Angels of Mercy

by Duncan, Alice

  “But—”

  “Damn it, Mercy! I’m trying to teach you how to get along in the world. That’s what you claim to want, isn’t it?”

  “There’s no need to swear at me, Ernie,” I said, feeling miffed, but also knowing he was probably right. Darn it, he usually was.

  “Sorry about that, but I want to know that you understand how to go about becoming a landlady. Do you think you understand the money angle now? I know you have money of your own, but the point of this endeavor of yours is to learn how to live like the common folk. Right? That’s what you’re always telling me, anyhow.”

  I took a deep breath and wanted to scorch him with it, but I didn’t. Rather, I said humbly, “Yes, Ernie. I understand the money angle and your point. Thank you.”

  He grinned. “Good. Then let’s go to lunch. I’m game for Chinese. How about you?”

  I glanced at the clock on my desk. “But it’s only eleven-thirty. That’s too early for lunch, isn’t it?”

  “Hell no. Let’s go.”

  So we went. Who was I to argue with the boss?

  Chapter Four

  Margaret “Peggy” Wickstrom arrived at the office at two-thirty, as arranged over the telephone. She was precisely on time, which pleased me.

  I have to admit to being a little nervous about the impending interview. I had read over the notes I’d taken when Ernie’d interviewed Caroline Terry, but I was on my own now and only hoped my perception of Miss Wickstrom and her answers would be valid.

  She entered the office with the same tentativeness Miss Terry had exhibited, and I began to relax some. After all, I was in charge here, right?

  Smiling cheerily, I said, “Miss Wickstrom?”

  “Yes.” She eyed me with doubt writ large on her face for a moment. “Um, are you the person with the rooms to rent?”

  “Indeed I am. Won’t you please take a chair?” I indicated one of the chairs in front of my desk.

  “Um . . . sure.” She seemed to inspect me closely as she neared the chair.

  To be fair, I inspected her, too. She wore a simple brown day dress of a lightweight material, cut at a smart “flapperish” length at mid-calf. Her hair, too, had been cut and shingled and gleamed with hair tonic. She had a spit curl in the middle of her forehead that seemed rather silly to me, but who was I to cavil at current fashion? According to my sister Chloe, my own clothing choices were dull as dirt. Besides, this young woman, unlike I, had to work as a waitress. I figured she probably wore a uniform for her job and enjoyed playing the flapper in her off hours. Therefore, I decided not to hold her appearance against her.

  Not that her appearance was in any way off-putting. She had dark hair that seemed to be molded to her head in a glossy cap, brown eyes that went well with her dress, and neat brown shoes and handbag. She did not wear a hat, but I didn’t hold that against her, either. Neither a waitress nor a clerk at the Broadway made a whole lot of money, after all. Although I’d never tell him so, I would be eternally grateful to Ernie for telling me the going rate for room and board at a boarding house.

  For some reason, I didn’t feel as comfortable with Miss Wickstrom as I had with Miss Terry. I chalked up my attitude to nervousness on my part. Therefore, I adopted a serene pose and folded my hands on my desk. “So, Miss Wickstrom, you say you work at an all-night restaurant downtown?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is the name of the place? I wasn’t aware that Los Angeles had all-night restaurants.”

  Her eyes went round, as if in surprise. “Oh, my, yes. There are many of them. They’re mainly for the movie folks, you see.”

  “Oh. Because they work odd hours?” Actually, because Harvey Nash was a bigwig in the pictures, I knew very well they often worked odd hours, especially the staff and crew who had to build the sets, run the cameras, scout for locations, and those sorts of things.

  “Exactly,” she said, seeming satisfied that I understood. “And I work at Clapton’s Cafeteria.”

  “Ah.” I’d actually been to Clapton’s with Chloe and knew it to be a respectable cafeteria, so I felt the tiny bit of apprehension I’d had about Miss Wickstrom evaporate. Don’t ask me why I’d had that initial reaction to her, because I don’t know. As I’ve said, I’m not an expert at judging people.

