The Case of the Kidnapped Angel: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Six) by Howard Fast

nobody out. There’s still reporters and TV characters outside, but Dempsy’s held the line against them. You’d think the telephone would be ringing constantly, but the black kid they call Jonesey tells me that they have an unlisted number and they keep changing it. Still, you’d think a star would have loads of friends.”
    â€œYou’d think so,” Masuto said. He tapped at the door of Angel’s room. “Where’s Miss Newman and Mrs. Goldberg?”
    â€œThat room, down the hall,” Beckman said, pointing.
    Masuto knocked at the door again, waited a few seconds, and then turned the handle and opened the door. The room was pink and white—white carpet on the floor, pink walls, white bed, pink coverlet, two pink and white angels suspended by wire from the ceiling fleeting over the bed, mirrors on one whole wall, white baroque furniture, a pink and white chaise longue, and lying on it, half-reclining, Angel Barton in a pink robe over a white silk and lace nightgown. Her hair was a hairdresser’s triumph—long, spun gold, and two wide, innocent blue eyes stared at them out of a Marilyn Monroe face.
    The two men halted just inside the door, staring at Angel, who returned their stare unblinking.
    â€œSy, close the door,” Masuto whispered.
    He closed the door and said, “Masao, what the hell goes on here?”
    Masuto walked over to Angel Barton and picked up her arm. There was no pulse and the hand was cold.
    â€œIs she dead, Masao?”
    He pushed the lids down over the staring blue eyes. “Very dead, I think.” On the floor next to the chaise longue there was an empty hypodermic needle. Beckman picked it up with his handkerchief.
    â€œHow long?” he asked Masuto.
    Staring at Angel thoughtfully, Masuto said, “The hands are cold. Twenty minutes, half an hour.” He was examining her arm. There was a single puncture mark. “What’s the smell?” he asked Beckman, who was sniffing the air.
    â€œEther.”
    â€œI thought so. Go downstairs, Sy, and tell Dempsy that no one leaves the house. I’ve been stupid, and I don’t want to go on being stupid. Then call the station and tell them to get another cop over here and to inform the captain. Then call Baxter and tell him we want him and an ambulance.”
    â€œHe’ll love that.”
    â€œWe’ll try to live with his displeasure.”
    Beckman was studying the hypodermic. “No prints.”
    â€œNo, he wanted to get rid of it, so he wiped it and dropped it.”
    Beckman left the room. Masuto walked over to the dressing table and raised the lid. There was the gun Mrs. Holtz had spoken about. It was a small, expensive purse gun, twenty-two caliber and probably, Masuto guessed, of Swiss make. He took it out, hooking his pinky through the trigger guard and then brought it into the light of a lamp, studying it carefully. It bore a clear set of prints which, he was convinced, would match those of the dead Angel. He then wrapped it in his handkerchief and dropped it into his pocket.
    He then walked over to the dead Angel and stared at her thoughtfully. She was indeed a very beautiful woman, even in death. He tried to analyze his own feelings. Had he been the cause of her death? Was his own failure to anticipate it to be condemned? Should he have known? There was something missing. He was not attempting to exonerate himself. There was simply something missing.
    He bent over the dead woman now and raised one of the eyelids he had closed before, peering at the cold blue eye it revealed. Then he lowered the lid again. There were two doors at one side of the bedroom. Masuto went to them now. One led to a bathroom, where tile and sink and tub were in varying shades of pink. The other door opened on an enormous walk-in closet.
    Masuto flicked on the closet light, staring at the racks of dresses, slacks, and evening gowns. One entire wall of the closet was devoted to