Angels of Mercy

by Duncan, Alice

  After downing the last of her sandwich, Lulu said with a shrug, “My family are all Baptists, but the Baptists aren’t any fun. I kind of liked the Angelica Gospel Hall, but all that shouting got to me.”

  “I was reared in the Episcopal Church myself, but it’s kind of formal. The word ‘fun’ doesn’t apply to Episcopalians either. I enjoyed our visits to the Angelica Gospel Hall, too. Well, except for my last one.” I couldn’t repress a shudder as I recalled my encounter with a crazed person at the Hall.

  “I guess not,” agreed Lulu. “You looked really bad after that, too.”

  She would have to remind me, wouldn’t she? Well, it didn’t matter. The bruises had faded eventually. Heck, even the worst of them were now only a faintish green.

  “But I sure loved that dinner at the Ambassador,” Lulu said with a rapturous sigh. “And meeting John Gilbert! Oh, Mercy, what I wouldn’t give if he’d only offer me a part in his next picture.”

  I didn’t bother to tell her that John Gilbert, although a wonderful actor and a fine gentleman, didn’t have a whole lot of say in the casting of the pictures he graced with his talent. Lulu had her own ideas, and if they didn’t always correlate with reality, she didn’t care. But there you go. As I’ve already said, I had my own doubts about Lulu’s ambitions and how she aimed to achieve them.

  We walked back to the Figueroa Building after lunch, and I took the stairs to the third floor to commence my afternoon’s work, if there was any of it to do. Ernie hadn’t returned yet, which figured. Sometimes, when I was in a grumpy mood, I thought Ernie spent more time out of the office than in it. I felt grouchy that day. Thinking about the inequities rampant in the world always turns me surly.

  So that the afternoon wouldn’t be a complete waste of time, I decided to type out the notes I’d taken during Ernie’s discussion with Mr. Buck. I had just finished the last page when Ernie strolled in, looking as casual and nonchalant as ever. Although I was in a not-very-sunny mood, I did my best to smile at him.

  “I typed out the notes of your interview with Mr. Buck, Ernie.”

  “Yeah? Enterprising of you.”

  I gritted my teeth. “What did you learn from Phil?”

  “Not much.”

  “Darn you, Ernie Templeton! I want to know what you learned! Mr. and Mrs. Buck work for me, and I know their son didn’t commit that murder!”

  “Yeah? How do you know that?” Ernie strolled over to my desk and plunked himself down in the chair next to it. He took off his hat, scratched his ear, and settled his hat on his lap. “That’s more than the police know.”

  “I . . . Oh, curse you, Ernie, I don’t know. I just don’t want him to be guilty.” That was a tough admission to make, but at least I was being honest.

  “I don’t want him to be guilty, either. Phil let me talk to the boy for a few minutes, and I don’t think he did it. God knows how anybody’s going to prove that, though.”

  “But he isn’t supposed to prove he’s innocent! It’s the prosecution’s job to prove he’s guilty!”

  With a wry grin, Ernie said, “That’s your pie-in-the-sky innocence talking, Mercy. You know it.”

  I gave him a hot scowl, which bounced off him the way all my hot scowls did. He grinned some more, blast the man. “You drive me crazy,” I said under my breath. Then something almost pertinent occurred to me. “By the way, what is an AME Church?”

  “African Methodist-Episcopal,” said Ernie. “They’re basically Methodists, but the Methodists won’t allow Negroes to sully their lily-white doors, so they formed their own church.”

  More inequality. And this time in the very church established by the man who preached that we’re all God’s children and should love one another. Life really upsets me sometimes. “I see,” said I.

  “Anyhow, poor Calvin is scared to death, and I don’t blame him, but I also don’t think he did the deed. The problem, as I see it, is to find the real culprit, since the coppers aren’t likely to let him loose unless someone more probable turns up, and they’re not looking.”

  “How discouraging. Doesn’t Phil care that Calvin’s not the murderer? I thought he was an honest copper.”

  “He is, but he’s about the only one on the force. Your run-of-the-mill L.A. policeman is happy to slap a shade in the clink and leave it at that. It’s quick, easy, and over, and that’s the way they like it.”

