“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.
13
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.”
