The Case of the Kidnapped Angel

5

North of Sunset Boulevard, in Beverly Hills, the land rolls up to the Santa Monica Mountains. The gentle slopes and hillocks are cut by several canyons, and the real estate in this area constitutes one of the most expensive residential neighborhoods in the entire country. The Barton home was on a hilltop just high enough to look out over the Beverly Hills Hotel, a Spanish colonial house on an acre of ground.

It was dark when Masuto pulled into the driveway, and four cars were already standing in the parking area. Beckman was waiting outside the front door, talking to a uniformed Beverly Hills cop, and he greeted Masuto with relief. “You got a houseful of angry citizens,” he told Masuto, “especially McCarthy and Ranier, who insist that we got no right whatsoever to keep them here.”

“We haven’t. Why do they stay?”

“They tell it that the only reason they’re here is to protect the rights of the Angel and to keep her from being bullied by the cops.”

“Why do they think we’d bully her?” Masuto wondered.

“Because when they asked Wainwright whether they were suspects, he said that he had to take the position that everyone who knew about the kidnapping was to some degree suspect. He said it more diplomatically, but McCarthy blew his top anyway. Barton’s secretary-her name’s Elaine Newman-went to pieces when she heard about the murder.”

“Oh? And how did Mrs. Barton take it?”

“I don’t know. She’s been in her room since she got back. The doctor’s been here to see her.”

“What doctor?”

“Their family doctor, name of Haddam. He’s gone now.”

“And what about the FBI?”

“That kid, Frank Keller, was here. He nosed around and asked a few questions. Didn’t seem to know what the hell he was doing.”

“And the captain?”

“The captain went home to have dinner. McCarthy told him that any harassment of Angel Barton would result in an action, and that he’d sue the hell out of the city, and you know how the captain reacts when one of the wealthy citizens threatens to sue the city. He says that you can handle it, because since you know all about who murdered Barton, you can go easy on everyone else. What about it, Masao? Do you know?”

“Sort of.”

“What the devil does ‘sort of’ mean?”

“I know and I don’t know.”

“Sure. That clears it all up.”

Beckman led the way into the house. “What about the press?” Masuto asked him.

“They were here, also the TV guys. Wainwright and McCarthy spoke to them. I told Frank, the officer at the door, not to let anyone in, except first he talks to you.”

Masuto was studying the house thoughtfully. Earlier in the day he had seen it only from the outside. Inside, it displayed the slightly insane baronial overbuilding of a film star’s house of the nineteen thirties-tile floor, huge center staircase, stained glass windows, light fixtures like chateau lanterns, mahogany doors and trim and white plaster between heavy wooden beams.

“They’re in the living room-or were-over there.” He nodded at an archway.

Masuto went down two steps, through the archway, and opened a heavy door. The living room was at least forty feet long, with a high, beamed ceiling, an overstuffed couch, some easy chairs, and an enormous fireplace with a box large enough to take five-foot logs. No fire burned there now. The three people in the room were almost lost in its immensity-McCarthy talking on the telephone, Ranier at a long deal table with papers spread in front of him, and in one of the big, overstuffed chairs, her legs drawn up under her, her eyes staring sightlessly into space, a very pretty, slender young woman who, Masuto surmised, was Elaine Newman. She had dark hair and dark eyes and wore almost no makeup, and her face had a chiseled quality that Masuto responded to immediately. After he and Beckman had entered the room and stood just inside the door for a long moment, the girl turned to look at him, but without curiosity. Ranier glanced up from his papers and McCarthy finished his phone conversation.

“We met this morning,” Masuto said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto.”

“Yes.” McCarthy nodded. “I suggest you get on with your inquisition and let us get out of here. I already informed Wainwright that you have no damned right even to suggest that we stay and be questioned.”

“Only for you to help us,” Masuto replied gently, “as citizens and as friends of the murdered man.”

“They weren’t his friends,” Elaine Newman said unexpectedly and tiredly. “Don’t call them his friends.”

“Shut up, Elaine!” Ranier snapped.

“Why? Are you going to kill me too, you blood-sucking son of a bitch?”

Ranier leaped to his feet and came around the table. “I won’t stand for that! I don’t have to stand for that! I don’t have to listen to that foul-mouthed cunt!”

