Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery)

by Alice Duncan

  “If you had condescended to help the man, I wouldn’t have to!” I flung at his back.

  “Nuts.”

  “Anyhow, this time his mother might listen, because my mother insists upon attending the stupid thing with me.”

  Ernie, his hand on his doorknob, turned and stared at me for a second or two, then vanished into his office.

  The door slammed behind him. I think I heard him laughing, the rat.

  The rest of my workday was every bit as awful as the beginning had been. In fact, if you can believe it, it got worse.

  At approximately nine forty-five, Miss Ethel Ginther, the lady whose uncle had disappeared and who’d called Ernie’s office when she saw my ad in the Times, presented herself in the outer office. We’d met before and I have to admit that, while I was delighted she’d seen my newspaper ad and decided to hire Ernie to find her missing uncle, I wasn’t terribly impressed with Miss Ginther herself, who tended to flutter.

  She was fluttering like a hummingbird when she entered the outer office. I sighed, although I doubt that she noticed. She didn’t notice anything that wasn’t directly connected to herself, as nearly as I can possibly understand a woman like that.

  “Oh, Miss Allcutt, I simply must see Mr. Templeton!” It wasn’t merely she who fluttered, but her clothing did, too. That day, she’d clad herself in a morning dress of pink taffeta (did I mention that the woman was in her forties and was relatively sallow? Well, she was, and pink was not an appropriate choice for her), covered with a darker pink cape-like thing that flipped and flapped around her so violently that I had to rescue the inkpot on my desk from flying off onto the carpet. Fortunately, being a neat person by nature, not to mention having very little work to do, I’d already made sure the inkpot was securely capped.

  In spite of her irritating mannerisms I smiled at Miss Ginther, whom I considered a success of sorts. “I don’t recall your calling to make an appointment, Miss Ginther.”

  “No, no, no, I didn’t. I didn’t because there was no time, you see, and I just truly need—desperately need—to see Mr. Templeton. It’s vitally important. Vitally important. It’s about my uncle.”

  See what I mean? Even her words fluttered around in the air like confetti. Or grapeshot, perhaps.

  Still smiling, I gestured at a chair in front of my desk. “Please have a seat, Miss Ginther. I’ll see if Mr. Templeton is available to see you.”

  I knew darned well Ernie was available, since he’d been turning down work right and left lately, claiming there was only one of him and he couldn’t possibly take on all the jobs my ad had generated. When I’d pointed out that he had a capable assistant in the person of my very own self who could certainly conduct interviews and minor investigations, he’d only sneered, snapped open his Times and said, “I don’t think so.”

  Annoying man. That morning I confounded him by not giving him a chance to think of an excuse to ignore Miss Ginther. I rapped smartly on his door, stepped into his office, and said, “Miss Ginther is here to see you, Mr. Templeton.” Then, almost before he could lower his feet from his desk to the floor, I swung his door wide and smiled at our visitor.

  “Come right in, Miss Ginther.”

  Ernie was still glowering and folding up his newspaper when the woman, with much waving of hands and flapping of capes and juggling of handbags and other accessories, tripped into the office with a trilled, “Oh, Mr. Templeton!” I shut the door and smiled to myself. Petty, I know, but satisfying.

  Miss Ginther was still babbling at Ernie, I suppose, when, at ten-fifteen, Lulu LaBelle burst, sobbing, into my office. Startled, I took one look at her, jumped to my feet, and hurried to her side. “Lulu! Whatever is the matter?” Gently, I guided her to the chair beside my desk. “Do you need a glass of water?”

  “They arrested Rupert!” she wailed, sounding to my untrained ears as a banshee on an Irish moor might sound.

  Her news shocked me so much that I didn’t even quail at the intensity of its delivery. “Th-they arrested him?” I forgot all about the water I’d offered and sank numbly into my desk chair.

  She nodded. “They arrested him! Oh, Mercy, he’s going to hang for a murder he didn’t commit! I just know it! They’re railroading him!”

