Howard Fast - The Case of the Kidnapped Angel

“You’ll get it back.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“All of it?” Wainwright asked suspiciously. “What the hell is it for if I get all of it back?”

“Trust me, please.”

“How much?”

“A thousand dollars.”

Wainwright regarded Masuto sourly. “All right. But I want it back, every cent of it. I’m going to the station house now, and I’ll pull a draft for you and you can cash it at the bank. Are you going to call these characters?”

“If you could do it,” Masuto said gently, “it would be much more meaningful. You’ve got the rank and they’ll be impressed with a call from you.”

Wainwright stared at him, shook his head, turned on his heel, and walked out. Sweeney, putting his equipment together, looked at Masuto with respect. “That was beautiful,” he said. “That was like Moses getting water from a rock. The captain will never be the same again.”

“I think he took it very well.”

“Look, Sarge, do you expect any significant prints from this place?”

“No.”

“Then why the hell do you let me work my ass off?”

“You’re fingerprints. If you don’t look for fingerprints, the captain would be very upset. You know that.”

“The hell with you!” Sweeney said, and stalked out. A minute or so later, Masuto followed him.

Downstairs in the kitchen Mrs. Holtz and Lena Jones sat at the kitchen table, depleted, their faces full of hopeless fear. Elaine Newman stood at a window, staring at the gardens behind the house. She had come there while Masuto was upstairs in Kelly’s quarters, and now as he entered the kitchen, she turned slowly to face him.

“Will it stop? Will you ever stop it?”

“It’s over now.”

“I didn’t know a thing like this could happen here-in America-in Beverly Hills. How can such a thing happen here?” Mrs. Holtz said.

“I just don’t know what to do,” Elaine said to Masuto. “What do you do? Do we keep the house going? Do we close it up? Who pays the wages of Mrs. Holtz and Lena-yes, and myself. I know it’s selfish and unfeeling to talk about such things, but what am I supposed to do?”

“Did you call McCarthy? Wasn’t he Barton’s lawyer?”

“I called him. He doesn’t return my calls. He isn’t very fond of me.”

Masuto went to her and put his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll finish it soon,” he said softly. “You’ve been through your own hell, but that will end.” Suddenly, her face was pressed into his jacket and she was sobbing uncontrollably. He held her like that for a moment or two, and then he said, “Will you help me? I need your help.”

“Yes.”

He took out his handkerchief and handed it to her, and she dried her eyes.

“Where do you work, Elaine? I mean in what room?” He quite deliberately called her by her first name. Masuto was not unaware of the fact that he was a very good-looking man, that women liked him and trusted him.

“Suppose we go there now. We’ll talk.” He turned to Mrs. Holtz and Lena Jones. “Don’t be afraid. We have a policeman in the front hall. Let him answer the door.”

“Will you be here?” Lena Jones asked desperately.

“For a little while. But the policeman will be here all day.”

“You can’t blame them,” Elaine said as they walked to the library. “They’re frightened. So am I. They live here. Where can they go?”

Dempsy was in the front hall. “Listen,” Masuto said to him. “There are two women in the house, in the kitchen. I want you to look in there every half hour or so, make them feel comfortable. They’re afraid.”

“Sure.”

“And no one else comes into the house-no one. Except Miss Newman here. If she leaves, she can return. But no one else. And if anyone gets nasty about it, call the captain.”

She led Masuto into the library. It was more or less a standard Beverly Hills library or den, with wood-paneled walls, shelves of leather-bound books, tufted leather furniture, and bad pictures. There was a large desk and a typewriter.

“Sit down, please,” Masuto said to her.

She curled up in one corner of the couch. Masuto sat facing her. “I’m all right now,” she said.

“I know. You’re a survivor.”

“A woman alone in this town who isn’t a survivor-well, I don’t have to tell you.”

“No, you don’t. Now, you were here when Mike Barton left with the ransom money?”

“Yes. I told you that.”

“How big was the suitcase?”

“Oh, about this size.” She motioned with her hands. “You know the size you can bring on the plane with you? Well, I’d say it was a size larger.”

“Is it one of a matched set?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Could I see the set? Where would it be?”

“In the closet in Mike’s room. I’ll take you there.” She led the way upstairs. Unlike Angel’s room, this was plain, almost drab. The closet was a large, walk-in affair with, Masuto reflected, enough suits, jackets, and slacks to outfit the entire Beverly Hills police force. The luggage was lined up on a shelf, a space showing where one of the suitcases had been removed. Masuto pulled out the one next to it and studied it. “Just one of each size?”

“Yes, in that design, just one of each size. There are other suitcases in the storeroom.”

“The same design?”

“Oh, no, quite different.”

“Do you know where they came from?”

“They’re from Gucci.”

“The place on Rodeo Drive?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you suppose they’d have another just like it?”

“I’m sure they would. It’s a standard item.”

“Well, that helps. Would you mind coming with me to Gucci to make sure I get the right thing?”

“Sure, if it’s going to end this business.”

“I think it will.”

At Gucci’s, fifteen minutes later, Elaine selected the suitcase.

“How much is it?” Masuto asked.

The clerk, who had been observing Masuto’s creaseless gray flannels, his old tweed jacket, and his tieless shirt, said coldly, “Four hundred and twenty dollars.”

Masuto responded with stunned silence, and Elaine stepped into the gap and said, “This is Sergeant Masuto of the Beverly Hills police force. We need the suitcase only for a single day, not for travel purposes, but simply as an exhibit.”

Masuto took out his badge. “It will be returned, undamaged, tomorrow.”

“I’ll have to speak to the manager,” the clerk said, and when the manager was apprised of the situation, he told them that he was delighted to be of some service to the Beverly Hills police. “You might mention the name Gucci,” he said, “but only if it’s convenient.”

Outside, Masuto said to Elaine, “You, my dear, are a remarkable young woman.”

“I think you’re a remarkable cop,” she returned.

Masuto deposited the Gucci suitcase in the trunk of his car and drove Elaine back to the Barton house, explaining on the way about the proceedings scheduled for that evening. “I want things to be as loose and easy as possible. Mrs. Holtz can have cake and coffee for those who want it. Can Miss Jones mix drinks?”

“I’ll help her. But what makes you so sure they’ll come?”

“They’ll come. This is not simply Beverly Hills, it’s the American dream factory. Each one of them has either a starring or a supporting role, and they wouldn’t miss it.”

“And that’s what the suitcase is for?”

“Perhaps. You know, Miss Newman, there is a Zen belief that what one sees is illusion. The reality is what one refuses to see.”

“Yes, and now it’s Miss Newman again.”

“I’m a policeman.”

“And married?”