The Case of the Kidnapped Angel

12

It was well after six o’clock before Masuto and Beckman finished cutting the paper and arranging the piles, topped by twenty-dollar bills, in the suitcase. While they were at work, Wainwright stopped by and watched them for a moment or two, and then said, “It’s an old trick. What makes you think it will work?”

Masuto shrugged. “It’s a shortcut. Maybe it won’t work.”

“You got anything else?”

“Something, not much.”

“Whoever it is, he was in it with Angel.”

“Yes.”

“Then he could have killed Mike Barton.”

“He could have, but I don’t think he did,” Masuto said.

“He could have killed Angel. One less to split.”

Masuto shrugged.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t think he killed Angel. I think he killed Kelly.”

“And what do we do about Angel?”

Masuto shook his head.

“You know,” Wainwright said, “you are one secretive bastard, Masao. You’re supposed to be part of this police force, not a goddamn supercop.”

“I never think of myself as a supercop,” Masuto replied, smiling. “I crawl through mazes and I try to guess what goes on in the minds of poor tortured madmen. Do you want me to drag you in with me every time I get some crazy notion.”

“All I want you to do is to level with me.”

“I try.”

“And just keep an eye on that suitcase. I want that thousand dollars back.”

“Not to mention the suitcase,” Beckman said, “which cost four hundred and twenty dollars at Gucci.”

“Goddamnit!” Wainwright snarled. “Who paid for it? Did you charge it to us?”

“Gucci lent it to us, as a gesture of goodwill toward the Beverly Hills cops.”

“Clowns,” Wainwright muttered as he stalked out.

They ate at Cantor’s on Fairfax Avenue. Beckman wanted tempura, but Masuto had eaten tempura for lunch and he had no great love for Los Angeles Japanese restaurants. He told Beckman that he had a craving for chicken and matzo-ball soup so they went to Cantor’s. Masuto would not talk about the case. He dodged Beckman’s question and talked about the TV version of Shogun, the matzo balls at Cantor’s, and the problem of inflation on a cop’s salary. Then, as they were leaving, he said to Beckman, “Do you know where to break the connection so that a car can’t start?”

“Nothing to it.”

“All right. Tonight, after they arrive, if there’s a key in the car, put it into your pocket, and if there’s no key, break the connection. But I don’t want the cars damaged, I just want none of them able to start.”

“No sweat.”

“And if anything happens, just let it play out. No rough stuff, no daring moves, no jumping anyone. Just watch me and play my game.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Just being careful.”

It was eight o’clock when they got to Mike Barton’s house, and the only car in the parking space was Elaine Newman’s Mustang. Dempsy, still on duty, came out to meet them.

“No one here yet?”

“Only Miss Newman. She’s been here all afternoon. The cook and the maid-that’s all.”

“Good. Now, listen, Dempsy, if something happens tonight, no guns or rough stuff. If someone has a gun, no shooting if you can help it. Play it very cool.”

“What do you expect, Sergeant?”

“I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

Beckman carried the suitcase into the house. “You know, Masao,” he said, “I never thought of money being heavy. This is heavy.”

Elaine Newman had opened the door for them, saying, “Thank God you’re here, Sergeant. This place is spooky. What have you got in there?”

“About nine and a half reams of bond paper and some twenty-dollar bills. Do you have a closet in the library where you can stow it until we need it?”

“Absolutely.” She was alive this evening. She had broken out of the torpor of her grief. “Get him,” she said eagerly. “Get him, please. Not only for Kelly, but for Mike too.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Angel killed Mike, didn’t she? That’s what you think?”

“How do you know I think that?”

“You sit in this library, and you can listen to half the house. It’s these old-fashioned hot-air vents. I overheard you talking to the captain. You know she killed Mike, but if she was in it with someone else, then that makes him guilty too, doesn’t it?”

“Perhaps. I don’t decide matters of guilt or innocence.” He looked at her thoughtfully, reflecting that she was not beautiful, not even very pretty, but there was intelligence in the face and the wide-set, dark blue eyes were unusually striking. You saw the eyes before you saw anything else, and a head of rich thick brown hair framed them very well. She was an odd contrast to the woman Mike Barton had married and, very likely, Masuto decided, a complete reaction.

“Then get the evidence,” she said evenly.

“I’ll do my best.” He turned to Beckman. “Cover the door, Sy, and steer each one into the living room. I don’t want them wandering around the house. Be gentle but firm.”

“It’s like a goddamn convocation of nobility.”

