Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book)

by Duncan, Alice

  As we waited for Mr. Li to show up, Ernie turned to me. “Don’t think I’m going to let you get involved in this, Mercy. You’re a secretary, not a detective, and you’d better remember that.” Turning to Mr. Bigelow, he said, “I don’t want her involved.”

  “But I already am involved,” I said indignantly.

  “That’s not my fault,” Ernie announced ominously. “If you’d obeyed orders, you wouldn’t be here now.”

  “Orders! Well, I like that!”

  “I’m your boss, dammit!”

  “You may be my boss, but you can’t direct my every action!”

  “If you want to keep your job, you’d better do what I say from now on!”

  “Hey,” Mr. Bigelow cut in—and loudly, too, or we’d never have heard him. “Cut it out, you two. I want to see if Li recognizes this picture.”

  Mr. Li, in handcuffs and being escorted by a burly uniformed police officer, shuffled up to Mr. Bigelow’s desk, his head bent, his expression downcast. I didn’t feel any sorrier for him than I did Babs Houser. In fact, of all the people involved in this mess, the only one for whom I had sympathy was Barbara-Ann.

  The uniformed officer pulled up yet another chair and shoved Mr. Li into it. Over Mr. Li’s head, he asked of Mr. Bigelow, “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Go get the book, Sullivan.”

  Mr. Sullivan departed (he didn’t salute, from which I gathered that the L.A.P.D. and the armed services didn’t have all that much in common), and Mr. Bigelow showed Mr. Li the same broadside he’d lately shown Babs. “Recognize this mug, Li?”

  Mr. Li glanced at the broadside and winced. “I guess.”

  “What do you mean, you guess?” Mr. Bigelow said in an ominous tone. “Is this Carpetti or not?”

  Mr. Li squinted harder. “Scar on forehead. Yeah, I guess it’s Carpetti.”

  “You guess?” More ominous this time.

  “Yeah. That Carpetti.”

  “Aha!” Mr. Bigelow shot a triumphant glance at Ernie. “So we are dealing with Carpetti!”

  “Told you, didn’t I?” asked a surly Babs, tossing her head, a gesture that would have been more effective if her hair had been clean and neatly arranged and her mascara unsmudged.

  Both Ernie and Mr. Bigelow ignored her. Mr. Bigelow handed the broadside to me, of all people. I took it, and I’m sure I appeared as surprised as I felt. Before I’d had time to do more than close my fingers on it, Ernie snatched it away from me.

  “Wait a minute, Phil. What the devil’s going on here? Mercy’s done enough butting in. She’s not doing anything else in this game.”

  “I will if I want to!” cried I, sounding, I regret to say, like a much younger Mercy Allcutt when denied a treat.

  “Wait a minute, Ernie. We really can use Miss Allcutt, and she won’t be in any danger, either.”

  I grabbed the broadside and tugged, causing it to tear a little. Exasperated, I said, “Ernie Templeton, give that to me this minute.” It was the first time I’d used my tone of command on him. As I might have anticipated, it didn’t work anywhere near as well on Ernie as it had on Ned.

  He let go of the pasteboard, but he still scowled. “I don’t know, Phil. I don’t like this.”

  “I’ll be the one who decides what I do,” I said, using my haughtiest, Mother-inspired Bostonian voice.

  I noticed Ernie and Mr. Bigelow exchanging another glance. Mr. Bigelow seemed amused, Ernie disgusted. I ignored them both.

  After studying the face on the poster, as evil a one as I’d ever seen, I spoke to Mr. Bigelow. “What do you want me to do?”

  Ernie muttered something under his breath. This time he was ignored by all of us.

  “Not much. But if you could be in the shop on Thursday, looking around for souvenirs, if you know what I mean, you can give us the high sign when you see Carpetti or any of his goons enter the shop. I don’t want Li to signal, because it would be too obvious, but none of these guys have ever seen you, and they’d never suspect a nice lady like you to be working with the law.” He smiled, and I guess I was supposed to be flattered by his assessment of my demeanor, but I can’t say that I was, mainly because it confirmed me in the opinion that even with bobbed hair, I still looked like a proper lady. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lady. But I was trying so hard to fit in that it was slightly discouraging to know that I didn’t. Not that I wanted to be mistaken for a Babs Houser type of female or anything, but … Oh, never mind.

