The Case of the Kidnapped Angel

6

“If you don’t mind,” Masuto said to Elaine Newman, “I’d like you to remain in the house for a while. That’s not a police order or even a demand. It’s just that you know a great deal about what went on here, and I’d feel comfortable if you were here.”

“I can stay,” she agreed listlessly. “There’s a room upstairs that I use when I work late-or when Mike wanted me to stay over. Angel didn’t object. I’d like to lie down for a while and see whether I can think my life into some kind of order.”

“Does the door lock?”

“Yes.” She looked at him curiously.

“Lock it.” And as she got up, “One more thing, Miss Newman, tell me about the house.”

“This house?”

“Yes. How many rooms, where they are-that sort of thing.”

“Sure. There are six bedrooms upstairs, the master bedroom, which is Angel’s, another bedroom which was Mike’s-they’ve been in separate rooms since I came here to work-the room I use when I stay over, and two guest rooms. Behind the kitchen, through that door”-she pointed-“two servants’ rooms. That’s where Mrs. Holtz and Jonesey stay.”

“Jonesey?”

“The black kid, Lena Jones. Joe Kelly sleeps in a little apartment over the garage. Through that door”-she pointed again-“the butler’s pantry. No butler, just the pantry, and that door at the other end of the kitchen leads to the breakfast room. From the pantry one swinging door leads into the dining room, and the other opens into the hallway. You remember the way you came in with the big staircase facing you and the living room on your right. On the left there’s the dining room, and at the front of the house, in front of the dining room, there’s a library or den or whatever, and that’s where I worked and took care of Mike’s correspondence.”

Beckman and Mrs. Holtz came into the kitchen while Elaine was speaking. “She insists,” Beckman said.

“Because,” Mrs. Holtz said, “it’s after eight o’clock already, and some of these people eat no dinner. I don’t have people in my house, I should let them starve.”

“One more thing,” Elaine said. “There’s a game room with a pool table in the basement.”

“You tell them,” Mrs. Holtz said to Elaine. “Did Mr. Barton ever let anybody go hungry?”

“No, he fed the hungry.”

“Where’s Mrs. Barton?” Masuto asked Beckman.

“In her room. The doctor gave her a sedative and said she was to be left alone until he returned tomorrow.”

“Crap! That’s a load of crap!” Elaine exclaimed. “That lousy quack can’t tell the living from the dead. I say she’s up there in her room drinking champagne and eating caviar and celebrating.”

“We’ll see,” Masuto said quietly, watching Mrs. Holtz, who had listened in silence to Elaine’s outburst. “Right now, Sy, take Miss Newman here up to her room.” When they had left the kitchen, he asked Mrs. Holtz, “Do you like Mrs. Barton?”

Her face stiffened. “I don’t talk about the dead.”

“Mr. Barton’s dead, not his wife.”

“To me, she’s dead.”

He went into the living room then. It was occupied by Netty Cooper, Congressman Hennesy, Della Goldberg, and her husband, Joe.

“Did Mr. McCarthy and Mr. Ranier leave?” Masuto asked them.

“Downstairs playing pool,” Netty Cooper informed him.

“Yeah,” Joe Goldberg said, “such is respect for the dead. Who are you?”

“The policeman I told you about,” his wife said. “He is Detective Sergeant Masuto.” Her eyes were red from weeping, and her voice trembled as she spoke. She fought inwardly to remain calm. “Where is Elaine? I want to see Elaine.”

“I sent her up to her room,” Masuto said. He went to the archway that led to the foyer and called Beckman. When Beckman appeared, he said to him out of the hearing of the others, “Take Mrs. Goldberg upstairs to Miss Newman’s room. Make sure she locks the door again.” And to Mrs. Goldberg, “If you go with Detective Beckman, he’ll take you to Miss Newman.”

After Della Goldberg left the room with Beckman, Hennesy asked Masuto whether he was new in the Beverly Hills police force.

“No, Mr. Hennesy, I’m not new to the force.”

“Then you know that we don’t browbeat people in Beverly Hills. We don’t push them around.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me of that.”

“Now, if you don’t mind, we’ll leave.”

“Oh?”

“We’re not leaving the house. Not yet. With cops all over the place, Angel needs someone to protect her. When you go, we’ll go.”

