Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book)

by Duncan, Alice

  “Who knows?”

  “Don’t you care?” I was growing impatient with my blithely indifferent employer, who appeared to me as though he didn’t give a hang about poor June Williams and didn’t give a fig about finding her murderer.

  With a sigh, Ernie handed the card back to me and folded up his newspaper. “Yeah. Actually, I do care. I’ll give Phil a call. He ought to know that Godfrey’s surfaced again. Almost. I also want to find out what he’s learned about your other suitor.”

  “My other … What in the world are you talking about?”

  He grinned at me. “Just a joke, kiddo.” Since he reached for the telephone on his desk, I decided I’d get no answers for the nonce, and also that I’d done my duty as far as the flowers went, and returned to my desk. I’d hung the picture, a nice painting of Angel’s Flight done by an old man who hawked his pictures in Pershing Square, and was admiring it when Ned showed up again. It was approximately the sixth time he’d come to me in quest of work that day. My temper had become a trifle frayed by then.

  “Ned, do you ever do any work for anybody else in this building?” I made sure my voice sounded as stern as I felt.

  “Sure, I do. I got my job, you know.”

  “I just wondered. You’re in this office so much, I can’t imagine when you have time to perform the rest of your duties.”

  He didn’t reply to that comment. His attention seemed fixed on the flowers I’d received from Mr. Godfrey. “Where’d you get those?” His tone was accusatory, and I reacted negatively.

  “Where I got them is of no concern to you, Ned. I’m getting a little tired of you pestering me, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Did Mr. Templeton give you those?”

  “No, he did not.” Irked with myself for answering such an irrelevant question, I added, “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I don’t like you getting flowers from other people.”

  I’d had enough. Standing and putting on my most intimidating Boston manner, I said, “What you like and don’t like is of no importance to me, Ned. Now will you please go away. I will let you know if Mr. Templeton or I need assistance from you.”

  “What’s up?” came Ernie’s voice from the doorway between our offices. I looked at him, and noticed to my surprise that he appeared very grave. Gravity was such a novelty on his usually flippant features, that I stared.

  “I’m trying to convince Ned to do his job and leave me alone.”

  “I only wanted to see if she needed anything done,” Ned muttered, pouting.

  “And does she?” asked Ernie sweetly.

  “No.”

  “Then I suggest you take yourself off, Ned.”

  “I’m going, I’m going.” And, thank goodness, he did.

  After the door closed, Ernie came over and sat in the chair in front of my desk. “I don’t like that guy hanging around here so much, Mercy.”

  “I don’t either. If you have a suggestion as to how to get him to go away and stay away, I’d be more than happy to hear it.”

  He shook his head. His expression remained troubled, a circumstance for which I couldn’t account. “I don’t know. There’s something wrong with that guy. I wish Phil would show up so I can ask him. He’s supposed to be dropping by today.”

  “Whatever do you mean.”

  “I don’t know. I just think there’s something wrong there.” He tapped his head with his forefinger.

  I rolled my eyes, an unladylike gesture my mother would have deplored, but I was exasperated. “There certainly is. Not only does he think he’s formed a romantic attachment with me, but he claims he’s going to be a star in the motion pictures.”

  That reminder took care of Ernie’s state of sobriety. His grin came out of nowhere and would have looked right at home on the Cheshire Cat. “That’s right. I’d forgotten old Ned aims to be in the pictures.” He leaned back in the chair, balancing it on its back legs and propping his feet against my desk. “I can see it now.” He held up his hands as if he were framing a picture. “Lulu LaBelle and Ned What’s-his-name, stars for the ages.”

  “Or the aged,” I muttered, still feeling grumpy about Ned being such a pest and also recalling Lulu’s white hair. Which prompted my next question. “Ernie, is Lulu ill?”

  His chair’s front legs clumped to the floor. “Is she ill? What do you mean? I guess she’s healthy enough. She hasn’t told me if she’s sick. You know something I don’t?”

  “No.” I hesitated, then went on. “It’s her hair. I mean, isn’t it strange for so young a woman to have white hair like that?”

