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

by Howard Fast

  Back in his own office Masuto said to Beckman, “All right, Sy, let’s have it.”

  Beckman was still bemused. “What was she, a man or a woman?”

  “Baxter calls it sexual reassignment. It’s a long, complicated operative and hormonal procedure, and he says it’s been done thousands of times.”

  “But how could Barton—”

  “Come on, Sy. How could you? How could everyone else?”

  “You tell me. It gives me the creeps. Was she an addict?”

  “Yes.”

  “Heroin?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, Masao,” Beckman said, “if anyone else was working with you, and you say to him, go out and search, he might just ask you what he was searching for.”

  “All right, you found it,” Masuto said, looking at his watch.

  “Well, why the hell didn’t you tell me what I was looking for?”

  “Because I didn’t know what you were looking for.”

  “And now you know?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You are one weird son of a bitch, Masao. All right. I turned that place upside down. I found these in a jar of cold cream.” He took three small ampules, each covered with a stretched rubber top, out of his pocket and placed them on Masuto’s desk. “You know what they are?”

  “Heroin?”

  “Prepared stuff. I had Sweeney run a test. High grade, pure heroin, medicinally prepared, according to Sweeney, and legally imported from England.”

  “Illegal. I don’t think a doctor can prescribe it in California, but I suppose that if you pay enough, you can get it. Well, that’s what killed her, that and the whisky and the chloral hydrate.”

  “Where’s the fourth ampule?”

  “In the garbage at the Barton place, I imagine, or in a garbage dump somewhere. It wouldn’t help us. Everyone’s too smart about fingerprints these days. That was good work, Sy, damn good. Now what about the war records?”

  “I unloaded that one on Keller. You were very nice to him, so he was very glad that we don’t hate the FBI the way the L.A. cops and the New York cops do. I explained that we were a very small outfit and that we appreciated what the FBI could do for us. He said he’d call in the information as soon as Washington worked it up.”

  “Today?”

  “That’s what he said, this afternoon.”

  Masuto looked at his watch again. It was twenty minutes to three. “How long to get to the bank from here?”

  “Our bank? Five minutes.”

  Masuto dialed the number of the Barton house. Elaine Newman answered, and Masuto said to her, “About that suitcase of money—did you see it open? Did you see the money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you remember the bills on top? Tens, twenties, fifties?”

  “They were twenties. I think—no, I’m pretty sure. I heard them talk about it after Mike left. Twenties.”

  Masuto did some quick calculations, and then he said to Beckman, “Sy, Polly has a draft for a thousand dollars waiting for us at the desk. Take it to the bank and get fifty twenty-dollar bills. Then stop at a stationery supply place and get ten reams of twenty-pound bond paper.”

  “How do I pay for the paper?”

  “Tell them to bill us. Better hurry.”

  After Beckman left, Masuto sat at his desk, his eyes half-closed, his hands folded in his lap, and began to put the pieces together. He assembled them in his mind and let them fall into place, like the bits and pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He was sitting like that when a cop opened his door and told him that Wainwright wanted to see him.

  The city manager was in Wainwright’s office, and he offered Masuto a bleak nod. “The captain’s been telling me about tonight, Sergeant, and I don’t like it. I think you ought to call it off.”

  “Why, if I may ask?”

  “Because you’re playing with fire. Jack McCarthy is one of the most important lawyers in Los Angeles, and a resident of this town to boot. Joe Goldberg is one of the biggest producers in town, and Ranier is a damned important businessman. And Hennesy—Sergeant, he’s a member of the House of Representatives. You have money there and you have power, and sure as hell they’ll slap us with a lawsuit that’ll curl our hair.”

  “On what grounds? No one’s being forced. No one’s being charged. They’re coming because they wouldn’t miss tonight for the world. They’re coming to see a killer exposed. I promise you that they will not be badgered or provoked. In fact, I won’t even question them.”

  “Then what the devil do you want them for?”

  “Because one of them murdered Joe Kelly, and because that man is an accessory to the murder of Mike Barton.”