Beckman interposed himself, blocking Ranier’s advance. “Let’s all of us just take it easy,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Ranier?”

For a moment or two Ranier faced up to Beckman’s enormous bulk; then he retreated and dropped into a chair. Beckman turned to Elaine Newman and said, “Why don’t we go inside for a little while, Miss Newman. Suppose we find the kitchen and make us some coffee. I can use some, and I guess you can too.” He glanced at Masuto, who nodded, and then he helped the girl out of her chair and led her to the door. “Can I go home?” she asked Masuto plaintively.

“In a little while. After we’ve talked. Go along with Detective Beckman and try to relax.”

After Beckman and the girl had left the room, Ranier turned to Masuto and told him angrily, “I resent this. I resent having to stand here and be accused of murder by that little bitch.”

“Bill, Bill,” McCarthy said, “no one is accusing you of murder. Elaine is just shooting off her grief, and it’s a relief to have some grief around here. Anyway”-he turned to Masuto-“Bill doesn’t have enough guts to kill anyone.”

“Thank you,” Ranier said sourly.

“And Mike was his meal ticket. Who kills the goose that lays the five percent?”

“He was your meal ticket too!” Ranier shouted. “Talk about bloodsuckers-you soaked him with fees that were unreal.”

“Which eliminates both of us as murder suspects. That ought to please you.”

“That’s enough of that,” Masuto said sharply. “The fact of the matter is that Mike Barton is dead and someone killed him, and I have to make some sense out of this. All this talk of suspects is meaningless. We have no suspects. We have every reason to believe that Mr. Barton was killed for the million dollars of ransom money. Why whoever received the ransom found it necessary to kill him, we don’t know. I’m hoping that one of you gentlemen can enlighten me.”

“Have you spoken to Angel?” McCarthy asked. “She saw the kidnappers.”

“You spoke to her?”

“We both spoke to her,” Ranier said, “but she wouldn’t talk about it-”

“She couldn’t,” McCarthy interposed.

“Then she couldn’t. The doctor said she was in shock. Then when she heard about Mike’s death, she went to pieces completely.”

“Where is she now?”

“In her room.”

“We have reason to believe,” Masuto said, “that the person who killed Mr. Barton was known to him, perhaps a good friend.”

“Mike had lots of friends.”

“And no friends,” McCarthy put in. “You have friends when you earn less than two hundred thousand a year. Above that, you have appendages. When you’re a star, you have the star-fuckers, and the woods are full of them.”

“Were you his friend?” Masuto asked gently.

“I’m going to ignore the insinuation. I was his lawyer. Bill here was his business agent.”

“Yes, of course.” Masuto studied them thoughtfully. “Mr. Barton, it appears, was killed some time between twelve-thirty and one o’clock. Without any insinuations, believe me, I must ask you gentlemen where each of you were at that time?”

“Right here,” Ranier replied.

“Well,” McCarthy said, “you did run back to your office.”

“Later. Much later.”

“Come on, Bill, it was not much later.”

“What in hell are you trying to do?” Ranier demanded angrily. “Set me up?”

“I’m not setting you up. For Christ’s sake, what are you so jumpy about? No one’s accusing you of killing Mike. You’re the last person in the world who had any reason to kill him. But the plain truth of the matter is that Mike got the ransom call at twelve noon on the button, and he bombed out of here with the money two minutes later. You left about ten minutes after that, and it was half-past one when you came back.”

“I drove straight to my office.”

“And where is your office?” Masuto asked.

“On Camden. My secretary keeps a log. She logs me in and she logs me out. She can bear witness to that. I had some work that had to be attended to. I didn’t stay to finish it. I brought it back here with me.”

“And when did you get back here?”

“It was about one-forty-five, I think. “Lena Jones-she’s the maid-she let me in.”

“And while he was gone, for an hour and forty-five minutes, where were you, Mr. McCarthy?”

“You know you have no damned right to ask me any questions.”

“I know that. You don’t have to answer.”

“I was right here, in this room. I made some phone calls, but I was right here.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone. But Mrs. Holtz brought me a sandwich and coffee.”

“When was that?”

McCarthy shrugged.