  His grin remained, and his eyebrows lifted, giving him a teasingly incredulous expression that told me I’d made another error based on my upbringing. Drat it! Sometimes it seemed as if I’d never learn the ins and outs of West Coast living.

  “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never encountered a bottle blonde before, Mercy Allcutt?”

  I was nonplussed. “A what?”

  “A bottle blonde. A peroxide blonde.”

  “Er … no, I guess I haven’t. Except for Lulu, if she is one.”

  “If? Lady, Lulu was one of the very first. She’d be a regular trend-setter if she wasn’t stuck in the Figueroa Building every day. As it is, I think she’s only trying to follow in the footsteps of Mary Pickford.”

  “Oh.” I pondered this revelation. “Do you mean to tell me that she wants her hair to be white?”

  Ernie tutted. “It’s not white, sweetie, it’s blonde.”

  “It looks white to me.”

  Standing and stretching, Ernie said, “Me, too, but we’re not Lulu. And thank God for it, I say.”

  It was a mean thing to say, but I have to admit that I agreed with him. The door behind Ernie opened, and Mr. Bigelow walked in. “Hi, you two,” he said, smiling at me and punching Ernie on the shoulder lightly, which I took to be a demonstration of masculine friendship. My father’s friends never punched each other when they met, but my father was almost as stuffy as my mother.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bigelow,” I said.

  “Phil, you old phony!” said Ernie, punching him back. “Got any news for me?”

  “Not much.” Turning to me, Mr. Bigelow said, “Please call me Phil, Miss Allcutt. Every time you call me Mr. Bigelow, I think my father’s entered the room.”

  I smiled at him, understanding completely. “Certainly. And please call me Mercy.”

  “Nice name,” he said.

  “All right, can it,” said Ernie, sounding cranky. “I’ve got to talk to you about something else, Phil. There’s somebody I want you to look into for me.”

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “Just a background check. This guy makes me nervous.”

  Wondering who among all the thousands—or was it millions?—of people living in Los Angeles who could possibly have that effect on so nonchalant an individual as Ernest Templeton, P.I., I suddenly recalled Ned. Could Ernie seriously be worried about Ned’s seemingly irrational fondness for my personal self? It seemed unlikely, but I realized my curiosity would have to be satisfied later, because they went into Ernie’s office and closed the door.

  At least Ned didn’t bother me again that day, and I had no less an escort than a detective from the Los Angeles Police Department to safeguard my return home that evening, because Phil went with Ernie and me. I suspect that Ernie had told him about Chloe and Harvey’s big house and he wanted to see it for himself, but I didn’t ask.

  * * * * *

  Thursday finally arrived! When Ernie picked me up that morning, I was agog with anticipation, which I hadn’t wanted to share with Chloe. After the fuss she made when Ernie took me to Mr. Fortescue’s house, I feared she’d call our parents if I told her I was going to be working in an undercover (that’s what the police department calls it) capacity that very day in order to trap a group of vile drug smugglers. I fairly danced out to Ernie’s Studebaker.

  Eyeing me critically, Ernie said, “What are you so jo
lly about?”

  He didn’t sound happy, but I try not to allow other people’s moods to affect my own. “I’m excited about what we’re going to do today.”

  “Yeah? Well, I just hope it goes all right and nobody gets hurt.”

  He opened the door, and I slid into the car. “Do you anticipate gunplay?” I asked avidly.

  I’d read in the newspaper about hideous gunfights involving crooks and policemen, all armed with so-called “Tommy” guns. I’d also read that many crooks carried these guns in violin cases, in the hopes that nobody would realize what they were carrying. I couldn’t quite understand this particular effort at deception. If any of the violin case–toters looked like the fellows in the mug shots I’d recently viewed, I doubt that very many citizens were being fooled by the ruse.

  Did Ernie truly suspect that such a gun battle might transpire in that tiny curio shop? The notion, while frightening, was also rather thrilling. Ernie would probably have said I was being naïve, so I didn’t tell him the part about me considering the possibility of a gun battle thrilling.

  “We’re dealing with some very bad guys here, Mercy. I don’t like it that Phil wants you to be in on it.”

  “But I want to be in on it,” cried I, fearing Ernie was going to change the scheme.

