The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) Read Free Page B

kidnappers and his wife and a million dollars to boot.”
    â€œWell, he won’t. He’s going to do it his way.”
    â€œIs the money here?”
    â€œInside. McCarthy got here a few minutes ago.”
    â€œIn what form? What kind of bills?”
    â€œFifties and hundreds. We have the numbers, but hell, there’s no problem with laundering it. Billions of petrodollars floating around the world, so I guess we can kiss it good-bye.”
    â€œPossibly. I think now I’d like to talk to Barton. By the way, how many servants are in the house?”
    â€œHe keeps three in help, Joe Kelly chauffeurs and doubles as a butler when he has to, Freda Holtz—she’s the cook—and Lena Jones, the maid.”
    â€œDoes Kelly do the gardening?”
    â€œNo, Mexican gardener comes in twice a week, not today. Now look, here’s the scenario we worked out. I tell Mike you’re here. He yells and puts up a fuss. I calm him and tell him he might as well talk to you. That’s for any big ears. I tell him it will help to pass the time and ease the waiting. Then he comes outside and walks with you through the plantings. He’s got a small greenhouse at the other end of the property, so you can go in there and talk. It should make some sense to anyone who might be listening.”
    â€œYou only mentioned the three in help. Are there any others?”
    â€œJust his secretary, Elaine Newman.”
    â€œIs she here today?”
    â€œNot yet. She comes in around ten, but she could be early or late. Mike doesn’t hold her to strict hours.”
    â€œDoes she know about the kidnapping?”
    â€œNo, and we decided not to tell her. When she comes in, I’ll send her over to my office to get some papers and my secretary will keep her waiting there and then she has to pick up a manuscript for Mike. That will keep her out of it until noon. This is still off the record, and according to the kidnapper, we have to keep it that way.”
    â€œAll right.” Masuto nodded. “I’ll wait right here for Barton.”

Mike Barton
    Masuto had occasionally speculated on what makes a “bankable” star, a term very expressive in Hollywood if nowhere else in America. Certainly it was not theatrical talent, not appearance—though appearance was important—not beauty, not brains, but rather an indefinable thing which some called charisma for want of a better name. It was not connected with the way an actor lived his life, treated the other sex, was or was not a doper, a drunk, a liar, or a thief. It was something that cut through all that, recognizable yet undefinable—and whatever it was, Mike Barton possessed it. He was onstage as he stepped out of his house, and he strode over to Masuto with a kind of assurance reserved for his narrow clan, yet lacking, Masuto felt, any of that tired inelasticity that comes from fear and sorrow. He was a star, but not a very good actor.
    He shook hands and said, “Let’s walk, Sergeant. My house has big ears.”
    â€œWhose ears?”
    â€œDamned if I know.”
    â€œKidnapping for ransom is planned. It’s not decided on the spur of the moment. Someone must have known that your wife would spend the night at the beach house.”
    â€œWho? I didn’t know it myself. Angel didn’t know. We decided that she should show up at the party because Netty’s a dear old friend. I had a splitting headache and I felt too rotten to trek over to Malibu. I told Angel that if the party was a drag, she should cut out of there at ten o’clock or so, but if she was having fun and decided to stay on, she shouldn’t try to drive back here. Hell, that’s what the beach house is for.”
    â€œBut the people at the party would know that she planned to stay overnight.”
    â€œSome of them, maybe. I suppose Netty would know. Where the hell is all this leading, Sergeant?”
    â€œThe woman who