  It wasn’t the time to point out that California used the electric chair to execute murderers. This was bad news. It was bad all around, actually, since I was almost, if not entirely, positive that Rupert Mullins had nothing to do with Mrs. Hartland’s demise.

  “But why?” I asked, feeling out of my depth. “Why did they arrest him?”

  “They learned that Mrs. Hartland used to live near us in Enid, and the coppers think that Rupert killed her to keep her from spilling the beans about his record!”

  Mind you, Lulu wasn’t quite that coherent in her exposition, but that’s what she meant. I stared at her. “His record of turning over an outhouse?” I don’t know about you, but it seemed to me that Rupert’s so-called “record” was so minor as to make his committing murder to prevent its becoming known akin to somebody shooting an elephant because he didn’t like peanuts. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You tell them that,” Lulu wailed. “They did it!”

  “Good heavens.”

  Lulu had a good cry in my office chair, then pulled herself together enough to go back to her job in the lobby. My head was spinning when Phil waltzed in about the time Ernie finally got rid of Miss Ginther. I was grateful for that since it saved me from receiving a lecture from Ernie about allowing crazed clients into his office when he didn’t want to be disturbed.

  Anyhow, just in case Ernie planned to scold me in Phil’s presence, I turned my own queries upon Phil before he had a chance. “Why in the name of heaven did the police arrest Rupert Mullins?” My voice was a trifle louder than propriety called for.

  Phil and Ernie both eyed me with something that looked rather like trepidation. Did they think I was going to have hysterics? Idiots, both of them.

  “Um . . . because they think he did it,” said Phil.

  I squinted at him. “I notice you say they think he did it. Does this mean that you don’t?”

  “Haven’t made up my mind yet,” said Phil, looking less nervous and more policeman-like. “We have to sift through all the evidence.”

  “What about Mr. Hartland?” I demanded. “He lied about not being there, and he had a lot to gain from his mother’s demise.”

  “We know that. We’re looking into all aspects of the case and all possible suspects.”

  “Then why did you arrest Rupert?”

  “He was considered a flight risk.”

  “A flight risk?” I stared at the man, incredulous.

  “He fled from Oklahoma to avoid a lesser charge than murder.”

  I didn’t really have an answer to that one, so I merely said, “Hmph,” and pointedly turned away from Phil to busy myself with some paperwork. At least when an unwelcome client came to call, I got to document his or her appointment in the appropriate file, which would take a minute or two. I trusted the men would vanish before I ran out of work again.

  They did. Phil and Ernie retired into Ernie’s office and closed the door. I breathed a sigh of frustration. Rupert Mullins? He didn’t kill Mrs. Hartland. It was insane to think he did.

  I had to admit, if only to myself, that given his past reluctance to deal with the police in his home state, he might actually be a flight risk. It was difficult to believe that Rupert Mullins was much of a danger to society, however. Especially here in Los Angeles, where outhouses were a rarity in this modern day and age.

  And then, right as I prepared to lock up the office and head to the Kress drugstore for a fountain luncheon, who should appear in the office but a gentleman I’d never seen before. He looked quite angry, too.

  Glad I hadn’t moved from behind my desk since I felt safer with a broad expanse of wood between angry clients and me, I smiled my efficient secretary’s smile and said, “Good morning. May I help you?”r />
  “I need Templeton,” said the man, whom I’d guess was in his late fifties or early sixties. He was quite distinguished looking, with thick salt-and-pepper hair, a well-made suit of summer seersucker, an ebony walking stick with an ivory handle and a fine derby hat.

  So many people did seem to need Mr. Templeton that day. However, I’d never met this particular one before and didn’t think he should be able to barge into the office and consult with Ernie without my intervention. “I will be happy to make an appointment for you,” I said, fibbing only a little. At least this particular person looked as if he were well off and could afford Ernie’s services.

  “Damn the appointment.” That shocked me. We didn’t even know each other, and he was swearing at me. “I need to see him now.” He glanced at Ernie’s closed door. “Is that his office?”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  He didn’t wait for me to finish, but marched over to Ernie’s office, lifted his walking stick and thumped on the door.