“Our nobility, for what it’s worth. Lend a hand, please,” he said to Elaine.

“Most of them I can’t stand to look at.”

Masuto smiled. “Rise above it. Serve coffee. Ask for drink orders. Be a sort of hostess.”

“Must I?”

“You’re all we have. Where are the ladies?”

“In the kitchen.”

Going to the kitchen, Masuto tried to remember when he had spoken to the captain about Angel being the killer. Had it been here in the house? Too much had happened in the past thirty hours. Things ran together. In the kitchen was the warm, homey smell of baking. Lena Jones was filling a tray with cups, saucers, and cake plates. Mrs. Holtz was slicing a loaf cake.

“It smells wonderful,” Masuto said.

“Have a piece.”

“I just finished dinner.”

“Have a piece. It won’t hurt you. I’ll pour a cup of coffee.”

He sat at the table and munched the cake. “You’re right. It’s absolutely delicious. Lena,” he said to the black girl, “yesterday, when Mrs. Barton died, Dr. Haddam tells us that you brought a glass of ice and whisky upstairs and that Mrs. Barton drank it. Can you tell me exactly how that came about?”

She was frightened. She stared at Masuto without answering.

“She’s just a child,” Mrs. Holtz put in. “You know what it’s been like in this house yesterday and today? I’ll tell you what happened. Kelly came into the kitchen. Lena and me were here. He says to Lena, ‘There’s a glass of whisky on the bar. Bring it up to Mrs. Barton.’ I tell him, ‘Why don’t you bring it up yourself?’ Then he curses. I don’t want to speak bad of the dead, but he had a foul mouth. Then he stamps out of the back door.”

Masuto nodded.

“You like sugar in the coffee?”

“No, just black. Lena,” he said to the maid, “don’t be afraid. Just tell me what you did then.”

She took a deep breath. “I go out then and get the glass.”

“What kind of glass?”

She went to the closet and took out a tall highball glass. “Same as this.”

“Can you remember how many ice cubes were in it?”

“Three, I guess.”

“You’re a very observant young woman. And how high was the glass filled?”

She touched the glass about three quarters of an inch from the top.

“The doctor,” Masuto said, “guessed that it was Scotch whisky.”

“That’s what she drank.”

“Scotch is not quite as dark as bourbon or rye. Would you guess that it was all whisky, no water.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what I thought.”

“And what did you do then?”

“I brought it upstairs. Mr. McCarthy and the doctor was just outside the door, and I hear it slam as I come upstairs. Then she opens the door, sees me, and grabs the drink out of my hand. She was shaking. She just drains it down and then pushes the glass back at me and slams the door again.”

After that Masuto sat in silence for a few minutes, finishing the cake and the coffee. Then he said to Lena, “Do you think you can serve our guests tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They’ll be here soon. Miss Newman will help you. Most, I imagine, will want drinks. Some will have cake and coffee. Then, at about a quarter after nine, I’ll get up and speak to them. When that happens, I’d like you to leave and stay here in the kitchen with Mrs. Holtz.”

The Goldbergs were the first to arrive. They came at ten minutes to nine, and looking at the fat little man with a fringe of white hair around his bald skull, and thinking of the field artillery officer who got a field commission, Masuto reflected on the callousness of time. Captain Wainwright arrived a few minutes later, and then after him, Congressman Hennesy, Mrs. Cooper, and then Bill Ranier. It was ten minutes after nine before Jack McCarthy got there, completing the group, and he said to Wainwright, “I’m here only because Joe Smith asked me to come. Otherwise, I’d have no part of this nonsense.”

Wainwright thanked him for coming. Elaine Newman took orders for drinks. Lena Jones poured coffee, her hands shaking just a bit. Della Goldberg and Bill Ranier had coffee. The others had drinks. Beckman stood unobtrusively at the entrance to the room. Elaine Newman took a seat apart from the others, who had seated themselves on three large couches that made a conversation area in front of the grand piano.

At half past nine Wainwright rose and spread his hands for silence. “I don’t want you to think of this as an inquisition,” he said. “Nothing of the sort. We asked you to come here tonight to help us inject some clarity into our thinking about this case. It’s a shocking case, and it does the city no good, and until it’s cleared up, it will engender fear where there’s no reason for fear. Our procedure tonight will be very simple. Detective Sergeant Masuto will outline some of the salient points of the case, and when he finishes, anyone who wishes to can comment. That’s about it.”

