The Richard Deming Mystery Megapack

by Richard Deming

  Ellen surprised me by laughing.

  “I think the whole thing is charming,” she said. “She’s merely trying to watch over her little boy.”

  “But you certainly must resent the thought of being investigated,” I said.

  She shrugged. “My life is an open book. The only emotion your mother is likely to experience while reading the report is boredom.” Then she had a sudden thought which brought a delighted grin to her face. “Let’s beat her to the punch. You hire the agency to investigate me and hand her the report at the same time you tell her we’re going to be married.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I’m not going to insult you by hiring a detective agency to investigate your suitability as a wife.”

  “I’m going to be investigated in any event,” she pointed out. “I should think the fee would be a lot lower if I cooperate. Besides, even though I won’t see it, I am already contemplating with enjoyment the surprised look that is bound to appear on your mother’s face when you hand her the report.”

  Against my better judgment Ellen eventually talked me into accepting her suggestion. We went together to the New York City office of the Flynn Detective Agency, where we explained to a man named Morrison what we wanted.

  When we finished, Morrison said, “Now let me understand this, Mr. Loudan. You want to forestall your mother’s engaging us to do an investigation in depth by having us make a cursory investigation that will turn up nothing derogatory about the young lady?”

  “Wrong,” Ellen told him. “He wants the same sort of investigation you would have made for his mother. Anything derogatory you learn is to be included in the report. If it will help, I will list all of my bad habits before you start.”

  After examining her curiously, Morrison said in a polite tone, “That won’t be necessary, Miss Whittier. We prefer to come to our own conclusions about our subjects’ habits.”

  In due course I received a thick report. Mother had shown me only the pertinent parts of previous reports, and I hadn’t realized how’ comprehensive they were. Every phase of Ellen’s life from birth on was covered. Scores of people who knew her, ranging from relatives and close friends to mere acquaintances, had been interviewed.

  Her choice of boyfriends prior to me had been impeccable, I noted. The investigators had unearthed only three regular ones. The earliest, when she was fourteen, had been an Eagle Scout. The second, a summer romance when she was seventeen, had been the son of a New England senator. During her first two years at Columbia she had gone with a philosophy student who had since transferred to a Presbyterian seminary, where he was studying for the ministry.

  According to the report, she was in excellent physical health except for an occasional touch of insomnia. The note about her insomnia impressed me with the Flynn Detective Agency’s thoroughness, because until then I had been unaware of it.

  The only blemishes the investigators had been able to uncover on an otherwise spotless record were that Ellen had once played hooky in the sixth grade and that at seventeen she had been arrested for speeding.

  When Ellen read the report, her main reaction, like mine, was awe at its thoroughness. “They even dug up my criminal record,” she said. “Do you think your mother will decide it makes me ineligible?”

  “She couldn’t without being hypocritical,” I told her. “I have often heard Mother relate with relish how she and a high-school girlfriend alternately cut English class for a whole term by answering roll calls for each other. And at last count she had fourteen speeding tickets.”

  Mother was currently playing the Town Casino in Buffalo, and was staying at the Statler Hotel there. The weekend after receiving the report, Ellen and I flew to Buffalo together. I phoned to let Mother know I was coming, but didn’t mention that I was bringing a girl.

  We checked into adjoining rooms at the Statler about six p.m. on Saturday. As Mother had an eight p.m. dinner show, I knew she would be resting up for it in her suite. As soon as we were settled, I went to see her alone.

  Mother, as always, was delighted to see me. She gave me a hug and a smack on the cheek, then laughed and ran to the bathroom for some facial tissue to wipe the lipstick off my cheek.

  “You’re looking wonderful, Francis,” she said as she rubbed away. “You’ve certainly grown into a handsome young man.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” I said. “You’re looking wonderful, as usual, too.”

  I wasn’t just offering flattery. Mother was an extraordinarily attractive woman in a regal sort of way.

  Bunching the tissue into a ball and tossing it into a wastebasket, Mother waved me to a chair and gracefully sank into another. “Sit down and tell me everything you’ve been doing, dear. Are you keeping your grades up? Whatever is that you’re carrying?” She referred to the thick manila envelope under my right arm.

  “My grades are fine,” I said. “It’s a report from the Flynn Detective Agency on a girl named Ellen Whittier—the girl I’m going to marry.”

  Mother’s eyebrows peaked in mild astonishment. “You had her investigated?”

  “I thought I would save you the trouble.”

  I removed the report from its envelope, walked over and laid it in her lap. She glanced down at it, then looked up at me with a bemused expression.

  “Do I sense a touch of belligerence in your tone, dear?”

  “Not at all. Mother. It’s simply that I knew you would have her investigated, and decided to expedite matters. Ellen knows about it. As a matter of fact, it was her suggestion.”

  “How quaint,” Mother said somewhat dryly. “You mean you explained to her that I would have her investigated if you didn’t?”

  “Well, yes. Yes, I told her.”

  “That must have given her a fine impression of me.”

  “It seemed to amuse her more than offend her. Actually she has no impression of you as yet. She is reserving opinion until she meets you.”

  “Decent of her,” Mother remarked in the same dry tone.

