by Howard Fast
“Still,” Beckman said, “he was parked here, which means that two cars were sitting here, and maybe people don’t remember one car, but somebody’s got to remember two of them.”
“You know it makes no sense,” Wainwright said. “It’s happened enough times that kidnappers kill the kidnapped person, but why kill the man who’s making the drop?”
“Yeah, why?” Beckman added.
“It makes no sense only if there was a kidnapping,” Masuto said.
“Then what in hell was it?”
“Barton parks here to meet someone. He has a million dollars with him. The person he meets is parked in front of him. Is it a kidnapper? He doesn’t tell Barton to drop the money and drive on. Instead, he leaves his car, gets into Barton’s car, talks to him, and then kills him. No evidence of any struggle in the car, just a simple, friendly murder by your friendly kidnapper.”
“Just hold on,” Wainwright said. “If you’re talking about a faked kidnapping, tell me how it makes sense. Sure Barton had to have some help to raise the million on short notice, but it’s covered. He has over a million dollars in property and securities, so it’s his money. Now what in hell does he gain by faking a kidnapping and paying out a million dollars of his own money?”
“I have a notion,” Masuto said, “but I don’t know whether I’m right.”
“Suppose you let us in on your notion.”
“Let me find out whether it makes any sense, Captain. Then I’d like to talk to the lot of them at the Barton place, Ranier and McCarthy and the Angel and a lady by the name of Elaine Newman, and also the three servants. If any of them left the Barton house, I’d like you to get them back in there and have Sy sit on the place until I get there.”
“And that’s going to help you find out who killed Barton?”
“I know who killed Barton.”
“What!”
Masuto spread his hands and shook his head. “Not your way. I have no evidence. I see some kind of a crazy jigsaw puzzle, and I don’t know what it is or why it is. So don’t ask me to name any names.”
“Why the hell not?” Wainwright demanded angrily.
“Because I can’t do it that way. You know me a long time. This is like a dark tunnel and I’m feeling my way through.”
Wainwright stared at him for a long moment; then he nodded. “All right, Masao, I’ll play it your way for the next twenty-four hours. Then I want the name.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now what time at Barton’s?”
“It’s five now. Suppose we say between seven and seven-thirty.”
Masuto left Beckman with Wainwright, and from San Yisidro he drove to Woodruff Avenue in Westwood, where his cousin, Alan Toyada, lived with his wife and three children. Toyada, who had been chief research analyst at Merrill Lynch for a number of years, had resigned to teach economics at U.C.L.A. and to conduct his own investment business. Masuto hoped to find him at home, and his hope was rewarded. After a series of polite greetings to the wife and the three children, he sat down in Toyada’s study and explained that he had a problem.
“Which is why you’re here, of course. What has happened to us since we nisei have become Americans? We abandon all the old ways. Family counts for so little. Do you know how many months it is since we have seen Kati and your children?”
“Too many. One lives with so much nonsense that the important things go by the board.”
“How is Kati?”
“Very well. She has joined a consciousness-raising group, all nisei women. I think I approve.”
“Do you? You might remember that one of the great advantages of being nisei is that one usually has a nisei wife. When you salt the kettle too much, it’s very easy to spoil the stew.”
“Perhaps. But I think we should talk about women’s rights another time. Right now I have a problem that I present to your superior knowledge.”
“Oh? Possibly the Barton kidnapping?”
“How do you know about the kidnapping?”
“Caught it on the radio driving home. The Angel was returned and the Bartons are happily reunited.”
“Not quite. Mike Barton is dead—murdered.”
“My God! When did that happen?”
“A few hours ago.”
“Do you know how, why?”
“How—yes. Shot in the head. But why—” Masuto shook his head. “That’s why I come to you.”
“To tell you why Mike Barton was shot? I am overwhelmed, Masao. A simple investment counselor called upon to explain the evil that men do. Actually, I am very flattered.”
“You are by no means a simple investment counselor. You know more about the curious mythology of money than anyone else I might go to. So please try to help me.”
“How can I refuse?”
“Very well. I’ll be as brief as possible. Angel Barton was kidnapped. The ransom was a million dollars. The ransom was paid and Angel was released unharmed. My guess is that whoever received the ransom payment murdered Mike Barton. But it is the kidnapping itself that puzzles me.”
“More than the fact of a crime?”
“Much more. In the first place, I don’t believe that there ever was a kidnapping. I am convinced that Barton and his wife arranged a false kidnapping. But why?”
“Did he borrow the money?”
“No. But even if he had, his price is a million and a half dollars a film. But he didn’t borrow the money. Of course, since he had only a few hours this morning to put together the million dollars, he had to go to the banks for cash, and he was helped by his producer, his lawyer, and his business manager. But every dollar was backed by securities Barton owned. Which means that he arranged a kidnapping and paid a million dollars of his own money to himself—or at least so he planned.”
“You’re sure the kidnapping was fraudulent?” Toyada asked him.
“If not, I should put away my police credentials and spend my declining years pumping gasoline. It was not only faked but stupidly faked.”
“And your problem is to understand why it should have taken place at all?”
