The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) (19 page)

As McCarthy spoke, Masuto nodded slightly at Beckman, who left the room.

“—which makes the first hole in your incredible concoction. And if Mike was being blackmailed so readily—” He stopped in mid-sentence as Beckman entered the room carrying what was unquestionably a very heavy suitcase. He placed the Gucci bag on the floor in sight of the group and opened it. The sight of the open bag, filled with what were apparently neatly stacked bundles of twenty-dollar bills, drew a collective gasp from the audience, the response of people to a magician who takes a very large rabbit out of an empty hat. Masuto watched Ranier, whose tight, controlled face revealed nothing. The silence was drawn like a stretched rubber band, until Netty Cooper said shrilly, “Is that the ransom? Good heavens, did you have it all this time?”

“I didn't have it,” Masuto said.

Coldly and angrily, Ranier said to McCarthy, “I want you to witness the fact, Jack, that my home was entered and searched illegally. I had no knowledge of the fact that Angel had put the ransom money in my house. I only discovered it an hour before coming here, and I intended to take up the matter with Captain Wainwright.”

“Did you have a warrant to search his house?” McCarthy asked Masuto.

“No.”

“Then I'm afraid you're in for trouble, Sergeant.”

“Possibly.” He nodded slightly at Beckman, who closed the suitcase and latched it.

“No, sir. Not possibly, but indubitably. Your conduct of this charade has been both disgraceful and actionable. You have read too many mysteries, sir. What fiction allows, the law prohibits—”

Still, Masuto watched Ranier.

“—and I am absolutely amazed, Captain Wainwright, that you could lend yourself to this. However, this is not the end of the matter, only the beginning.”

“May I finish?” Masuto asked sharply.

“I see no reason why this slander should be continued,” McCarthy said.

“Your client is free to leave,” Wainwright said with annoyance. “He was not forced to come here.”

McCarthy looked at Ranier, who rose but made no move to leave. “Let's hear the rest of what this turkey has to say,” Ranier said bitterly. “We might as well get all of it.”

“Joseph Kelly,” Masuto said, “was, as you all know, Mr. Barton's chauffeur. He was a man with a long prison record. Barton gave him a chance and employed him. Last night he was murdered. He was murdered because, standing in the butler's pantry, he overheard the conversation between Angel Barton and Mr. Ranier when she returned here after the kidnapping.”

“Just hold on!” McCarthy interrupted. “You're digging your own grave, sir! You're accusing my client—”

“Let me finish!” Masuto said harshly. McCarthy paused. “I'm not making any accusations that can't be backed up. There were two women in this house last night, Lena Jones, the maid, and Mrs. Holtz, the housekeeper, and both of them were awakened by a loud gunshot. Miss Jones looked out of her window and saw Mr. Ranier leaving Kelly's quarters.”

It came like a bombshell. Even Wainwright and Beckman had not been ready for this. Only Elaine Newman appeared not to be surprised, sitting relaxed, a tight smile on her lips. The others were staring at Ranier, who shouted, “That's a damned lie, Masuto! That's a concoction out of the whole cloth! You set out to frame me here tonight! Loud gunshot! You son of a bitch, you said yourself that the gun had a silencer and that no one heard anything!”

“Wrong, Mr. Ranier,” Masuto said. “No one except Captain Wainwright here and Detective Beckman knew about the silencer. How did you know, sir? How did you know that Kelly was killed with a gun that had a silencer?”

“You told me.”

“I did not.”

Ranier looked about him, stared at the three policemen who were standing calmly, then reached into his jacket, drew a gun, and stepped clear of the couches, covering the three policemen, who did not move.

“Nobody moves,” Ranier snapped. “Just put your hands up and keep them there.”

Just the slightest nod on Masuto's part to Beckman and Wainwright. They put up their hands, as Masuto did.

“Bill, you're crazy!” McCarthy cried. “What in hell are you doing? Can't you see that this is a frame? You're playing into their hands.”

“You—Newman!” Ranier said. “Pick up that suitcase and set it down by my side.”

“Of course,” Elaine replied. “I'm delighted to be of assistance, Mr. Ranier.” And with a show of strength amazing in a woman so slight, she lifted the suitcase, carried it over toward Ranier, and then deliberately stumbled so that the whole weight of the suitcase caught him in the side. As he doubled over, Masuto sprang, grasped the wrist that held the gun, pointing the gun down as it went off. An instant later Ranier was lifted off the ground in Beckman's bearhug while Masuto forced the gun from his grasp. Then Beckman cuffed him.

“You bitch!” he snarled at Elaine Newman. “You filthy, lousy bitch!”

The room was in chaos, the others crowding around, Dempsy running in with his gun drawn, Elaine Newman smiling calmly, and Wainwright telling Masuto, “Read him his rights—slowly, carefully, every word of it. His lawyer's listening, so I don't want any mistakes from here on in.”

“I arrest you for the murder of Joseph Kelly,” Masuto said. “This is an admonition of rights. You have the right to remain silent—”

The voices were stilled. They stood in silence, listening to Masuto recite the formula as if it were some kind of prayer. When he had finished, Wainwright said to Dempsy, “Take him down to the station and book him for murder one and put him in the cage.”

“I'd like to talk to him,” McCarthy said.

“Downtown. Not here.”

“I'll see Judge Lacey tonight,” McCarthy said to Ranier. “We'll get bail.”

“I doubt it,” Wainwright said.

“We'll see,” McCarthy said, and started to leave.

“One moment,” Masuto told him. “Detective Beckman here fixed all your cars so they wouldn't start—just in case Mr. Ranier made it to his car. Give him five minutes.”

By ten-thirty the last of them had gone, leaving only the three policemen and Elaine Newman, who was in the library. She said she had bills to pay, odds and ends to clear up, and she wanted it all done with so that she could get away to San Francisco for a few days, see her mother, and begin to forget what had happened here.