  “Incidentally, that is not a whitewash report designed to discourage you from having one of your own made. We stipulated to the agency representative that absolutely nothing be left out.”

  “I see. Will you get my purse from the bedroom, dear? The black one on the dresser. It has my reading glasses in it.”

  I got the purse, Mother put on her glasses and began to read the report. I took a chair opposite her.

  “Twenty years old, I see,” Mother commented. “Just right for you. I think it’s nice for a man to be at least a year older.”

  As this comment seemed to require no reply, I remained silent.

  A moment later she said, “Oh, she’s that Whittier family. The congressman’s daughter. You didn’t mention she was from down our way.”

  “She isn’t, exactly. Her father is a cattleman as well as a congressman, you know, and the ranch is in the mountains up near the Los Padres National Forest. Ellen says you get to it by a narrow unpaved road called Sulphur Mountain Road, which is up somewhere around Ojai. And Ojai must be close to a hundred miles from Beverly Hills.”

  Mother read on. Her next remark was, “She can hardly be a fortune hunter, like that Harmon girl. Hugh Whittier must be quite well off.”

  “His assets are listed on the next page, Mother. They total around fourteen million.”

  “How nice. I note that the family is also Presbyterian.”

  “I thought that would please you.”

  She continued to read, making no further comments until she had finished the report. Then she laid it on an end table next to her chair, replaced her reading glasses in her purse and gave me a warm smile.

  “She sounds like an eminently suitable young lady, dear. When do you plan the wedding?”

  “This June, after graduation. Ellen still has another year of school, but that will be no problem, because we plan
to live in New York City. I hope to have a stage manager’s job by next fall.”

  Mother raised her eyebrows. “I thought you planned to produce and direct your own plays, dear.”

  “I do, eventually. I want to accumulate some experience first.”

  “I see. When do I get to meet Ellen?”

  “Right now, if you wish,” I said. “I brought her along.”

  Mother looked pleasantly surprised. “How nice. Where did you leave her?”

  “We have adjoining rooms on the sixth floor.”

  Glancing at her watch, Mother said, “I like to get to the club about a half hour before show time, but I can spare about fifteen minutes.”

  Mother’s suite was on the fourth floor. We went upstairs to the sixth and I knocked on Ellen’s door. It opened immediately.

  For a brief moment the two women regarded each other with the estimating, calculating expressions common to potential in-laws on first meeting. Then both smiled warmly, I made introductions, and Ellen invited us in.

  As I closed the door behind us, Mother said, “You’re quite pretty, Ellen. I’m glad, because I’ve always hoped for handsome grandchildren.”

  “Thank you,” Ellen said. “Will you sit down?”

  “I haven’t time, because I have an eight o’clock show and I like to get to the club a half hour early. I just stopped by long enough to meet you and welcome you into the family.”

  “Well, thank you again.”

  “I understand Francis explained to you my habit of having his fiancées investigated. I won’t apologize for it, because you wouldn’t be the lucky girl to get him if it were not for that habit. He would already be unhappily married.”

  Ellen’s eyes twinkled. “I know about both previous engagements. No apology is necessary, Mrs. Loudan. I am in your debt.”

  “Please call me Miriam,” Mother said.

  “All right, Miriam,” Ellen agreed.

  When Mother left a few moments later and I had closed the door behind her, I said to Ellen, “Well, what do you think?”

  “I rather like her,” Ellen told me. “I got the impression she approves of me.”

  “What mother wouldn’t?” I asked, going over to kiss her on the nose.

  We decided to catch Mother’s early show. I phoned her suite, caught her before she left for the Town Casino, and also arranged to have a late dinner with her after the show.

  Mother had a ringside table reserved for us when we arrived at the nightclub. I could tell by the way Ellen squeezed my hand that she was deeply impressed by Mother’s entrance. I was impressed myself. Mother possessed such remarkable stage presence that she established instant rapport with her audiences. Tonight, before ever opening her mouth, she drew enthusiastic applause merely by throwing the audience a welcoming smile.

  I think a good part of her appeal was that she had none of the brittle professionalism common to nightclub performers. Instead, she gave the impression of being a relaxed, aristocratic but gracious hostess who was performing for her invited guests only because she loved to entertain.

  As usual, Mother picked six volunteers from the audience, put them into hypnotic trances, then ordered them to do various ridiculous things, such as bark like dogs, quack like ducks and honk like geese. One couple, informed by her that they were Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, did a waltz creditable enough to draw heavy applause after they had admitted being only average dancers. She told another pair they were in a snowstorm, and the manner in which they huddled together, shivering and blinking imaginary snowflakes from their eyes, made the audience howl.

  After the show, during dinner, Mother asked Ellen if she had yet informed her parents of our engagement.

  “No, Ellen said. “I plan to tell them over Easter vacation. That’s only two weeks off.”

  When Mother learned that Ellen and I would be flying from New York to Los Angeles together, she seemed delighted.

  “I’ll be back home even before you two get there,” Mother said. “My engagement here ends next Saturday, and I’ve informed my agent I don’t want another booking until after Easter. Can you spend some time with us, Ellen?”

