Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) (2 page)

      It took me a few seconds to decide whether I should knock at the glass or boldly walk inside, but I decided to err on the side of caution. I knocked. The glass rattled, and I jumped back in case it decided to fall out on my feet, which were encased in sturdy walking shoes. Hot sturdy walking shoes.

      “Yeah?” a grumbly voice said a moment later.

      
Yeah?
Was that any way to respond to a knock?

      Knowing myself to be ignorant of Los Angeles manners, I took a chance, turned the dull brass doorknob, and pushed.

      And I walked into an empty room. Well, now what? Dirty windows let in some light, but unless the person who had spoken to me was invisible, he wasn’t there. Unless he was under the scarred desk, replete with candlestick telephone and typewriting machine, standing in the middle of the room. Four chairs, one behind the desk, two before it, one to its side, and all empty, also occupied the room.

      “Um …” I looked around, confused, not really caring to march over to the desk and search beneath it.

      My confusion ended in a flash when a voice from an adjoining room called out, “In here.”

      Ah. That explained it. Unaccountably relieved—in the split-second I’d had to think about it, I had considered the possibility that Mr. Templeton had suffered a fit and fallen down dead behind the desk, and I didn’t want to find him there—I went to the adjoining room and entered it. I didn’t get farther than a foot inside the door, because I was so shocked by what met my eyes.

      A man—a youngish man—leaned back in one of those swivel chairs that you often find in offices. This one looked as if it had seen some hard usage. He had dark hair brushed back from his forehead although a strand or two had flopped forward, eyes so blue I could see them from where I stood, and his feet propped on his desk, which was messy and covered with papers. One of his shoes had a hole in its sole.

      I think the thing that astonished me the most, however, was the large knife he held in his hand. It looked as if he was cleaning his fingernails with it.

      Was it a local fad, this nail-cleaning obsession people in this building seemed so fond of?

      A coat tree next to his desk held a jacket and a hat. He was in his shirtsleeves, which were rolled up. And he didn’t rise to greet me, even though I was a woman. I believe I sniffed, reminding myself of my mother and jolting me out of my initial state of surprise.

      He said, “Yeah?” again.

      I said, “Mr. Templeton?”

      “The one and only.”

      I doubted that. “You have no father?” As soon as the words left my lips, I could have kicked myself. Even though I had little experience with job-hunting, I sensed it was unwise to be sarcastic to a prospective employer.

      Evidently he didn’t hold my slip against me. Grinning, he said, “He’s dead.”

      “I’m sorry.” Embarrassment burned within me. And probably on me, as I felt my cheeks get hot.

      “You got a problem, lady?” Removing his feet from his desk, he plopped them on the floor with a clunk—I noticed then that the office was not carpeted—and said, “You need a P.I.?”

      “Um … I don’t know. I’m looking for a job.” I waved the newspaper at him. “I’m applying for the position you have advertised in the
Times
.”

      Squinting, he said, “Where you from?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “You’re not from around here, are you?”

      “Er … no. I’m from … back East.” Curse it, how could I fit in here if everyone knew from my voice that I didn’t?

      He nodded sagely. “Thought so. You sound classy.”

      I wasn’t sure, but I think that was a compliment. Figuring it best not to respond to the comment in case I was wrong, I forged onward, pursuing the employment issue. “What sort of work are you offering, Mr. Templeton?”

      He waved his hand, the one with the huge knife attached to the end of it, in the air. I drew back, certain that was an unsafe gesture to be making in so confined a space. “I need a girl Friday.”

      “Um … a girl Friday?”

      “Yeah. You know. Like Robinson Crusoe had his man Friday.”

      “Oh. I see.” This man was confusing me. He still hadn’t risen. Perhaps men only rose when women they perceived as elderly walked into their rooms. Perhaps I’d been more sheltered than even
I
had conjectured. Ghastly thought.

      “Can you type?”

      “Yes.” I said it proudly, too, since I’d defied both my mother and my father, not to mention assorted aunts, uncles, and cousins, when I’d attended a typewriting class at the local Young Women’s Christian Association in Boston. I’d justified my astounding action by saying that I wanted to be able to create a book of her favorite poems for my aunt Ophelia. Ophelia was quite eccentric, but she was so rich nobody avoided her because of it. Everybody backed off after that, deducing that if I was nice to Ophelia, Ophelia might leave me some of her money if she ever died.

