Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book)

by Duncan, Alice

  “What are you working on?” I hoped he’d tell me. If he considered me a mere secretary, he might not, but if he considered me an apprentice, or something similar, he might.

  “Figuring out a way to get Mrs. Von Schilling’s lost property back.”

  That woman again. “Oh. And have you?”

  “I think so.” He gave me one of his cocky grins. “You wanna be my partner in crime, kiddo?”

  “I … I beg your pardon?”

  “I might need help.”

  “Oh!” My heart soared like an eagle. “Yes! Oh, my, I’d love to help you!”

  “Don’t get so excited, kiddo. You won’t be doing much.”

  My enthusiasm suffered a slight check. “No? Well, I’d still like to be of help, Mr. Templeton.”

  “Ernie.” He rolled his eyes.

  I didn’t appreciate the eye roll, but I decided it would be better not to get huffy, mainly because I needed his help. “May I ask you a few questions? I got some information from Barbara-Ann Houser this morning, and have been doing some investigating on my own.”

  “Yeah?” His grin faded. “Like what? If you’re going to start hanging out in speakeasies to find that—”

  “No! No, it isn’t that kind of investigating. I was only telephoning people who know Mrs. Houser. Friends of hers.”

  “Like who?”

  His eyebrows had dipped over his startlingly blue eyes, and it was difficult not to succumb to a feeling of intimidation. However, I hung on to my courage and sat in the chair in front of his desk as if I had every right in the world to do so. Which I did. Although it didn’t feel much like it right then. I didn’t need to, but I referred to my pad, mainly because his piercing stare was making me fidgety. “Like Miss Pauline Richardson. Barbara-Ann said she’s her mother’s best friend. Miss Richardson said that Mrs. Houser has been afraid of a Chinese man lately.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. And she also said that Mr. Bumpas, Mrs. Houser’s particular male friend, is a louse.” I think I had that reference correct.

  “Hell, I already knew that.”

  “You know Mr. Bumpas?” I recalled his mentioning the name when Barbara-Ann first appeared in the office.

  He straightened in his chair and frowned at me. “What’s this Mister and Miss stuff? Matty Bumpas is a small-time hoodlum who wouldn’t appreciate being called Mister any more than I do. If you won’t call him Matty, call him Bumpas, okay?”

  I took a deep breath and expelled it, thinking he was right, curse it. I was too proper for my own good, especially in this profession. Humbly, I said, “I beg your pardon. I’ll try to be less formal. Ernie.”

  “Good.” His grin was back. It was really quite charming.

  “Anyhow, Miss … er … Pauline said that Babs was afraid of a Chinese man.” Not even for Mr. Templeton—I mean Ernie—would I call a Chinese man a Chink. “And she said that this man has a trinket shop in Chinatown.”

  “Yeah? There are lots of trinket shops in Chinatown. Did she say which one?”

  Again I referred to my pad, although I remembered the directions perfectly well. “No, but she said his is the third shop in from the west arch, across from the water garden.”

  “Hmm.”

  Excitement overcame my dignity and my trepidation, and I leaned forward in my chair. “Oh, Ernie, do you think it really is possible that Babs has been kidnapped by white slavers? Or that she’s sunk in depravity and languishing in an opium den?”

  From the look he gave me, you’d have thought I’d asked him if I thought Babs had jumped out the window. “Don’t be stupid. Babs has probably run off with some guy. She’ll be back when he kicks her out.”

  My mouth fell open, but I shut it again instantly. “No! Not even a mother like Babs Houser would run off with a man, leaving her little girl alone in the world to fend for herself!”

  “Shows how much you know about the world.” He stood up and grabbed his coat and hat. Plunking the latter onto his head, he said, “But, what the hell. It’s time for lunch. Let’s go to Chinatown and see this trinket shop character.”

  “Oh, Mr. Templeton—”

  He glowered at me, and I amended my sentence.

  “Oh, Ernie, thank you!”

  “You’re welcome, kiddo.”

  I remembered the photograph, which I’d stuck in my pad. Retrieving it, I said, “Barbara-Ann gave me this, too.” I handed the picture to Ernie.

