Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) (11 page)

      Worse, it would prove Mr. Templeton right, and he’d go to his grave believing me to be a shallow rich girl who couldn’t handle a job of real work. I picked up the receiver again and dialed.

      Los Angeles was a large-enough city to have established a direct-dialing system that allowed you to reach people without going through a telephone exchange and an operator. So was Boston. So this (dialing a telephone number), at least, was one thing I didn’t have to learn. It felt good to be doing something I knew how to do.

      Somebody answered the wire! I was breathless when I spoke in my turn. “Pauline Richardson?”

      “Yeah, this is her.”

      It had to be the right person. Nobody else talked like that, except Barbara-Ann. “My name is Mercy Allcutt, and I’m helping Barbara-Ann Houser find her mother, who hasn’t been seen since last Saturday. Are you acquainted with Mrs. Houser?”

      A gasp on the other end of the wire told me that Pauline hadn’t realized her friend was missing. “Babs is missing? How’d that happen? Where is she?”

      The inability of people to think things through before they asked questions amazed me. “I don’t know how it happened, and I’m trying to find her,” I said gently. “And Barbara-Ann said you and Mrs. Houser are friends. I hoped perhaps you could assist me.”

      “Yeah? How?”

      “Well, perhaps you can give me the names of other friends that I might be in touch with. Or maybe you know if Mrs. Houser has been under any particular strain, or if she seemed worried about anything. Any little bit of information might help.”

      “Well, there’s the Chink. She’s been all in a stew over the Chink for a few weeks now. Personally, I think she oughta toss out that louse she’s seeing, but that’s just me.”

      I hesitated before speaking again. There seemed to be a rather large language barrier between Miss Richardson and me, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. Her speech had contained another reference to a chink. And she’d introduced a louse into the conversation. If I saw a louse, I’d most certainly toss it out, although I’m not sure I’d recognize one if it crawled across my desk. I’d read that sometimes a segment of society will create and use its own form of cant or argot. Perhaps this was the argot used by women who work in speakeasies in Los Angeles.

      “Um … a chink?”

      “Yeah. Owns one of them trinket shops in Chinatown.”

      “The chink owns the shop?” This was terribly confusing, but I swore I wouldn’t give up until I’d decoded Pauline’s message.

      “Yeah. Third one in from the west arch off Hill. Little place.”

      Nuts. I decided to go ahead and ask. “Miss Richardson, what exactly is a chink?”

      Laughter pealed over the telephone wire. “Sweetie, where you been all your life? A Chink is a Chinaman!”

      Ah. Illumination at last. “I see. And … um … the louse?”

      “Matty Bumpas, of course! He’s the slimiest slug in the neighborhood.”

      More illumination! I felt as if I were getting somewhere, although I wasn’t sure exactly where that was. The argot was commencing to unfold, however, and that was a good thing. I think. “I see. Yes, I understand he’s not an admirable character.”

      “Admirable? Honey, you got a way with words.”

      How gratifying. “You wouldn’t know the name of this Chinese man, would you?”

      “Naw. But like I say, it’s the third shop in from the west arch. A little ways from that water garden thing with the funny writing that you throw pennies in. On the plaza there. You can’t miss it.”

      I was writing as fast as I could, and only hoped that reading my notes would prove more edifying than listening to Miss Richardson’s directions. “And you’re sure you don’t know the name of the man? Or the name of his shop?”

      “Naw. Anyhow, them Chinks have screwy names. Even if I heard it, I prolly wouldn’t remember it.”

      I’m sure they thought the same of us, although I didn’t say so. “Thank you very much, Miss Richardson. Please call if you think of anything else that might help us find Mrs. Houser.” I gave her the telephone number to the office and told her that I worked for Mr. Ernest Templeton.

      A full-blown shriek on the other end of the wire nearly deafened me. “Ernie? You work for Ernie Templeton? That’s rich!” And she hung up the receiver on her end, leaving me staring at mine and rubbing my ear.

      There was only one other person on my list whom I could attempt to find, since I knew neither Dolly nor Gwenda’s surnames. I turned pages in the Los Angeles telephone directory until I got to the M’s. Merchant … Merchant … Aha! But there was no Gladys Merchant. There was a G. W. Merchant who lived on Figueroa, which was the same street that Mr. William Desmond Taylor had lived on, if I remembered correctly. Hmm. It seemed unlikely that a good friend of Babs Houser would have the wherewithal to live in a fancy neighborhood. Perhaps it wasn’t the right G. Merchant.

      With a sigh, I decided there was only one way to find out, and I dialed the number. I’m ashamed to say that I was more pleased than not when nobody answered the telephone on the other end of the wire. If I expected to be successful in my new endeavor as a working person, I had to get over my fussy ways.

      Still and all, I’d dared, and I’d succeeded, at least with Pauline Richardson. I contemplated the information I’d jotted on my pad. So. Babs Houser had been worried about a Chinese man. Of course, I’d read all about opium dens and so forth, but not in connection with Los Angeles. What was it Dolly had mentioned last night at the Kit Kat Klub? Something about …

      Good Lord! It suddenly dawned on me what white slavers must be, and I gasped aloud. Could this Chinese person of whom Babs was afraid be involved in the kidnapping and selling of white women into … the notion was so shocking, I could scarcely make myself even think the word …
prostitution?

      My heart started racing, and I stared at my list, aghast. Shoving my chair back on its little rollers, I stood up and grabbed my pad. I’d taken a step toward Mr. Templeton’s office door, when I recalled the events of the morning. And that woman. And how friendly he’d been with her. And how coy she’d been with him. And how much he’d seemed to enjoy it. Hmm. The office door was closed. For some reason, I got the impression it was closed against
me,
in particular.

      But that was asinine. Clutching my pad to my bosom, I marched up to Mr. Templeton’s door and knocked. Softly, just in case the bear in the lair was grumpy.

      “C’m in,” he called.

      So I did.

      I’d expected to find him sitting in his chair with his feet propped on his desk, reading a newspaper, but by gum, he actually seemed to be working on something. About time. He’d been hunched over, writing on a pad of his own, but he shoved it aside, sat up straight, stretched, and said, “Ow. Been writing too long.” As if to prove it, he wiggled his fingers and rolled his head to get the kinks out of his neck and back.

      “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.”