Masuto stood up, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Lena Jones slip out of the room. There were no doors to the living room, but Beckman was planted solidly in the archway that led to the hall. The four men and the two women seated in the horseshoe of couches watched Masuto expectantly. Wainwright and Miss Newman were behind him.

Netty Cooper was finishing her second drink. “I think this is very thrilling,” she said. “Our brilliant Fu Manchu is going to expose a murderer.”

“Netty, don’t be an ass,” Hennesy said.

“Since you’re an asshole, what difference does it make?” she replied.

“Lovely, lovely,” Della Goldberg said.

“Oh, shut up and fry your own fish. Or make her the killer. Do make her the killer.”

Masuto waited.

“I think we all ought to shut up and get this over with,” McCarthy said.

“Can we begin?” Masuto asked. Silence. “Very well. Yesterday, Mr. Ranier informed me that the kidnapping of Angel Barton was not a kidnapping but rather a scam to defraud the government of income taxes.”

“That was confidential!” Ranier cried. “You have no right-”

“I have every right,” Masuto said coldly. “You did not put it to me as confidential. You laid it out in an attempt to save your own hide.”

Ranier’s face tightened, but he said nothing.

“The plan, in brief, according to Mr. Ranier, included himself and Mr. and Mrs. Barton. According to Mr. Ranier, Mike Barton was in default to the government for half a million dollars in back taxes, to which extent he would benefit from the swindle.”

“Not true!” Goldberg snapped. “We had the same accountant. Mike was in default only fifty thousand dollars, and he had bonds to back that up.”

“I told Masuto what Mike told me,” Ranier protested lamely.

“Then, gentlemen and ladies, if Mr. Barton was not in default, we must look for another reason for his participation in so stupid and unworkable a scheme. Perhaps I can enlighten you-I mean those of you who are not already aware of what I am going to say. The woman, Angel Barton, had undergone a process of what is called sexual reassignment, a process which through hormonal treatment and surgery turns a man into a woman. This was the secret with which she blackmailed and controlled Mike Barton for two years.”

Masuto watched the faces. McCarthy’s face was full of disbelief. Goldberg was untouched. He knew. Della Goldberg burst into tears. Netty Cooper shook her head in disbelief, and Hennesy sat with his mouth open. Ranier’s face was unchanged, set tight. Masuto turned to look at Elaine Newman. She was staring at the floor.

“So the kidnapping now stands in a somewhat different light,” Masuto said. “Mike Barton was blackmailed into it, as he was blackmailed into remaining with Angel Barton, as he was controlled and manipulated-”

“I pleaded with him,” Della Goldberg burst out. “I begged him to let the world know and be damned. Joe offered him an unbreakable five-picture contract if he would divorce that devil, but he wouldn’t. He said it would be the end of his life, the end of his career.”

“The plan,” Masuto said, “as Mr. Ranier laid it out to Mike Barton, was for Angel Barton to meet him at San Yisidro, take the money, drive to downtown Los Angeles, park her car, and take a taxi back here. Instead, she altered the plan-with or without Mr. Ranier’s approval, we have yet to discover-and when she met her husband, she sat down next to him in his car, diverted him somehow, took her gun from her purse, and shot him.”

“Without my knowledge or approval, if there’s a shred of truth in what you’re saying, which I doubt!” Ranier shouted, and then turning to McCarthy, “Jack, can he do this? Stand there and slander me?”

“If he’s slandering you,” McCarthy said coldly, “it’s actionable. You’re not required to say anything or even to remain here.”

“I damn well intend to remain here while he’s spouting this garbage!”

Without appearing to respond to the interruption, Masuto continued. “Then, her husband dead, Angel put the suitcase in her car, drove downtown, and then took a cab back here. When she arrived here, she told Mr. Ranier what had happened, and he asked her what she had done with the gun. To his horror, she had forgotten to dispose of it. She gave it to him and he probably hid it for the moment behind some books in the library.”

“I won’t even dignify this fantasy with a denial,” Ranier said.

McCarthy rose, one finger hooked on his belt. “You, sir,” he said to Masuto, “have concocted a story which points directly to a man who is a client of mine. You have offered not one shred of evidence. Indeed, if you had any such evidence, you would not have provoked this charade, and since you cannot arrest Mr. Ranier, you have chosen to slander him. Let me be precise. You accuse him of conniving with Angel Barton to steal a million dollars, a hundred thousand of which was his own money-”

“Or his clients’ money,” Goldberg snapped. “The man’s a business manager.”