  “Now wait a minute here!” I cried, leaping up and racing to my employer’s office in an attempt to fend off this offensive, if well-groomed, individual.

  Ernie hollered, “Yeah?” He would.

  Before the interloper could shove the door open and barge right on in, I, in a deft move of which I’m proud to this day, maneuvered myself in front of him, put on my haughtiest Boston persona, and said, “Stop that this instant!”

  Believe it or not, the man stepped back a pace.

  Without giving him time to recover his wits, I went on, borrowing heavily from my mother for the performance. “How dare you? You sit yourself right down there and behave properly. First of all, give me your name.” With erect posture and forbidding (I hope) features, I stared him in the eye and began moving inexorably forward. He had no choice but to back up. Well, technically, I guess he had a choice. He could have thrust me aside and continued his assault on Ernie’s office door, but I suspect he’d been reared with manners as had I, so he didn’t.

  Behind us, the office door opened and Ernie said, “What’s up?”

  Curse him. That gave the intruder just the chance he needed. Without heeding my command to sit and stay (a command Buttercup learned in our first week together, proving yet again that poodles are better than people), he darted around me and came face to face with Ernie. The only good thing about that maneuver was that Ernie was a good deal taller than he, and the newcomer didn’t appear quite so imposing by comparison.

  “Are you Templeton?” Imperious.

  Ernie said, “Yeah.” Insouciant.

  I rolled my eyes.

  It didn’t matter. The man said, “I’m Conrad Blythe, and I’m here to tell you to stop dogging my footsteps.”

  Conrad Blythe. Who in the world was Conrad Blythe?

  From the grin that spread over Ernie’s face, I presumed he knew. “Well, well, well. Come right on in, Mr. Blythe. We have a lot to talk about.” And he let the man into his private office, winked at me, and closed the door in my face.

  Well!

  Only after luncheon did I learn that Mr. Conrad Blythe was Miss Ginther’s missing uncle and that he was missing because he wanted to be. He hadn’t wandered off and become lost or been kidnapped or Shanghaied or murdered or anything of that nature. He’d simply had enough of Miss Ginther’s aunt, who, if she was anything like her niece, must have been difficult to live with, and set up housekeeping elsewhere. He’d evidently been sending money for the support of his wife, but he didn’t want to live with her any longer, and he didn’t want to reveal his present address because he didn’t want her bothering him. I hate to admit it, but I understood his dilemma. In fact, I’d probably have done the same thing if I’d been saddled with Miss Ginther and her aunt.

  So much for Miss Ginther’s missing uncle. Still, it was a case, and it had generated income for the firm. And I was responsible for it. So there.

  But the events of the morning, while upsetting, paled when compared to those of the afternoon. Not only was Ernie inundated with unwanted clients, all of whom demanded updates on their open cases (“Thanks to that damned ad you placed”), but right before I was about to put on my hat, grab my handbag, lock up the office and head to Angel’s Flight, Miss Sylvia Dunstable opened the office door. She didn’t come in. She only stood there holding onto the jamb, swaying slightly, pale and trembling and looking tragic.

  I gaped at her and hurried around my desk, fearful lest she faint right there in the doorway. “Whatever is the matter, Miss Dunstable? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!” I took her hand and led her to one of the chairs in front of my desk. I liked Miss Dunstable and wouldn’t have minded if she’d sat in the chair beside the desk, but she looked too shaken to make it that far.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . .” She gulped and sat with a thump.

  Good heavens. I’d never seen the unflappable Miss Dunstable in this state. I hadn’t known she was capable of such an exhibition of naked emotion in public—or in the office. I guess we weren’t really public.

  Ernie, who generally departed for home before five o’clock rolled around, but who had been much busier than usual lately thanks to me, opened his office door. “What’s going on? Is anything the matter?”

  I glanced up at him. “It’s Miss Dunstable. I don’t know what’s wrong, but she’s terribly upset.”

  Miss Dunstable looked from Ernie to me, and I was horrified to see tears pooling in her eyes. I chafed one of her hands with one of mine and fumbled to find a hankie in my handbag with the other. “Oh, Miss Dunstable, please tell me what’s the matter! What is it? I’ve never seen anyone looking so upset!”