  “We get all sorts of folks from the pictures at Clapton’s. The late shift people often come in there. Why, I’ve even seen some of the big stars there.”

  I eyed her closely, attempting to discern some of Lulu LaBelle’s fervor for stardom glinting in Miss Wickstrom’s eyes, but I couldn’t find any. A dud: that’s what I was at discerning folks’ ulterior motives. How discouraging.

  “I see. How long have you been employed at Clapton’s?”

  “Seven months,” she answered promptly.

  I checked off that item in my notebook. “And do you have transportation to and from Clapton’s? My home is on Bunker Hill. Do you consider that too far away?”

  “Oh, gee, no. I take the bus. Or . . .”

  Was that a blush I saw staining her cheeks? I leaned forward, trying to decide, and came to the conclusion I was imagining things. I prompted, “Or?”

  “Or . . . well, sometimes the fellow I’m walking out with will drive me in his Runabout.”

  Perhaps it had been a blush! For some reason, the notion pleased me, probably because it meant I wasn’t as much of an idiot as I’d believed myself to be when it came to judging people. However, this brought up a pertinent point that I figured I’d best get out into the open right then.

  “It’s nice to know you have a gentleman friend, Miss Wickstrom. However, I need to tell you that gentlemen aren’t allowed upstairs in my home. There’s a nice living room in which you may entertain callers, and of course you may use the yard on warm summer—or autumn—evenings, if you wish. But otherwise, gentlemen are to be confined to the downstairs rooms, and they must leave before nine p.m.”

  “Of course,” she said, as if that stricture was a given. “That’s the way it always is.”

  I was happy to hear it.

  “But it don’t matter, since I work nights.”

  I grieve to report that her grammatical error gave me pause. Yet again I reminded myself that not every young woman in the world had been given my opportunities and instantly forgave her the lapse. Heck, Lulu’s grammar wasn’t always stellar, and we were great pals.

  The rest of the interview went well, and I was rather more pleased than not when Miss Wickstrom said she’d drop by the following Monday with the first and last months’ rent money. “You can give me the address then,” she said, which I considered thoughtful of her. I guess she didn’t want me to think she would come over in the middle of the night and rob me blind.

  Not that she could. Buttercup, my intrepid apricot-colored toy poodle, was better than a gang of doorbells at announcing guests, invited or otherwise.

  “That will do nicely.” I rose from my desk chair in an effort to look professional and efficient—which I was, in the secretarial sense. This landlady business was new to me. “Thank you for coming today, Miss Wickstrom. I hope you will enjoy your new accommodations.”

  “I’m sure I will,” she said. “Bunker Hill is a swell area.”

  My mother would drop dead if she heard that. Ever since Chloe had told her she and Harvey lived on Bunker Hill in Los Angeles, she’s never entirely recovered.

  Speaking of my mother, whom her friends called Honoria and Chloe and I called the Wrath of God, I’d assumed I was safe from her dictates and interference when I moved from Boston to Los Angeles. Alas and alack, I discovered my mistake when she visited Chloe a month or so back, decided she enjoyed the weather in Southern California, and she and our father bought a mansion in Pasadena where they intended to spend their winter months. Chloe and I offered each other such consolation as we could, but the fact was that the devil was going to be loose in Southern California for three or four months out of every year, and we’d just have to endure. Fortunately for both
of us, Pasadena was several miles from Bunker Hill in Los Angeles and even farther away from the Nashes’ new Beverly Hills home, so I expected we’d both survive.

  Ernie was skeptical when he returned to the office and I told him I’d accepted Peggy Wickstrom as another tenant in my home.

  “You sure about her?” he asked. “You sure you got all the information you need about her?”

  “Yes,” I said positively. “I’m sure. I think she’ll work out just fine.”

  “Well . . . I hope to God you’re right. I probably should have stayed here this afternoon and supervised the interview, but I had to check out something on the Gossett case.”

  As you might imagine, that snippet of information made Peggy Wickstrom and Caroline Terry both fly from my thoughts. “Oh? And did you find out anything of import?”

  “Not really.”

