Howard Fast - The Case of the Kidnapped Angel

“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.”