  The officer named Sullivan came back to Mr. Bigelow’s desk, carrying with him a very large book, which he placed in front of Mr. Bigelow, who thanked him. Mr. Sullivan subsided to a location behind Mr. Li’s chair, his arms at his sides and his legs braced apart, as if to be ready in case Mr. Li tried something desperate. I didn’t believe Mr. Li was in any position to try to escape, what with his handcuffs on and all, but I suppose they knew better than I.

  “Okay, Li, I’m going to turn the pages in this book, and you’re going to stop me when you spot anybody you’ve seen with Carpetti.”

  Mr. Li grunted and said, “Dunno. White people all look alike to me.”

  “Don’t give me that,” warned Mr. Bigelow. “Look hard. It can’t be too tough to pick out Carpetti’s goons. They’re all Italians.” He pronounced the word Eyetalians, whether by accident or intent, I don’t know. “You take a look, too, Babs. Maybe you’ll spot somebody you’ve seen with Matty.”

  “Okay,” she said unenthusiastically.

  With a heavy sigh, Mr. Li turned his attention to the book. It was interesting to see all the photographs contained therein. I understand that these photographs were what are termed mug shots, I presume because they featured the faces and profiles of various criminals, and the lower classes spoke of faces as mugs.

  Slowly, Mr. Bigelow turned the pages. Each page contained a head shot and a profile of a different man. Mr. Li and Babs both concentrated hard. At one point, Babs pointed at a picture and looked to Mr. Li for confirmation. He hesitated, then nodded.

  “You sure?” asked Mr. Bigelow.

  Babs said, “I’m sure.”

  Mr. Li said, “I think so.”

  “You better be sure,” warned Mr. Bigelow. “No mistakes. If you cooperate, it’ll go easier on you.”

  “It’s him,” said Mr. Li more firmly, if less grammatically.

  “Told you so,” muttered Babs, who apparently didn’t care for shilly-shallying.

  The two of them spotted one other face that they claimed was associated with Mr. Carpetti, and Mr. Bigelow closed the book with a satisfied sigh. “Good. Okay, here’s what’s going to happen on Thursday.”

  With many grumbled and sometimes profane objections for Ernie, Mr. Bigelow set out a plan whereby he expected to scoop up the primary members of the opium ring that had been operating with relative impunity in the Los Angeles area for several months. And I, Mercedes Louise Allcutt, was going to play an integral role in the action! I can’t recall ever feeling such a satisfying degree of excitement, unless you count my first piano recital when I was eleven, but I knew nothing of the world then. This was a much greater accomplishment. Or it would be, providing everything went the way Mr. Bigelow hoped it would.

  “You got it, Li? No funny business. You cooperate, hear?”

  “I hear,” said the melancholy shopkeeper.

  And Mr. Sullivan led him away, to be kept in “holding,” I presume, until Thursday.

  Before we left the police station to go to luncheon, since it was time and I was hungry, I had some questions to which I wanted answers. Directing my attention to Babs, I said, “What are you going to do now?”

  She shrugged, as I had expected of her. “Go home, I guess.”

  I turned to Ernie and Mr. Bigelow. “Will she be safe there? The drug people don’t have their hostage any longer, and they might not like it. They might try to kidnap her again, even though Mr. Bumpas has … er … skipped. Will you give Mrs. Houser and Barbara-Ann some kind of protection?”

 
Both men gave me looks that I don’t believe I deserved. The question was a valid one, and so was the point I had made in asking it.

  Babs’s eyes popped open wide. “Jeez, I never thought of that!” She slapped Mr. Bigelow’s desk in a panicky gesture. “Look, Bigelow, you gotta put guards on me and my kid here. I don’t want nothing to happen to either of us.”

  “Don’t you have a friend you can stay with?” asked an unsympathetic Mr. Bigelow.

  I interceded. “Wouldn’t that just put the friends in danger? I presume these men wouldn’t hesitate to use deadly force.”

  “Which is why I don’t want you mixed up in this mess,” grumbled Ernie.

