Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) (19 page)

      “Oh.” When she put it that way, I guess she had a point. I hadn’t been living with Chloe and Harvey for very many weeks, but I’d come to understand that Harvey was truly a big shot in the motion pictures. Therefore, for the rest of the day, I attempted to act blasé about my new hair. It felt
so good!
I can’t quite explain what it’s like to lose a couple of pounds of hair, but it’s definitely a freeing experience.

      Shopping with Chloe was fun, even if she did carp at me about accompanying Ernie to a villain’s home that night. She took me to the best dressmakers in Los Angeles, and I regret to say I splurged extravagantly. Anyone making the wages I made with Ernie could never have afforded all the clothes I bought. However, I justified the expenditure by reminding myself that, while I was employed as a private investigator’s assistant, and I was determined to do an exemplary job while so employed, there was no law prohibiting me from using my own private funds to refurbish my wardrobe.

      Then I felt guilty.

      Fortunately, the feeling passed. It did so with a jolt when I thought I espied Mr. Godfrey in the crowd of shoppers thronging the sidewalk in front of several fashionable shops on a street called Beverly Boulevard. I took Chloe’s arm. “Stop!”

      “What is it?” She turned and looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

      But the conversation I’d had with Ernie on Thursday at Mijare’s had remained with me. If Mr. Godfrey was a lunatic who had pursued June Williams, could he be transferring his attention to me? I’d lost him—if he’d even been there—in the crowd, however, so I couldn’t do anything about him. Not that I’d have been able to do anything about him anyway. How could a person eliminate another person’s fantasies, anyhow? I had no idea, but I felt distinctly creepy for several minutes.

      And then, wonder of wonders, we ran into Ned. He looked out of place among the well-dressed shoppers along Beverly Boulevard, but he whipped his cloth cap from his head and smiled at us. Actually, he smiled at me. I’m not sure he even noticed Chloe.

      “ ’Lo, Miss Allcutt.”

      Since he’d stopped dead in front of us, I couldn’t do much but respond in kind. Not that I wouldn’t have been polite, but it was slightly awkward to be standing still while the mob flowed like a river around us. “Hello, Ned. Fine day, isn’t it?”

      “Yes.”

      “Um … Ned, this is my sister, Chloe Nash. Chloe, may I present … Ned.” Curse it, I wish somebody had bothered to tell me his last name. I’d also introduced him to her instead of the other way around, but nobody present was a stickler for polite forms of address, so it was all right. “Chloe, Ned works in the Figueroa building where I work.”

      “Oh,” said Chloe, bored. “Hello, Ned.”

      Ned nodded, but he didn’t look away from me. “You got your hair cut.”

      “Yes, I did. Do you like it?”

      “You look modern.”

      I couldn’t tell if he approved of my newly attained modernity, but I also didn’t much care. “Thanks, Ned. Well, we’ll be getting along now.”

      “Oh. Okay.” He stepped aside, and I forgot all about him in the excitement of buying new clothes.

      It wasn’t merely clothing I purchased that day. I also found a cunning, but tasteful, rug with flowers on it that would look very nice in my office, and a framed picture of a fall scene that reminded me of home to hang on the office wall. Since I didn’t want to upset Mrs. Biddle or deal with Ned, I also purchased a small hammer and some nails, with which I aimed to hang the picture my very own self come Monday morning.

      After we got home, I sorted through all my newly acquired frocks and suits, and decided upon a fetching outfit for my foray into blackmailing that night. It was a black faille crepe frock whose skirt had three scalloped layers (scallops were all the vogue that year) that came down just below my knee. When I donned black silk stockings and threw a black crepe cloak over my shoulders, I thought I looked wildly sophisticated. As I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, I decided Ernie would have nothing to object to in my appearance. I was terribly excited about meeting Mr. Fortescue, and knowing I looked my best helped boost my self-regard tremendously.

      “I want to meet this Mr. Templeton of yours,” Chloe announced when I descended the staircase to wait for Ernie in the living room.

      “He’s not
my
Mr. Templeton, but you can certainly meet him.”

      “Huh.”

      He rang the bell promptly at eight. I’d been poised to answer the door, because I didn’t want him to think we in the Nash household were a bunch of snobs, but Mrs. Biddle beat me to it. I was right behind her. I know I blinked when I saw him.

