Howard Fast - The Case of the Kidnapped Angel

“Just a notion.”

To Wainwright, Masuto said softly, “I want to tell them that Angel was murdered.”

“Will it help?”

“I think so.”

“Is it one of them?”

“Or Beckman or myself or one of the three servants. No one else was in the house.”

“Go ahead and do what you got to do.”

“I’ll step on toes.”

“There’s no other way. The city manager will be in my office tomorrow morning yelling his head off. But he’ll yell at me, not at you. So just take it with a grain of salt if I put you down and save face.”

“I’m all understanding.”

Jones returned now with the drinks, and when she had left the room, Masuto said to the assembled company, “I must begin by telling you that Angel Barton was murdered, and we have every reason to believe that she was murdered by the same person who killed her husband. I must add that the murderer is still in the house, since no one entered or left this house since at least an hour before the murder took place. That doesn’t mean the murderer is in this room, not necessarily, since there are also three servants in the house. This information does not change what Captain Wainwright said before. There are no charges against any of you, and any one of you is free to leave when he or she pleases.”

“And to be tagged as your mysterious killer!” Mrs. Cooper snorted.

“This whole procedure is outrageous,” McCarthy said. “I challenge your statement that no one entered or left this house this evening. There are French doors, a kitchen door, a basement door-there are windows. How dare you come in here with your asinine conclusions and browbeat a group of people whose only sin is that they were the close friends of Mike and Angel Barton!”

“There’ll be no browbeating, Sergeant!” Wainwright snapped.

“Terribly, terribly sorry,” Masuto said. “Please forgive me if I gave any impression of browbeating. You may leave now, if you wish, Mr. McCarthy.”

“I have clients here. I will not leave them without legal protection.”

“Would anyone else like to leave?”

No one moved.

“Then I must tell you, as Mr. McCarthy certainly would have, that you have the right to ignore any questions I may ask you. I shall question each person in turn, and I would appreciate it if the others did not interfere. Except, of course, Mr. McCarthy, who will be duty-bound to advise his clients not to answer when he feels they should not answer.”

“I’m not sure I want to answer any of your damned questions,” Hennesy said.

“As you please, Congressman. I’ll start with Mrs. Goldberg.”

Beckman had moved behind them. He sat on the piano bench, his notebook out.

“Do you ride, Mrs. Goldberg? I mean horseback.”

Della Goldberg observed him with interest, smiling slightly. “As a matter of fact, I do. I mean, I try. It’s silly at my age, but most of the things one does out here are silly.”

“Where do you ride?”

“In Malibu. My husband and I keep horses at the Grandview Corral.”

“And you both ride?”

“We both try.”

“Thank you. And you, Mr. McCarthy, do you ride?”

McCarthy stared at him, his face set.

“Of course he does,” Mrs. Cooper said, “and I don’t blame him for refusing to answer a stupid question like that. And I ride, if you intend to ask me that dumb question. At the same Grandview Corral.”

“I ride occasionally,” Ranier volunteered. “I don’t know why you want to know and I couldn’t care less. At Crushanks, in the Valley.”

“And you, Mr. Hennesy?”

“I think I’ve had enough of your nonsense, Masuto. I didn’t like you when I met you this afternoon, and I like you less now. The abuse of police power is one of the things I like least in this democracy of ours. To have a very mournful occasion like this turned into a circus is more than I can endure. I think I’ll leave.” He stood up. “Will you join me?” he asked Mrs. Cooper.

“As a matter of fact, I was thinking the same thing.” She rose too.

“I’ll go with you,” McCarthy said, and to Ranier, “I’d advise you to do the same thing, Bill.”

“I’ll stay,” Ranier decided.

McCarthy, Hennesy, and Mrs. Cooper left the room. Masuto heard the door slam as they departed from the house, and Wainwright took the moment to whisper to Masuto that he was going home. “It’s your ballgame, Masao,” he said. “I’m going to get to the city manager tonight, before McCarthy shits all over us. And be careful,” he added, dropping his voice still further. “We got McCarthy and we got the congressman, and those are two mean bastards. So for God’s sake, keep it cool and don’t involve us in any lawsuits. And don’t make any arrests. These people aren’t going anywhere.”

The Goldbergs, Miss Newman, and Ranier sat quietly, waiting. When Wainwright had left, Joe Goldberg said, “What now, Sergeant? I’ll admit I am an appropriate candidate for murdering the Angel, if I had enough guts to murder anyone, which I haven’t, but poor Mikey I would kill only for his stupidity, and no one kills because someone they love is stupid.”

“Mikey wasn’t so stupid,” Della Goldberg protested. “He was trusting.”

“Which, carried to the extremes he carried it to, was simply another form of stupidity.”

“Will you two stop!” Miss Newman cried. “You just can’t stand the fact that Mike decided he didn’t need another mother and father. Calling him stupid because he loved people and trusted them!”

“I think you’d better go home, Miss Newman,” Masuto said gently. “You’ve had a long, terrible day.” And to Beckman, “Take her outside, Sy, and have a squad car drive her home.”

“I have my car here,” she muttered, the tears beginning.

“All right, if you wish. And please give Detective Beckman your address and phone number.”

“Anything more?” Goldberg asked after the girl and Beckman had gone.

“Yes. Do you know whether Hennesy rides?”

“He rides,” Ranier put in.

“What is this riding business?” Goldberg asked. “How does it fit in?”

“I’m not sure I know.”

Beckman came in then and told Masuto that Kelly had asked whether he could go to his room. “He sleeps over the garage.”

“Yes, he can go.” And then to Ranier, “How do you know Hennesy rides?”

“I was once a guest out at Albermarle, near San Fernando. They told me he keeps a horse there.”

“That would cost a bundle,” Goldberg remarked. “Hennesy doesn’t have a pot to pee in.”

“Hennesy’s on the take. When he needs money, he gets money. All right, I don’t smell of roses. It takes one to know one.”

“What kind of take?” Masuto asked.

“I can give you a list of what a congressman can do for you as long as your arm. He does it.”

Keller, the FBI man, spoke up for the first time since he had entered the room and said, “That’s a serious accusation, Mr. Ranier.”

Ranier looked at Masuto hopelessly. “Is he kidding?”

“I think not. He’s a federal officer.”

“And you work in this town,” Ranier said to Keller, “and you never heard that Roy Hennesy is a crook?”

“Come on, Bill,” Goldberg said, “you don’t call a man a crook until you can quote chapter and verse. Anyway, I’ve had enough of this whole thing. My wife and I would like to leave, Sergeant.”

“If you wish, of course.”

As he rose, he asked, “Are we still suspects?”

“Did you or your wife kill the Bartons?”

“You know damn well we didn’t!”

Masuto shrugged. “At this point, I know so little.”

The Goldbergs departed, leaving Masuto with Ranier and Keller. Ranier rose, took a few paces, leaned over the piano with his back to the two men, and then turned to Masuto and said, “I want to talk to you.”