  “Not until the last couple of days of Easter vacation, I’m afraid,” Ellen said apologetically. “Francis and I won’t be arriving in Los Angeles until about noon Saturday, and of course I want to get to the ranch before Easter. I plan to rent a car at the airport and drive straight there. Dad and Mom are returning to Washington a couple of days before I have to fly back, though, so I can visit you then.”

  Mother gave me a worried look. “You’re not planning to spend your vacation at the ranch too, are you, dear?”

  “Just one day,” I assured her. “I’ll spend Easter with you, then drive up on Monday to meet Ellen s parents, and return the next day.”

  “Oh,” she said in a relieved tone.

  I said to Ellen, “Why do you have to leave for the ranch directly from the airport? It can’t be much more than about an hour and a half drive, so you would get there early in the evening even if you stayed over for dinner. I would like you to meet Dad.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mother said with an air of resignation. “You must meet Francis’ dear father.”

  “I want to,” Ellen said. “I suppose I could wait over a few hours.”

  Two weeks later Ellen and I landed at Los Angeles International Airport at ten minutes before noon. Since Ellen had arranged to have a rental car waiting for her, there was no one at the airport to meet us. There was a message awaiting us at the call desk, however. It was from Mother; we were to meet her and my father for lunch at the Beverly Hilton Hotel at twelve-thirty.

  That didn’t give us a great deal of leeway, as the airport is a considerable distance from Beverly Hills. Nevertheless we managed to arrive a few minutes early.

  Exactly at twelve-thirty the two of them came in together. I could tell by Ellen’s expression that she was impressed by Dad the moment she saw him moving across the lobby toward us. He was as handsome a man as Mother was a woman, and just as aristocratic-looking. Tall and lean and as erect as a career soldier, he had the man-of-distinction’s gray at the temples, yet gave an instant impression of warmth and friendliness. Mother always said it was a false front designed to conceal from his hundred-dollar-an-hour patients that he was as neurotic as they were, but I always felt that he was warm and friendly.

  Dad didn’t wait for introductions. Smiling broadly, he said, “Hi, future daughter,” took Ellen by the shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. At the same moment Mother planted a kiss on my cheek.

  Looking flustered but pleased, Ellen said, “Hi, future father.” Then Dad was thrusting his hand at me and saying, “Good to see you, son.”

  “Good to see you too, Dad,” I said sincerely.

  We had the smorgasbord lunch in the Starlight Room. Dad was obviously delighted with my choice of a wife, and Ellen was equally delighted with him. They had little time to get acquainted, though, because Dad had to eat and run to make a one-thirty group therapy session at the local Veterans Administration Hospital, where he donated his time on Saturdays. Mother had invited him to dinner, however, so Ellen would see him again before she left.

  Mother had driven to the hotel in her little roadster. After lunch Ellen and I followed her home in the rented car.

  Our house was only a few blocks from the Beverly Hilton. We still lived in the mansion my maternal grandfather had built when he was head of one of Hollywood’s major studios. To friends who asked Mother why she continued to hang onto such a huge place, particularly since in recent years she was away so much of the time, she defensively pointed out that modern tract houses were jerry-built and that she hated apartment living. This was no real answer to the question, of course, but Mother seemed to regard it as adequate.

  I think Ellen was more nonplussed than impressed by the three stories and twenty-fou
r rooms, particularly when she learned that the only servants were a cleaning woman who came in twice a week when we were in residence and a handyman who took care of the gardening. I explained that Mother hung onto it because she had grown up there and she had a tendency to resist change.

  Mother had a roast with potatoes and carrots all ready to cook, so the only meal preparation she had to do after we got home was to turn on the oven. The three of us spent the afternoon just sitting in the oversized front room before the empty fireplace, talking.

  Ordinarily, I imagine prospective mothers-in-law ask lots of polite questions about the backgrounds of prospective daughters-in-law, but the Flynn Detective Agency had made that unnecessary in this case. The conversation remained largely impersonal except for one question on Mother’s part. She was curious about the mention of insomnia that had appeared in the agency’s report.

  “It’s nothing serious,” Ellen told her. “It’s what our family doctor calls ‘situational insomnia.’ That is, I only suffer it from some immediate cause, such as the night Francis asked me to marry him. I couldn’t sleep a wink.”

  “That’s understandable,” Mother said. “I couldn’t sleep the night I got the news either.”

  “Then I always have trouble when there is a change in environment. I won’t be able to sleep tonight, and when I get back to school I’ll be awake all the first night too.” She laughed softly.

  Mother started to say something, but stopped as a thought occurred to her, and looked at Ellen thoughtfully. “I can make you sleep tonight, dear. By post-hypnotic suggestion. It’s more effective than a sleeping pill.”

  “Really?” Ellen said, interested. “How does it work?”

  “While you are in a hypnotic trance I will tell you that at such-and-such a time tonight you will fall asleep. When I wake you, you will have no recollection of the order, but your subconscious will. Tonight you will fall asleep at the precise time I ordered you to. A word of caution, though: you must be in bed, prepared to go to sleep, at least fifteen minutes beforehand, because you will fall asleep when the time comes, no matter what you are doing—even taking a shower.”