      “You’re all dressed up!” I cried, and then felt stupid. But he looked very handsome in his black evening suit. We’d look quite well together, I decided.

      “So are you,” he said, frowning at me.

      “I guess you’re expected,” grumbled Mrs. Biddle, and she stepped aside to allow Ernie into the foyer. It was a lovely foyer, with a floor covered in Spanish tiles and lots of pretty house plants that got plenty of sunlight from the big windows on either side of the double door.

      Ernie looked around, a bland expression on his face. “Nice place.”

      “Yes. My sister and her husband, you know.”

      “Yeah. Nash. Isn’t that their last name?”

      “Yes.”

      He was holding his hat, which was polite of him. I hadn’t known what to expect of him. In the office, he was relaxed to a fault, but I guess he could use good manners when he had to. “Say, your brother-in-law wouldn’t be Harvey Nash, would he? The movie guy?”

      Drat! I was hoping he wouldn’t have made the connection. However, Harvey’s profession didn’t have anything to do with me, so I owned up to it. “Yes. Come into the living room and meet my sister, Ernie. She’s been dying to meet you.”

      “Yeah?” He didn’t believe me.

      Undaunted by his doubt, I said, “Follow me,” and led him into the living room. Chloe sat in a chair by the fireplace (in which no fire burned, this being July and all). She glanced up, then rose. I could tell she was favorably impressed by Ernie’s looks. She sauntered over to us. “You must be the Mr. Templeton Mercy is always talking about.” She held out her hand for Ernie to take, which he did.

      “I’m not always talking about him,” I said with some heat. “I’m always talking about my
job
. There’s a big difference.”

      A flicker of his usual wicked grin passed across his face before he turned it into a normal, everyday smile. He didn’t respond to Chloe’s comment. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Nash.”

      “Where are you taking my sister, Mr. Templeton? She wouldn’t tell me. She only said it had something to do with blackmail. That’s a bit worrying to Harvey and me.”

      “She didn’t tell you the name?” Ernie glanced at me with what looked like absolute approval, although I wasn’t sure, since I’d never seen that expression on his face. And I’d certainly never expected it to be directed at me.

      “No. My kid sister is the soul of discretion.” Chloe gave me a sardonic smile. “But I’d feel better about this evening’s jaunt if I knew where she was going.”

      “It’ll be all right, Mrs. Nash. There’s no danger involved. We’re only going to be attending a small party on Sunset Boulevard.”

      “Sunset. My, my.”

      “Chloe,” I said, irked, “I’m a grown-up now, remember. I’ll be fine. Ernie will take care of me.”

      “Oh, Ernie will, will he?” Her artfully penciled eyebrows arched over her pretty blue eyes. I guess she was surprised to discover that Ernie and I were on a first-name basis, but she shouldn’t have been. I’d told her before that evening that Ernie was a very unceremonious individual. On the other hand, perhaps her incredulity was directed more toward what she perceived as my stuffiness than Ernie’s easiness. Nuts. I’ve always gotten along well with Chloe, and I love her dearly, but she did have a very prudish mental image of me, and I don’t believe I deserved it.

      Ignoring her barbed comment, I said, “Let’s be off, Ernie.” I turned to Chloe. “You don’t need to wait up for me.”

      “We aren’t going to be late,” Ernie said.

      “Oh, it’s not a problem,” said Chloe. By which, I knew she meant that she
would
wait up for me, and that nothing I could say would make her alter her intention.

      Sometimes it’s difficult being the youngest member of the family.

      * * * * *

      Mr. Fortescue’s house was truly fabulous. Sunset Boulevard twists and twines around a woodsy area of Los Angeles. All we could see was foliage for the most part, but every now and then an elaborate gate would loom up from the shrubbery. At one point Ernie turned the Studebaker onto what looked like a side road, but which was, in reality, a private drive that ended at another enormous wrought-iron gate with scrollwork and all over it.

      “Fortescue’s,” he said.

      “Good heavens,” I said.

      “Blackmail pays.”

      “I guess so.”

      A uniformed guard appeared at Ernie’s window, which he rolled down. “Templeton,” he told the guard.

      “Yes, sir.” The guard held a clipboard, and he looked at it, probably searching for Ernie’s name. He must have found it, because he stepped back, pressed a button, the gate started sliding open, and he said, “Thank you, sir.”

      “Sure thing.” And Ernie drove through the parted gates.