  “Yeah, I know, but that’s only because you’re young and stupid.”

  “I am not!”

  He only gave me a shows-what-you-know look and took off down the street. I was very annoyed with him and, although I sensed it would do no good to complain, I opted to do it anyway. “I may be inexperienced, but I am not stupid. If anything happens, I’ll be sure to duck.”

  “Duck? A bullet? It’s been tried before, and to my certain knowledge, nobody’s ever succeeded.”

  “Fiddlesticks. Mr. Bigelow said there would be little or no danger.”

  “Phil doesn’t know that, and neither do I.”

  “Well, I’m going to do it, and that’s that.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. I’d have to lock you in the office to keep you out of it.”

  This time it was I who grinned. “I’d have Ned let me out.”

  “Ned.” Ernie didn’t appear to consider my comment funny. “And that’s another thing.”

  “What? Ned?” I stared at him. Ned was a pest and a bother, but I didn’t see that he was a threat to anyone, especially me, for whom he’d developed a certain affection. If you could call it that. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Hmm.”

  We’d arrived at the Figueroa Building, and Ernie parked the Studebaker close by. We went into the lobby of the building together, and together we greeted Lulu, who was, as usual, filing her long, red fingernails, and who greeted us with, “Ned’s looking for you.”

  “Christ,” muttered Ernie.

  I said, “Thanks, Lulu. Do you know where he is?”

  “Prolly in the basement reading. That’s where he usually is.”

  “Maybe I should go down and see what he wants,” I said with a sigh. I really didn’t want to, mainly because I was sick of Ned, and also because I was pretty sure he wasn’t looking for me for anything truly important.

  Lulu shrugged, a la Barbara-Ann Houser. Ernie took my arm and said, “Nothing doing. He can come to the office if he has more flowers for you.” He winked at Lulu, who grinned.

  Vexed with them both, I shook off Ernie’s hand. “Very well. But I don’t know why you insist on teasing me about Ned. I certainly did nothing to encourage him.”

  “Ned doesn’t need encouragement,” Lulu said.

  “I should say he doesn’t,” said I, heading for the elevator, mainly because I wanted to practice getting the carriage to stop exactly at the right spot. I was getting better at this elevator nonsense. Which made me smile.

  “You know, Ernie, if you ever fire me, I bet I’ll be able to get a job as an elevator operator.”

  “That must give you a real sense of security,” he said dryly.

  I laughed until I remembered how many women there were in the world who could use the skills I possessed—and I’d only come by them because I’d had the time and money to go to school and then move to California. In other words, I only possessed my marketable skills because I hadn’t really needed them to earn a living to begin with. If I’d been forced to earn money from the age of twelve (or earlier) like Barbara-Ann Houser, I’d never have had the opportunity to learn the things I knew.

  When viewed from certain perspectives, life seemed remarkably unfair.

  However, that didn’t alter the fact that this particular Thursday seemed destined to be one of the most exciting days in my entire life. Which, when I thought about it, didn’t mean much, as my life had contained very little in the way of excitement until then.

  Mr. Bigelow—or Phil, as he now was to me—arrived at the office at ten o’clock, and we spent about an hour going over our plan for the arrest and capture of the drug-dealing scum, as Ernie called them. The discussion didn’t really seem necessary to me, as the plan was remarkably simple.

  I was supposed to browse in Mr. Li’s shop until the criminal element entered. In case I didn’t recognize them, which was entirely possible since I’d only viewed the men via photographs, Mr. Li, who had been let out of jail for this express purpose, was to give me a signal. The signal might be anything from a nod to a screech of warning. I was to leave the shop, wave at Ernie and Phil, who would be holed up in Charlie’s noodle shop across the plaza, and they and the policemen accompanying them would scoot into the shop and arrest the bad guys.

  It was rather heartening to know that Ernie worried about me, although if looked at from another angle, I suppose his concern indicated a lack of faith, which I don’t believe I deserved. It had been I, after all, who’d saved Mrs. Von Schilling’s poodle. If that hadn’t proved my overall usefulness in the private detecting business, I don’t know what did.

