Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book)

by Duncan, Alice

  “Whatever it is, that’s the kind of paper they sell in Chinatown by the ton.”

  “By the ton?”

  He eyed me with what looked like disfavor. “You’ve gotta stop taking everything so literally, kiddo. They actually sell it in boxes. You know, like stationery and envelopes in a box.”

  “Oh.” I hoped he wasn’t correct about my overall literal-mindedness, since that bespoke a lack of imagination, which would be a poor quality for a novelist to possess. “So you believe this note to have been written in Chinatown?”

  “Hell, I don’t know where it was written, but I’d lay odds the person who wrote it got the paper in Chinatown.”

  After thinking about this for a moment, I said, “I don’t mean to cast aspersions on your theory, but even if it’s correct, I can’t see that where the paper came from helps us much.”

  He grinned, pulled the chair in front of my desk out, turned it around, and straddled it. “It narrows the field, though. Look at it this way.” Holding up his left fist, he counted points using his fingers. “We’ve got a missing Babs Houser.” Up went the forefinger. “We’ve got her afraid of a Chink.” Up went the middle finger. “We’ve got Matty Bumpas having an argument with Han Li.” The ring finger shot into the air. “And we have this note written on the kind of Chinese paper Han Li sells in his shop.”

  “Well …” I could see his point. “So where do we go from here? We still don’t know where Babs is.”

  “I think we do. I think she’s being stashed in Han Li’s apartment somewhere. He sure skedaddled over there fast enough when I confronted him in his shop.”

  Stunned, I cried, “Do you mean to tell me that you’ve known all this time where she was being held, and you haven’t done anything about it?”

  This time he held up both hands. “Hold it, hothead. I didn’t say I knew she was there. I said I suspect she’s there. And I’m not the L.A.P.D. I can’t go around busting down people’s doors if I suspect they’re doing something wrong.”

  “But … but … can’t you get your friend Mr. Bigelow involved? Can you get him to rescue the poor woman?”

  Ernie frowned at me. “You sure jump to conclusions fast, kiddo. I just told you I don’t know Babs is there. And, if you’ll recall, this very morning, I did get Phil involved. In fact, he’s on his way to pick up Matty Bumpas right this minute. Then he’s going after your friend Godfrey. When he gets them, we’ll see what we can do about Babs.”

  First he’d called me unimaginative, and now he was calling me rash. In my own defense, I said, “I didn’t know he was going to pick up Mr. Bumpas. Or Mr. Godfrey.” I sniffed. “Although I believe it’s wise to do both.”

  “Well, gee. Sorry I don’t explain my every intention to you.”

  That stung. “I’m your secretary, Mr. Ernest Templeton. I should be kept informed.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  Barbara-Ann had been sitting in the chair next to my desk, her gaze bouncing between the two of us as if she were watching a tennis match. At last she spoke. “Do you really think Ma’s at the Chink’s place?”

  With a shrug that would have been right at home on Barbara-Ann herself, Ernie said, “Don’t know. When Phil gets back with Matty Bumpas, we’ll see what we can find out.”

  “Okay,” the phlegmatic child said. She had folded the twenty-dollar bill into a wad and stuck it in her shoe. While I understood her caution and her desire to protect her cash supply, I didn’t envy the merchant destined to be paid with that bill.

  The door to the office opened, and we all glanced at it, hoping, I’m sure, that it would be Mr. Bigelow with Matty Bumpas and/or Mr. Godfrey in tow. I don’t know about Barbara-Ann and Ernie, but I was terribly disappointed when I recognized our visitor. “Oh, hello, Ned.”

  He appeared disconcerted, I suppose because he hadn’t anticipated that my office would be full of people. “Uh …”

  “Morning, Ned,” Ernie said pleasantly. “We were just having a … uh … conference.”

  Ned said, “Yeah. H’lo, Mr. Templeton.” He didn’t greet Barbara-Ann, probably because he didn’t know her name. She didn’t greet him, either, I presume for the same reason. “I just brought you some flowers, Miss Allcutt.” His cheeks burned with color as he took another step into the room and thrust a bouquet of geraniums at me. I wondered where he’d stolen these flowers from.

  Not that it mattered much. I really didn’t want any more flowers from Ned. However, I’d been bred from the cradle to be gracious, so I thanked him politely. “I’ll put them in water right away,” I promised him.