      “What about shorthand? Can you take shorthand?”

      “Of course. Pitman system.” I’d learned to use Pitman shorthand at the same YWCA where I’d learned to type. I never even told my parents about that, since I couldn’t think of a moneyed relative upon whom I could blame my shorthand. I guess my parents had believed me to be a slow typist who had to take several classes in order to become proficient. Huh.

      “Can you use the telephone?”

      “Of course.”

      He squinted at me. “I don’t know … You look kind of young.”

      “I’m twenty-one,” I announced firmly.

      “Yeah?” His grin made me wonder if he’d been hoping to discover my age without having to ask. Perhaps he was more subtle than he looked. Or I was more stupid than I had hoped?

      “You sure you want to
work?
”

      “Of course, I do! Why do you even ask the question? Would I be here if I didn’t want to work?”

      With a careless shrug, he said, “I don’t know. I want somebody who’ll really work. Sometimes rich girls think they want a new experience and will get a job for the hell of it and then they quit when they realize working isn’t as much fun as sitting at home and spending Daddy’s money.”

      The latter part of his speech shocked his
hell
right out of my head. “Rich girls? Why do you assume I’m a rich girl?”

      His teeth were extremely white. I noticed them when he grinned once more. “You are, aren’t you?”

      There went my cheeks again. “Nonsense,” I said, although I don’t think there was much force behind the word. “If I were rich, would I be looking for work?”

      “Like I said …” He allowed his sentence to trail off.

      It bothered me a lot that he had guessed my status upon first acquaintance. Besides, it wasn’t true that my family’s wealth was all there was to me. I didn’t want to be classified as some mediocre “rich girl” who was only getting a job for the … for fun. I truly craved independence.

      Didn’t I?

      I thought about it for the approximately fifteen seconds Mr. Templeton stared at me, squinting, as if he were attempting to crawl inside my brain and figure out my motivations. Standing up straighter, I said, “I assure you, Mr. Templeton, that I need a job. I will be a good, assiduous, and prompt employee.”

      “Yeah?”

      “Yeah. I mean, yes.” Phooey.

      At last he stood up and flipped the knife, which landed point-down on his desk. The gesture startled me into a small jump. “Okay. You’re hired. Now let’s get some lunch.”

      And he rose from his scruffy chair, which squealed hideously, rolled down his shirtsleeves, buttoned his cuffs, reached for his jacket, plopped his hat on his head, and motioned for me to precede him from the room.

      I wavered. “But … ”

      “No buts. Twenty-three skidoo, kiddo.”

      I’m sure I looked as confused as I felt. Mr. Templeton gave his hat a pat, shrugged into his jacket, slung himself out from behind his desk, and took my arm. He was quite a bit taller than I, who am five feet, four inches tall in the morning. I shrink during the day. I think everyone does. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s rip a duck apart. My insides are rubbing together.”

      “But … ”

      “I’ll tell you about the job while we eat. You like Chinese?”

      “I … I … ”

      “Good. Chinese it is.”

      * * * * *

      As I stumbled along behind Mr. Templeton, I attempted to assess the situation. Was he only taking me out to luncheon? I mean lunch? Or did he have some devious and far more nefarious plan in mind? On the face of it, he didn’t appear threatening. Then again, if every villain in the world looked the part, villains wouldn’t get away with so much, would they?

      “Mr. Templeton!”

      “Call me Ernie. We’re going to be working together, aren’t we?”

      “I … I don’t know.”

      “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

      “Yes, but … ” I’d had enough. Groping for the stair railing—we’d come that far already—I grabbed on to it and set my feet firmly on the top stair. “Stop pulling me!”

      I hadn’t meant to yell, but it worked. He stopped pulling me. In actual fact, he released my arm, quit walking—he had very long legs—and turned to frown at me. “What’s the matter with you?”

      I was out of breath, for one thing, but I sensed that wasn’t what he meant. “I came here about a job! Not luncheon. I mean lunch.”

      “Oh, heck, kiddo, you have the job. It’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry. So let’s talk about the job over a bowl of noodles at Hop Luey’s. Hell, I don’t even know your name yet.”

