Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book)

by Duncan, Alice

  Or a missing woman.

  All right, so perhaps I was being a little bit prissy. I’d have to think about it all later, because Ernie grabbed me by the hand and dragged me behind him down the alleyway.

  All three of the Chinatowns I’ve visited have had the same distinct aroma about them. I suppose the same thing could be said for fishing docks and lumber mills and libraries. This Chinatown smell was comprised of rotting vegetable matter and some kind of incense. At least, I guessed it was incense. It wasn’t an unpleasant odor, only distinctive. And strong, at least in that alley.

  Ernie moved like a cat. I was most impressed with his silence. I tried to emulate him, although I had fairly sturdy shoes on and they clopped a bit. I attempted to tiptoe. He kept hold of my hand as we exited the alley onto an open, paved space behind some stores. The odor of strange, past-their-prime vegetables became stronger, and it wasn’t mitigated by the mingling of incense. I figured out why when Ernie led me past a line of garbage cans. I also realized I ought to have expected detective work to entail some back-alley work.

  Mr. Li was almost running. I could see him through the throng, making a beeline for a street north of Chinatown, called Yale. Ernie made sure there were always several people between Mr. Li and us, but he never lost sight of him. Once, when Mr. Li glanced over his shoulder, Ernie shoved me into a doorway and turned so as to appear to be looking in a window. I didn’t offer a complaint, even though he’d shoved me pretty hard. One must become accustomed to the vagaries of one’s employment, I suppose.

  Foot traffic thinned slightly when we turned right on Yale. Ernie hung back a little. When Mr. Li darted into a building which, I presumed contained flats, Ernie sped up some.

  “What are we doing?” I whispered, my heart racing with excitement.

  “What are you whispering for?”

  I frowned at Ernie. “I thought you told me to be quiet.”

  “Yeah, but that was when Li might hear us. He just went inside this building. Didn’t you see him?”

  There was still much I needed to learn about the detective business. Slightly disgruntled, I said more loudly, “What are we doing?”

  “Following Li. I think this is where he lives. Let’s see.” And he pushed open the door and entered the building, bold as brass.

  Sure enough, it looked like a rooming house. Or an apartment building. Or something along those lines. The area into which the door led was more of a hallway than a room. Long and narrow, it was lit but dimly. The carpet was shabby, the paint on the walls was peeling, an odor of dust and must prevailed, and I’d have been happier if I weren’t there. A bank of mailboxes had been built into one wall, most with handmade cards tacked over the boxes designating which apartment number belonged to which box. There were some names written on the cards, too, but more often than not they were in the form of Chinese characters. I guess the Los Angeles postal service employed some Chinese mailmen, since nobody else would be able to read them.

  “How can you tell which one is his?” I asked.

  Ernie said, “Shh.”

  Curse it, I’d never figure this out! I repeated, this time in a whisper, “How can you tell which box is his?”

  “I copied down the characters when we were in his shop.”

  He’d copied down the characters? “How did you know which characters were what?” That didn’t make a lot of sense, but Ernie understood.

  “You come to know these things when you work in Chinatown long enough.”

  Oh.

  But, sure enough, he withdrew a slip of paper from his pocket and held it up to the mailboxes. And blamed if we didn’t find one that matched the artistic scratchings on Ernie’s piece of paper. He whispered, “Li’s in number eight.”

  “Are we going to his apartment?” He looked at me as if I’d just asked him to climb a tree, and I resented it. “Well, what are we going to do, then?”

  Without answering, he headed back out the door of the apartment building. Although we hadn’t been indoors very long, the sun nearly blinded me. Squinting, I asked again, “What are we going to do now?”

  “I think it’s time we paid Matty Bumpas a visit.”

  “M-Matty Bumpas?” He was moving too fast for me. Not physically, since he seemed to recall that my legs were considerably shorter than his and was matching his stride to mine, but mentally.

  “Babs’s gentleman friend.” The way he said the words gentleman friend gave them an emphasis that belied their intrinsic meaning.

  I digested this, or tried to. “Then you’re really going to be working on the case?”

