The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) (9 page)

“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.”

The Returned Angel

“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.”