.” She held out a piece of paper that had been folded in quarters.
“Oh?” I took the paper, unfolded it, and read the note written on it. “My goodness!”
“Yeah,” said Barbara-Ann. “I figured you’d know what to do about it.”
Would that it were so. In block letters, the note read, Cough up the dough, or you’re both dead. I gazed from it to Barbara-Ann, wishing I could offer some sort of solution to her problem, but probably looking as upset and helpless as I felt. “I … ah … where did you find this, dear?”
“Under my mother’s mattress.”
Under the mattress? I couldn’t help myself. “Why in heaven’s name were you looking under the mattress?”
With one of her assortment of shrugs, Barbara-Ann said, “I was looking for money.”
That poor, poor child! Instantly, I picked up Mrs. Von Schilling’s envelope and ripped it open. Contained therein was a twenty-dollar bill. Without even thinking about it, I held it out to Barbara-Ann. “Here, dear. Use this to get something to eat.”
Her eyes were huge, and she clutched the bill as if she’d never seen one before, which was probably so. “Twenty bucks? Wow.” Her voice held awe.
Eyeing her frock, a dirty pink-checked number that day, I ventured another question, feeling guilty because I hadn’t thought to do something about the situation earlier. “Do you have water yet, dear?”
Another shrug. “Yeah. Mr. Templeton had it turned on a few days ago.”
I felt my eyes pop open. “He did?”
She looked at me as if she didn’t understand my amazement. “Yeah.”
“Um … that was very kind of him.”
Shrug. “Yeah. I guess.”
Again Ernie’s office door opened, this time to reveal Mrs. Von Schilling. She stood there for a moment, posing for her audience with her veiled hat and Rosie. Since her audience consisted of Barbara-Ann and me, I guess she didn’t get the reaction she wanted, because she slithered into my office after a second or two of that. Behind her, Ernie spotted Barbara-Ann and frowned.
“Good day, Mr. Templeton,” said Mrs. Von Schilling, turning and holdin
g out a limp hand. “Do remember what I told you.”
“Yeah, sure will,” said Ernie, giving her hand one quick shake and dropping it.
Although I know I shouldn’t admit it, I was glad he hadn’t fallen for her vamp routine. At least, I hope he hadn’t.
From the chair beside my desk came a smallish voice. “Is that a dog?”
It was the very first note of interest I’d ever heard in that voice. Not even when she’d come in to report her mother’s absence, had Barbara-Ann Houser sounded anything but jaded. My heart was touched. Again. “Yes, dear, it’s a dog. Her name is Rosie.”
“The dog’s?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Mrs. Von Schilling wafted out of the office. Ernie frowned down at Barbara-Ann. “What’s up, kid? Learn anything about your mother?”
She shook her head. “But I found something.”
“Yeah?”
“Here,” I said, handing the note to Ernie. “Read that. It’s very … unsettling. Barbara-Ann found it under her mother’s mattress when she was looking for money.”
Ernie read the note. Then he sniffed it, held it aloft, and squinted at it. I realized he was examining it more closely, using the overhead light bulb.
Made curious by this performance, I said, “Well? Can you tell anything about the note? Or the person who wrote the note? Or anything?”
“I can tell it’s Chinese paper. The kind you can buy in Chinatown, I mean. Don’t know where it’s made.”
I didn’t believe him. I thought he was showing off. “How in the world can you tell that?”
Tossing the note on my desk, he said, “Hold it up to the light.”
I did so. “Yes?”
“You see any marks?”
“Marks? You mean like watermarks?”
“Yeah. See there?” Leaning over Barbara-Ann, he pointed at a spot on the paper. “See that flower there, imprinted on the paper?”
“Um … oh. Yes. It looks like a chrysanthemum.”
Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) Page 17
