Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) (4 page)

      
Yeah?
Somehow or other, that didn’t seem an appropriate greeting to one for whom this was a first day at a first job. “Um … is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Templeton?”

      He thought about it. “Don’t think so, thanks.”

      At least he’d thanked me. That was something, albeit not much. I had turned to go back to my doorknob when Mr. Templeton’s voice halted me, and I turned back to face him. I noticed that he was looking at me rather oddly and hoped I hadn’t done anything wrong.

      “Say, is that Ned out there on the ladder?”

      “Yes.”

      “Wasn’t sure. Don’t see him much.”

      “Oh.”

      “What’s he doing?”

      “Changing light bulbs. Then he’s going to touch up the paint on the front window of your office.”

      “Really?” A grin slowly spread across his face. He had an interesting face. Handsome, I guess, in a rangy, craggy way. His eyes were remarkable. They were almost turquoise.

      “Yes.” For some reason my heart started dancing a lilt in my chest.

      “You got him up here yourself?”

      “Yes.”

      “You must have found him before he went into hiding.”

      “Ah … actually, I didn’t. I searched him out in his lair.” I spoke lightly, but my innards were unsteady, since I didn’t know if I’d done the right thing or not.

      Mr. Templeton solved that puzzle for me. He sat up straight, slammed his newspaper down on his desk, and smiled broadly. “Did you now!”

      “Yes. He’d closed himself in a closet, but I found him.”

      “Good for you!” Leaving his newspaper squashed on the desk, he rose from his chair (which, I noticed once more, squeaked horribly—I’d get Ned to oil it) and leaned across his desk, holding his hand out to me as he did so. “Allow me to shake your hand, Miss Mercy Allcutt. It’s probably only because you’re pretty, but you’re the first person I’ve known since I moved into this dump who’s ever been able to get Ned to do anything. And I’ve been here for three years.”

      Embarrassed but pleased, I shook his hand. “You mean he’s been waiting to be ‘discovered’ for three years?”

      Mr. Templeton threw back his head and laughed so hard, I feared he would suffer a spasm. Before apoplexy could overcome him, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his eyes. “Oh, my God! Is that what he’s doing? He’s going to be a star?”

      “That’s what he told me.” My heart resumed fluttering again for no good reason, and I folded my hands at my waist once more, hoping to disguise my condition. Could it be reacting to Mr. Templeton? If it was, it was the first time it had done anything of a like nature, and I didn’t approve. I didn’t even know the man, for heaven’s sake, and he was a total stranger. Well … almost a total stranger.

      He re-sat himself with a flop. The chair squeaked again and then groaned, I presume from being put to such hard usage. “Brother, that’s a gag to write home about. Ned and Lulu LaBelle.”

      “Lulu? You mean she’s waiting to be discovered, too?”

      “Absolutely. Maybe we could get ’em both discovered by the same talent scout.”

      “Talent scout?” I believe my sister’s husband mentioned talent scouts at dinner once.

      “Yeah. God knows why or how they expect it to happen. Maybe they go out and parade themselves at night on the Boulevard.”

      “On the Boulevard?” It was as if he were speaking a foreign language.

      He flapped a hand at me. “Don’t mind me. I’m becoming cynical in my old age.”

      His old age? Squinting, I tried to determine his age, and couldn’t do it. He could have been anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five, I guess. His was one of those faces that last well. Like John Barrymore’s would have if he hadn’t taken to drink.

      Just as that thought flitted through my head, Mr. Templeton withdrew a flask from his jacket pocket, uncorked it, and took a tipple. I must have looked as shocked as I felt—after all, the distribution and consumption of liquor was supposed to have been outlawed years before, not that you’d know it from the news or my sister’s dinner table—because he tilted his head, lifted his left eyebrow, and gave me a cynical smirk. “Shocked, Miss Allcutt?”

      I hastened to deny it, even though I was. Very. “Heavenly days, no!” Then I made a total fool of myself and tittered.

      He stuffed the flask back into his pocket, squinting past me and into my room. “I think we’ve got a client, Miss Allcutt. Better look snappy.”

      A client? A client! “My goodness!” Forgetting all about the flask, I whirled around and raced back into my own office.