Wainwright was staring unhappily at the Gucci bag. “What did you say was the price of this suitcase?” he asked Masuto.

“Four hundred and twenty dollars.”

“Well, it has a bullet hole in it, so unless you can work it out with the Gucci people, that's four hundred and twenty dollars out of your pay, Masao.”

“What? You wouldn't do that.”

“Wouldn't I? After your performance here tonight? You miserable son of a bitch, with your wild-eyed guesses and Chinese insights. You had nothing when you came in here tonight, nothing, and you hornswoggled me into backing you up and putting my job on the line. If Ranier wasn't such a stupid slob, he would have laughed you right out of the force.”

“Wise men don't murder.”

“Bullshit on your goddamn philosophy.” He held up the gun. “This is all we got. And if this isn't the gun that killed Kelly, we got nothing.”

“I think it's the gun.”

“You think so. God save me from what you think.”

“Even if he should beat the murder charge, it's a good arrest. We have him for armed robbery, for using the gun to get the suitcase out of here, and the feds can bring a conspiracy to defraud Internal Revenue against him. Also, I suspect that when they go through his books, they'll find enough illegal use of funds to send him away for a while.”

“Maybe.”

“Why don't you wait until Ballistics tests the gun and matches it. Then you can let go at me.”

“Resisting arrest,” Beckman put in.

“I'm going home,” Wainwright said. He gave the gun to Beckman. “Drop it off at the station.” But at the door, he turned back and said to Masuto, “Who killed Angel?”

Masuto shrugged.

“Don't give me that goddamn inscrutable crap of yours. I asked you a question.”

“I can't answer it.”

“You mean you don't know? Was it Kelly?”

“No.”

“You're lying to me, Masuto. What is it? You got something you're going to dazzle us with?”

“No.”

“Every damn reporter and wire service and TV camera in southern California is going to be at the station tomorrow. What do we tell them?”

“Tell them we have promising leads.”

“Do we?”

“No.”

“You think Ranier killed her and you got nothing to back it up.”

“I think the person who killed Angel Barton was sitting in this room tonight, and we haven't one shred of evidence to back up a charge, and I don't think we'll ever have any.”

“I've never known a lack of hard evidence to stop you before.”

“It stops me.”

“You can tell the media that a finger of suspicion points to Kelly,” Beckman said. “The poor bastard's dead and that takes us off the hook.”

“I hate that kind of thing.”

“Then keep the file open,” Masuto said. “Something may turn up.”

Wainwright left. Beckman put the gun in his pocket, stretched, and yawned. “What about this Gucci suitcase?” he asked Masuto.

“Bring it down to the station, Sy, and separate the real bills and put them in the safe. I'll go over and plead my case with Gucci tomorrow.”

“Okay. You coming?”

“I'll have a word with the two women in the kitchen. They must be pretty frightened. You go ahead.”

“See you tomorrow,” Beckman said as he went out.

Evidence

Masuto went into the kitchen, where the two women were sitting at the kitchen table. They had not left the kitchen since Lena returned there and they sat at the table in a kind of rigid expectation.

“What was the shot we heard?” Mrs. Holtz asked Masuto. “We were afraid to go in there.”

“Nothing. Mr. Ranier's gun went off, but no one was hurt.” Except myself, he thought ruefully, to the tune of four hundred and twenty dollars.

“Mr. Ranier?”

“Yes. He was the one who killed Kelly. We arrested him.”

“A man like that! In his position!” Mrs. Holtz shook her head.

“Did he kill Mr. Barton?” Lena asked tremulously.

“No. Mr. Barton's wife killed him.”

“How terrible!”

“Yes.”

“And what happened to her?” Mrs. Holtz asked.

“Someone killed her.”

“Death, death—it's so terrible.”

“It's over now,” Masuto told them. “It's all over. You're absolutely safe here.”

“Should we just stay here?”

“I think so. As I said, it's absolutely safe. You can go on charging whatever food and supplies you need, and according to what Mr. Goldberg told me, payment will come out of the estate—as will your wages. Mr. Goldberg thinks that the house and most of Mr. Barton's estate was left to Miss Newman, but there's a bequest of ten thousand dollars to each of you—again according to Mr. Goldberg, so that should be helpful.”

“Ten thousand dollars?” Both women looked at him in amazement and disbelief. “I can't believe it,” Mrs. Holtz said, and Lena said, “I never in all my life—I'm just a black woman. Why he leave me that money?”

“He was a generous man. He knew how it felt to be poor,” Mrs. Holtz said.

“Miss Newman is still here,” Masuto told them. “She's in the library. So don't be alarmed if you hear someone walking around. I'll be going now. As I said, there's no danger, nothing for you to worry about.”

He left the kitchen then and went to the library. The only light there was a green-shaded desk lamp. Elaine Newman sat at the desk, writing. She glanced up as Masuto entered, her face quite lovely in the dimmed light.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Please. I'm just trying to tie up some loose ends. Mike's mother and father are dead, but there are a few relatives in the East who must be notified. The funeral's tomorrow, and while Mr. Goldberg's taking care of that, he wants me to write something for him to read at a memorial meeting which will be held a week later. It's not easy.”

“No, I suppose not—to write about someone you love. No, it wouldn't be easy.”

“You're a very sympathetic man, Sergeant Masuto.”

“For a cop.”

“I didn't mean that.”

“No, I'm sure you didn't. You're leaving tomorrow?”

“After the funeral. I must get away for a while, and my mother will fuss over me, and I guess I need that right now. I feel very bereft and alone in the world.”

“That's understandable.”

“Won't you sit down, please?”

Masuto dropped into a chair, facing her.