Howard Fast - The Case of the Kidnapped Angel

“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.”

“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.”