  He frowned at it. “That’s Babs, all right.” He stuck it in his pocket.

  “You don’t like her much, do you?”

  “Perceptive of you.”

  “Why don’t you like her?”

  “Because she hangs out with bums.”

  “What’s that to you?”

  “I think mothers ought to be mothers. If Babs Houser wanted to be a gun moll, she shouldn’t have had a kid.”

  That made sense to me, although I wondered how much thought Babs had put into her career choice. Or motherhood, for that matter. Actually, had anything in Babs Houser’s life been a choice? Perhaps she’d perceived no alternative to the things she’d done. At this point in the investigation, however, speculation was only a time-filler. I knew nothing at all about the woman except that she was missing and her daughter wanted her back.

  With luck and help from Ernie, though, I was on my way to having my curiosity satisfied! Grabbing my own hat from my desk drawer, I put it on and headed out the office door.

  Seven

  And once more I found myself hurrying beside my employer as we headed out the Figueroa Building on our way to luncheon, waving at Lulu as we passed the reception desk. I noticed Ned there and waved at him, too. He didn’t wave back, although I considered his presence in the lobby, instead of in his closet, a step in the right direction. Perhaps my bullying Boston ways were getting him to perform his duties. Perhaps the possibility of that was small, but one never knew, did one?

  At the moment, I felt like an explorer venturing forth on a daring escapade. Not only would I get to see how a real private investigator interrogated people, but I might just be going to help find a missing person! Not only that, but Ernie had told me he needed my help to locate missing property! I was so excited, I could scarcely keep from chattering away like a magpie. Sensing that Ernie preferred action to words, I used my breath for locomotion.

  The streets were crowded, and I could have sworn I saw Mr. Godfrey when Ernie hurried me past the Broadway Department Store on Fourth and Broadway. I wasn’t able to turn and look, because Ernie would have left me in his dust. The morning fog had lifted, and by the time we got to Second and Hill, I was panting and about to faint dead away. It wasn’t until we were approaching Chinatown that Ernie noticed my state of perspiring exhaustion.

  “Hell, kiddo, you should have told me to slow down.”

  Slamming my hand over my thundering heart, I said, “I didn’t want to annoy you.”

  “Nuts. You gotta stick up for yourself in this life, kid. Sure as hell, nobody else is going to do it for you.” He slowed down, though, and I appreciated him for it.

  “That’s a depressing philosophy, Mr. … Ernie.”

  “It’s the way the world turns, kiddo.”

  By that time we were in Chinatown. So far in my life, I’d visited Chinatowns in New York and San Francisco and Los Angeles. The one in San Francisco is the largest and most appealing, I guess, and it had a lot of history behind it, what with the gold rush and the railroads and everything, but this one in Los Angeles was pretty nice, too. I liked the arches and a couple of buildings that were built like Chinese pagodas. Hop Luey’s, where Ernie had taken me to dine … I mean eat lunch … after he’d interviewed me, was one of the pagoda-type buildings. We didn’t eat there today. Instead, Ernie led me to a little hole-in-the-wall place on the other side of Hill.

  He shoved the door open and stood aside for me to enter, an indication of good manners I hadn’t expected from that source. Not that I thought Ernie was a barbarian or anything; it
’s only that he hadn’t thus far in my experience of him demonstrated any particular attachment to the rules of polite society. Enticing aromas met my nostrils as soon as I entered the place, which was small and dark. Several men sat at a long counter. I saw no tables and chairs, and wasn’t sure what to do.

  Ernie knew. He strode up to the counter, and gestured for me to sit on a high stool. It was a fairly daunting prospect, since I’m not especially tall, but I managed, denting my dignity only slightly. I looked around with interest. I’d never been in a place like this. Ernie and I were the only white people there, and I was the only woman. I’d have felt uncomfortable were it not for my companion. To a man, the Chinese gentlemen sitting at the counter were holding bowls and scooping food into their mouths with chopsticks. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing people eat in exactly that way, but I allowed for cultural differences so as not to seem priggish.

  “Howdy, Charlie,” Ernie said to the man behind the counter.

  “ ’Lo, Ernie. Whatcha gonna have today?”