“Exactly. You see, early this morning, when Barton rejected any intervention on the part of the police or the FBI, I began to suspect the validity of the kidnapping. Then, as events unfolded, my suspicions were confirmed. The only thing that makes no sense whatsoever is the reason for the charade.”
“But, Masao, when you found Barton’s body, did you also find the million dollars?”
“No.”
“Ah, so!”
“Yes, very Japanese. Do you do it purposely?”
“A habit of my father’s.”
“You would have made a good policeman, but my disgraceful profession is enough for the family to endure. Of course the person who killed Barton had motives easily understood. He wanted a million dollars. And this person also knew about the kidnap plot, whether or not he was directly involved in it. But Barton—?”
“Masao, you are a victim of the fact that policemen are grossly underpaid. The explanation is really very simple.”
“It is? I feel like a fool already.”
“Nonsense. It is simply outside your province. Mike Barton earned well over a million dollars a year. This money is paid as wages, and it is taxed by the government at a rate of fifty percent. But he also had very substantial additional income, which is categorized by the government as unearned income, and which in Mike Barton’s case would have been taxed at a rate of seventy percent. Now what this income is, I have no way of knowing, but it’s a safe guess that it was substantial.”
“What kind of income?”
“Dividends on security holdings. Rents from real estate. Possibly shares in profits of films, depending on how they might have been structured. Any number of sources for what the government calls unearned income. Now when an actor works in a film, regardless of how much he is paid, a substantial part of his wages is withheld, just as a part of your own wages is withheld for tax purposes. But to some extent he decides ho
w much should be withheld, and if there is a difference in the government’s favor, he makes it up on April fifteenth, the date for filing. If there is a difference in his favor, the government sends him a check. Of course, you are aware of this. But with unearned income and with the income of self-employed professionals who are paid by fee as independent contractors, there is no withholding. The responsibility for the payment of taxes rests with the individual, and he must anticipate his tax and pay it to the government in four installments. Now keeping that in mind, let’s return to Mike Barton. We’ll propose that he needed a large amount of money desperately and quickly. Why? Was he being blackmailed? I leave that to you. You say that the million dollars was collateralized by securities? Are you sure? Have you checked? The money was put up by his friends—have they seen the securities? And how much of the million was an overdraft granted by the bank? If he has one of those enormous Beverly Hills houses, that would be security enough for an overdraft. But what have you checked?”
“At this point, nothing,” Masuto said unhappily. “I saw no reason to question his friends concerning the securities.”
“So we don’t know how much of that million was his, but we can accept the fact that a substantial part was. He would have to clean out his bank accounts. Anyway, he needs money quickly and desperately. What to do? He and whoever was in it with him concoct a plan. Fake a kidnapping. Pay out a million dollars in ransom, which he can claim was his own money, and then take a million-dollar deduction on his income tax. If the entire million is in the seventy percent bracket, he nets a cool seven hundred thousand dollars of clear profit—plus his original million. But even if it’s all in the fifty percent bracket, he has a very neat half a million dollars in profit. Of course, since the bills would be recorded, he’d have to launder the money. But no difficulty there. He pays the ten percent fee. It’s regular big business south of the border and in the Bahamas.”
“And the treasury allows it?”
“Masao, when a child is kidnapped, people bankrupt themselves to pay the ransom, and most kidnappings are not faked. Internal Revenue is pretty damned heartless, but this is America, and you know how people’s hearts go out to a kidnap victim.”
“And it’s more or less foolproof, isn’t it?”
“Except for stupidity, which you tell me this is laced with. However, considering that he would have paid ten percent to the launderers, Mike Barton would be holding nine hundred thousand dollars in cash. That’s a lot of cash. What would he have done with it?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? When I know that, I’ll have all the other answers.”
“How’s that?”
“Just a guess that whoever killed Mike Barton did it for the money. I find the money, I find a killer—or killers.”
The House on the Hill
North of Sunset Boulevard, in Beverly Hills, the land rolls up to the Santa Monica Mountains. The gentle slopes and hillocks are cut by several canyons, and the real estate in this area constitutes one of the most expensive residential neighborhoods in the entire country. The Barton home was on a hilltop just high enough to look out over the Beverly Hills Hotel, a Spanish colonial house on an acre of ground.
It was dark when Masuto pulled into the driveway, and four cars were already standing in the parking area. Beckman was waiting outside the front door, talking to a uniformed Beverly Hills cop, and he greeted Masuto with relief. “You got a houseful of angry citizens,” he told Masuto, “especially McCarthy and Ranier, who insist that we got no right whatsoever to keep them here.”
“We haven’t. Why do they stay?”
“They tell it that the only reason they’re here is to protect the rights of the Angel and to keep her from being bullied by the cops.”
“Why do they think we’d bully her?” Masuto wondered.
“Because when they asked Wainwright whether they were suspects, he said that he had to take the position that everyone who knew about the kidnapping was to some degree suspect. He said it more diplomatically, but McCarthy blew his top anyway. Barton’s secretary—her name’s Elaine Newman—went to pieces when she heard about the murder.”