      My excitement suffered a slight check when I saw not a veiled, mysterious woman, or a distraught, disheveled man, but a small girl, perhaps about twelve years old. She didn’t look much like a client to me.

      Nevertheless, I was a professional, and I determined to treat this child graciously. She looked very shy, poor thing. “May I help you, dear?” Because I wanted to appear efficient as well as gracious, I sat myself behind my desk in my very own chair, folded my hands on my desk, and smiled at her. The chair was too tall and my feet didn’t reach the floor, and I determined to ask Ned to fix it. Now that I knew where to find him, I’d just hound him until he did his job—or at least until he’d done the parts of it that benefited Mr. Templeton and me.

      The little girl gulped. “Um … are you the P.I.?”

      “I’m his assistant, sweetheart. Do you need a private investigator?”

      She nodded. She was kind of grubby, I noticed, and wore a middy blouse that was probably supposed to be white over a dark blue skirt. Both items were quite dirty. Her long brown hair had been braided at one time or another, but not recently. I think the middy blouse probably had once sported a navy blue tie, but it was either lost or I was wrong.

      It occurred to me that her clothes might be examples of what I’d heard were termed “hand-me-downs.” I’d had no personal experience in wearing clothing that had once belonged to another. My heart was touched.

      Patting the chair next to my desk, I said sweetly, “Why don’t you sit here and tell me your problem, dear.”

      She did, exposing holes in her stockings and extremely scuffed and dirty tie-up shoes. No patent-leather Mary Janes for this child. She had brown hair and eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. She was not a prepossessing child, but was appealing for all that. “I need you to find my mother.”

      I must have gasped, because she jumped up from her seat and said harshly, her brown eyes flashing, “Don’t tell me to go to the coppers, because I ain’t gonna do that!”

      “No, no, dear,” I hastened to tell her, thinking the police were exactly what she needed, but not wanting to lose her confidence. Wouldn’t you know it? This was my very first case, and I’d already upset the client. “I’m only … uh … sorry that you can’t find your mother.” Peering at her closely, I said, “You did say that you couldn’t find her?”

      “Yeah. She went to work last Saturday and didn’t come home.”

      “But today is Tuesday!” I didn’t know if I was more horrified than shocked or the other way around.

      She gave me a look she might bestow on a younger and very stupid brother. “That’s why I’m here. This here’s a P.I.’s office, isn’t it?”

      “Er … yes. Yes, it is. But … well, what about your father?”

      This time, she looked at me as if I were speaking Swahili or Greek. “My father?”

      “Don’t you have a father?” I was beginning to despair of this poor child.

      She shook her head.

      Oh, dear. I could feel a lump starting in my throat, and I ruthlessly suppressed it. I worked for a P.I. I was supposed to be hardheaded and efficient, darn it. I didn’t mean to say that. “Well, then, are you sure you don’t think the police—”

      The mere word “police” had a galvanizing effect on her. As soon as it left my lips, she leaped to her feet again, her hands clenched, a look of something indescribable on her face, although I do believe its components were hate and fear. “No!”

      “That’s all right,” I hastened to say. “Um … why don’t I consult Mr. Templeton. Perhaps he has a suggestion.”

      “Not the cops,” said she.

      I nodded. “Not the … er … cops.” I rose, preparatory to going to Mr. Templeton’s office, when it occurred to me that I’d neglected to get the child’s name. Some kind of assistant
I
was! However, that oversight was easily remedied. “What’s your name, dear?”

      “Barbara-Ann.”

      “And your last name?”

      “You gotta know that?” She eyed me in what I could only term a suspicious manner.

      Well, no matter. Business was business. I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

      She heaved a huge sigh. “Houser.”

      “Barbara-Ann Houser?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Just a moment, please.”

      
Three
 

“Who?”

      Mr. Templeton’s roar startled me into dropping my pencil. I frowned at him as I stooped to pick it up, glad that I’d taken the precaution of shutting the door behind me when I entered his office. “Barbara-Ann Houser. She’s only a child, Mr. Templeton. There’s no need to shout.”

      It looked to me as if he’d been occupied in staring out the newly cleaned window before I interrupted his contemplation of the building next door. Now he shoved himself up from his desk, and bellowed, “The hell there’s not!”