  “Sergeant, I have a lot of respect for you, and I know what your record is. But how do you know that?”

  “What I know is meaningless and unimportant until I can prove it, and unless you let this take place tonight, I doubt that I’ll ever be able to prove it.”

  “Captain Wainwright tells me you’re convinced that Angel killed Mike Barton.”

  “I am, yes.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Possibly. Tonight.”

  “And who killed Angel?”

  “I think I know, but I have no evidence, none whatsoever.”

  “I’d still like to know.”

  Masuto shook his head. “Then it would be an empty accusation. I don’t do that. But about tonight, I can assure you that there’ll be no heavy-handed police methods. I think you should allow it to proceed.”

  The city manager looked at Wainwright. “Captain?”

  “I’ll be there,” Wainwright said, “so you can have my word that whatever is done will be done with a light touch.”

  “All right. But I’m holding you responsible. This kind of thing, three murders in one household, does the city no good. The sooner it’s cleaned up and forgotten, the better off we’ll all be.”

  Masuto’s phone was ringing as he entered his office. It was Frank Keller, the very young FBI man, obviously pleased with himself. “I got it all, Sergeant,” he told Masuto. “Shall I send the records over?”

  “Can you give me the salient points over the phone?”

  “Can do. Start with Joseph Goldberg. World War Two. Enlisted in 1942. Field artillery. Do you want the unit and battle record?”

  “No. What about marksmanship citations?”

  “Goldberg ended up a lieutenant, field commission. Small arms—that’s common in the field artillery. McCarthy was World War Two as well, tank driver—can you imagine, with that paunch of his? Also small arms. Ranier was in the Korean War, quartermaster corps, no citations, and also in the Korean War, Hennesy served with the Coast Guard, rank of midshipman. That’s it, very briefly. Should I send the records over?”

  “I would appreciate that,” Masuto said. “And thank you for your efforts.”

  Beckman came in while Masuto was speaking. “Anything?” he asked.

  “Not much. They all know how to use a pistol.”

  “The paper’s in my car. Ten reams—do you know what that weighs?”

  “About the same as a million dollars in twenty-dollar bills, more or less.”

  “And the money’s here,” patting his bulging pockets. “It’s a nice feeling to walk around with a thousand dollars in your pockets.”

  “Do you know where there’s a paper cutter—one of those power jobs?”

  “We could try City Hall. They should have one. I get the drift of what you’re going to try, but what about the suitcase?”

  “Courtesy of Gucci.”

  “Same one?”

  “So Miss Newman says. I promised to return it, so we’ll handle it carefully. Now let’s try for the paper cutter.”

  Beckman took a packet of currency wrappers out of his pocket. “You forgot about these.”

  “So I did. I wonder what else I’ve forgotten.”

  The Suitcase

  It was well after six o’clock before Masuto and Beckman fini
shed cutting the paper and arranging the piles, topped by twenty-dollar bills, in the suitcase. While they were at work, Wainwright stopped by and watched them for a moment or two, and then said, “It’s an old trick. What makes you think it will work?”

  Masuto shrugged. “It’s a shortcut. Maybe it won’t work.”

  “You got anything else?”

  “Something, not much.”

  “Whoever it is, he was in it with Angel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he could have killed Mike Barton.”

  “He could have, but I don’t think he did,” Masuto said.

  “He could have killed Angel. One less to split.”

  Masuto shrugged.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t think he killed Angel. I think he killed Kelly.”

  “And what do we do about Angel?”

  Masuto shook his head.

  “You know,” Wainwright said, “you are one secretive bastard, Masao. You’re supposed to be part of this police force, not a goddamn supercop.”

  “I never think of myself as a supercop,” Masuto replied, smiling. “I crawl through mazes and I try to guess what goes on in the minds of poor tortured madmen. Do you want me to drag you in with me every time I get some crazy notion.”

  “All I want you to do is to level with me.”

  “I try.”

  “And just keep an eye on that suitcase. I want that thousand dollars back.”