  “The usual.”

  “And for the lady?” The man named Charlie lifted his eyebrows at me.

  “She’ll have the same.” Ernie grinned at me.

  I wasn’t sure what to do, but I smiled at Charlie, then leaned closer to Ernie and whispered, “What’s the usual?”

  “Pork and noodles.”

  Pork and noodles? Well, I’d been eager for adventure. I guess this counted.

  It turned out to be more of an adventure than I’d counted on. When Charlie set out bowls in front of us, he set a pair of chopsticks on the counter beside the bowl. I looked at the chopsticks in dismay.

  “You can do it, kiddo,” said Ernie. I heard the laughter in his voice.

  “I’ve never used chopsticks before,” I whispered.

  “They’re easy. Just hold ’em like this.” He demonstrated.

  I picked up my chopsticks and, after a little initial fumbling, managed to hold them in the prescribed manner.

  “Practice on your napkin, kid,” Ernie suggested.

  So I did, and one of the chopsticks slipped and fell onto the counter with a clack. How embarrassing. But Ernie picked it up and handed it to me, and I tried again. “Um … now what do I do?” The bowl seemed awfully far away from my mouth. I was sure to slop food all over myself unless I leaned over so far my nose would be in my bowl.

  “You can do it. Just pick up your bowl like this.” He demonstrated, lifting his bowl in the exact same way as all the other men in the restaurant. Then he dipped his chopsticks into the bowl and shoveled some pork and noodles into his mouth.

  “Um …” I almost made the mistake of telling him I considered what he was doing incredibly unmannerly. Then I recalled yet again that this wasn’t Boston. My mother was thousands of miles away, on Cape Cod, and she’d never, ever know how I spent this particular day’s luncheon time. So I picked up my bowl with some reluctance and hoped I wouldn’t dribble on myself, the counter, Ernie, or the floor.

  I sniffed the steam rising from my bowl with some degree of nervousness. One sniff was enough to calm my nerves, at least about the savoriness of the meal, thank God. It smelled wonderful, and I saw that, along with the pork and noodles, there were plenty of vegetables, so not even my mother could object to this particular luncheon, except for the manner in which the food would be transferred from the bowl to my mouth. She’s a stickler for eating vegetables, my mother.

  So we ate our luncheon, and then Ernie ordered some more tea. Charlie brought some wonderful almond cookies to go with the tea, and we lingered over dessert. We lingered quite a while, actually, and I was unsure why we were taking so long over our meal. Then the delay became clear to me. As soon as most of the other diners had left the restaurant, Ernie gestured for Charlie to come to us.

  “You want something else?”

  “No, thanks, but I have a question for you.”

  “Question?” Charlie frowned a little. “I don’t know nothing, Ernie. You know that.”

  “Don’t worry, Charlie. This question won’t come back to bite you.”

  Whatever that meant.

  “Well … what your question? I might not answer it.”

  “It’s not hard. Have you ever seen this lady around Chinatown?” Ernie pulled the photograph of Babs Houser out of his pocket and laid it on the counter.

  Charlie squinted at the photograph for several moments. “I dunno,” he said at last. “All you white people look alike to me.”

  I was shocked, but Ernie laughed. “Yeah, I know, Charlie, but I’m trying to find this woman. You ever see her? She might have hung out in one of those shops across the street.”

  Charlie glanced up from the photograph. “Why you want to know?”

  “Nothing dangerous to you or anybody else in Chinatown. Her family is looking for her, and they came to me to find her.”

  “Yeah?” Charlie perused the picture again.

  “Yeah.”

  I saw from his expression that Charlie had remembered something. “Wait a minute. Yeah, maybe I seen her once or twice.” He transferred his squint from the photograph to Ernie. “What you going to do if you find her?”

  “Don’t worry, Charlie. I’m not a cop any longer. I don’t want to mess up your Mah-Jongg racket or anything. I’m just going to take her home again.”

  Charlie grinned slightly and nodded. “She do something wrong?”

  “You bet,” said Ernie without giving the matter a thought. “She does wrong stuff all the time. She’s a real loser, but I still gotta find her. Her daughter needs her.”