      “Well, really!” I know it sounded stuffy, but I was vexed. People didn’t usually shout at me when I was only doing my job in a polite and efficient manner. Not that I’d had a job to do before that day, but … oh, never mind.

      Pushing past me as if I were a mere slight impediment, like a feather or a cobweb or a pesky gnat, he heaved himself out of his office without bothering to don his jacket or hat. I rushed after him, worried lest he frighten poor little Barbara-Ann.

      He stopped dead in the doorway, and I had to swerve or bump into him. So I swerved, bumped into the wall instead of his back, and banged my shoulder. My irritation with my employer surged. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Templeton!”

      I don’t think he heard me. He certainly didn’t care if I’d spoken or not. With his fists planted on his hips, and his elbows blocking my view of the girl, he said in a voice that I wouldn’t want to have directed at me, “It
is
you!”

      Barbara-Ann’s sullen voice muttered, “It’s me. Didn’t know you was a P.I. Thought you was still a copper.”

      During lunch the previous day, Mr. Templeton had told me he used to be a Los Angeles police officer, but that he had left the department a few years earlier.

      “No. I’m not a copper any longer.”

      She said, “Huh.”

      Furious now, I applied the palms of my hands to Mr. Templeton’s back and shoved. Evidently he hadn’t anticipated such a maneuver from his new secretary, because he stumbled forward, then turned to glare at me.

      I glared right back. I might be an employee, but I was a human being who deserved politeness if nothing else, as was that poor little girl, who didn’t need to be cursed at. “You knocked me into the wall,” I said, prevaricating a trifle.

      “Sorry.” He didn’t even have the grace to look abashed, but turned back to the girl. “You really are Babs’s kid, aren’t you? God. How long has it been, anyhow?”

      Now that I was back in my office, I resumed the chair behind my desk and watched with interest. It had become clear by this time that these two were acquainted, but what was really fascinating was that neither one of them seemed to cherish fond memories of the relationship. They were eyeing each other as if each suspected the other of hidden and dire motives.

      Barbara-Ann shrugged. “I dunno.”

      Mr. Templeton hooked a knee over the edge of my desk and sat, blocking my view. Irked, I shoved my chair over so that I could still see what was going on. The man was entirely too casual.

      “So Babs has gone missing, has she?”

      His tone was snide, a circumstance I deemed inappropriate to the situation. After all, the missing woman was apparently this child’s only parent. In order to soothe the poor thing and assure her that at least
one
of us cared about her plight, I murmured, “We’re so sorry, Miss Houser.”

      Both man and child looked at me as if I were a lunatic. Well, really!

      “Haven’t seen her since she left for work on Saturday,” agreed Barbara-Ann, once more looking at Mr. Templeton warily.

      “How come you came here? To me?”

      Barbara-Ann shrugged. “Didn’t know for sure it was you. But if it was you, I know you.”

      Poor child! Taking a chance on someone she
might
know, even though she neither liked nor trusted him. If I hadn’t been so cognizant of my precarious position as a newcomer and a neophyte, I’d have withdrawn my hankie and blown my nose.

      “Huh. Babs still working at the Kit Kat Klub?”

      The Kit Kat Klub? Good Lord, what was that?

      Barbara-Ann nodded.

      “She still with Matty Bumpas?”

      A shrug answered this question. I wondered who Matty Bumpas was. A gangster? A bootlegger? My experience-gathering antennae quivered in anticipation.

      “You don’t know?”

      “No.”

      “You got any other uncles coming around to see Babs in her off hours?”

      The sneer in his voice was palpable. So was his insinuation. Since Barbara-Ann didn’t seem to understand or appreciate either one, I winced in her stead. I think I must have uttered some sort of protesting syllable or murmur, although I don’t recall doing so, because Mr. Templeton turned his sneer upon me.

      “You don’t know Babs,” he told me.

      “Of course I don’t. I do know that she’s missing, however, and that this child wants to find her mother.”

      I didn’t like the smile that overtook his sneer when he registered this sharp sally from me. “Oh, yeah? You think so?” He turned back to Barbara-Ann. “Why do you want your mother to come back, Barbara-Ann?”