  I chose not to respond to that inflammatory comment. “Can’t Mrs. Houser and Barbara-Ann stay at a hotel or something until after the arrests are made on Thursday?”

  Babs turned her big-eyed stare on me. “A hotel? Are you nuts? I can’t afford to stay at no hotel!” She squinted at Mr. Bigelow. “Unless the L.A.P.D. pays.”

  “We don’t have a budget for that sort of thing,” said Mr. Bigelow, sounding amazingly like my father.

  He glanced at Ernie, who shook his head. “If the L.A.P.D. can’t afford her, I sure as hell can’t.” He gave Babs a sneer that she returned with interest.

  I was tired of all of them except Barbara-Ann, who had remained silent and watchful during the entire time. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll pay for you to go to a hotel for a few days!” I reached into my handbag and pulled out my little money purse. I was about to snap it open and pull out money when Ernie put his hand over mine.

  “Wait a damned minute. You can’t just hand over money like that.”

  I frowned up at him. “Why not?”

  “Because Babs Houser isn’t a very trustworthy individual.”

  Babs snorted, but Ernie went on.

  “If you give that money to her, God alone knows what she’ll use it for.” His scowl was magnificent. “But I don’t suppose I can talk you out of throwing your money away on her, can I?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “You cannot.”

  He heaved an enormous sigh and stood up. “Phil, can Sullivan help Babs and Barbara-Ann get settled in a hotel somewhere? I guess I’d trust the money with him.”

  “Well, really!” I said, indignant on Barbara-Ann’s behalf, if not her mother’s. Truth to tell, I’d rather not trust Babs with money, either.

  Mr. Bigelow rubbed his lower lip with his thumb for a moment, before gesturing for Mr. Sullivan to join us again. “Yeah. I guess it’s a good idea to stash her somewhere.”

  I don’t know why he had to make everything sound so sordid, but I don’t suppose it mattered. Babs and Barbara-Ann left with Mr. Sullivan, to whom I gave fifty dollars. I told him to make sure the two females had a nice room and that there was a restaurant nearby.

  Another thing I don’t understand is why everybody, including Barbara-Ann, looked at me as if I were an alien creature from another planet.

  * * * * *

  True to his word, Ernie saw me home that evening in his Studebaker.

  “There’s really no need,” I said, settling my hat on my head and picking up my handbag. “I don’t mind walking, and I enjoy taking Angel’s Flight.”

  “You can take Angel’s Flight after we catch whoever killed June Williams.”

  “It’s Mr. Godfrey.”

  “Right.” He stood at the office door in his hat and coat, grinning at me, and I knew my joy in Angel’s Flight was destined to be postponed for a while.

  “What about in the morning? May I walk to work?”

  “Nope. I’ll pick you up. I’ve got Phil checking on something for me. Until I get an answer, I don’t want you going anywhere alone.”

  “Nonsense!”

  “I said I’ll pick you up,” he said in a measured voice, as if he were dealing with a person of very tiny intellect.

  “But I’m always here before you.”

  “I’ll make an effort.”

  Fourteen

  All of that happened on Monday. By Thursday, I was about to jump out of my skin with anticipation. I was going to be participating in a real, honest-to-goodness police sting.

  The entirety of my anxiety could not be laid solely at the door of fevered anticipation, however. Other things had happened between Monday and Thursday that bear on the final outcome of this narrative. Few of them were enjoyable.

  For one thing, Ned seemed determined to haunt me. From a fellow who had a reputation for hiding away from the world, not to mention the work he was supposed to do, he had turned into someone who was so eager to please, Ernie and I all but tripped over him constantly. Ernie seemed inclined to treat this as a joke. I found it quite annoying, although I did my best not to hurt Ned’s feelings.

  “Are you sure you don’t need me to do anything, Miss Allcutt?” he asked Tuesday afternoon.

  “No, thank you, Ned. You’ve done a wonderful job fixing the things I asked you to fix, but there’s nothing else at the moment. I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Ned, I’m sure.”

  He hesitated in the doorway on his way out. I stifled an exclamation of annoyance. I wanted him to go away. “Say, Miss Allcutt, are you seeing Ernie?”