  Fifteen

  At eleven o’clock, the three of us (I’d had to shoo Ned off twice by then) piled into Phil’s big Ford and tootled to Chinatown and Mr. Li’s shop. Because I didn’t want to be weighted down with extraneous things to fuss with, I stuck some money in my skirt pocket and left my handbag in the drawer of my desk. I did, however, put on my hat, since to do otherwise would have been in poor taste since proper women didn’t appear in public without hats. Clearly, I needed more practice in California living.

  We gathered in the little noodle shop across the plaza from the shop, and Phil escorted Mr. Li and me to the shop, which had been closed since Monday’s arrest of Mr. Li on kidnapping charges. According to the plans that were made between Mr. Li and the police, those charges might be lowered to false imprisonment (I didn’t understand the difference, to tell the truth) if he cooperated fully in this day’s events.

  Poor Mr. Li was a nervous wreck, a fact I hoped wouldn’t tip off the bad guys to possible police involvement. When I whispered as much to Phil, he said not to worry. Anybody with half a brain would be nervous when faced with an interview with Mr. Carpetti, even when the law wasn’t involved. He went on to say that he doubted Mr. Li’s state of anxiety would seem out of place to Carpetti or his henchmen.

  “He’d have been nervous anyway, since he lost Babs Houser and didn’t get any ransom to show for her.”

  Mr. Li whimpered. Phil eyed him coldly. “You don’t get any sympathy from me, Li. You play with fire, you get burned.”

  “I know. I know,” mumbled Mr. Li.

  Since his shop had been closed for so long, it was terribly musty and stuffy. I offered to help him dust the place, but Phil nixed that idea. “You’re supposed to be a tourist, Mercy. Act like one.” His voice was sterner than I’d ever heard it.

  “Very well,” I said. I said it meekly, too, what’s more, since I didn’t want him to have second thoughts about my involvement in the day’s activities.

  That day I had worn one of my sober, pre-bobbed hair suits and a very sensible pair of shoes, since I’d anticipated standing around for an ho
ur or more in that dumpy little souvenir shop before anything of interest transpired, but my feet were aching after about the first half-hour or so. The shop was very small, and Mr. Li had it filled with knickknacks of one sort and another, primarily manufactured either in China or made to look as if they were Chinese. There were a few silk brocade robes in various colors, and they held my attention longer than anything else.

  Some pretty pottery vases and porcelain goddesses, too, caught my eye—for about five minutes. Face it, when you’re in a ten-foot-by-ten-foot shop for an hour and a half, unless it’s stocked with fascinating books or something equally entertaining, you’ll be bored in a very few minutes. I was bored. And I wished I’d brought a novel along with me until I realized that I couldn’t just stand there reading, either, because that would negate my pose as a tourist. Nuts.

  Ernie had told me that a lot of private investigation work was tedious. I had believed he’d been attempting to dampen my ardor for the profession, but that day I discovered he’d been telling the absolute truth.

  I’d just picked up a tiny porcelain teacup, which went with a tea set made up of a tray, a teapot, and six little cups, for about the seventeenth time, attempting to look like a lady trying to make up her mind, when I heard Mr. Li utter a frightened squeak. I almost dropped the teacup. When I glanced at him, he jerked his head in the direction of the front door.

  Acting very relaxed and touristy, I replaced the teacup, picked up another one from a different set, and glanced at the front door. The jolt of excitement that shot through me when I saw two swarthy gentlemen approaching from the direction of Hill Street made the breath catch in my throat.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as the men entered the shop. Neither one of them carried a violin case, which was a relief, although I’m sure they had guns tucked away somewhere. Maybe gangsters only carried guns in violin cases when they aimed to “shoot up the joint” (another phrase used by the police and the criminal element). I didn’t relax, however, since Phil and Ernie had both warned me that these were genuine gangsters who used real weapons and killed real people. The two men noticed me right off the bat, and one of them frowned, which was rather disconcerting. I guess they didn’t want to transact illicit business with Mr. Li as long as anyone else remained in the shop. They both paused a few feet and an aisle away from me and pretended to be interested in some rose-scented soap. I hoped I looked more like an innocent tourist than they did.