  He seemed inclined to linger, although I’m not sure why, since it would be obvious to the rudest intelligence (which definitely included Ned) that I was busy. I said, “We need to confer some more now, Ned. Thank you again.”

  Shooting a scowl at Ernie, Ned said, “Yeah, sure,” and backed out of the office, shutting the door rather hard.

  Ernie’s grin broadened.

  Barbara-Ann said, “That guy’s real strange.”

  I sighed. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?”

  The door opened again, abruptly, and Ned reappeared.

  “Yes, Ned?” My voice was a trifle sharp.

  “If you’ll give me a vase, I’ll get water.”

  Good idea. I retrieved an empty vase from the drawer of my desk where I’d stashed it, and handed it over. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He gave Ernie another frown and left with the vase and the geraniums.

  “You’ve sure got an admirer there, Mercy. Lucky girl.”

  Ernie got another frown, this one from me, for that comment. “Getting back to the problem at hand,” I said pointedly, “can we do anything now except wait for Mr. Bigelow to come back?”

  “Not that I can think of,” said Ernie.

  And he dismounted from the chair, turned it around, patted Barbara-Ann on the head, and sauntered back to his office. I heard the newspaper rattle as he separated the sections and figured he was going to read the Times until something happened. I don’t know what else he could have done, but his nonchalance struck me as being insufficient under the circumstances. I mean, here was Barbara-Ann Houser, dirty and alone in the world, without a mother or father. Ernie Templeton, a private investigator who was supposed to be reuniting her with her mother, was reading a newspaper. With his feet propped on his desk, unless I missed my guess.

  Insufficient or not, however, I couldn’t think of anything to do, either. Therefore, I smiled a kindly smile at Barbara-Ann and said, “I’m sorry, dear. I wish we could do something useful.”

  Naturally, the child shrugged. “It’s okay. I guess Ernie’ll find her one of these days.”

  Her faith in a man who had thus far shown very little affection for or interest in her touched me deeply. “Do you have enough money, Barbara-Ann?”

  She gawked at me. “Enough? I’m rich now, thanks to you.”

  Rich, was she? With twenty dollars in her shoe? I thought not. “But what about your apartment, dear? Do you need to pay a rental fee or anything?”

  Another shrug. “Mrs. Pipkin lets it slide most months. She’s nice.”

  “Mrs. Pipkin? Is she your landlady?”

  “Yeah. She gives me food sometimes.”

  “That’s very kind of her.” I absolutely despaired of Barbara-Ann Houser. To someone like me, who had grown up pampered and petted and indulged, even though it hadn’t felt like it at the time, Barbara-Ann’s circumstances seemed downright pathetic. But fruitful. If she had any novelistic tendencies, she’d be chock-full of experiences by the time she grew up. “Do you enjoy reading, Barbara-Ann?”

  “Reading what?” Her expression remained blank. Either she was a mistress at hiding her inner feelings, or she didn’t have very many.

  “Books. Newspapers. Magazines. Reading anything.”

  Of course, she shrugged. “I read movie magazines sometimes. My mother has a stack of them. I like going to the flickers.”

  “Ah.” />
  I’d have pursued the matter and asked her if she’d like to go to the library with me one day, but the office door opened yet again. This time I anticipated Ned, and was pleasantly surprised to espy Mr. Bigelow.

  Rising from my chair in anticipation of seeing an irate and perhaps manacled Matty Bumpas and a similarly encumbered Hiram Godfrey enter right after him, I sat again, disappointed. Mr. Bigelow was alone. He didn’t look very happy, either, as he nodded at me, ignored Barbara-Ann, and marched straight into Ernie’s office.

  “I sent some guys out to pick ’em up. They’ve both skipped.”

  I heard the newspaper being folded and set aside. “Figures.”

  My brow furrowed and I glanced at Barbara-Ann, who was, as ever, impassive, as if nothing ever surprised her, not even hearing that a notorious criminal and a vicious murderer had skipped. Which, I believe, means that they’d both run off and left no forwarding addresses. I was about to get up and force the two men to explain the matter to me, when I heard Ernie’s chair being pushed back and distinct sounds of Ernie rising therefrom.

  “I’m sick of this shilly-shallying, Phil. Let’s go to Han Li’s and make him spill it. If we can’t do anything else worthwhile today, maybe we can get Babs back.”

