Angel's Flight (A Mercy Allcutt Mystery) (20 page)

      Without giving him time to recover his wits, I went on, borrowing heavily from my mother for the performance. “How dare you? You sit yourself right down there and behave properly. First of all, give me your name.” With erect posture and forbidding (I hope) features, I stared him in the eye and began moving inexorably forward. He had no choice but to back up. Well, technically, I guess he had a choice. He could have thrust me aside and continued his assault on Ernie’s office door, but I suspect he’d been reared with manners as had I, so he didn’t.

      Behind us, the office door opened and Ernie said, “What’s up?”

      Curse him. That gave the intruder just the chance he needed. Without heeding my command to sit and stay (a command Buttercup learned in our first week together, proving yet again that poodles are better than people), he darted around me and came face to face with Ernie. The only good thing about that maneuver was that Ernie was a good deal taller than he, and the newcomer didn’t appear quite so imposing by comparison.

      “Are you Templeton?” Imperious.

      Ernie said, “Yeah.” Insouciant.

      I rolled my eyes.

      It didn’t matter. The man said, “I’m Conrad Blythe, and I’m here to tell you to stop dogging my footsteps.”

      Conrad Blythe. Who in the world was Conrad Blythe?

      From the grin that spread over Ernie’s face, I presumed he knew. “Well, well, well. Come right on in, Mr. Blythe. We have a lot to talk about.” And he let the man into his private office, winked at me, and closed the door in my face.

      Well!

      Only after luncheon did I learn that Mr. Conrad Blythe was Miss Ginther’s missing uncle and that he was missing because he wanted to be. He hadn’t wandered off and become lost or been kidnapped or Shanghaied or murdered or anything of that nature. He’d simply had enough of Miss Ginther’s aunt, who, if she was anything like her niece, must have been difficult to live with, and set up housekeeping elsewhere. He’d evidently been sending money for the support of his wife, but he didn’t want to live with her any longer, and he didn’t want to reveal his present address because he didn’t want her bothering him. I hate to admit it, but I understood his dilemma. In fact, I’d probably have done the same thing if I’d been saddled with Miss Ginther and her aunt.

      So much for Miss Ginther’s missing uncle. Still, it was a case, and it had generated income for the firm. And I was responsible for it. So there.

      But the events of the morning, while upsetting, paled when compared to those of the afternoon. Not only was Ernie inundated with unwanted clients, all of whom demanded updates on their open cases (“Thanks to that damned ad you placed”), but right before I was about to put on my hat, grab my handbag, lock up the office and head to Angel’s Flight, Miss Sylvia Dunstable opened the office door. She didn’t come in. She only stood there holding onto the jamb, swaying slightly, pale and trembling and looking tragic.

      I gaped at her and hurried around my desk, fearful lest she faint right there in the doorway. “Whatever is the matter, Miss Dunstable? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost!” I took her hand and led her to one of the chairs in front of my desk. I liked Miss Dunstable and wouldn’t have minded if she’d sat in the chair beside the desk, but she looked too shaken to make it that far.

      “It’s . . . it’s . . .” She gulped and sat with a thump.

      Good heavens. I’d never seen the unflappable Miss Dunstable in this state. I hadn’t known she was capable of such an exhibition of naked emotion in public—or in the office. I guess we weren’t really public.

      Ernie, who generally departed for home before five o’clock rolled around, but who had been much busier than usual lately thanks to me, opened his office door. “What’s going on? Is anything the matter?”

      I glanced up at him. “It’s Miss Dunstable. I don’t know what’s wrong, but she’s terribly upset.”

      Miss Dunstable looked from Ernie to me, and I was horrified to see tears pooling in her eyes. I chafed one of her hands with one of mine and fumbled to find a hankie in my handbag with the other. “Oh, Miss Dunstable, please tell me what’s the matter! What is it? I’ve never seen anyone looking so upset!”

      Pulling her hand away from mine, she took the handkerchief I offered her and wiped her eyes. Then she swallowed twice, cleared her throat and said, “Rudolph Valentino is dead.”

Chapter Twelve
 

The news spread like wildfire. Lulu, already upset by her brother’s arrest, was inconsolable. I know, because I tried to console her before I left the building. My efforts went for naught and, with a deep and heartfelt sigh, I left the Figueroa Building carrying my suit jacket. Not even for my mother would I wear heavy tweed in hundred-degree heat.

