“That’s beautiful.” Wainwright rose and began to pace the room. “Pink and white, pink and white, she must have really seen herself as some goddamn kind of angel. They don’t want a cop for my job, they want a diplomat. Downstairs, we only got one of the most prominent lawyers in town, a top film producer, a hotshot business manager, and a congressman. Plus a chauffeur with a record long as my arm.”
“Not to mention a number of women who are probably a lot smarter than the men.”
“And a fed. That kid from the FBI pushed his way in and started bugging me about what was his role in all this. I told him how the hell did I know what his role was? He’s a goddamn idiot. He’s got a notion that the Mafia is mixed up in it because he heard we found a syringe in here.”
“Is he still here?”
“Prowling around downstairs. I can’t throw him out. We’ve had too many run-ins with the feds.”
“We’ll both be very kind to him.”
They had their opportunity almost immediately. As they went downstairs from the second floor of the Barton house, they saw Frank Keller waiting for them at the foot of the staircase, his pink-cheeked, snub-nosed face set in a grimace of determination. He was wearing a carefully pressed gray flannel suit, a white shirt, and a tie with brown and maroon stripes. Masuto, who wore an old brown tweed jacket over rumpled trousers and a tieless shirt, had once been asked by another FBI man whether he always dressed that way or only when in disguise.
“I’ve been trying to work out my role here,” Keller said. “I don’t want to push in like a bull in a china shop.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” Masuto agreed.
“On the other hand, there’s been a kidnapping, even though both the victim and the ransom payer are dead. You know, it’s a national tragedy. I don’t think anything quite like this ever happened before. You think of Mike Barton and you think of Robert Redford, Al Pacino, John Wayne-although I don’t think it would have happened to John Wayne in just this manner.”
“I guess not,” Masuto agreed.
“Of course, the murders are a local matter, if murder is the correct term?”
“We think Angel Barton was murdered,” Wainwright told him. “We won’t know for certain until after the autopsy. We found a syringe and a puncture mark-which is all we know for sure.”
“You could do one thing that would be very helpful,” Masuto said.
“Be glad to.”
“We can be pretty certain that if Mrs. Barton was murdered, someone here in the house at this moment killed her. And we can work up a background on every one of them except Mr. Hennesy.”
“Congressman Hennesy?”
“That’s right.”
“But surely,” Keller protested, “you can’t suspect Congressman Hennesy of an act of murder.”
“I have to. I have to suspect every one of them.”
“We’re not accusing him or anyone else,” Wainwright explained, talking softly, since from their position at the foot of the stairs they could hear the chatter of voices from the living room. “Believe me, here in Beverly Hills, a thing like this is no picnic. One wrong move on our part and we could face a million-dollar lawsuit-and that fellow McCarthy in there is one of the sharpest lawyers in town. That’s why we’d like you to get us a rundown on Hennesy. Your office must have everything there is to have on him.”
“I’ll try. I don’t know what they’ll say in Washington. Is he involved in the kidnapping?”
“I don’t know,” Masuto said.
“Does anything point in that direction?”
“If you wanted to point it, you could. He was at the same party Angel attended the night she was kidnapped, but when we talked to him about it this afternoon, he seemed to have forgotten that he left the party with her. He offered a lie as an alibi without being accused of anything. I don’t know what it adds up to, but if you want to make a connection with the kidnapping for the people in Washington, there’s enough there.”
“All right. I’ll do my best. But it won’t be sooner than noon tomorrow.”
“We understand.”
“You don’t mind if I stick around for a while?”
“Be our guest,” Wainwright said generously, and then he led the way into the living room.
They were all there-McCarthy and Ranier and Joe Goldberg and his wife, and Congressman Hennesy and Mrs. Cooper and Elaine Newman-with Beckman leaning his huge figure against a grand piano and watching them with calculated indifference.
“You have no right to hold us here,” McCarthy said immediately. “You know that, Captain Wainwright. From what I gather, you don’t know what caused Angel Barton’s death. This is Beverly Hills, and I find it outrageous that this oversized officer of yours”-he indicated Beckman-“should tell us that we are not to leave.”
“If he told you that, he was mistaken,” Wainwright said placatingly. “Of course you are free to leave whenever you wish. I only suggested that we would like to have a few words with you, that is with any of you who don’t have to leave immediately. You were friends of the Bartons, and in that capacity you could be very helpful. But if you wish to leave, Mr. McCarthy, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”
“For how long?”
Wainwright turned to Masuto. “Ten, fifteen minutes,” Masuto told them. “Your assistance would be invaluable. But as the captain said, any of you who wish to leave now are free to do so.”
No one moved. Hennesy said, “Since as a concerned citizen I am to be part of this charade, I’d like a drink.”
Wainwright nodded at Lena Jones, who was hovering in the doorway. She came forward slowly.
“Take orders from all of them,” Masuto told her. “Is Kelly still around?”
“He’s in the pantry. He’ll make the drinks.”
“All right. Bring back the drinks, and then we’re not to be disturbed.”
While the people gathered in the living room were giving their orders for drinks, Beckman walked over to Masuto and whispered, “Any way to smell their hands, Masao?”
Masuto chuckled. “Want to try? Ether leaves an odor, but there’s soap and perfume.”
“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.”
