“Hennesy? Come on, Sergeant. Mr. Hennesy has a reputation to uphold.”
“What did Angel do when her husband didn’t appear?”
“She waited for an hour, and then she took a cab. She dropped it a few blocks away and walked here to the house.”
“You met her when she returned?”
“That’s right. I opened the door for her, and as soon as I saw her without Mike, I knew that we’d screwed up. My first thought was that Mike had taken off with the money, but that made no sense. I told Angel to go up to her room and go into shock or something, and I’d call Dr. Haddam, and she wasn’t to talk to anyone until we found out what had happened to Mike and the money.”
“Where were McCarthy and Miss Newman when you spoke to Mrs. Barton?”
“He was in the living room. She was in the library. They came out while I was talking to Angel, and she threw a hysterical fit and rushed up to her room.”
“You spoke to Mrs. Barton in the hallway at the door?”
“Yes.”
“I presume they did not overhear you?”
“No. We were whispering.”
“And why are you telling me all this, Mr. Ranier?”
“I told you before. I’m not going to take a murder tap. I know I’m the prime suspect. Sooner or later you’d find the key to my apartment in Angel’s purse or somewhere. I said my secretary was in my office and saw me when I went back there. I lied. She wasn’t there, so I have no alibi for the time I was away. And then that bitch Newman accused me of murdering Mike. You put it all together, and you got enough to bring it to the D.A. That’s why I’m leveling with you.”
Masuto regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments, and then he said, “I don’t think you killed Mike Barton, Mr. Ranier, and I don’t think you killed his wife.”
“Well, thank God for that.”
“I might still bring it to the D.A.”
“Why? You just said you didn’t think I killed either of them! You going to frame me?”
“Not for murder. There are other matters.”
“What other matters? I’ve been stupid, but I committed no crime. There was no kidnapping as such. You can’t indict me for a dumb trick.”
“How about the million dollars?”
“I’ll pay it back if I have to ruin myself. I’ll be ruined anyway when this gets out.”
“And conspiracy to defraud the government?”
“Come on, Masuto, you know you could never prove such a conspiracy. If you testified, I’d deny it. I made no confession.”
“Well, that would depend on what the FBI decides. It’s a federal matter. On the other hand, they might be willing to make a deal with you.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“If you were willing to testify against Congressman Hennesy.”
“My life wouldn’t be worth a cent if I did. You know that.”
“Well, it’s up to you.”
“Why don’t you get Hennesy on this? He’s always been crazy about Angel. She could have tipped him off, and then with Mike dead, they split a million between them.”
“So you think Hennesy killed Barton?”
“Why not? It’s a good guess.”
“I think you should go home, Mr. Ranier. It’s almost eleven o’clock.”
8
They had all departed, the living and the dead, leaving Masuto alone in the house with the servants. He was tired and he was depressed. In its outer countenance, Beverly Hills was the most beautiful of cities-lovely palm-lined streets, immaculate lawns, splendid examples of every tropical plant that money could provide; and behind the facades of the million-dollar houses, a bitter commentary on the happiness that money buys. He thought about it for a while, and then he thought, as so often before, about giving it all up-and then wondered, as so often before, what else he could do. He had a profession, and he was very good at it, but it was too much like the pathology of Dr. Baxter; he cut and dissected and put the bits and pieces under his own peculiar microscope, and then he had to live with what he discovered.
He called his wife. She never asked when he would come home. The tone of his voice told her things. “You are unhappy and depressed,” she said to him. “Has it been bad?”
His thought was that he struggled to retain some faith in the human race, and when that slipped away, it was very bad indeed. But he said, “Not too bad, Kati.”
“I’ll wait for you. You haven’t eaten.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know you.”
He put down the telephone. A sliver of light gleamed from under the kitchen door, and Masuto went through the pantry and into the kitchen. Lena Jones sat at the kitchen table with Mrs. Holtz. Their teacups were empty. They just sat there.
“I wait until you leave,” Mrs. Holtz said to Masuto, “then I lock up. Go to bed,” she said to the black girl.
“I’m afraid.”
“Nothing will harm you, so go to bed.”
“I won’t be able to sleep. I’m too scared.”
“It’s all right,” Masuto told her gently. “No one will harm you now. Tell me, Lena, where were you when Mrs. Barton returned this afternoon?”
“Upstairs, cleaning Mr. Barton’s room.”
“Did you happen to look out of the window? The room is at the front of the house, isn’t it?”
“I did look, yes.”
“Why? Was there some special reason?”
“The window was open. I heard Mr. Kelly call out.”
“From where? I mean, where was Kelly?”
“I guess in his room over the garage.”
“And you heard his voice. What did he say?”
“I think, hey, Angel.”
“Angel? Not Mrs. Barton?”
“Once I heard him call her Angel,” Mrs. Holtz said. “Like he was making fun of her.”
“And from the window, you saw Mrs. Barton?”
Lena nodded. “Coming up the driveway. Walking slow, like she didn’t hear Mr. Kelly at all.”
“She didn’t respond to his shout?”
“No.”
“How did she look?”
“Terrible. She was dragging herself.”
“Did you see a taxi pulling out of the driveway?”
Lena shook her head and began to sob.
“You go to bed,” Mrs. Holtz said. “Right now, you go to bed.”
Still sobbing, Lena Jones stood up and walked out of the kitchen.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Holtz said to Masuto. “I make you a nice cup of tea. Or maybe coffee?”
“Tea will be fine.”
She put a kettle of water on the stove and started the light under it. “A few minutes,” she said. “Tell me, you like your tea strong like the British drink it or weak like the Americans drink it?”
“Weak.”
“I’m sorry I don’t have Japanese tea. It’s green, yes?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you’re Japanese? I mean I know you was born here, the way you talk, and on the police.”
“Yes, I’m Japanese. When we’re born in America of Japanese parents, we’re called nisei.”
“I’m asking too many questions? I’m nosy?”
“Please feel free to ask me anything.”
“Myself, I’m Polish. I was in a concentration camp.” She pulled up her sleeve to show the tattoo mark. “I was a young girl. I don’t like to talk about how I survived.” As she spoke, she cut several slices of sponge cake and set the plate in front of Masuto. “Mike’s favorite cake. Poor boy.”
“It looks delicious,” Masuto acknowledged. “But I’d rather not.”
“Japanese don’t eat cake?”
“Of course they do. But my wife is waiting up for me with dinner, and if I don’t finish every bit of it, she’ll be hurt.”
“You’re married! So if your wife is waiting, why don’t you go home already?”
“Because I wanted to talk to you again, Mrs. Holtz.”
“You give me credit for more brains than I have. Tell me something, I know you’re not Jewish, so what are you, a Christian?”
“I’m a Buddhist.”
She shook her head. “I think I heard about it, but I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s a way of living, acting, being, of knowing who you are.”
She poured the tea and placed it in front of him. “Sugar?”
Masuto shook his head.