“You know damn well when it was,” Ranier said. “You were eating the sandwich when I got back. You offered me the other one. I didn’t even take time for lunch,” he told Masuto.

“So what? I never left this room. Right now I would like to leave it. I’ve been cooped up here all day.”

“You are both free to leave whenever you wish,” Masuto said.

“If you’re going to subject the Angel to questioning, I think I’ll stay,” McCarthy told him. “I’m her attorney.”

“As you wish. And if you think of anything more you would like to tell me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“I’ll take you there,” Ranier said.

“I’m sure I can find the kitchen, and I would like to talk with Miss Newman privately.”

“Can he do that?” Ranier demanded of McCarthy.

“Why not? I’m not her attorney and you’re not her business manager.”

“You know what she’s going to say.”

“I have no idea,” Masuto said. He walked out of the room and through the hallway into what was apparently a butler’s pantry. A sallow-faced man in his sixties sat there, reading a copy of Sports Illustrated, and he looked at Masuto inquiringly but without speaking.

“Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police.”

“I’m Kelly, the chauffeur.”

“You live here?”

“Over the garage.”

“I’d like you to stay in the house tonight. I want to talk to you later.”

“Where would I go?”

Masuto went past him and opened a swinging door into the kitchen. It was an old-fashioned kitchen in size, better than twenty feet square, and recently modernized into the glittering perfection that most Beverly Hills homes required of their kitchens-but with the color scheme, perfection fled. The floors were yellow tile. The refrigerator, stove, and sink were finished in pink, and the walls in tile of mauve and tan. In the center of the room, at a large butcher-block worktable, Beckman sat with three women: the secretary, Elaine Newman; a stout, middle-aged woman whom he introduced as Mrs. Holtz, the cook; and a thin black girl who dabbed at her swollen eyes and who was introduced as Lena Jones, the parlormaid. Beckman himself was finishing a plate of stew and the last of a large mug of beer, and imagining she saw a look of disapproval on Masuto’s face, Mrs. Holtz said, “Let him eat. Better the food shouldn’t go to waste. Nobody has any appetite today.”

“You hungry, Masao?” Beckman asked him.

He shook his head, thinking nevertheless that it was past his dinnertime and that he’d hardly get home much before midnight.

Mrs. Holtz pressed him, and Masuto relented to the extent of a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. Then he asked the maid and the cook to wait in the dining room, telling them that he would like to talk to them later. When they had gone, he said to Beckman, “Get the chauffeur’s full name and phone into L.A.P.D. See if they have any priors on him.”

“His name is Joseph. Joseph Kelly,” Elaine said. “He has a record, if that’s what you’re looking for. But he wouldn’t kill Mike. Mike’s the only one who’s ever been decent to him. He was just a drifter without a hope in the world when Mike picked him up and gave him a job.”

Masuto nodded at Beckman, who left the room. Sitting opposite the girl, he studied her thoughtfully.

“You’re a nisei?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re the cop assigned to this case?”

“Yes.”

“That means you have to find out who killed Mike.”

“I hope to.”

“Well, it’s no big deal. I know who killed Mike.”

“Oh? Who?”

“The Angel.” She said it with loathing.

“Inside, you suggested that Ranier killed Mr. Barton.”

“Maybe he did.”

“Both of them?”

“They’re both worthless bloodsuckers.”

“You hate people.”

“Some people. But I loved Mike. I was the only one around him who did, aside from Mrs. Holtz and Lena and Joe Kelly. All the rest”-her voice sank to a whimper-“oh, my God, it’s like killing a kid, like killing a little boy. Why? Why did they do it?”

Masuto waited until she had regained control of herself, and then he asked her, “What about Joe and Della Goldberg? Did they love Mike?”

“I guess so. But after he married Angel-”

“The relationship cooled?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you worked for Mike Barton?”

“Two years. Since right after he married Angel.”

“What did your work consist of?”

“His correspondence. Also, he always wanted to write a book. All the stars do. They have this guilt thing about being where they are, and mostly they can’t justify to themselves why they are where they are, and they feel that writing a book about themselves will be a way out. Poor Mike. He tried, but it was all too complicated.”

“He dictated to you?”

“Yes. But we didn’t get very far on the book. Twenty or thirty pages.”

“I would like to read it, if you would allow me.”