“Oh? And how did Mrs. Barton take it?”
“I don’t know. She’s been in her room since she got back. The doctor’s been here to see her.”
“What doctor?”
“Their family doctor, name of Haddam. He’s gone now.”
“And what about the FBI?”
“That kid, Frank Keller, was here. He nosed around and asked a few questions. Didn’t seem to know what the hell he was doing.”
“And the captain?”
“The captain went home to have dinner. McCarthy told him that any harassment of Angel Barton would result in an action, and that he’d sue the hell out of the city, and you know how the captain reacts when one of the wealthy citizens threatens to sue the city. He says that you can handle it, because since you know all about who murdered Barton, you can go easy on everyone else. What about it, Masao? Do you know?”
“Sort of.”
“What the devil does ‘sort of’ mean?”
“I know and I don’t know.”
“Sure. That clears it all up.”
Beckman led the way into the house. “What about the press?” Masuto asked him.
“They were here, also the TV guys. Wainwright and McCarthy spoke to them. I told Frank, the officer at the door, not to let anyone in, except first he talks to you.”
Masuto was studying the house thoughtfully. Earlier in the day he had seen it only from the outside. Inside, it displayed the slightly insane baronial overbuilding of a film star’s house of the nineteen thirties—tile floor, huge center staircase, stained glass windows, light fixtures like chateau lanterns, mahogany doors and trim and white plaster between heavy wooden beams.
“They’re in the living room—or were—over there.” He nodded at an archway.
Masuto went down two steps, through the archway, and opened a heavy door. The living room was at least forty feet long, with a high, beamed ceiling, an overstuffed couch, some easy chairs, and an enormous fireplace with a box large enough to take five-foot logs. No fire burned there now. The three people in the room were almost lost in its immensity—McCarthy talking on the telephone, Ranier at a long deal table with papers spread in front of him, and in one of the big, overstuffed chairs, her legs drawn up under her, her eyes staring sightlessly into space, a very pretty, slender young woman who, Masuto surmised, was Elaine Newman. She had dark hair and dark eyes and wore almost no makeup, and her face had a chiseled quality that Masuto responded to immediately. After he and Beckman had entered the room and stood just inside the door for a long moment, the girl turned to look at him, but without curiosity. Ranier glanced up from his papers and McCarthy finished his phone conversation.
“We met this morning,” Masuto said. “I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto.”
“Yes.” McCarthy nodded. “I suggest you get on with your inquisition and let us get out of here. I already informed Wainwright that you have no damned right even to suggest that we stay and be questioned.”
“Only for you to help us,” Masuto replied gently, “as citizens and as friends of the murdered man.”
“They weren’t his friends,” Elaine Newman said unexpectedly and tiredly. “Don’t call them his friends.”
“Shut up, Elaine!” Ranier snapped.
“Why? Are you going to kill me too, you blood-sucking son of a bitch?”
Ranier leaped to his feet and came around the table. “I won’t stand for that! I don’t have to stand for that! I don’t have to listen to that foul-mouthed cunt!”
Beckman interposed himself, blocking Ranier’s advance. “Let’s all of us just take it easy,” he said. “Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Ranier?”
For a moment or two Ranier faced up to Beckman’s enormous bulk; then he retreated and dropped into a chair. Beckman turned to Elaine Newman and said, “Why don’t we go inside for a little while, Miss N
ewman. Suppose we find the kitchen and make us some coffee. I can use some, and I guess you can too.” He glanced at Masuto, who nodded, and then he helped the girl out of her chair and led her to the door. “Can I go home?” she asked Masuto plaintively.
“In a little while. After we’ve talked. Go along with Detective Beckman and try to relax.”
After Beckman and the girl had left the room, Ranier turned to Masuto and told him angrily, “I resent this. I resent having to stand here and be accused of murder by that little bitch.”
“Bill, Bill,” McCarthy said, “no one is accusing you of murder. Elaine is just shooting off her grief, and it’s a relief to have some grief around here. Anyway”—he turned to Masuto—“Bill doesn’t have enough guts to kill anyone.”
“Thank you,” Ranier said sourly.
“And Mike was his meal ticket. Who kills the goose that lays the five percent?”
“He was your meal ticket too!” Ranier shouted. “Talk about bloodsuckers—you soaked him with fees that were unreal.”
“Which eliminates both of us as murder suspects. That ought to please you.”
“That’s enough of that,” Masuto said sharply. “The fact of the matter is that Mike Barton is dead and someone killed him, and I have to make some sense out of this. All this talk of suspects is meaningless. We have no suspects. We have every reason to believe that Mr. Barton was killed for the million dollars of ransom money. Why whoever received the ransom found it necessary to kill him, we don’t know. I’m hoping that one of you gentlemen can enlighten me.”
“Have you spoken to Angel?” McCarthy asked. “She saw the kidnappers.”
“You spoke to her?”
“We both spoke to her,” Ranier said, “but she wouldn’t talk about it—”
“She couldn’t,” McCarthy interposed.
“Then she couldn’t. The doctor said she was in shock. Then when she heard about Mike’s death, she went to pieces completely.”