  My exasperating boss strolled toward his office. Well! I wasn’t going to put up with that nonsense. I followed him and plunked myself down in the chair in front of his desk even before he’d thrown his hat and coat at the rack. When he turned around and saw me, he frowned. I’d expected this reaction.

  “What?” he said. As if he didn’t already know.

  “Exactly what did you check out, and what did you learn?” I demanded.

  “Dammit, Mercy, I’m not going to involve you in this case!” He even thumped his fist on his desk for emphasis before he sat in his swivel chair.

  I, being an expert in the care and feeding of Mr. Ernest Templeton, P.I., by that time, didn’t even flinch.

  “I’m not involved in any way whatsoever. I am, however, intensely interested. It won’t cost you even a moment’s anxiety if you tell me what you discovered during this afternoon’s investigation. I’ve already promised I won’t become involved. However, I do believe I’m entitled to information as you discover it.”

  “You do, eh?” He clearly didn’t share my sentiment.

  “Yes. Don’t forget that the accused man’s parents are employed by me in my own home.”

  After heaving a gigantic sigh, he said, “I didn’t learn a whole hell of a lot, to tell the truth. Calvin Buck worked for Mr. Gossett, just as Buck told us. He worked in the afternoons and on Saturdays and did a competent job. I talked to Mr. Gossett’s cook, who doubled as his housekeeper. She’s still pretty upset. She’s the one who nailed Calvin as the culprit, and, as I suspected, it was for no better reason than that Calvin’s a Negro. She admitted she didn’t see him at the Gossett place on Sunday.”

  “That’s deplorable,” I said.

  “Yeah. Probably. But that’s the way it goes. I also talked to the gardener. He told me a little more about Gossett, who wasn’t the sterling character his cook thought he was.”

  I’m sure my eyes widened in eager anticipation, because Ernie gave me an evil smile. “No, he didn’t smuggle liquor or drugs, and he didn’t run a pimping ring.”

  I blushed at that, curse it. Ernie only gave me another wicked grin.

  “He did know some pretty crooked characters, though, and he laid out a lot of dough on the gee-gees.”

  “The gee-gees?” I think I blinked at him.

  “The horses.” Ernie rubbed the fingers of his right hand against his right thumb. “You know. He played the ponies.”

  I must have still appeared blanked, because Ernie did one of his patented eye-rolls and said, “He played the horses, Mercy. He was a gambling man.”

  “Oh!” It all became clear to me then. “He bet on horse races!”

  “Right.”

  “Do you think he owed money to his . . . what do you call those fellows who take bets and then have people’s kneecaps crushed when they don’t pay up?”

  “Bookies.” Ernie gave me a pitying look. “Bookmakers. But they generally don’t kill the folks who owe them money. What would be the percentage in that?”

  “But . . . well, I’ve read a lot of . . .” My voice petered out when I saw the expression on Ernie’s face.

  “You’ve read a lot of mystery novels,” he finished for me.

  “Well . . . yes. But they can’t all be fiction.”

  “What are they filed under in the library?” he asked sweetly.

  “Oh, very well, they are fiction. But it still doesn’t make any sense that a . . . whatever you called it—”

  “Bookie,” Ernie said helpfully. “Short for bookmaker. And as I said, they don’t kill the folks who owe them money, because then they’d never get the money back again.”

  “Yes. But wait a minute!” I’d just thought of something pertinent. “What if they wanted to make Mr. Gossett an example of what might happen to a person who doesn’t pay his debts? That might happen, might it not?”

  “I suppose it might. I suspect those guys don’t consider murdering a deadbeat anything more than a reminder to their other clients that they mean business.”

  “There.” I felt proud of myself for a second or two. “But . . . still, I suppose they can’t kill all their clients who don’t pay promptly. Who’d be left?”

  “Of course they can’t kill ’em all, but a murder like Gossett’s would send a pretty strong message. If that’s what happened, and I don’t think it did.”

  “Wouldn’t he just give Gossett more time to pay the money back?”