  “It doesn’t look like I have much choice in the matter.” He heaved a sigh. “Can’t have you poking your nose into these things alone. You’re liable to get it punched in one of these days.”

  He grinned, but I fingered my nose before I could stop myself. I hope he hadn’t really meant that, although I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to be the recipient of any more sarcastic comments or complaints. “I’m glad you’ve decided to help Barbara-Ann,” I told him humbly.

  “Huh.”

  “Where does Matty Bumpas live?”

  “Near Fourth and Spring.” He sounded so sure of himself that I bridled involuntarily.

  “And how do you know that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  Hmm. I sensed he’d only make a joke or be sarcastic if I pressed the issue. Since I knew very few street names in Los Angeles at that point in my investigative career, the information that Matty Bumpas lived near Fourth and Spring didn’t help me pinpoint his residence in my head. However, since Ernie didn’t hail a taxicab or mention driving to the location, I presumed Mr. Bumpas lived within walking distance. For once, my presumption was correct. After we’d been walking for a few blocks and my feet were in danger of either catching fire or falling off, he said, “Here we are.” I didn’t understand how he could be so cursedly cheerful in such hideous weather. Again I didn’t ask, this time because I didn’t want him to consider me a whiner.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Right here.” He led the way up a walkway to another dingy building. It struck me that investigative work might entail lots of drab buildings and unpleasant characters. I wasn’t going to pass judgment yet, but perhaps I might enjoy another line of work better.

  That was neither here nor there at the moment, though. Ernie climbed a set of rickety outside wooden steps, and I dutifully followed after him, limping a little. He opened a door that led into yet another dingy hallway. Next time, I kind of hoped we’d get a client with money. Not that I’m a snob or anything, but when you get used to cleanliness and sanitation, buildings like this one and the one Mr. Li lived in can be depressing.

  As if he knew what he was doing, which I presumed he did, Ernie walked right up to number fifteen and knocked hard on the door.

  After a pause, a nervous, nasal male voice from inside said, “Who’s there?”

  “Ernie Templeton, Matty. You remember me, don’t you?”

  “Shit!”

  Ernie grinned, but I was shocked. Silly of me, I know.

  “Come on, Matty. I’m not a copper anymore. You can talk to me.”

  “I can, but maybe I don’t want to.”

  “I just want to talk to you about Babs Houser, Matty.”

  “Babs? What the hell’s wrong with Babs?”

  The door was flung open to reveal a short, chunky individual with a face like a chipmunk. Mr. Bumpas hadn’t shaved for several days, and he definitely wasn’t dressed to receive company. To my inexperienced eyes, he appeared to be wearing an undershirt. The garish pattern on his trousers, which were being held up by suspenders, made me blink. I guess he’d outgrown his belts. He looked as if he hadn’t bathed in a while, and the stubble on his chin and cheeks went well with the bloodshot nature of his eyes. An altogether unprepossessing specimen, Mr. Matty Bumpas. I couldn’t understand what Babs saw in him.

  “Hey, Matty. You don’t look so good.”

  “To hel
l with you, Templeton. What you want with Babs?”

  “Not a damned thing. But her kid wants her back.”

  Frowning from Ernie to me, he stepped aside and said, “Youse two might as well come in. Who’s the dame?”

  “This, Matty Bumpas, is no dame,” Ernie said firmly. “This is my secretary, Miss Mercy Allcutt. You can call her Miss Allcutt.”

  “Yeah, yeah. ’Lo, Miss Allcutt.”

  I looked around the tiny room into which Mr. Bumpas had led us, and decided I’d just as soon stand while we chatted. It hadn’t been dusted in at least as long as Mr. Bumpas hadn’t bathed, and newspapers and magazines lay scattered everywhere. A scarred table and a couple of chairs had been shoved up against a wall, but they were filled with clothes and more newspapers. “How do you do, Mr. Bumpas?”

  He didn’t answer me, but started in on Ernie again. “So what you doin’ here, Templeton?”

  “I already told you. We’re trying to find Babs Houser.”

