“Don’t give me that soft Oriental shit, Masuto. I know who you are and how you work. I haven’t lived in this town for twenty years without knowing which side is up. I know about you and how you work, and goddamnit, I won’t go down for two killings.”
“If you didn’t do them …” Masuto shrugged.
“Look, I’m going to come clean with you. I don’t know whether what I did was legal or illegal, but it wasn’t murder. Whatever you may think, the truth is that I was trying to help Mike. I liked Mike.”
Beckman came in now. “What about it, Masao? Should I take off?”
Masuto nodded, and Beckman left. Ranier was staring at his hands. “I liked Mike,” he said softly, “but he was a damn idiot. Who else but an idiot would marry Angel? And I didn’t steal from him. I made good investments, but it was real estate and the money was tied up. He owed half a million dollars in taxes, and he didn’t have it. The money should have been paid in September, and here it is November. And why? Because he’d sneak off to Vegas and drop a hundred grand in one night. So I cooked up the kidnapping. That’s right, it was my idea, a stupid idea, but I’m not the first one to go stupid. We had to borrow most of the money, but we could pay it back after we laundered it, and we’d make half a million and better out of the tax deduction. Mike and Angel agreed to go along with me, and now they’re dead.”
“Was any of the money yours?”
“About a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Suppose you tell me exactly how you laid it out.”
“Some of it you know. Angel made the fake entry out at Malibu, and then she drove her car to my place. She had the key, and she was there until twelve o’clock. Then she made the call to Mike, and after that she was supposed to drive downtown to Fourth Street, where Mike would pick her up. They’d leave the car there, and the story would be that after Mike had made the drop on San Yisidro, or claimed that he made the drop, he was instructed by the phony kidnappers to pick her up in Benedict Canyon, and then he was to bring her back here.”
“Why drive to San Yisidro at all? Why didn’t he go straight downtown and pick up his wife?”
“In case he was followed. He had two suitcases with him in the car. He was to park around a curve on San Yisidro, and wait to see whether he was followed.”
“And what was intended to be done with the money?”
“He would leave it in the trunk of his car until we turned it over to be laundered.”
“And who was going to launder it?”
Ranier hesitated now. Masuto waited. Then Ranier shrugged and said, “Hennesy.”
“Ah, so!” It slipped out. He disliked the expression. “Then Hennesy was in on the kidnapping?”
“No. I mean, not to my knowledge. Mike hated him. The Angel could have told him, but I don’t know. We were going to wait a few days until things quieted down, and then we’d make our deal with Hennesy.”
“And how do you know Hennesy wouldn’t blow the whole thing?”
“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
