Lost Among the Angels (A Mercy Allcutt Book) (9 page)

      “Huh.”

      “And we need to talk about it.”

      “We do?” His face had taken on a bland expression that riled me.

      Again, I experienced violent urges that were heretofore completely alien to my nature. Ruthlessly repressing them, I said through clenched teeth, “We need to talk about Babs Houser before you go chasing after the poor woman who agreed to marry that detestable man.”

      “Now what,” he said, sneering once more, “is there to talk about regarding Babs Houser?”

      “What do you mean
what
is there to talk about?
” I regret to say that my voice was quite loud as I asked the question. “She’s been kidnapped and sold into white slavery, for heaven’s sake, and you can’t think of anything to
talk
about?”

      He squinted at me. “She’s been what?”

      I backed off a trifle. After all, I didn’t know for a fact that’s what had happened to the woman. “Well, that’s a theory Dolly propounded.”

      “Who’s Dolly?”

      “A lady who works with Babs.”

      “A lady, eh?” His smile was most unpleasant. “And Dolly claims Babs was kidnapped and sold into white slavery, does she?”

      “Well, as I said, it’s a theory she propounded.”

      “Dolly’s nuts, and so are you if you believe that wild story.”

      “Do you really think so?
Really?
”

      “Yes.”

      Darn. And I’d so wanted to know more about white slavery. I still wasn’t clear on what the white slavers did to the women they captured. Or what a chink was. In spite of my disappointment, I didn’t retreat from what I saw as my clear duty. “Mr. Templeton,
something
happened to Mrs. Houser. That poor child, Barbara-Ann, needs her mother, and I intend to find her, whether you help or not.”

      He gave me an unfriendly look, but finally threw up his hands and said, “Aw, hell, all right. I’ll talk about it.”

      My day at once became brighter, even if he still appeared rather gloomy. “Oh,
thank
you, Mr. Templeton!”

      “You talked to Barbara-Ann yesterday, didn’t you?”

      I sat in the chair on the other side of his desk and flipped my notepad to a new page, eager now. “Yes, I did. The poor thing. She was hungry and dirty and I felt so sorry for her.”

      “Right. I don’t suppose you asked her to bring in a picture of Babs, did you?”

      “A picture?” I stared at him.

      He gave me a look one might bestow upon a puppy who’d just failed to perform a new trick. Kindly. It was a kindly look, and I resented it because I sensed the sarcasm behind it. “You know. To show people. People who might have seen Babs.”

      “Oh.” I frowned as I thought about it. “That’s probably a good idea, isn’t it?”

      “I suspect it is.”

      His attitude pushed me over the edge. “Now see here, Mr. Ernest Templeton, I may be inefficient—at investigation, I mean. I’m a whiz at secretarial duties.”
Whiz
might have been a slight stretch, but I really did think I was going to be a very good secretary. “But that’s only because I don’t have your experience. There’s no reason to be caustic with me. Just guide and direct me, and I’m certain I’ll be a tremendous help to you.”

      “So far you’ve got me involved in a case that doesn’t pay, and you’ve destroyed my squeak. I’m not as certain as you are.”

      “Well, really!”

      “Although,” he said pensively, “I have to admit that you did get Ned to put in those light bulbs and repaint my door sign.”

      I smiled at him.

      “I guess I can give you a tip or two.”

      “Thank you. I really do want to be of assistance to you.”

      “I’m sure.”

      That being the case, and since he’d agreed to listen to me, I continued with a theory of my own that I’d come up with that very morning—actually, it had come to me within the last five minutes or so. “I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that Babs Houser and Mr. Godfrey’s fiancée were kidnapped by the same gang of white slavers, has it?”

      He looked at me as if he thought I’d lost what little mind he believed I’d possessed up to that point in time. “Are you nuts?”

      “No, I am not nuts! Why do you think it’s so far off the mark?”

      But he didn’t get the chance to answer me because the outer office door opened. With a lopsided grin, he said, “Go greet the client, Miss Allcutt.”

      Phooey.

      However, since he was paying me to do the job, I left his office and entered my own, armed with my nice clean pad and a big smile. One must be cordial to the clients, after all, no matter how irked one is with one’s boss. My cheerfulness suffered a slight dent when I beheld the personage who had interrupted us.