      Even as I walked to Angel’s Flight, I saw people sobbing in clusters on street corners or gathered around newsstands reading the headlines, numb or in tears. Red cars rolled by filled with shocked and weeping people. The newsboy on the corner couldn’t even give voice to his “Extra!” for the lump in his throat. I myself was reeling from the news. Not physically, of course, but emotionally.

      I wasn’t as in love with Rudolf Valentino as many of the other girls I knew, but I have to admit to a secret “pash,” as Lulu calls it, for the fellow. I think it was his burning eyes that drew one to him. Or perhaps it had been the vehicles in which he’d starred. I know one isn’t supposed to talk about such things, but I doubt there’s a young woman alive who doesn’t occasionally dream of being swept off her feet by an intriguing fellow from the mysterious East. That’s as opposed to my own personal East, which was Boston and about as mysterious as a stalk of celery.

      Valentino had been a very young man, too. Well, to me he’d seemed a little old, but I was only twenty-one. Ernie told me that thirty-two, Mr. Valentino’s age, was young. Ernie was about twenty-eight or twenty-nine, I imagine, although he hadn’t told me so.

      When I opened the door to Chloe’s house, feeling sad and thinking about my own mortality for perhaps the very first time, I was glad to discover the horrible news hadn’t affected Buttercup’s mood. She raced to greet me, wagging her whole body as always. I picked her up, even more thankful than usual for her comforting presence in my life.

      The living room contained Chloe, who was pale and looking ill; Francis Easthope, who was patting her shoulder and saying soothing things; and my mother, who sat as still, upright and poised as a marble statue, with a critical expression on her face. No surprise there.

      Clutching Buttercup to my bosom, I said softly, “You heard the news?”

      Chloe nodded. “It’s . . . ghastly.”

      Mr. Easthope straightened and looked as if he was going to do the polite thing and come to greet me. I shook my head and he understood. In her condition, Chloe needed his attention more than I did.

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Easthope. It was so kind of you to come over.”

      “I ‘phoned him,” said Chloe in a weak voice. “It was just . . . so shocking.”

      “It certainly was.” I plopped onto the sofa with Buttercup still cradled in my arms, and put my handbag on the side table. My hat soon joined it.

      My mother looked at this activity with patent disapproval. She believed in constant vigilance in the tidiness department, and according to her rules one should never use interim measures to achieve it. If I were obeying the dictates of my upbringing, I would have gone upstairs, put my hat and handbag in my room, and only then joined the family. And I’d never have bought Buttercup, who would probably be relegated to the backyard for all eternity. Nonsensical rules, if you ask me. Chloe needed my support.

      “May I get you anything, Chloe?” I wondered if she needed Buttercup, but didn’t dare ask in front of my mother. Mother didn’t approve of people requiring solace in times of trouble, either. She believed one’s strength of character was supposed to carry one through life. And that, if you ask me, would be a very lonely existence.

      Hmm. Perhaps my father’d had a point when he’d left the woman.

      “Maybe . . . maybe a glass of water.” She glanced at me, and I could see she’d been trying with all her strength not to cry in front of our mother. I wished my mother in Hades at that moment. Or at least Boston.

      “Sure. I’ll be right back.” Carefully setting Buttercup down on the floor (Mother would have had seven fits if I’d set her on the sofa), I went to the kitchen, my faithful pup following. “Oh, Buttercup, whatever are we going to do? Mother can’t possibly mean to stay here.
Can
she?”

      Buttercup, bless her heart, gave me a significant whine to indicate that she understood my distress even if she couldn’t respond in English.

      When I took Chloe her water, I decided to work the conversation around to the business aspects of Mr. Valentino’s death. I couldn’t think of anything less conducive to melancholy than business, unless one’s own were failing or something like that. “What is this going to mean for Harvey’s studio?”

      After nearly draining the glass, Chloe set it carefully on a doily, thereby forestalling a lecture from our mother. “I don’t know. Valentino isn’t one of Harvey’s stars, but it’s still such a terrible blow to the industry. And all of his fans. Oh, it doesn’t bear thinking of.”