  Pulling her hand away from mine, she took the handkerchief I offered her and wiped her eyes. Then she swallowed twice, cleared her throat and said, “Rudolph Valentino is dead.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The news spread like wildfire. Lulu, already upset by her brother’s arrest, was inconsolable. I know, because I tried to console her before I left the building. My efforts went for naught and, with a deep and heartfelt sigh, I left the Figueroa Building carrying my suit jacket. Not even for my mother would I wear heavy tweed in hundred-degree heat.

  Even as I walked to Angel’s Flight, I saw people sobbing in clusters on street corners or gathered around newsstands reading the headlines, numb or in tears. Red cars rolled by filled with shocked and weeping people. The newsboy on the corner couldn’t even give voice to his “Extra!” for the lump in his throat. I myself was reeling from the news. Not physically, of course, but emotionally.

  I wasn’t as in love with Rudolf Valentino as many of the other girls I knew, but I have to admit to a secret “pash,” as Lulu calls it, for the fellow. I think it was his burning eyes that drew one to him. Or perhaps it had been the vehicles in which he’d starred. I know one isn’t supposed to talk about such things, but I doubt there’s a young woman alive who doesn’t occasionally dream of being swept off her feet by an intriguing fellow from the mysterious East. That’s as opposed to my own personal East, which was Boston and about as mysterious as a stalk of celery.

  Valentino had been a very young man, too. Well, to me he’d seemed a little old, but I was only twenty-one. Ernie told me that thirty-two, Mr. Valentino’s age, was young. Ernie was about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, I imagine, although he hadn’t told me so.

  When I opened the door to Chloe’s house, feeling sad and thinking about my own mortality for perhaps the very first time, I was glad to discover the horrible news hadn’t affected Buttercup’s mood. She raced to greet me, wagging her whole body as always. I picked her up, even more thankful than usual for her comforting presence in my life.

  The living room contained Chloe, who was pale and looking ill; Francis Easthope, who was patting her shoulder and saying soothing things; and my mother, who sat as still, upright and poised as a marble statue, with a critical expression on her face. No surprise there.

  Clutching Buttercup to my bosom, I said softly, “You heard the news?”


  Chloe nodded. “It’s . . . ghastly.”

  Mr. Easthope straightened and looked as if he was going to do the polite thing and come to greet me. I shook my head and he understood. In her condition, Chloe needed his attention more than I did.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Easthope. It was so kind of you to come over.”

  “I ‘phoned him,” said Chloe in a weak voice. “It was just . . . so shocking.”

  “It certainly was.” I plopped onto the sofa with Buttercup still cradled in my arms, and put my handbag on the side table. My hat soon joined it.

  My mother looked at this activity with patent disapproval. She believed in constant vigilance in the tidiness department, and according to her rules one should never use interim measures to achieve it. If I were obeying the dictates of my upbringing, I would have gone upstairs, put my hat and handbag in my room, and only then joined the family. And I’d never have bought Buttercup, who would probably be relegated to the backyard for all eternity. Nonsensical rules, if you ask me. Chloe needed my support.

  “May I get you anything, Chloe?” I wondered if she needed Buttercup, but didn’t dare ask in front of my mother. Mother didn’t approve of people requiring solace in times of trouble, either. She believed one’s strength of character was supposed to carry one through life. And that, if you ask me, would be a very lonely existence.

  Hmm. Perhaps my father’d had a point when he’d left the woman.

  “Maybe . . . maybe a glass of water.” She glanced at me, and I could see she’d been trying with all her strength not to cry in front of our mother. I wished my mother in Hades at that moment. Or at least Boston.

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.” Carefully setting Buttercup down on the floor (Mother would have had seven fits if I’d set her on the sofa), I went to the kitchen, my faithful pup following. “Oh, Buttercup, whatever are we going to do? Mother can’t possibly mean to stay here. Can she?”

  Buttercup, bless her heart, gave me a significant whine to indicate that she understood my distress even if she couldn’t respond in English.