“Yes, of course. But before you go, might I ask you where you were at twelve-thirty today?”

“You know where I was, Sergeant. I was sitting on Mrs. Cooper’s terrace out at Malibu, where you met me.”

“That was considerably past twelve-thirty.”

“That was considerably past the time I got there.”

“How long was he there?” Masuto asked Mrs. Cooper.

“This is insufferable!” Hennesy said. “What in hell right do you have to stand there and question us?”

“The same right you have to refuse to answer,” Masuto said, smiling.

“You’re goddamn pleased with yourself, aren’t you, taking over this house and pushing heartbroken people around.”

“Oh, don’t make such a fuss, Roy,” Mrs. Cooper said. “I’m delighted to answer this Oriental gentleman’s question. Do you know, Mr.-”

“Sergeant Masuto,” he said politely.

“Do you know, Sergeant Masuto, one of the most unpleasant things a hostess can do is to look at her watch while guests are present. It’s a crude signal that she wants them to leave. I wouldn’t dream of doing it. So if the congressman says he was on my terrace at twelve-thirty, why he was. That’s all there is to it.” With that she took Hennesy’s arm and they walked out of the living room.

“They’re a cute pair, Officer,” Joe Goldberg said. “They are that, a very cute pair.” He was a short, fat man, bald, with a pair of sharp eyes hidden under shaggy brows. He took out a cigar now, offering another to Masuto, who shook his head. He clipped the end of the cigar and lit it, took a sip of the drink on the table next to his chair, and then puffed deeply and with satisfaction. “Lousy ticker,” he said, “overweight, smoke too much, and here I am and poor Mike’s dead. It’s a stinking, fucked-up world, Officer, but I’m sure you know that.”

“It has occurred to me. Tell me, was Mr. Barton on a picture when this happened today?”

“My latest. Half filmed, and it goes into the cutting room trash can. Five million dollars down the drain.”

“But surely you were insured?”

“Yeah, insured. But that’s not the game, is it? It takes a year to set up a film before the cameras begin to grind, and that year isn’t insured. I lost my star and, like Della says, we lost a son too. Poor Mike-poor dumb bastard.”

“Who do you think killed him?” Masuto asked casually, dropping into a chair facing the producer.

“Come on, come on, since when does a cop ask you that? This is my first murder, Sergeant-Masuto, isn’t it? You’re a nisei, if I’m not mistaken?”

Masuto nodded.

“I think I’ve seen your name in the papers. You’re a pretty smart cop. The Japanese are damn smart, too smart for the rest of us, I’m afraid.”

“I’m just a policeman, and you produce motion pictures,” Masuto reminded him.

“I’m not sure that my job takes more brains than yours, and certainly a lot less guts. No, I have no idea who killed Mike, but I could name a lot of people who have a damn good reason for killing him, and they’re all in this house-his friends, horseshit, pure, unadulterated horseshit.”

“Please go on, Mr. Goldberg. You intrigue me.”

“Start with McCarthy. He and Mike got into an argument at the Bistro two weeks ago, and Mike hit him across the face with his open hand. I don’t know what the fight was about, but they tell me Jack just took it and stalked away. I don’t know whether that’s a reason for murder, but I suspect that McCarthy hates his guts.”

“Still he rallied around this morning when the kidnapping took place.”

“Ah, money talks. Mike is his best client. As for Bill Ranier, I’ve been pressing Mike to dump him. Ranier’s a crook, and a business agent who’s a crook is something no one needs. Ranier knows Mike was about ready to part company with him. As for that little tart they call Angel, she’s not shedding any tears over Mike’s death. I imagine it was the answer to her prayers.”

“And the congressman and Mrs. Cooper?”

“She’s a silly woman, and you can drop her off the list. Hennesy is another matter. Shady, and once very close to being indicted for bribe-taking. They say he’s mad about the Angel, but that’s a thin rumor. The Angel is shacked up with someone, but who it is I don’t know. But then a million dollars talks pretty damn loud, doesn’t it?”

“So they say. And yourself, Mr. Goldberg?”

“Sure.” Goldberg nodded, staring at his cigar ash. “Don’t leave me out. I could have killed Mike ten times over-for being a horse’s ass, for marrying that bitch, for not divorcing her, for letting Ranier rob him blind-ah, what the hell difference does it make now?”