  “Where the hell is she?” Mr. Bumpas’s eyebrows, which were thick and bushy and reminded me of caterpillars, drew down sharply over his eyes. His chin jutted out at a defiant angle. He strutted to a chair, yanked off a shirt that had been draped over its back, and shook it out. As he scowled at us, he lowered his suspenders until they hung down around his large waist and shoved his arms into the shirt’s sleeves.

  “I thought maybe you’d know.”

  “How the hell should I know?” Matty shifted from one foot to the other as he buttoned his shirt. I sensed he was lying about not knowing where Babs was. He was also as jumpy as my mother would have been if she’d been forced to get dressed for a ball without assistance. A car backfired outside on the street, and he jumped several inches and swore.

  Ernie noticed this evidence of discomfort with interest, but he only said, “I thought you and Babs were old friends, Matty.” His voice was as casual as casual could be. I was terribly impressed that he didn’t let the blustery little man discompose him. “If anybody knows where she is, it’s you.”

  “Babs and me go back a ways, it’s true,” Bumpas said, tucking in his shirt. “But I don’t know where she is. I ain’t seen her in a while.”

  “I don’t suppose you have, since she’s been missing since last Saturday.”

  “Says you,” said Bumpas, snapping his suspenders back into place. He didn’t look much better with his shirt on, but I didn’t feel so much as though I’d stepped into a dressing room containing a half-naked man. “Maybe she took a vacation or something.”

  “Unlikely. She didn’t mention a vacation to her daughter.”

  “Huh.” Lifting up a stack of newspapers from the sofa, Bumpas said, “Wanna sit down?”

  Good heavens, I certainly didn’t want to sit on that filthy thing! Fortunately, neither did Ernie.

  “No, thanks,” he said, sneering at the sofa. “You sure you don’t want to help me out here, Matty? I have a feeling you’re in over your head and could use some help.”

  “Hell, you don’t know nothing, Templeton. Go chase yourself, see?”

  “A singularly fruitless activity.” Ernie’s grin reminded me of the Cheshire Cat.

  “Huh?” I got the impression Matty Bumpas wasn’t a master of English usage.

  “All right, Matty. If you won’t help us, I guess there’s no way we can make you.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Matty’s chin jutted out another couple of inches, and he drew himself up in an effort to appear impressive. All he looked like to me was a cheap imitation of one of the gangsters whose photographs regularly graced newspapers and post-office walls.

  “This is your last chance,” Ernie told him mildly. “Something’s wrong here, and you know what it is. If you want my help, you’re going to have to ask now, because I won’t ask you again.”

  “I don’t need no help,” Matty insisted. “And I don’t know where Babs is, see?”

  “I see. Very well.” Turning, Ernie gestured for me to go to the front door. He’s the one who opened it for me, since Matty didn’t rush to do his gentlemanly duty. I was just as happy he didn’t, since I didn’t like being near him.

  The door had just slammed behind us when I opened my mouth. I noticed Ernie’s finger pressed to his lips before any words leaked out. He took my arm and headed to the staircase, which we descended rather loudly. I got the impression Ernie was making as much noise as he could for some reason beyond my ken. As soon as we reached the bottom of the staircase, Ernie yanked me underneath it. Then he did something inexplicable. He stamped his feet, loudly at first, and then more and more softly, until he stopped stamping altogether.

  I couldn’t contain myself any longer. Whispering, I said, “What in the world are you doing?”

  He whispered back, “Making Matty think we’ve left.”

  Oh. I’d have liked to ask why, but Ernie’s countenance had assumed a stony cast, indicating to me that he would prefer to entertain further questions at a later time. So I stood there under the staircase next to Ernie without a notion on earth why I was doing so and felt pretty ridiculous about it if you want to know the truth.

  A few minutes later, I began to get a glimmer of understanding. A door opened slowly upstairs. I couldn’t see anything from where I stood, but several seconds passed before any further noises ensued. Then they were the sound of a door closing softly, and footsteps. When I leaned out and glanced up to the balcony railing over my head, I thought I saw the shadow of a circular head. Was that Matty Bumpas looking over his balcony? Was he looking for Ernie and me?

