The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) (8 page)

“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.”