      “Well … I don’t believe it’s proper for—”

      It was probably a good thing that he let out a roar of laughter, since I’d started sounding like Boston again. “Proper! Lady, if you want proper, you don’t want Ernie Templeton, P.I.” He poked my chest with his forefinger. “If you want a job, I’m your guy.”

      Oh, brother. Rubbing my chest, I said, “Well …”

      “Good. Let’s go.”

      So we went.

      * * * * *

      When I got back to Chloe’s house, it was about two in the afternoon, and I was feeling slightly giddy.

      But, by gum, I had a job!

Two
 

The next morning, I awoke to the jangle of the wind-up alarm clock I’d bought at the five-and-dime on the corner of Fourth and Hill, and jumped out of bed with a feeling of renewed purpose in my life. I had a job! What’s more, it wasn’t just any old job. It was a job working with a private investigator! Mr. Templeton had told me what P.I. meant over lunch.

      If ever there was a job suited to a novelist, I told myself, this one was it. I would surely meet people with problems I could borrow for my novels, since I had none of my own that anyone else would give a rap about. Perhaps I might even meet criminals! Bootleggers! Gangsters! The notion made a shudder of delicious anticipation tap dance up my spine.

      I dressed in a sober navy blue skirt and white blouse, picked up my matching jacket and cloche hat, and hurtled downstairs to the kitchen, surprising Mrs. Biddle, Chloe’s housekeeper, into dropping an egg.

      “Sorry, Mrs. Biddle. Here, let me help you.”

      I grabbed a rag from the sink, but Mrs. Biddle snatched it away from me. “Never you mind. I don’t need nobody helping me.”

      “Well,” I said, dropping the help issue since I got the feeling she didn’t consider me adequate—which was probably true—“do you have some brass polish I can borrow?”

      “What you want with brass polish?” She looked at me as if I were crazy. I guess she wasn’t accustomed to the people for whom she worked raiding her kitchen for cleaning supplies before eight o’clock in the morning.

      “I’ll need a couple of rags, too,” I said. “And what kind of paint do you use to paint signs on windows, do you know?”

      “I don’t have any idea.” She backed up a little bit, hunching, and seemed to be sidling toward the knives.

      Well, that was all right. I couldn’t help it if people thought I was unusual. “And I’ll need something to wash windows with, too. What do you use to wash windows, Mrs. Biddle?”

      “Bon Ami,” she said. “And vinegar.”

      Before I could muddle through why the woman was trying to speak French to me, I saw in the cupboard a red-and-yellow cardboard box with the words “Bon Ami” stenciled thereon. Aha. I understood it all now. Bon Ami was some kind of window cleaner. Good. “Do you mind if I borrow it? Just for today?”

      She didn’t speak. When I turned to look, she was shaking her head slowly and staring at me. She’d made it to the knives, and her right hand was hovering over them. In case I made any sudden moves, I guess. Perceiving that it would be better all around if I desisted in garnering unto myself any more cleaning supplies, at least for today, I smiled in a friendly manner, lifting the box of Bon Ami from the cupboard. “Thank you. I’ll just run along now.”

      Mrs. Biddle nodded, but she neither smiled nor left the knife rack until I was out of the kitchen. I suppose my actions might be considered a trifle peculiar, but that was only because Mrs. Biddle didn’t understand that I had a
job
now! Or, if she did understand that, she didn’t consider having a job anything unusual, since she and probably everyone else she knew also had jobs. It crossed my mind that there might even be people in the world who wished they
didn’t
have jobs—or at least wished they didn’t have to have them. Hmmm. I decided to think about that later.

      I was so excited, I could scarcely sit down to eat my toast and drink my tea. As soon as I’d swallowed the last bite, I jumped up from the table and assembled my cleaning supplies into a canvas sack I’d found in the basement. I hoped Mrs. Biddle wouldn’t need the sack for anything before I got home from work, but I didn’t ask. By that time I’d decided I’d best not fuss her anymore that morning. Then I left the house, walking the two blocks to Angel’s Flight with a spring in my step, perhaps aided in the endeavor by the fact that the weather hadn’t turned hot yet.