“Sure. Sure, why not?”

“Why do you hate Mrs. Barton?”

“The Angel? Because she’s a phony. Because she’s a mean, heartless bitch and because she gave Mike nothing but misery.”

“Why didn’t he divorce her?”

She thought about this for a while, and then she shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Perhaps he loved her, the kind of love that demands nothing in return.”

“Bullshit!” she said angrily. “My heart isn’t broken because I lost a job. Mike has been my lover since almost the first day I was here. Are you going to tell me he loved that cold bitch?”

“I’m telling you nothing, only asking.”

“I don’t know why I’m talking to you at all.”

“Because we both want to find out who killed Mike Barton, and I must ask questions which will disturb you. I ask you again, why didn’t he divorce her?”

“He would never tell me. She had something on him.”

“What?”

“I just don’t know.”

“Guess. You must have turned this over in your mind a thousand times.”

“Ten thousand times.”

“You say he didn’t love her, yet he was willing to pay a million dollars ransom.”

“Come on, Sergeant.”

“What does that mean?”

“That whole kidnapping was a fraud. That little louse Ranier designed the whole thing.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. But I do know this, that if it were a real kidnapping, Mike wouldn’t have given twenty cents to get her back. Oh, he might have had to make a public display of some kind, but keep the cops out, keep the FBI out? No way. I can see how Mike might have paid the kidnappers a million dollars to keep her-but to get her back? You’ve got to be kidding.”

At this point Beckman came into the kitchen and said, “Masao, we got company. Della Goldberg is here with her husband, Joe, and Netty Cooper, and Roy Hennesy, the congressman from out in Malibu. They all claim to be dear friends of the deceased, so I put them in the living room.”

“Dear friends,” Elaine said bitterly.

“There are also a lot of media characters and Gloria Adams from the Times, and I guess I owe her.”

“Keep them out-no reporters. You don’t owe her that much. Let them go over to the station house and get it from our P.R.”

“What P.R.? We don’t have any P.R.”

“Mac Bendix-he always knows what’s going on, and he’ll pump the captain and keep them up-to-date. But no reporters in the house. Also, if you can, keep the maid and chauffeur apart from the guests.”

“Mrs. Holtz wants to make coffee. She says if you have guests, you got to feed them. The black kid is serving drinks. I don’t know how I can chase her out.”

“All right, let it go. What about McCarthy and Ranier?”

“They’re still here, hanging in.”

“I got a feeling they’re all going to hang in. Do me a favor, Sy. Call Kati and tell her I’m here open end. I don’t know when we’ll get home.”

Elaine Newman was staring at Masuto with interest. It was the first moment that some of the pain had left her face. As Beckman left, she said softly, “You know what you’re doing, don’t you?”

“I like to think so. I’m not sure.”

“How come a man like you is a small-town cop?”

“We can talk about that some other time, and Beverly Hills is not any small town. Right now we come back to Ranier. Why are you so sure he engineered the kidnapping?”

“Because poor Mike didn’t have enough brains to work it out, and the Angel has plenty of viciousness but not too many smarts.”

“Why do you think Ranier planned it? Mind you, I neither agree nor disagree. I just want to know why you think so.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking. I got here about ten. I was here when you pulled that silly gardener charade-saw you through the window. Mike was in a black mood, not worried, not grief-stricken over the Angel, just mean and angry because he had been talked into doing something he didn’t want to do. Usually he’s gentle as a lamb. Or was. My God.”

“Easy,” Masuto said. “Try to relax. This has been very hard, but you’re young and your whole life is ahead of you.”

“You ever been in love, Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t tell me my whole life is ahead of me. I’m all right now. I was telling you about Mike’s mood. I tried to talk to him, but that was no good. He wouldn’t talk. I think I lost my temper and said something about if the kidnapping was real, why didn’t he bring in the cops and the FBI? Then he told me to get out of the room. Ranier was there, and the way he looked at me, he could have killed me right then and there.”

“You still haven’t told me why you think Ranier planned it?”

“He was Mike’s business agent. You work in Beverly Hills, so you know what a business agent is. He takes five percent of everything Mike earned, and do you know what Mike earned? It’s only November now, and already Mike earned over three million dollars. It sounds like a lot, doesn’t it? It sounds like enough to run a small country. But look what happens to it. First of all, Ranier takes his five percent off the top. Then McCarthy takes another ten percent off the top as Mike’s agent-my God, what’s wrong with me? I keep talking about him as if he were alive.”