      There’s something about women who dress all in black, pull their hat veils down over their eyes, and speak in hushed and sultry tones that makes me think of Theda Bara. Or Mata Hari and espionage and vile intrigue. The woman who stood before my desk did all those things. I didn’t want to allow her within enticing distance of Mr. Templeton. Not that it mattered to me if he wound up in the talons of a scheming hussy, of course. Only I wanted him to concentrate on the Babs Houser matter.

      In my sweetest voice, I said, “May I help you, ma’am?”

      “Thank you,” she purred, bringing to my mind an image of Mata Hari’s cat. If she had one.

      I gestured toward my chair, thinking it would be secretarially correct to jot down a few notes before I sicced her on Mr. Templeton. “Please, sit down.”

      “Thank you.”

      She slithered into the chair. It looked to me as if her gown were made of silk, which meant it had cost a lot. So. She was pretty good at this seducing-men-out-of-their-fortunes nonsense, was she? “Now,” I said, still smiling, “what can I do for you?”

      “I need to see Mr. Templeton,” she said in her whispery-soft voice. “I need him to locate … something for me.”

      “What?” That was probably a little curt, but curse it, she didn’t have to whisper at me. I was a secretary, for Pete’s sake, not another man to be rendered helpless by her charms.

      It occurred to me that I might possibly be judging her too harshly and too soon, but I doubted it. Therefore, I didn’t soften my abrupt question.

      I saw her sultry smile through that stupid veil. “Perhaps it would be better if I spoke directly with Mr. Templeton.”

      Ha! What did I tell you? “Well, ma’am, if you could give me your name, that would be a good start.”

      “Esmaralda,” she purred. “Esmaralda Von Schilling.”

      And if
that
wasn’t a name made up out of whole cloth, I don’t know what was. “If you would please wait here for a moment, Miss Von Schilling?”

      “Missus,” she murmured. “It’s Mrs. Von Schilling.”

      I just bet it was. But I only said, “Mrs. Von Schilling,” and went into Mr. Templeton’s office. I closed the door behind me.

      He’d been reading the
Los Angeles Times
, but he looked up when I stood before his desk. “Got a live one out there?” he asked mildly, as if we hadn’t just been having words about Babs Houser.

      “I believe she’s alive, yes. A woman who calls herself Mrs. Esmaralda Von Schilling wishes to speak to you.”

      “ ’Bout what?”

      “She says she wants you to find something she’s lost.”

      His grin implied all sorts of scandalous things. I pretended not to notice. “She’s lost something, has she? Well, see the lady in.”

      “As to that,” I said with a sniff, “I’m sure I couldn’t say.”

      “You couldn’t say about what?”

      “The lady part.” I turned and opened the door.

      I heard him chuckling as I retreated from his office. Because I intended to do my job properly, no matter how much I didn’t want to, I smiled at Mrs. Von Schilling. “Please come right on in.”

      She wafted past me, leaving the scent of some exotic fragrance I’d never smelled before in her wake. I saw Mr. Templeton rise from his chair, a courtesy he’d never extended to me, look momentarily bedazzled, and hold out his hand before I shut the door. I didn’t slam it, either, and was proud of myself.

      I was still fuming internally when Mr. Godfrey showed up.

      
Six
 

Mr. Godfrey’s smile was sheepish when he removed his hat. “Hello. Is Mr. Templeton available?”

      “He’s with a client at the moment, Mr. Godfrey. May I assist you?”

      “Oh.” His face fell. “Well … I … Say, you know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

      And I’d have preferred to keep it that way. Sensing it would be unprofessional to say so aloud, I said, “I’m Miss Allcutt, Mr. Godfrey.”

      Holding out a hand that looked soft and damp, he beamed at me. “How do you do, Miss Allcutt? It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

      “Likewise, I’m sure.” I meant it not, but I shook his hand, still smiling.

      Being pleasant to the clients was beginning to tax my internal resources, and it crossed my mind that this was a good lesson for me to learn in my life. I’d never had to be polite and friendly with people I didn’t care for, since I’d always been able to avoid them. Well, unless you count certain members of my family, but I suppose one encounters those types of people in any family. Unfortunately, the oddballs in my family were primarily the most wealthy of its members, and my mother would have locked me in my room and fed me bread and water if I’d dared be rude to any of them. That was before I got myself a real job of real work. Now, as part of the worker proletariat, I had to abide by the rules set down for those born into circumstances less fortunate than mine or suffer the consequences.