  “Not to mention the suitcase,” Beckman said, “which cost four hundred and twenty dollars at Gucci.”

  “Goddamnit!” Wainwright snarled. “Who paid for it? Did you charge it to us?”

  “Gucci lent it to us, as a gesture of goodwill toward the Beverly Hills cops.”

  “Clowns,” Wainwright muttered as he stalked out.

  They ate at Cantor’s on Fairfax Avenue. Beckman wanted tempura, but Masuto had eaten tempura for lunch and he had no great love for Los Angeles Japanese restaurants. He told Beckman that he had a craving for chicken and matzo-ball soup so they went to Cantor’s. Masuto would not talk about the case. He dodged Beckman’s question and talked about the TV version of Shōgun, the matzo balls at Cantor’s, and the problem of inflation on a cop’s salary. Then, as they were leaving, he said to Beckman, “Do you know where to break the connection so that a car can’t start?”

  “Nothing to it.”

  “All right. Tonight, after they arrive, if there’s a key in the car, put it into your pocket, and if there’s no key, break the connection. But I don’t want the cars damaged, I just want none of them able to start.”

  “No sweat.”

  “And if anything happens, just let it play out. No rough stuff, no daring moves, no jumping anyone. Just watch me and play my game.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Just being careful.”

  It was eight o’clock when they got to Mike Barton’s house, and the only car in the parking space was Elaine Newman’s Mustang. Dempsy, still on duty, came out to meet them.

  “No one here yet?”

  “Only Miss Newman. She’s been here all afternoon. The cook and the maid—that’s all.”

  “Good. Now, listen, Dempsy, if something happens tonight, no guns or rough stuff. If someone has a gun, no shooting if you can help it. Play it very cool.”

  “What do you expect, Sergeant?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

  Beckman carried the suitcase into the house. “You know, Masao,” he said, “I never thought of money being heavy. This is heavy.”

  Elaine Newman had opened the door for them, saying, “Thank God you’re here, Sergeant. This place is spooky. What have you got in there?”

  “About nine and a half reams of bond paper and some twenty-dollar bills. Do you have a closet in the library where you can stow it until we need it?”

  “Absolutely.” She was alive this evening. She had broken out of the torpor of her grief. “Get him,” she said eagerly. “Get him, please. Not only for Kelly, but for Mike too.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Angel killed Mike, didn’t she? That’s what you think?”

  “How do you know I think that?”

  “You sit in this library, and you can listen to half the house. It’s these old-fashioned hot-air vents. I overheard you talking to the captain. You know she killed Mike, but if she was in it with someone else, then that makes him guilty too, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t decide matters of guilt or innocence.” He looked at her thoughtfully, reflecting that she was not beautiful, not even very pretty, but there was intelligence in the face and the wide-set, dark blue eyes were unusually striking. You saw the eyes before you saw anything else, and a head of rich thick brown hair framed them very well. She was an odd contrast to the woman Mike Barton had married and, very likely, Masuto decided, a complete reaction.

  “Then get the evidence,” she said evenly.

  “I’ll do my best.” He turned to Beckman. “Cover the door, Sy, and steer each one into the living room. I don’t want them wandering around the house. Be gentle but firm.”

  “It’s like a goddamn convocation of nobility.”

  “Our nobility, for what it’s worth. Lend a hand, please,” he said to Elaine.

  “Most of them I can’t stand to look at.”

  Masuto smiled. “Rise above it. Serve coffee. Ask for drink orders. Be a sort of hostess.”

  “Must I?”

  “You’re all we have. Where are the ladies?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  Going to the kitchen, Masuto tried to remember when he had spoken to the captain about Angel being the killer. Had it been here in the house? Too much had happened in the past thirty hours. Things ran together. In the kitchen was the warm, homey smell of baking. Lena Jones was filling a tray with cups, saucers, and cake plates. Mrs. Holtz was slicing a loaf cake.

  “It smells wonderful,” Masuto said.

  “Have a piece.”