“Why didn’t he divorce her?”

“You know, there was a time when Della and me, we were like a mother and father to Mike. He would invite himself to dinner two, three times a week. He would bring his dates for our approval. He would beg Della to read his lines with him. Oh, I don’t claim it was all disinterested affection for the kid. I made him a star and he was worth his weight in gold to me. But beyond that, we were both crazy about him-until-” He stared at Masuto. “You want to listen to all this garbage?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Okay. Until he met the Angel. She was dealing twenty-one in Vegas. That was two-two and a half years ago. Mike was a hot gambler, but the stories about him losing two or three hundred thousand in a session are pure bullshit. When Mike went to Vegas, he’d take a couple of thousand with him and when it was gone, he was finished. Well, as I said, he meets this Angel, it’s love at first sight, and she quits her job which she had only a few days. They’re married right there in Vegas and she comes back with him, and for a week or so Mike is happy as a clam, and then it’s over.”

“Same question, Mr. Goldberg. Why didn’t he divorce her?”

“Did you ask Ellie Newman? She’s a nice kid. She and Mike were in love with each other.”

“I asked her. She claimed she didn’t know, and the closest she ever came to an answer from Mr. Barton was his belief that it would make him a clown, a joke in the eyes of the world. I guess he intimated that it would end his film career.”

“Poor dumb kid. Well, that’s more of a reason than I ever got. She had something on him. I don’t know what it could be-” He shook his head hopelessly.

“And the kidnapping this morning. Did you buy it, Mr. Goldberg?”

“What do you mean, did I buy it?”

“I mean,” Masuto said slowly, choosing his words carefully, “did you feel that it was a real kidnapping or a faked kidnapping?”

“How the hell should I know? Sure I knew that Mike wouldn’t have given twenty cents to get her back, but the public wouldn’t buy that, and if Mike had refused to pay the ransom for his wife’s life, that would wash him out as a working star. We talked about that, and I agreed that he should pay it.”

“Did you also agree that he should keep the police and the FBI out of it?”

“Did he? I didn’t know that.” He shook his head worriedly. “Why would he do that? He had to pay the ransom, but I’d think he’d have the cops in there every step of the way.” He stared at the curl of smoke rising from his cigar. “Sergeant?”

“Yes?”

“How long do we have to stay here?”

“You don’t have to stay here at all. You can leave whenever you wish.”

“Well, I’ll wait until my wife finishes talking to Ellie.”

Masuto nodded and left the room. Beckman was in the hall outside talking into a telephone. Masuto waited. Beckman put down the telephone.

“Where are they?”

“Downstairs in the game room.”

“Any of them leave?”

Beckman shook his head. “It’s like they’re all watching each other. Mrs. Goldberg is still upstairs with Newman. Angel’s still in her room.”

“And Kelly?”

“He’s in the kitchen with Mrs. Holtz. The black kid is downstairs. They keep her running for drinks. By the way, Doc Baxter called. It was a twenty-two short, just as we thought, and he still fixes the time of death between twelve-thirty and one. One more thing-” Beckman paused, relishing the moment. “Wainwright had a couple of cops canvassing the houses on San Yisidro. They found a kid who saw a yellow two-seat Mercedes drive by at about twelve-thirty or so. He remembered it because it’s his dream car, and he never saw it before.”

“Did he notice who was driving, a man or a woman?”

“No. He was at an upstairs window, being sick with the flu, so he never saw who was driving.”

Masuto thought about it for a while, and then he said to Beckman, “Sy, I want to talk to Angel Barton, and I don’t want anyone else talking to her first. So go upstairs and wait for me outside her room. No one goes in-but no one. And if she wants to leave, just delay her. I won’t be more than ten minutes.”

“This Dr. Haddam said-”

“I don’t give a damn what Dr. Haddam said.”

“Okay, Okay, Masao. What’s eating you?”

Masuto laughed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sy. We live in an insane world.”

“What else is new?”

“I try to suspend judgment. Sometimes that’s almost impossible. What did you find out downtown about Joe Kelly?”