  “A shade?”

  “A Negro,” Ernie explained as if to an infant who knew nothing, which, I lament to say, was pretty much the case. “A ‘person of color,’ as somebody I knew once put it.”

  “Oh.” Thinking dark—indeed, shady—thoughts, I said, “I’m glad you left the force, Ernie. I don’t know how Phil can stand it.”

  “Sometimes he can’t.”

  “But he is going to search more deeply into the Gossett case, isn’t he? He isn’t going to allow Calvin to suffer for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  “Phil is subject to direction from his superiors, Mercy. He’ll do what he can, but that isn’t going to be much.”

  “I see,” said I, who saw perfectly. Nobody was going to do anything except Ernie and me, and I wasn’t sure about Ernie. “Then it’s you and me, right? We’re going to get to the bottom of the matter.”

  “Hold on there a minute,” said Ernie sternly. “You’re not going to get mixed up in the Gossett mess. And you’re definitely not going to go off investigating anything at all on your own.”

  I sniffed.

  “I mean it, Mercy. We’re talking cold-blooded murder here. You might think you know what you’re doing, but if your past escapades haven’t taught you anything, they’ve taught me you’re a babe in the woods here in L.A. I swear to God, I’ll tie you to your chair if I have to in order to keep you out of it.”

  “I’ll stay out of it if you, Ernest Templeton, stay in it. If you refuse to help Calvin, I’ll have no choice but to investigate on my own.” Never mind that I had absolutely no idea how to do that or where to start.

  “Right. I suppose you’ll do what you did last time and go to services at the First AME Church. You’ll be pretty conspicuous there, don’t you think?”

  I’m fairly certain steam was puffing out of my ears by that time. I was so angry with my infuriating employer. “If I have to,” I said, “I’ll go there and anywhere else I deem necessary. I doubt the good folks at the First AME Church will chuck me out once they learn my purpose.” I’m usually not given to making such emotional statements. But Ernie was so exasperating, what with his refusal to give me an answer about the Calvin Buck matter, and his total disregard of my overall usefulness, that I couldn’t seem to help myself.

  Evidently Ernie believed my statement, however, because he said in something of a bellow, “I’ll investigate the case, for God’s sake! Just you stay out of it.”

  Lifting my chin, I said, “Very well. Thank you, Ernie.”

  “You’re welcome,” he grumbled in about the least gracious voice I’d ever heard, even from him.

  So much for that. I went back to my duties, which meant I sat at my desk and read a book. What the heck, why not? I didn’t have anything else to do since I’d already transcribed Mr. Buck’s interview, and Ernie wasn’t giving me any notes to type about his jailhouse visit with Calvin Buck, blast him. Ernie, not Calvin.

  When I returned to my home that evening, I entered with a feeling of mild trepidation, because I wasn’t sure what to expect on the Buck front. I knew Mr. Buck was upset; I could only imagine what Mrs. Buck must be feeling. The notion of having a child of my own arrested for a brutal, not to mention widely publicized, murder made my skin crawl.

  But I found Mrs. Buck in the kitchen, slicing cooked potatoes for something she called Potatoes Lyonnais. She’d learned her fancy cooking skills at her former jobs, which were all for rich people. Come to think of it, her present job was working for a rich person. Nuts. I did so like to think of myself as an average working girl, as silly as that sounds.

  I approached her
tentatively when she turned to see who’d invaded her kitchen. “I’m so very sorry about your son, Mrs. Buck.”

  She kind of crumpled, leaving her potatoes, the knife and the cutting board where they were and sitting with a thump in a nearby chair where she started crying. “Oh, Miss Mercy, Calvin didn’t do it. I know my son, and I know he didn’t do it! Besides, he was right here studying when that man was killed.”

  Hurrying to her and putting my arms around her, I said, “I know it, Mrs. Buck. Mr. Templeton went to speak to your son today at the jail, and he told me he’ll discover who the real killer is. He promised, Mrs. Buck, and Mr. Templeton keeps his promises.”

  I got the feeling she wasn’t accustomed to her white employers hugging her, because she kind of stiffened for a minute. I released her, hoping I hadn’t offended her dignity.