  Mr. Bigelow chuckled. “Sure that’s worthwhile?”

  I was shocked that he’d say such a thing in Barbara-Ann’s hearing, although she didn’t seem to mind.

  “Naw, but what the hell.”

  Both men emerged from Ernie’s office. Ernie spoke to me. “We’ll be back in a bit.”

  “What?” I couldn’t believe he was going to leave me behind in the office while he went off and perpetuated a rescue. I wanted to be involved, curse it! “Wait!” Leaping from my chair, I rushed around my desk and grabbed Ernie’s arm.

  Both men stopped and turned, frowning. “What?” Ernie’s tone was cold and he eyed my hand gripping his coat sleeve with overt hostility.

  Nuts to that. “What are you going to do? I’ll come along and take notes.” All right, I know it sounded weak, but I didn’t fancy being left out of any action that might ensue.

  “You stay right here, kiddo. There’s nothing you can do, and I don’t want you to get in the way.” He added, as an afterthought, “Or get hurt.”

  And they left. Well! Scowling at the door, which had slammed in my very face, I made a decision. Turning to Barbara-Ann, I said, “Let’s follow them.”

  For the first time in our brief association, Barbara-Ann’s face took on an iota of animation. “Really? You’re gonna follow them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Keen!”

  So, after I retrieved my handbag and hat, Barbara-Ann and I headed to Chinatown. It was nice to know I had an eager colleague, even if it wasn’t Ernie Templeton.

  * * * * *

  Barbara-Ann and I didn’t bother with the elevator, which, while repaired, was quite slow. We pelted down the staircase. As we rounded the last set of stairs, I almost ran plunk into Ned, who didn’t seem to want to use the elevator, either. Screeching to a halt, I panted, “Ned!”

  He blinked, startled. “Miss Allcutt! Here.” He shoved the vase of geraniums at me.

  Oh, dear. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I didn’t want to carry a vase full of flowers to Chinatown with me, either. “Um … would you mind putting them on Lulu’s desk for a little while, Ned. Barbara-Ann and I have important business that really can’t wait.”

  He didn’t like it. “You want me to give your flowers to Lulu?”

  “Not give them to her. Just ask her if she’d mind if I left them there until I’m through with my business.” Deciding Ned was more trouble than he was worth, I patted his shoulder as I hurried past him. “I truly appreciate the flowers, Ned, but it’s vitally important that Barbara-Ann and I be on our way now.” And we left him on the staircase. Poor Ned. I was beginning to think of him as a hopeless case.

  That, however, was neither here nor there. Eyeing my companion with some concern, I asked, “Do you mind walking there, Barbara-Ann?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Good.” So we hot-footed it the few blocks to Chinatown. There was quite a bit of foot and automobile traffic, but we made good time. I suspected that Ernie and Mr. Bigelow had driven to Mr. Li’s shop, but didn’t believe they could have gotten there very much sooner than we did, owing to the traffic.

  I was right. When Barbara-Ann and I barreled into Mr. Li’s shop, we saw a sight thrilling enough to gratify any aspiring novelist. Han Li stood behind his counter, trembling from head to toe, staring at the gun Mr. Bigelow held in his hand, and stuttering.

  “No!” said he in a terrified voice. “I don’t know. Honest.”

  “Can it, Li. You don’t know the meaning of the word honest.” That was Ernie, who, hearing us new arrivals, swung around, a gun of his own drawn. His face registered an instant of astonishment before it settled into anger. “You! Damn it, Mercy Allcutt, I told you to stay put.”

  “It’s not fair to leave us out,” I said, wishing he’d aim the gun elsewhere. I wanted to point out that anyone else might have discovered him there, waving that gun in the air, because the front door of the shop had been standing wide open, but my heart had taken that opportunity to lodge in my throat, so I didn’t. I did, however, close the front door.

  Ernie muttered, “Christ,” in a disgusted-sounding voice. It wasn’t a prayer.

  In truth, I hadn’t anticipated guns being involved in this venture, and seeing two of them wielded in a threatening manner in that confined space made me wonder if I hadn’t been the least little bit precipitate in following the men.