  Ernie hauled me back a little when footsteps began to descend the staircase. Sure enough, pretty soon the roundish form of Mr. Matty Bumpas appeared. He paused on the bottom step and glanced around furtively, as if searching for something he feared might be lurking in wait for him. Not Ernie and me, surely! We meant him no harm. Maybe Ernie hadn’t just been exaggerating when he’d told Matty he sensed he was in trouble.

  There it was again: the notion that someone with a lot of experience with crime and the mean streets of the big city might develop a sixth sense about people. So far it seemed to me that both Barbara-Ann Houser and Ernie Templeton might possibly share the trait. I would have given a good deal to be able to develop it, but I wasn’t sure how to go about it. I don’t suppose gaining insight into the shady side of life could be done without a good deal of practice, and I’d only had two days’ worth at that point in time. Besides, getting that type of experience might entail danger, which didn’t appeal to me a whole lot. It was kind of discouraging.

  Matty Bumpas scurried away from us, toward Chinatown, looking around suspiciously every few seconds. After he was about ten or twelve feet and several people away, Ernie nudged me, and we followed him. I kept my eyes peeled for something that might prove to be a threat to Matty, but since I hadn’t a clue what I was looking for, I had no luck in spotting it. I remained silent, even though I was again bursting with questions I wanted to ask.

  By that time traffic had thinned a bit, I presume because people had taken their luncheons and returned to their jobs. Therefore, we had to stay farther back from Matty than we had when we followed (I believe the private investigatorial term for it is “tailed”) Mr. Li. But we never lost sight of him. Leastways, Ernie didn’t. I have to admit that my attention was diverted once or twice when I noticed someone I considered suspicious hanging about in a doorway or wherever. Ernie apparently didn’t experience the same doubts, because he didn’t take his focus from Matty Bumpas.

  As for me and my investigative techniques, I thought I spotted Ned once, but I was probably wrong. Certainly Ned was back in his closet reading and waiting to be discovered by this time. Discouragement piled upon discouragement.

  After a few minutes, I was surprised to realize that Matty was retracing the same path Ernie and I had followed from Chinatown! What did this mean? I was pretty sure Ernie didn’t have second sight, so he must have figured out something that had eluded me as regarded Babs Houser, Chinatow
n, Han Li, and Matty Bumpas. I felt quite stupid, and didn’t enjoy the sensation one little bit.

  There was no time to fall into a melancholy, however, because we arrived at—ta-da!—Mr. Li’s souvenir shop at that very moment. Again, Ernie put a finger to his lips. Then he strolled up to one of the shop’s windows, all of which were crammed with merchandise. He’d chosen the window closest to the open doorway, and he struck a casual pose, leaning against the building. He stood so that only his profile could be seen by anyone inside the shop, and that was disguised when he pulled his hat brim down low on his forehead. His casual attitude and appearance gave an observer the impression that he might be a tourist waiting for a friend. In truth, as I soon perceived, he was listening for all he was worth.

  Pretty soon, even I, who was nowhere near the front door, heard loud voices indicating some kind of quarrel was going forth within the shop. Straining my ears, I could distinguish Mr. Li’s voice and Mr. Bumpas’s, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. I heard several swear words, and a long string of Chinese syllables that might also have been swear words but didn’t sound as bad as the same words would have in English, probably because I didn’t understand them. Chinese is quite a musical language when you’re just listening and don’t have a notion what the words mean.

  Once I heard an entire sentence: “Give her back,” spoken very angrily by Matty Bumpas.

  Mr. Li said something that sounded like dough. My novelistic instincts vibrated as I recognized a slang word for money. Ha! I hadn’t been wasting my time when I’d read all those detective novels, in spite of what my mother claimed!

  Matty Bumpas shouted a long string of swear words that proved he was more inventive than I’d heretofore given him credit for being. Mr. Li responded with an equally long string of Chinese words. I heard a loud noise, as if one of the men had slammed his hand on the counter, then Ernie slid away from the wall and hustled me behind a potted plant. Our backs were to the door of Han Li’s shop when Matty Bumpas stormed out.