  “I just finished dinner.”

  “Have a piece. It won’t hurt you. I’ll pour a cup of coffee.”

  He sat at the table and munched the cake. “You’re right. It’s absolutely delicious. Lena,” he said to the black girl, “yesterday, when Mrs. Barton died, Dr. Haddam tells us that you brought a glass of ice and whisky upstairs and that Mrs. Barton drank it. Can you tell me exactly how that came about?”

  She was frightened. She stared at Masuto without answering.

  “She’s just a child,” Mrs. Holtz put in. “You know what it’s been like in this house yesterday and today? I’ll tell you what happened. Kelly came into the kitchen. Lena and me were here. He says to Lena, ‘There’s a glass of whisky on the bar. Bring it up to Mrs. Barton.’ I tell him, ‘Why don’t you bring it up yourself?’ Then he curses. I don’t want to speak bad of the dead, but he had a foul mouth. Then he stamps out of the back door.”

  Masuto nodded.

  “You like sugar in the coffee?”

  “No, just black. Lena,” he said to the maid, “don’t be afraid. Just tell me what you did then.”

  She took a deep breath. “I go out then and get the glass.”

  “What kind of glass?”

  She went to the closet and took out a tall highball glass. “Same as this.”

  “Can you remember how many ice cubes were in it?”

  “Three, I guess.”

  “You’re a very observant young woman. And how high was the glass filled?”

  She touched the glass about three quarters of an inch from the top.

  “The doctor,” Masuto said, “guessed that it was Scotch whisky.”

  “That’s what she drank.”

  “Scotch is not quite as dark as bourbon or rye. Would you guess that it was all whisky, no water.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s what I thought.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “I brought it upstairs. Mr. McCarthy and the doctor was just
outside the door, and I hear it slam as I come upstairs. Then she opens the door, sees me, and grabs the drink out of my hand. She was shaking. She just drains it down and then pushes the glass back at me and slams the door again.”

  After that Masuto sat in silence for a few minutes, finishing the cake and the coffee. Then he said to Lena, “Do you think you can serve our guests tonight?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’ll be here soon. Miss Newman will help you. Most, I imagine, will want drinks. Some will have cake and coffee. Then, at about a quarter after nine, I’ll get up and speak to them. When that happens, I’d like you to leave and stay here in the kitchen with Mrs. Holtz.”

  The Goldbergs were the first to arrive. They came at ten minutes to nine, and looking at the fat little man with a fringe of white hair around his bald skull, and thinking of the field artillery officer who got a field commission, Masuto reflected on the callousness of time. Captain Wainwright arrived a few minutes later, and then after him, Congressman Hennesy, Mrs. Cooper, and then Bill Ranier. It was ten minutes after nine before Jack McCarthy got there, completing the group, and he said to Wainwright, “I’m here only because Joe Smith asked me to come. Otherwise, I’d have no part of this nonsense.”

  Wainwright thanked him for coming. Elaine Newman took orders for drinks. Lena Jones poured coffee, her hands shaking just a bit. Della Goldberg and Bill Ranier had coffee. The others had drinks. Beckman stood unobtrusively at the entrance to the room. Elaine Newman took a seat apart from the others, who had seated themselves on three large couches that made a conversation area in front of the grand piano.

  At half past nine Wainwright rose and spread his hands for silence. “I don’t want you to think of this as an inquisition,” he said. “Nothing of the sort. We asked you to come here tonight to help us inject some clarity into our thinking about this case. It’s a shocking case, and it does the city no good, and until it’s cleared up, it will engender fear where there’s no reason for fear. Our procedure tonight will be very simple. Detective Sergeant Masuto will outline some of the salient points of the case, and when he finishes, anyone who wishes to can comment. That’s about it.”

  Masuto stood up, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Lena Jones slip out of the room. There were no doors to the living room, but Beckman was planted solidly in the archway that led to the hall. The four men and the two women seated in the horseshoe of couches watched Masuto expectantly. Wainwright and Miss Newman were behind him.