“He has a record, like Miss Newman said. Seven priors. In and out, he spent maybe twenty years in jail, all of it theft, grand larceny, petty larceny. He’s a thief, that’s all. He got out on parole eight years ago, and Mike Barton hired him. He’s been clean ever since.”

“All right. Go upstairs now. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

Masuto went into the kitchen. Kelly and Mrs. Holtz sat at the kitchen table, each with a cup of tea. Mrs. Holtz was a woman of at least fifty, possibly even sixty years. She was crying, yet seemingly unaware of the tears rolling down her cheeks. Kelly sat watching her, his long, lined and battered face impassive. But that, Masuto realized, could be misleading. A man who had lived Kelly’s life would be beyond the point of revealing emotions facially. Masuto felt the tragedy of his own aloofness, but it was a tragedy mankind shared, the tragedy of being fragmented, of each person being walled away from the suffering of others. There was little left for those two people. In all likelihood Kelly could never find another job.

Masuto pulled a chair up to the table, waving Mrs. Holtz back to her seat as she started to rise. “Don’t get up, please.”

“I’ll get you a cup of tea, Sergeant. A piece of cake.”

“No. No, thank you. Just a few questions.”

“You might as well know about me,” Kelly said. “I got a record.”

“I know.”

“I never slugged anyone and I never shot anyone. I was never busted for carrying a gun.”

“I know that.”

Mrs. Holtz evidently did not know it. She stared at Kelly in astonishment.

“And I never left this place today.”

“Yes. Then you saw Mr. Barton leave with the ransom money?”

“I was washing a car in front of the garage when he pulled out. He had a big brown suitcase, and he put it on the front seat of the car next to him.”

“What time was that?”

“Maybe ten, fifteen minutes past twelve, because after he pulled away I turned off the water and came into the kitchen here for my lunch.”

“That was twenty minutes after twelve,” Mrs. Holtz said. “I remember.”

“Why do you remember the exact time?” Masuto asked her.

“Because inside, in the living room, Mr. McCarthy and Mr. Ranier was having terrible argument. Joe heard it too. He said, ‘What do you think? Maybe they’re hungry.’ It was joke. I said, ‘No, it’s only twenty minutes after twelve.’”

“Did you hear what they were saying?”

“I don’t listen. Maybe Joe?”

He shook his head.

“Mrs. Barton was kidnapped,” Masuto said, “and in great danger. Yet you were able to joke about things.”

Mrs. Holtz shrugged. “Is terrible not to care about someone, but she was never nice to us.”

The telephone rang, and Masuto picked up the extension on the kitchen wall. It was Klappham, on night duty at the station house. “The captain left me this number, Masao,” he said. “Bones down at L.A.P.D. called and left this message for you. They picked up the yellow Mercedes. It was parked on Fourth Street downtown. No damage. Mint condition and the key in the lock.”

“Did they dust it?”

“I was just going to tell you, wiped clean.”

Masuto hung up the telephone and turned back to Kelly. “Did you ever drive for Mrs. Barton?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you ever take her to meet anyone?”

“Maybe, but I don’t know who she met.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, a lot of times, I drive her down to the Music Center. I drop her off and she’d tell me when to pick her up. Same thing out to Malibu, if she didn’t want to bother to drive. We got that big Lincoln Continental chauffeur car, with a bar in it and a telephone and all that garbage, and I guess it made her feel pretty classy riding around in it. She didn’t like my driving, but when you been busted as many times as I have, you drive careful, and when she was alone with me she could really let go. She could talk pretty damn dirty. Sometimes she’d cuss me out in French. I don’t know the words, but from the way she spit it out I knew she was cussing me. She was always after Mr. Barton to dump me and hire someone else.”

“Did you ever take her to meet a man-I mean did you ever actually see her with a man?”

“Once, when I had to pick her up at the County Museum, she was kissing someone.”

“Who?”

“That’s it. I was coming down Wilshire, maybe two, three blocks away. When I got to her, he was gone.”

“Yes. Do you know whether either of the Bartons owned a gun?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Holtz said. “Yes. She left it one day on her dressing table. No, not on it-inside. You know how the top comes up with a mirror. It was there, and Jonesey saw it. It scared her to death. Jonesey was cleaning the room, and she came running to me.”

“Did you see the gun?”

Mrs. Holtz nodded.