  But we were there now, and there wasn’t much I could do about it but be careful. That being the case, I took Barbara-Ann’s hand and backed us both up against a row of cluttered shelves, watching the action carefully, keeping my eye on the door to the shop, and praying it wouldn’t open. When we’d entered, both Ernie and Mr. Bigelow had been facing Mr. Li with their backs to the shop’s front door. If it had been a villain who’d entered instead of the two of us, they might well have been in trouble. I decided to point that out to Ernie as soon as he was finished with Mr. Li. It was a valid argument in mitigation of what he might otherwise consider my interference.

  “Give it up, Li,” growled Mr. Bigelow. “You’ve lost.”

  “If I do that, they kill me,” whined Mr. Li. “You know they will.”

  “The L.A.P.D. will protect you.”

  “Huh.” Clearly, Mr. Li didn’t believe it.

  “What’s the score, Li?” Ernie asked. “Where’s Babs, and why are you holding her?”

  “I can’t tell!”

  “You damned well better tell,” said Mr. Bigelow. “Otherwise, you’ll go down alone for kidnapping.”

  “But I didn’t do anything!” cried Mr. Li in anguish. “They threaten me!”

  “The hell you say. What’s it all about Li? Booze? Drugs? Bumpas has skipped, so you’re all by yourself now.”

  “Skipped? Skipped?” Mr. Li’s voice cracked. “What you mean he skipped?”

  “He’s gone. Ran out on you. You’re on your own, Li. You going to give up the broad, or do you want to go to jail to think about it?”

  “No! No! He gotta give money to get woman!”

  “Who’s got to give you money?” asked Mr. Bigelow.

  “Bumpas. He got money to get woman!”

  Mr. Bigelow disabused him of that notion. “Too late for that. Bumpas has skipped town, and there won’t be any money. You’d better give us the woman.”

  “No money?” Mr. Li’s voice had gone tiny.

  “No Bumpas. No money. No Li, either, if you don’t start cooperating pretty damned soon,” growled Ernie.

  Mr. Li hung his head. For a moment, he was the very picture of despair. Then he looked again at Mr. Bigelow. “If I tell you, you gotta help me. I don’t wanna get killed.”

  “We’ll help you if you help us,” promised Mr. Bigelow. “Where’s the broad, and wha
t’s the scoop?”

  Shaking his head, Mr. Li said, “They kill me.”

  Ernie said, “Nuts. We said we’d help you, and we meant it.”

  “Give it up, Li. What’s up? Drugs?”

  Mr. Li stood there, indecisive for a moment, before he nodded. Then he said, “Opium,” in a defeated tone of voice.

  “Figured as much.” Mr. Bigelow glanced at Ernie. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “Yup. Now, Li, where’s Babs?”

  “Woman at my apartment.” Mr. Li seemed to be catching his second wind because he scowled at Ernie and Mr. Bigelow and said with renewed energy, “You get her out of there! She noisy. She bad. She nuts. She pain in ass.”

  I wished I’d thought to cover Barbara-Ann’s ears before she heard Mr. Li’s denunciation of her mother, but I hadn’t. I squeezed her hand.

  She said, “Ow,” and looked at me as if she thought I was crazy.

  Thirteen

  We left Han Li’s shop the back way (which, Ernie told me, was the way he and Mr. Bigelow had arrived), so as to prevent anyone who might be watching the front door from following us.

  “What? Did you think we marched in the front door, bold as brass, like you did?” Ernie asked with scorn dripping like acid from his words.

  I sniffed. “I wouldn’t have been surprised. You ought to have closed the door before you pulled your weapons, at least.”

  Ernie rolled his eyes, a gesture I had anticipated, but which sat ill anyhow.

  “Let me lock shop,” Mr. Li pleaded.

  “All right with me,” said Mr. Bigelow. “But I’m going with you.” And he did, showing an appalling lack of trust, which, I gather, he’d acquired during his years as a policeman.

  According to Mr. Li, the people who supplied him with the drugs weren’t due to show up at his shop for another three days. Mr. Bigelow did him the courtesy of not handcuffing him as he led him to the automobile he’d parked in the alley behind Mr. Li’s shop. Both he and Ernie held an arm, I presume so he couldn’t escape.

  When we all got to the car, Ernie looked from it to Barbara-Ann and me, and his scowl deepened. “We can’t all fit,” he announced in a tone of finality that belied the evidence of my own personal eyes. Mr. Bigelow’s automobile was a Ford, and it was plenty big enough to hold the five of us.