  Ernie shrugged. “Maybe Gossett couldn’t pay and the bookie knew it. Maybe Gossett was in too deep and there was no way he could ever repay his debt. Maybe he owed other people? Hell, Mercy, I don’t know. I’ve only just begun my investigations. I don’t have any of the answers yet. All I have at this point is more questions.”

  “Hmm. But you do intend to follow up this gambling lead, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you know the name of his bookie?” Even saying the word made me feel as if I were experienced in the dark dealings of Los Angeles’s bleak underworld. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it? But it’s the truth.

  “Not yet, but I expect I’ll be able to find out fairly quickly.”

  “Are you going to tell Phil about this discovery of yours?”

  “Sure. He’ll probably be the one who’ll supply me with the bookie’s name.”

  “Do you mean the Los Angeles Police Department knows the names of these people?” The notion astonished me.

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t they go out and arrest them all, then?” I asked, furious that such fell businesses should be known by the authorities and allowed to flourish.

  “They can’t arrest anyone without proof of wrongdoing, Mercy. These guys, the bookies, they know their stuff. When I was on the force, we raided plenty of places where we knew either bootleggers or bookies—or both—were operating, only to rush in to find a squeaky-clean room. There are folks all over the place who tip these guys off to the cops’ plans.”

  “You mean snitches?” I was proud of knowing that word. “Who squeal to the coppers?” That one, too.

  With a shrug, Ernie said, “Hell, there are probably plenty of cops who use bookies and bootleggers themselves.”

  I think my mouth sagged open for a moment. It shut with a click of teeth, and I asked furiously, “Do you mean to tell me that there are customers for these despicable characters in the police department itself?”

  Ernie shook his head as if, even though he knew the level of my inexperience, this question had astounded him. “Mercy Allcutt, where have you been for the last two or three months? Didn’t I tell you the first time I met you that I left the force because of all the corruption there? What the devil did you think I meant?”

  Good question. “You’re right,” I said, chastened. “How silly of me not to understand the depth of the depravity that goes on in the department. I guess I just . . . I don’t know. It’s shocking to me to know that people who are supposed to be public servants are so vile.”

  “Not all of them are,” he reminded me.

  “No. I guess there’s always Phil.” I’d even had my doubts about Phil once or twice, althoug
h I hadn’t told Ernie so. But it seemed unlikely to me that one man alone could withstand the temptations of an entire force of men with whom he worked.

  “To be fair,” said Ernie, “Phil’s not the only one who isn’t corrupt. In fact, most of the coppers on the force are as honest as they need to be. But there are a few stinkers in the midst who sully the nest, so to speak. You know, like that ‘one bad apple’ thing.”

  “I guess.” The notion was still pretty darned depressing. “I’m glad you’re going to continue to investigate the murder, though. I’m sure Calvin’s innocent, and you’re just the man to figure out who the real crook is.” I said that to placate Ernie, who looked as though he needed encouragement.

  He said, “Yeah.”

  So much for encouragement. At least I had his word that he’d continue his investigation. Although I hadn’t said as much either to Ernie or to the Bucks, if it came down to Ernie’s investigating the matter, I aimed to pay him myself to find the culprit and free poor Calvin Buck. I was positive the Bucks would be humiliated if I offered them money at this point, and I also knew good and well that Ernie would pitch a fit. Therefore, I waited.

  Oddly enough, the telephone rang just then. Oddly, because it so seldom rang. I hurried to answer it, leaving Ernie relieved, I’m sure.

  Picking up the receiver, I said in my most professional secretarial voice, “Mr. Templeton’s office. Miss Allcutt speaking.”

  “H’lo, Mercy.”

  “Chloe! How are you feeling?” I was always delighted to hear from my sister. I missed her a lot, even though she and Harvey had only been officially living in their new residence for about a week and a half by that time.

  “I think I’m getting better,” she said.

  “You still sound a little wan.”

  “Wan?” Chloe wasn’t big on vocabulary words.

  “Pale,” I said.

  “How can somebody sound pale?” she asked. Reasonably, I must admit.

  “Well, you know. Pale and shaky and not in the pink of health is what I meant.”