      Therefore, I continued smiling at Mr. Godfrey, even though he took the liberty of sitting in the chair beside my desk without my asking him if he’d care to be seated. It then struck me that, since I was Mr. Templeton’s secretary, perhaps it was commonplace for people to feel free to do things in my office without my permission. I hadn’t considered the possibility that I might have to do or put up with so many things I found distasteful before I decided to get a job. And to think that most other people in the world had to do this every day, and not because they wanted to gather experiences, but because they needed the money they earned in order to survive. It was a sobering realization. I vowed I’d be kinder to Mrs. Biddle from now on—although she might not appreciate it. Was this having-to-kowtow-to-people-one-didn’t-like nonsense what drove anarchists to heave bombs at bureaucrats?

        Well, I’d think about all that later. At the moment, I had to concentrate on Mr. Godfrey, who seemed to want to chat. Drat Mr. Templeton and that beastly woman!

      So I endured. Mr. Godfrey had been talking at me for what seemed like a week, at least, when another interruption occurred—and it wasn’t the opening of Mr. Templeton’s office door. I kept envisioning Mr. Templeton and that slinky female becoming ever so cozy with one another, and felt as if I had indigestion, which was probably not so since I’d eaten breakfast much earlier in the day.

      However, that’s not the point. The point is that Ned entered the office after Mr. Godfrey had been droning on for a century or two about his life and his work and his childhood cat Zenobia, as if anyone cared, when Ned interrupted. Ned had not become an especial favorite of mine in the short while I’d known him, but I must say I welcomed him then.

      “Ned! How nice to see you.” And I smiled at
him,
even though he wasn’t a client.

      He didn’t even glance at Mr. Godfrey. “Is there anything else you need done, Miss Allcut?” He held his cap in his hands, and his watery blue eyes held a fixed stare that made him appear peculiarly feeble-witted.

      Mr. Godfrey swiveled—if such a corpulent fellow might be said to swivel. It was actually more like a lumbering rotation—in the chair beside my desk, and his own piggy eyes opened wide. “You!”

      That caught Ned’s attention. And mine, too.

      Ned looked at Mr. Godfrey, and his idiot expression transformed into one of outraged astonishment. “You!”

      Well, I guess I didn’t need to make introductions, which was probably a good thing since I still didn’t know Ned’s last name.

      “What are you doing here?” Ned demanded.

      “What’s it to you?” Mr. Godfrey demanded back. “For that matter, what are
you
doing here?”

      “I work here.” Ned’s voice had gone all cold and stony.

      “Oh, yeah? Well, what I’m doing here is none of your business.” So had Mr. Godfrey’s. He stood up from the chair, too, and looked as if he might just launch himself at Ned.

      “Gentlemen, please,” I said in my most aristocratic of Boston accents. “Let’s not have any unpleasantness.” Since Ned seemed smitten with me, I addressed him next. “Ned, I appreciate your  offer of assistance, but there’s nothing that needs to be done at the moment. I’ll let you know if there is.”

      “But …”

      “I’ll
let you know,
” I repeated in my mother’s very own voice. I’d have been appalled with myself if it didn’t work so well.

      Mr. Godfrey sat with a whump that shook the floor.

      Ned’s attitude of defiance and belligerence vanished. He slapped his cap on his head. “Well …”

      I presume he’d have left the office then in compliance with my wishes, but I didn’t get to test my assumption, because Mr. Templeton’s door opened—finally—and Mrs. Von Schilling, assisted by Mr. Templeton, not that she needed help, slithered from his office in her silk and her veils and her black. All attention focused on her. It would.

      Ned instantly whipped off his hat again. Mr. Godfrey’s mouth fell open and his little eyes goggled. Mr. Templeton, noticing the reaction of the two men, grinned a catlike—or perhaps it was more weasel-like—grin and winked at me. I almost forgave him. For what, I wasn’t sure.

      Mrs. Von Schilling, also noticing the men’s reaction to her, dipped her head coyly, ignored them, and turned to Mr. Templeton. Holding out a limp, black-gloved hand, she whispered, “Thank you
so
much, Mr. Templeton. You don’t know what this means to me.”