  “She got a daughter?” Charlie’s expression was far from inscrutable, as I’d heard Chinese faces were. At the moment his countenance registered overt disapproval.

  “Yup. And don’t ask me why, but the kid wants her back.”

  Shaking his head, Charlie said, “You might want ask Han Li. I think I see her in his place.”

  “Han Li? The guy who runs the numbers?”

  “You don’t care about that.” It was a question, although Charlie’s inflection didn’t designate it as such.

  “I don’t give a rap about Han Li and his numbers-running racket. I only want to find Babs Houser.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe you talk to Han Li.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. I appreciate it.”

  To prove it, he laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter. It disappeared so fast, you’d have thought Charlie was a conjuror. “You bet.”

  Ernie again pocketed the photograph of Babs and helped me down from my stool. My head was buzzing with questions when we left the small restaurant. “What’s numbers running? What’s a racket?” I didn’t get to ask any of the other questions, because Ernie shushed me.

  “I’ll tell you when we get back to the office. Just shut up and listen for now.”

  Well! However, in spite of the rude way the request had been phrased, I decided to honor it, since I was such a neophyte at the investigation business. We walked across the plaza from Charlie’s noodle shop, and Ernie pushed a door open and gestured for me to enter. So I did, my heart beginning to speed up with the knowledge that I was on an honest-to-goodness investigation of an honest-to-goodness missing-person case.

  The place was crowded with trinkets and Chinese bowls and plates and statues and it had an interesting, sweet smell, sort of a combination of sandalwood and roses. I liked it. It smelled very … well … Oriental, I guess. My gaze was captured by some gowns of silk brocade hanging against a wall, and I wanted to inspect them. Ernie, however, was on a mission. He walked straight to the dusty counter, behind which sat a Chinese man on a tall stool, who’d been smoking and doing nothing else that I could determine.

  “Han Li?” said Ernie.

  The man bobbed his head.

  “I’m Ernie Templeton, and I understand you might know this woman.” He slapped the photograph of Babs on the counter.

  Han Li gave a start of alarm and hopped off his stool. “Ay! What you mean?”

  “Jus
t what I said. I’m trying to find Babs Houser, and you know where she is. So, tell me.”

  I thought he was being a trifle precipitate. After all, we didn’t really know that Mr. Li—or perhaps he was Mr. Han … I forget how Chinese names work—had any knowledge of Babs’s whereabouts. But, as I kept reminding myself, Ernie knew what he was doing, and I didn’t. And I have to admit that his direct approach was having a definite effect. Whether it was the right one or not, I guess we’d find out.

  “No! She bad! I not know her. She bad!”

  Mr. Li had started babbling in an incoherent mixture of Chinese and English. He hurried out from behind his counter and made flapping gestures at us. “You go now! I gotta close for lunch. You go!”

  “Wait a minute. Where’s Babs Houser?”

  Another spate of Chinese and English followed Ernie’s question. The only words I could clearly distinguish were “Don’t know” and “No” and “Bad.” They didn’t give me a whole lot of hope for a successful conclusion of our afternoon’s adventure.

  “I’m coming back with the coppers, Li,” Ernie warned. “If you know where Babs is, you’d better tell quick, or you’re going to be in a whole lot of trouble.”

  That statement shocked me, since Ernie had promised Charlie that no one would come to harm if he cooperated and told us what he knew about Babs. I was slightly disappointed in Ernie.

  Nevertheless, we left the trinket shop. As soon as the door slammed behind us, I heard the key turn in the lock. Ernie put his finger to his lips and drew me aside. Mr. Li was pulling the shades down over the windows when we slipped down a very narrow alley beside the shop.

  “Follow me,” Ernie commanded in a whisper.

  “Why did you threaten him? You promised—”

  “Shut up!” Ernie warned. “Scold me later. I’ve got investigation to do now.”

  So, fuming inside, I shut up, although I also began to think that perhaps I wasn’t cut out for the private investigation business. Honesty had always seemed to me to be an important virtue, and I didn’t like to see people I admired—sort of—being dishonest, even if it was in pursuit of a job.