  I didn’t catch his meaning for a moment. When I did, I felt my face get hot. “If you mean are Mr. Templeton and I social acquaintances, no, we’re not. He’s my employer, and I’m his … secretary.” I was his assistant, curse it, but not officially.

  “You shouldn’t be going around with him, Miss Allcutt.”

  That was enough for me. I pinned Ned with one of my superior Boston stares. “I don’t wish to be cruel, Ned, but let me state here and now that neither my movements nor my associates are any business of yours.”

  He pouted for a couple of seconds. “Sure. I just thought you ought to know that it’s not good for you to be going around with him. I don’t like it.”

  I borrowed some more ice from my mother. “Your likes and dislikes are of no concern to me, Ned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to work.” I didn’t really have anything to do but hang another picture on the wall that I’d bought the day before, but Ned didn’t need to know that.

  “All right.” He looked as if he’d shrunk a little. “I’m sorry if you’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad at you,” I said, relenting slightly on the anger but not the hauteur. “But I can’t talk any longer. I have work to do.”

  He left. Thank God.

  Wednesday morning: “H’lo, Miss Allcutt. Here are some more flowers for you.”

  After sighing internally: “Thank you, Ned. Um … where did you get these?”

  He clasped his hands behind his back and shuffled his feet. “Somebody’s garden.”

  I gave him a severe look. “You really oughtn’t do that, Ned. Not unless you ask first.”

  “They don’t need them,” he declared stolidly. “Anyway, they’re for you.”

  His reasoning eluded me. “But they weren’t yours to give to me, Ned. Taking things that belong to other people without asking first is called stealing.”

  After puzzling over that one for a moment, he said, “But you should have them.”

  “Please don’t steal any more flowers for me, Ned. It’s not polite to take things that don’t belong to you.”

  “But I wanted to give them to you.”

  I gave up.

  That afternoon another bunch of flowers was delivered to the office by a young lad. I took them with misgiving, wondering if my lecture about theft had registered with Ned. When I opened the card that accompanied the flowers, I doubted it. It read: “To a special lady. Love, Hiram.”

  After considering and discarding the notion of throwing the flowers in the waste-paper basket, I dug the other vase out of my desk drawer, filled it with water, and plopped the flowers in it, figuring they were in the nature of evidence in a murder case. Or at least evidence that Mr. Hiram Godfrey was out of
his mind.

  “What was that?” Ernie called from his office. He’d been in there with his feet on his desk, reading the newspaper, ever since he and I arrived at the Figueroa Building in his Studebaker. I have to admit that he was making an effort to be on time now that he insisted in picking me up and driving me to work. If you could call it work. Except for Hiram Godfrey, who had apparently gone away only to resurface via flowers I didn’t want, and Barbara-Ann Houser, who couldn’t afford to pay a bill if one were presented to her, Mrs. Von Schilling seemed to be our only client.

  “Flowers,” I said, wishing I didn’t have to because I didn’t want to be teased. He’d already ribbed me about my latest contribution from Ned. These flowers, however, were different. I took them, vase and all, along with the card that came with them, into Ernie’s office.

  “Ned again?” he asked in a sugary voice that inspired the most violent of impulses in my bosom.

  “No. You might be interested in these.” I was standing in front of his desk by this time, holding the flowers in one hand and the card that had come with them in the other. I showed him the card. “Is there any way to investigate this?”

  He’d deposited the paper without folding it on his desk in order to take the card. When he read the name, he whistled. “Hiram, is he? You two have become better acquainted since he last appeared in the office.”

  Irked, I said, “We have not become better acquainted, and you know it. If I saw the man, I’d have him arrested for murder.”

  “That might be a little precipitate, although I’d sure like to talk to him. For one thing, he owes me money.”

  That took the wind out of my sails. “He owes you … but I thought that poor woman died.”

  “She did.” He grinned at me. “But I found her first, and that was what Godfrey was paying me to do.”

  It seemed so callous, hearing a human tragedy being spoken of in terms of monetary compensation. That’s probably only because I’d grown up without having to think about how people earn money to buy the bread they put in their mouths.

  “Do you suppose the florist would have an idea where he is living now?”