“I thought McCarthy was Mike’s lawyer.”

“He is. But he also acts as his agent. That’s common enough. A lot of lawyers do it. He draws up the contracts with Joe Goldberg and takes his ten percent for that. Then again, as when Mike was sued by Bert Bailey, his stunt man, McCarthy defended the suit. His fee for that was seventy thousand dollars. Then the feds step in with their income tax, and every bum in town with his hand stretched out, and Mike’s family back East, and Mike never said no to anyone. I’m not saying that Mike doesn’t need a business agent. He could no more handle that kind of money than a five-year-old. But Ranier is a crook, and I bet that when it comes to probating Mike’s will, you’ll find that he doesn’t have twenty cents. Ranier’s taken care of that. That’s why Ranier rigged the kidnapping and he and Angel murdered Mike.”

“Tell me about Angel.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe that you have passionate feelings,” Masuto said. “I can’t afford to have passionate feelings. I’m a policeman. I need proof, evidence.”

“Haven’t I given you enough evidence?”

“Not evidence, Miss Newman. Opinions. And I respect your opinions. I need your opinions.”

“You’re the strangest cop I ever met.”

“Perhaps you’ve met very few. You said Mr. Barton didn’t love Angel. Was there ever a time when he did love her?”

“I suppose when he married her.”

“You suppose? Didn’t he ever talk about it?”

“No! You keep asking me these questions. I’m sick. My whole world has gone down the drain, and you keep asking me about that bitch who killed him.”

“Because I must. How did she feel about him?”

“Indifferent. What shall I say? They had separate rooms. Sure they appeared together at parties now and then. That was P.R. Otherwise she went her own way and Mike couldn’t have cared less.”

“What was her own way?”

“I don’t know. No one knows. She has that little voice and that phony beatific smile, and it takes the whole world in.”

“Was she having an affair with Ranier?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know where she came from?”

“France. Mike told me that once. It’s all he ever told me about her. He wouldn’t talk about her.”

“But you say Mr. Barton loved you.”

“Yes, yes, yes, damn you!”

“Then you must have discussed a future. That’s the way people are, people like yourself, people with strong feelings.”

“Yes, we discussed it. It was someday, always someday. When he no longer had to be a star,” she added. Her eyes were filmed with tears. “Being a star. What a beautiful fate! Take a sweet, decent dumb kid from Brooklyn and turn him into a symbol for a nation of lunatics. I’ll tell you what he said to me, Mr. Detective, and then you can make something out of it with your smart-ass, slant-eyed know-how!” Her anger poured out at the whole world and at Masuto, because he sat facing her. “He said he’d divorce that bitch just as soon as he could afford to face the world as a clown, as a ridiculous joke.”

“A clown?”

“Yes. You heard me. A clown!”

“Miss Newman,” Masuto said gently, “I can understand your feelings, but nothing is helped by venting your anger at me. We both want the same thing-to find out who killed Mike Barton.”

“I told you who killed Mike.”

“Then let’s say we want to prove it, and to do that, you have to help me. Will you?”

For a long moment she hesitated; then she nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Good. Now a moment ago you said that Mike Barton felt he would have to face the world as a clown. You’re sure that’s the word he used?”

“Yes, clown.”

“And a ridiculous joke?”

“That’s what he said. A clown. A ridiculous joke.”

“But why?” Masuto insisted. “Why those words? He could have said a fool, a turkey, a sucker, a shmuck-those are words used by a man out here who feels he has been taken to the cleaners by a woman. They’re like code words. But a clown?”

“What difference does that make?”

“I think it makes a difference. Perhaps we’ll talk about it again. You’re upset, Miss Newman. Let me help you a little.”

“How can you help me?” she demanded.

“Let me try. Empty your mind. Try to think of nothing at all. Just be here. We’ll go on with this discussion, but if you can, simply hear my questions and give me answers, but don’t evoke any images beyond that. Will you try?”

“It sounds crazy, but I’ll try. I’ll try anything. Otherwise I’ll just go out of my mind.”