“I’ll thank you not to interrupt me, Joe. But to get back to Sergeant Masuto’s actionable accusations. You charge that the money was placed in Angel’s car. You say shedrove downtown, left the car, and returned here by cab. But when she returned, she had no money, no suitcase-”

As McCarthy spoke, Masuto nodded slightly at Beckman, who left the room.

“-which makes the first hole in your incredible concoction. And if Mike was being blackmailed so readily-” He stopped in mid-sentence as Beckman entered the room carrying what was unquestionably a very heavy suitcase. He placed the Gucci bag on the floor in sight of the group and opened it. The sight of the open bag, filled with what were apparently neatly stacked bundles of twenty-dollar bills, drew a collective gasp from the audience, the response of people to a magician who takes a very large rabbit out of an empty hat. Masuto watched Ranier, whose tight, controlled face revealed nothing. The silence was drawn like a stretched rubber band, until Netty Cooper said shrilly, “Is that the ransom? Good heavens, did you have it all this time?”

“I didn’t have it,” Masuto said.

Coldly and angrily, Ranier said to McCarthy, “I want you to witness the fact, Jack, that my home was entered and searched illegally. I had no knowledge of the fact that Angel had put the ransom money in my house. I only discovered it an hour before coming here, and I intended to take up the matter with Captain Wainwright.”

“Did you have a warrant to search his house?” McCarthy asked Masuto.

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re in for trouble, Sergeant.”

“Possibly.” He nodded slightly at Beckman, who closed the suitcase and latched it.

“No, sir. Not possibly, but indubitably. Your conduct of this charade has been both disgraceful and actionable. You have read too many mysteries, sir. What fiction allows, the law prohibits-”

Still, Masuto watched Ranier.

“-and I am absolutely amazed, Captain Wainwright, that you could lend yourself to this. However, this is not the end of the matter, only the beginning.”

“May I finish?” Masuto asked sharply.

“I see no reason why this slander should be continued,” McCarthy said.

“Your client is free to leave,” Wainwright said with annoyance. “He was not forced to come here.”

McCarthy looked at Ranier, who rose but made no move to leave. “Let’s hear the rest of what this turkey has to say,” Ranier said bitterly. “We might as well get all of it.”

“Joseph Kelly,” Masuto said, “was, as you all know, Mr. Barton’s chauffeur. He was a man with a long prison record. Barton gave him a chance and employed him. Last night he was murdered. He was murdered because, standing in the butler’s pantry, he overheard the conversation between Angel Barton and Mr. Ranier when she returned here after the kidnapping.”

“Just hold on!” McCarthy interrupted. “You’re digging your own grave, sir! You’re accusing my client-”

“Let me finish!” Masuto said harshly. McCarthy paused. “I’m not making any accusations that can’t be backed up. There were two women in this house last night, Lena Jones, the maid, and Mrs. Holtz, the housekeeper, and both of them were awakened by a loud gunshot. Miss Jones looked out of her window and saw Mr. Ranier leaving Kelly’s quarters.”

It came like a bombshell. Even Wainwright and Beckman had not been ready for this. Only Elaine Newman appeared not to be surprised, sitting relaxed, a tight smile on her lips. The others were staring at Ranier, who shouted, “That’s a damned lie, Masuto! That’s a concoction out of the whole cloth! You set out to frame me here tonight! Loud gunshot! You son of a bitch, you said yourself that the gun had a silencer and that no one heard anything!”

“Wrong, Mr. Ranier,” Masuto said. “No one except Captain Wainwright here and Detective Beckman knew about the silencer. How did you know, sir? How did you know that Kelly was killed with a gun that had a silencer?”

“You told me.”

“I did not.”

Ranier looked about him, stared at the three policemen who were standing calmly, then reached into his jacket, drew a gun, and stepped clear of the couches, covering the three policemen, who did not move.

“Nobody moves,” Ranier snapped. “Just put your hands up and keep them there.”

Just the slightest nod on Masuto’s part to Beckman and Wainwright. They put up their hands, as Masuto did.

“Bill, you’re crazy!” McCarthy cried. “What in hell are you doing? Can’t you see that this is a frame? You’re playing into their hands.”

“You-Newman!” Ranier said. “Pick up that suitcase and set it down by my side.”

“Of course,” Elaine replied. “I’m delighted to be of assistance, Mr. Ranier.” And with a show of strength amazing in a woman so slight, she lifted the suitcase, carried it over toward Ranier, and then deliberately stumbled so that the whole weight of the suitcase caught him in the side. As he doubled over, Masuto sprang, grasped the wrist that held the gun, pointing the gun down as it went off. An instant later Ranier was lifted off the ground in Beckman’s bearhug while Masuto forced the gun from his grasp. Then Beckman cuffed him.