      So much for business. I sighed. “No, it doesn’t. Do you know what’s going to happen now?”

      She shook her head. “Harvey telephoned. He said he thinks they’ll send his body back to Los Angeles by train for burial.”

      “Hmm. I suppose the newspapers will give a schedule. I expect there will be people lining the railroad tracks.” I vaguely recalled when Theodore Roosevelt’s body was transported for burial. The newspapers had run photographs of people flocking along the tracks, hats over their hearts, heads bowed in respect. They were quite touching pictures of a nation in mourning.

      As if she couldn’t contain her contempt a second longer, Mother spoke. “I think it’s a disgrace that people should give a motion-picture actor such adulation. Lining the tracks. Disgusting.”

      We all looked at her, but none of us said a word.

      Fortunately, we heard Harvey’s machine make its way down the drive at that point and Chloe perked up considerably. Defying Mother, she rushed straight into Harvey’s arms when he appeared in the archway between the hall and the living room. He greeted her warmly and with the affection that was the hallmark of their union.

      Needless to say, our mother looked upon this tender reunion with asperity. The old cow. If she’d shown more overt affection for our father, perhaps he wouldn’t have sought it elsewhere.

      But I don’t suppose that was fair. Even though our mother was far from a cuddly person, there was no possible excuse for flouting one’s marriage vows. I know people have been doing it since the beginning of time, but that didn’t make it right.

      Oh, nuts. It was all too deep for me.

      Dinner that night was probably quite tasty, but the mood was somber. I wasn’t sorry when the meal was over and I could retire to my room and prepare for the ordeal to come.

* * * * *

      It was a definite ordeal, too. Mr. Easthope himself drove Mother and me to his house after dinner. The staff, already upset by Rupert’s arrest, was in shock over Rudolph Valentino’s demise. The little housemaid, who had been teaching Rupert the tricks of the serving trade, had swollen, red-rimmed eyes and looked as if she’d been crying since she’d heard the news. Updegraff, who was acting as a butler since Rupert had been arrested and couldn’t perform his duties as houseboy, and whose demeanor was always grave, that evening looked as if he were attending a funeral rather than a séance.

      When Mr. Easthope escorted us into the living room, I was a little surprised to see a youngish man seated beside Mrs. Easthope. He appeared strained, but she looked positively haggard. Mr. Easthope, suavity itself, guided my mother over to his mother and the fellow.

      “Miss Allcutt, you already know my mother.”

      “Yes. How do you do, Mrs. Easthope?” I held out my hand politely.

      She took my hand but only shook her head, as if speaking was too much of a chore for her to contemplate, much less attempt.

      “And this, Mrs. Allcutt and Miss Allcutt, is George Hartland, the late Mrs. Hartland’s son.”

      “Oh!” Good gracious, this was wonderful. I could investigate a suspect at close range. I didn’t reveal my joy. “Good evening, Mr. Hartland. I’m so terribly sorry about your mother.”

      George Hartland had stood upon our entry into the room. “I’m as well as I can be, Miss Allcutt. Thank you,” he said, casting a nervous glance at the door to the living room, searching, I presume, for Mr. Carstairs. I also presume he didn’t dare
not
attend this particular séance, no matter to whom he owed money, since it had been set up specifically to unveil the identity of his mother’s murderer.

      “Mother, please allow me to introduce you to Miss Allcutt’s mother, Mrs. Allcutt.”

      Mrs. Easthope held out a limp hand once more, and this time she managed to speak. “So pleased to meet you.” She didn’t yet know my mother or I’m sure her pleasure would have dimmed considerably. She turned to me and gave me a wan smile. “I’m so glad you could attend this evening, my dear. It’s always a good idea to have continuity, in spite of the dreadful news the day has brought.”

      Whatever that meant. I smiled and said, “It’s very good to see you again, Mrs. Easthope, although I’m still very sorry about the reason for this séance.” I shook her hand again, and warmly, deciding my mother, while insensitive, was basically correct in that a motion-picture actor, no matter how handsome and appealing, really shouldn’t have such an impact on the citizens of the great United States of America. It seemed frivolous somehow that the world should be cast into a gloom over Valentino’s untimely passing.

      Of course it’s always a tragedy when a young man or woman dies, but . . . oh, bother. You know what I mean.