  “I know it, Miss Mercy. Thank you. Mr. Buck, he told me that Mr. Templeton—and you, too—were aiming to help free Calvin.”

  I think she only added the and you, too part because she didn’t want to offend my dignity. Boy, human relationships can sure be complicated sometimes, can’t they? Nevertheless, I asked, “Are you sure you’re up to cooking this evening, Mrs. Buck? If you need some time off—”

  “No!” she all but shouted. Then she sobbed again, wiped her tears on her apron, and said, “I’m sorry, Miss Mercy, but I have to keep busy. I truly do. Otherwise, I’ll go right ’round the bend.”

  I eyed her sternly, trying to discern the truth in her statement. Since I’m lousy at reading truths in people’s faces, I had no luck. Darn it, people are always reading things in other people’s eyes in novels. How come I couldn’t do it? Perhaps this was yet another skill I needed to practice under Ernie’s tutelage. If he’d agree to tutor me. So far, everything I’d learned about detecting had been gleaned behind his back and sometimes at great pain to me, because he never wanted me involved in his cases. “Are you sure, Mrs. Buck? Because I don’t want you to ruin your health by doing housework and cooking if you need rest.”

  “Ruin my health? Mercy, Miss Mercy, I’m no fragile flower, you know. Why, girl, I been working all my life. It’s all I know. I don’t think you white . . . um . . . I mean . . .” She looked frightfully guilty.

  With a sigh, I said, “I know what you mean, and you’re right. I grew up in a rich man’s house as his daughter. We had cooks and maids and people like that to wait on us hand and foot, so I know exactly what you mean. My mother would pitch a fit if one of the maids ever got sick or had a family emergency. But I want you to know that I’m not like my mother. I may not know much about the real world, but I have enough sense to realize we’re all equal in God’s eyes, even if we don’t treat each other that way. Please let me know if there’s anything at all I can do to help you or Mr. Buck in this time of great distress for you.”

  I think she was as surprised as I was when she reached for my hand and squeezed it. “You’re a good girl, Miss Mercy. You’ve already done more than anybody else could have. You’ve got Mr. Templeton helpin’ our child.”

  Returning her squeeze, I said, “Well, maybe. But please let me know if there’s anything else you need. If you require time off or anything in order to . . . I don’t know. But you might need time off to take care of business downtown or go to the police station or the jail or wherever.”

  “Thank you, child. You’ve got a generous heart, and I’ll keep your kind offer in mind and you in my prayers.” She sniffled, took a hankie out of her apron pocket, and did a better job of wiping the tears from her cheeks than she’d done with the apron. “Now I gots to get back to them potatoes. They won’t slice themselves. I’m fixing ham slices to go with ‘em, and lots of greens. And I got you a Charlotte Russe for dessert.”

  “Goodness. You don’t need to go to that much trouble for me, Mrs. Buck. Once I stock the house with tenants, though, I’m sure all the girls will appreciate your fine cooking. I know I do.” Which was nothing but the truth. In fact, I was having to watch my waistline. Mrs. Buck was a very good cook. In fact, if she were a man she’d be a chef, by gum.

  The rest of the week passed boringly enough, until Friday morning rolled around. I was excited to be conducting my very first interview with a prospective tenant. Or sitting in on my very first interview with a prospective tenant, Ernie not having wavered from his stance in regard to that matter.

  However, this morning’s practice would serve me in good stead, because I had another interview scheduled for that afternoon with a girl named Peggy Wickstrom, who’d told me over the ’phone that she worked at an all-night diner in Hollywood. I’d been a trifle startled when she’d said she worked nights, but then good sense tackled me and reminded me that not every girl in the world had the education or training to be a professional secretary like me or, like Caroline Terry, clerk at the hosiery counter at the Broadway Department Store.

  Miss Terry showed up early for her appointment by two or three minutes. I took this as a good sign, punctuality being important to me. I often wished it was as important to Ernie, but that morning he’d strolled into the office at a little past nine as usual, never mind that the office opened promptly at eight. Promptly because I, unlike my employer, was efficiency itself in matters such as timeliness and so forth.