“You bitch!” he snarled at Elaine Newman. “You filthy, lousy bitch!”

The room was in chaos, the others crowding around, Dempsy running in with his gun drawn, Elaine Newman smiling calmly, and Wainwright telling Masuto, “Read him his rights-slowly, carefully, every word of it. His lawyer’s listening, so I don’t want any mistakes from here on in.”

“I arrest you for the murder of Joseph Kelly,” Masuto said. “This is an admonition of rights. You have the right to remain silent-”

The voices were stilled. They stood in silence, listening to Masuto recite the formula as if it were some kind of prayer. When he had finished, Wainwright said to Dempsy, “Take him down to the station and book him for murder one and put him in the cage.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” McCarthy said.

“Downtown. Not here.”

“I’ll see Judge Lacey tonight,” McCarthy said to Ranier. “We’ll get bail.”

“I doubt it,” Wainwright said.

“We’ll see,” McCarthy said, and started to leave.

“One moment,” Masuto told him. “Detective Beckman here fixed all your cars so they wouldn’t start-just in case Mr. Ranier made it to his car. Give him five minutes.”

By ten-thirty the last of them had gone, leaving only the three policemen and Elaine Newman, who was in the library. She said she had bills to pay, odds and ends to clear up, and she wanted it all done with so that she could get away to San Francisco for a few days, see her mother, and begin to forget what had happened here.

Wainwright was staring unhappily at the Gucci bag. “What did you say was the price of this suitcase?” he asked Masuto.

“Four hundred and twenty dollars.”

“Well, it has a bullet hole in it, so unless you can work it out with the Gucci people, that’s four hundred and twenty dollars out of your pay, Masao.”

“What? You wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t I? After your performance here tonight? You miserable son of a bitch, with your wild-eyed guesses and Chinese insights. You had nothing when you came in here tonight, nothing, and you hornswoggled me into backing you up and putting my job on the line. If Ranier wasn’t such a stupid slob, he would have laughed you right out of the force.”

“Wise men don’t murder.”

“Bullshit on your goddamn philosophy.” He held up the gun. “This is all we got. And if this isn’t the gun that killed Kelly, we got nothing.”

“I think it’s the gun.”

“You think so. God save me from what you think.”

“Even if he should beat the murder charge, it’s a good arrest. We have him for armed robbery, for using the gun to get the suitcase out of here, and the feds can bring a conspiracy to defraud Internal Revenue against him. Also, I suspect that when they go through his books, they’ll find enough illegal use of funds to send him away for a while.”

“Maybe.”

“Why don’t you wait until Ballistics tests the gun and matches it. Then you can let go at me.”

“Resisting arrest,” Beckman put in.

“I’m going home,” Wainwright said. He gave the gun to Beckman. “Drop it off at the station.” But at the door, he turned back and said to Masuto, “Who killed Angel?”

Masuto shrugged.

“Don’t give me that goddamn inscrutable crap of yours. I asked you a question.”

“I can’t answer it.”

“You mean you don’t know? Was it Kelly?”

“No.”

“You’re lying to me, Masuto. What is it? You got something you’re going to dazzle us with?”

“No.”

“Every damn reporter and wire service and TV camera in southern California is going to be at the station tomorrow. What do we tell them?”

“Tell them we have promising leads.”

“Do we?”

“No.”

“You think Ranier killed her and you got nothing to back it up.”

“I think the person who killed Angel Barton was sitting in this room tonight, and we haven’t one shred of evidence to back up a charge, and I don’t think we’ll ever have any.”

“I’ve never known a lack of hard evidence to stop you before.”

“It stops me.”

“You can tell the media that a finger of suspicion points to Kelly,” Beckman said. “The poor bastard’s dead and that takes us off the hook.”

“I hate that kind of thing.”

“Then keep the file open,” Masuto said. “Something may turn up.”

Wainwright left. Beckman put the gun in his pocket, stretched, and yawned. “What about this Gucci suitcase?” he asked Masuto.

“Bring it down to the station, Sy, and separate the real bills and put them in the safe. I’ll go over and plead my case with Gucci tomorrow.”

“Okay. You coming?”

“I’ll have a word with the two women in the kitchen. They must be pretty frightened. You go ahead.”

“See you tomorrow,” Beckman said as he went out.