“Can you describe it for me?”

“It was small, silver, very small. Like a toy gun. Like guns you see, but they’re really cigarette lighters.”

“Thank you. I’ll talk to Miss Jones later. You’ve been very helpful.”

Masuto went upstairs then and joined Beckman, who was waiting for him outside the door of Angel Barton’s room. “Anything?” he asked Beckman.

“Quiet as a grave. Nobody in, nobody out. There’s still reporters and TV characters outside, but Dempsy’s held the line against them. You’d think the telephone would be ringing constantly, but the black kid they call Jonesey tells me that they have an unlisted number and they keep changing it. Still, you’d think a star would have loads of friends.”

“You’d think so,” Masuto said. He tapped at the door of Angel’s room. “Where’s Miss Newman and Mrs. Goldberg?”

“That room, down the hall,” Beckman said, pointing.

Masuto knocked at the door again, waited a few seconds, and then turned the handle and opened the door. The room was pink and white-white carpet on the floor, pink walls, white bed, pink coverlet, two pink and white angels suspended by wire from the ceiling fleeting over the bed, mirrors on one whole wall, white baroque furniture, a pink and white chaise longue, and lying on it, half-reclining, Angel Barton in a pink robe over a white silk and lace nightgown. Her hair was a hairdresser’s triumph-long, spun gold, and two wide, innocent blue eyes stared at them out of a Marilyn Monroe face.

The two men halted just inside the door, staring at Angel, who returned their stare unblinking.

“Sy, close the door,” Masuto whispered.

He closed the door and said, “Masao, what the hell goes on here?”

Masuto walked over to Angel Barton and picked up her arm. There was no pulse and the hand was cold.

“Is she dead, Masao?”

He pushed the lids down over the staring blue eyes. “Very dead, I think.” On the floor next to the chaise longue there was an empty hypodermic needle. Beckman picked it up with his handkerchief.

“How long?” he asked Masuto.

Staring at Angel thoughtfully, Masuto said, “The hands are cold. Twenty minutes, half an hour.” He was examining her arm. There was a single puncture mark. “What’s the smell?” he asked Beckman, who was sniffing the air.

“Ether.”

“I thought so. Go downstairs, Sy, and tell Dempsy that no one leaves the house. I’ve been stupid, and I don’t want to go on being stupid. Then call the station and tell them to get another cop over here and to inform the captain. Then call Baxter and tell him we want him and an ambulance.”

“He’ll love that.”

“We’ll try to live with his displeasure.”

Beckman was studying the hypodermic. “No prints.”

“No, he wanted to get rid of it, so he wiped it and dropped it.”

Beckman left the room. Masuto walked over to the dressing table and raised the lid. There was the gun Mrs. Holtz had spoken about. It was a small, expensive purse gun, twenty-two caliber and probably, Masuto guessed, of Swiss make. He took it out, hooking his pinky through the trigger guard and then brought it into the light of a lamp, studying it carefully. It bore a clear set of prints which, he was convinced, would match those of the dead Angel. He then wrapped it in his handkerchief and dropped it into his pocket.

He then walked over to the dead Angel and stared at her thoughtfully. She was indeed a very beautiful woman, even in death. He tried to analyze his own feelings. Had he been the cause of her death? Was his own failure to anticipate it to be condemned? Should he have known? There was something missing. He was not attempting to exonerate himself. There was simply something missing.

He bent over the dead woman now and raised one of the eyelids he had closed before, peering at the cold blue eye it revealed. Then he lowered the lid again. There were two doors at one side of the bedroom. Masuto went to them now. One led to a bathroom, where tile and sink and tub were in varying shades of pink. The other door opened on an enormous walk-in closet.

Masuto flicked on the closet light, staring at the racks of dresses, slacks, and evening gowns. One entire wall of the closet was devoted to a shoe rack, holding at least a hundred pairs of shoes and, at the bottom, four pairs of riding boots. He then went through the racks and finally found, not on the racks, but carefully folded on a shelf behind the dresses, six pairs of whipcord breeches. What this added up to, Masuto could not for the life of him imagine. Possibly nothing. Possibly she liked to ride. In the detective stories he read occasionally, everything pointed in a specific direction. But here were things most curious that pointed nowhere.