“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.
Netty Cooper was finishing her second drink. “I think this is very thrilling,” she said. “Our brilliant Fu Manchu is going to expose a murderer.”
“Netty, don’t be an ass,” Hennesy said.
“Since you’re an asshole, what difference does it make?” she replied.
“Lovely, lovely,” Della Goldberg said.
“Oh, shut up and fry your own fish. Or make her the killer. Do make her the killer.”
Masuto waited.
“I think we all ought to shut up and get this over with,” McCarthy said.
“Can we begin?” Masuto asked. Silence. “Very well. Yesterday, Mr. Ranier informed me that the kidnapping of Angel Barton was not a kidnapping but rather a scam to defraud the government of income taxes.”
“That was confidential!” Ranier cried. “You have no right-”
“I have every right,” Masuto said coldly. “You did not put it to me as confidential. You laid it out in an attempt to save your own hide.”
Ranier’s face tightened, but he said nothing.
“The plan, in brief, according to Mr. Ranier, included himself and Mr. and Mrs. Barton. According to Mr. Ranier, Mike Barton was in default to the government for half a million dollars in back taxes, to which extent he would benefit from the swindle.”
“Not true!” Goldberg snapped. “We had the same accountant. Mike was in default only fifty thousand dollars, and he had bonds to back that up.”
“I told Masuto what Mike told me,” Ranier protested lamely.
“Then, gentlemen and ladies, if Mr. Barton was not in default, we must look for another reason for his participation in so stupid and unworkable a scheme. Perhaps I can enlighten you-I mean those of you who are not already aware of what I am going to say. The woman, Angel Barton, had undergone a process of what is called sexual reassignment, a process which through hormonal treatment and surgery turns a man into a woman. This was the secret with which she blackmailed and controlled Mike Barton for two years.”
Masuto watched the faces. McCarthy’s face was full of disbelief. Goldberg was untouched. He knew. Della Goldberg burst into tears. Netty Cooper shook her head in disbelief, and Hennesy sat with his mouth open. Ranier’s face was unchanged, set tight. Masuto turned to look at Elaine Newman. She was staring at the floor.
“So the kidnapping now stands in a somewhat different light,” Masuto said. “Mike Barton was blackmailed