  I smiled at Miss Terry, who smiled tentatively back at me. “Miss Terry?”

  “Y-yes. Are you, um, the party whose house has rooms to let?”

  “I am indeed.” I rose and walked over to her, holding out my hand for her to shake. “My name is Mercy Allcutt, and I am looking for tenants to occupy the apartments in my house. Please,” I added, sweeping a hand toward one of the two chairs I’d placed in front of my desk, “take a seat, and I’ll fetch Mr. Templeton, my employer.”

  “Mr. Templeton?” she said with some trepidation. “I didn’t . . .”

  “He’s offered to conduct this interview for me,” I told her, feeling a combination of emotions. Did I really want to admit to this young woman that Ernie didn’t believe me capable of conducting an interview on my own? Deciding to soft-pedal my own incompetence, I said, “He’s had lots of experience interviewing people, you see. He’s a private investigator, after all. I’m his secretary.” I said the latter with a touch of pride.

  “I see.” She hesitated for only a moment before taking the seat I’d indicated.

  So I went to get Ernie, who was leaning back in his chair, his feet on his desk, shooting rubber bands at the wastebasket. What a productive use of his time. I almost said he might spend his time more usefully by attempting to discover who’d killed Mr. Milton Halsey Gossett, but I didn’t. Perhaps he’d given up his morning of investigative efforts for my benefit because he’d offered to conduct this interview. I wished I believed it.

  Nevertheless, Ernie, roused from his amusement, put on his coat, straightened his tie and joined Miss Terry and me in the outer office. I introduced the two of them, and then Ernie started the interview.

  Fascinated, I took notes. I wanted to be fully prepared for my own interview with Miss Wickstrom that afternoon.

  I got the impression Miss Terry was surprised that so young a person as I owned a home on Bunker Hill, a relatively exclusive neighborhood in Los Angeles, but she didn’t ask any questions, probably assuming correctly that it was none of her business. I aimed to fill her in later if she worked out. After all, my aim wasn’t merely to make money from the girls who tenanted my home. I hoped to make friends, too.

  At the end of the interview, it was decided that Miss Terry would move in the following weekend. Ernie had demanded and received a full month’s rent in advance. I was almost shocked enough to intervene, but a quelling glance from him stopped me. I guess he’d anticipated something of the sort from me.

  After Miss Terry left us, however, I did ask him about it. “Did you have to have the money right this minute?”

  “You’re too soft-hearted for your own good, Mercy. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Well . . .” Was I? I didn’t t
hink I was, but perhaps Ernie knew best.

  “You need to collect the first month’s rent in advance, so that if a tenant skips—”

  “Skips? What does that mean?

  Ernie sighed. “It has been known to occur that a tenant will leave in the middle of the night, owing the landlord—or, in your case, the landlady—money.”

  “Miss Terry won’t do that!” I cried, horrified at the thought. “Why, Miss Terry is as honest as the day is long!”

  “As far as you know. Don’t forget that if all the crooks in the world looked like crooks, there’d be far less criminal activity, because we could spot the perpetrators a mile away.”

  He had me there. “Hmm. I guess you’re right. Still, I don’t believe Miss Terry has evil intentions.”

  His gaze paid a visit to the ceiling, but he didn’t reproach me further. Instead he said, “Probably not. But in case another of your tenants, one who isn’t of the same fine moral fiber as Miss Terry, skips out on you, you’ll have the money to renovate the place where she lived.”

  “Renovate it?” Good heavens, this was so confusing.

  “Generally,” he explained with what was for him great patience, “an apartment will need, say, a new coat of paint or something like that after one tenant leaves and another moves in. The month’s rent in advance will supply that need.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to grasp this concept of high finance.

  “What you’re going to do now,” he continued without waiting for any more stupid questions from me, “is open a bank account solely for household expenses. In it you will deposit all rental moneys from your various tenants. From that account, you will repair any problems that occur. You will deposit your tenants’ entire rent moneys in that account, don’t forget, and use it for nothing but maintaining the house.”

  “But—”

  He held out a hand, and I shut up. “You may pay the Bucks out of that account after you build it up some, but you won’t use it for another single thing. Got it?”