      While Sunset Boulevard had been dark, with very few street lamps aglow, Mr. Fortescue’s yard was as bright as day. Actually,
yard
is too puny a word to describe the lavish spectacle into which Ernie drove.
Park
is more like it. Ernie turned toward the left, and drew up before two more uniforms, these being worn by young men. As I sat in the car and waited, Ernie got out, handed his keys to one of the attendants (who looked upon the Studebaker with barely concealed contempt), and then came around to my side and opened the door.

      “Let’s go, kiddo.”

      So, with a swirl of my black cape to give me courage, I took Ernie’s arm, and we walked along a path lined by trellises dripping with roses and overhung with Chinese lanterns. It was a very impressive display. I thought I’d mention to Chloe how beautiful the roses were. I thought the lanterns were a trifle excessive to be considered tasteful. Then again, according to my mother, the words
tasteful
and
Los Angeles
should never be used in a sentence together. She’s prejudiced, however.

      All the females employed by Mr. Fortescue wore tidy black uniforms with black caps, white aprons, white stockings, and black shoes. These liveried ladies stuck out against the ruby red of the interior walls like zebras swimming in tomato soup. And the chandeliers! Well, let me just say that the chandeliers were remarkable. Totally tasteless, and absolutely jangling with crystal hangy things. I can’t remember what they’re called.

      Surprisingly, at least to me, was the fact that we were met in the huge black-and-white tiled entryway by a perfectly precious, and very tiny, black French poodle. It danced across the tiles with a tippity-tap of little doggie claws and slid to a stop before us, wagging its poofy tail and yipping. Its bark reminded me of the sound a baby’s rubber toy will make when squeezed.

      I’ve always been very fond of dogs, and I knelt to greet this one with at least as much enthusiasm as it met us with, although I refrained from yipping. “Hello there,” said I, enchanted.

      Its tail wagged harder, and I picked up the dog, heedless of dog hair on my new frock (truthfully, I’d been told by Mr. Easthope, who owns two of them, that poodles don’t shed). As I did so, I noticed a butler standing there, impassively watching me.

      “May I take your wrap, Madam?”

      “Certainly. What’s the doggie’s name?” I unhooked my cape, and Ernie caught it before it hit the floor. He handed it to the butler with a frown for me. The puppy licked my cheek, and I laughed with delight.

      “Rosie, Madam.” If he’d told me he was going to shoot the dog in the morning, he couldn’t have sounded more gloomy. Perhaps Rosie wasn’t the enchanting creature I thought she was. More likely, the butler was an old grump.

      “What a charming name for a charming dog.”

      “Bingo,” muttered Ernie, for a reason I was to learn shortly. He scratched the poodle behind the ear and said, “Cheers, Rosie.”

      I guess because I grew up in a well-to-do family that entertained a lot, I’ve never been shy about attending parties or other social occasions where I didn’t know many people. It didn’t embarrass me in the least to carry Rosie into the huge room in which the main party was going on. As Ernie led the way, I whispered at him, “Why’d you say ‘bingo’?”

      He whispered back, “You wanted to know what Mrs. Von Schilling’s property is that Mr. Fortescue has and that she wants back, didn’t you?”

      “Yes.”

      “You’re holding it.”

      My gaze flew to Rosie, who was perched in my arms and watching all the people gathered in the front room with sparklingly alert brown eyes. “Oh!”

      “Right. I don’t suppose your handbag is big enough to hold her.”

      He was probably joking, but his comment gave me an idea. “No, but perhaps I can arrange something else.”

      “Eh?” He eyed me, startled, but I didn’t respond because we were among the throng by that time.

      It was certainly a glittering ensemble. I’d never seen so many famous people all gathered in one place, although Chloe and Harvey had invited their share of picture people to dinner several times. I nearly fainted when I saw Douglas Fairbanks chatting with a couple of women, one of whom looked like Vilma Bankey. While it’s true I grew up with money, even rich girls get a thrill when they see famous people who have made their hearts go soft and mushy in the flickers. Theda Bara, dressed in a black dress infinitely slinkier than mine, slouched against a fireplace on the far wall, holding a cigarette in a long, black holder. Smoke wafted from her cigarette, and she looked bored—or perhaps she was only trying to look bored. Whatever her intent, she looked terribly glamorous and mysterious. Not unlike Mrs. Von Schilling, in actual fact.