The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) (10 page)

“Come on, Masao, I don't read German.”

“Do we have a morgue shot of Gaycheck?”

“Front face and profile both. You know that.”

“When you finish telephoning, take both shots downtown and spend the rest of the day with this magazine — if they got it. If they don't have it, we'll have to put the shots on the wire to Germany. But I think they have it.”

“How far back?”

“Five years.”

“Oh, Wainwright's going to love that.”

“He'll love it. Now, is everything clear?”

“Clear as mud.” He stared at Masuto. “Wait a minute. What am I looking for in this German magazine?”

“Gaycheck's face — thirty years younger.”

“Sure. Nothing to it. You're a doozy, Masao.”

“Well, we win some and we lose some. Keep in touch.”

“Where will you be?”

“At the Israeli consulate, as soon as I find out where it is.”

“And after that?”

“I'll find you, Sy. Either here or at the public library.”

The office of the Israeli consul general was at 6380 Wilshire Boulevard, on that single avenue that is the pride of Los Angeles, and which citizens of the City of Angels compare to Fifth Avenue in New York, and perhaps not without modest reason. The consulate was on the seventeenth floor of an office building. Masuto showed his credentials to the receptionist, and a few minutes later he was shaking hands with Zev Kolan.

“I was reading about the case,” Kolan said. “According to your chief of police, you have no leads. Am I one of your suspects, Sergeant Masuto?”

“Then what of our encounter at the funeral home?” Masuto asked, smiling.

“It would have been a useful defense — something to point suspicion elsewhere.”

“There was a Zev Kolan who was a colonel of the Haganah in Israel's War of Liberation. Was that you?”

“I see you do your homework.”

“Oh, no — no indeed. I've had no time for homework. But a few weeks ago I was reading David Ben-Gurion's memoirs. Only on my way over here I remembered your name.”

“Ah. I wonder sometimes why the Japanese have so intense an interest in Israel. Will you have a cigar?” he asked, opening a box on his desk. “These are H. Upmanns — not from Cuba; I do not believe in breaking the laws of a country where you are a guest — but from Las Palmas in the Canary Islands. They are superb. I do believe there is no better cigar in the world. They are my only extravagance. Otherwise, I live a rather spartan existence.”

“Thank you, but I don't smoke. Do you really feel that the Japanese have an extraordinary interest in Israel?”

“Yes — oh yes. There are strange similarities between our two peoples. It would be a pleasure to talk about it sometime. But not now. You did not come here to discuss ethnic empathies.”

“I'm afraid not. Why do you no longer call youself colonel?”

“I have neither love nor admiration for the military life. Once, it was a necessity. Now I am too old.”

“Ah so. Of course. May I ask a rather impolite question?”

Kolan clipped the end of a cigar and lit it. “Of course. You are a policeman. You must.”

“Very well. Given the opportunity, would you have killed Gaylord Schwartzman?”

Kolan leaned back and regarded his cigar smoke thoughtfully. “The same question I ask myself. No, Sergeant, I don't think I would. Tell me, are you a Buddhist?”

“Yes. I practice Zen.”

“Then, like myself, you are no stranger to death. Death is not terrible. It is the taking of life that is unspeakable and unforgivable. I would want to see Gaylord Schwartzman tried before a court in Jerusalem. I would want to see his guilt made public. His sentence is a matter of indifference to me. But I am sure you did not come here to ask me whether I killed Gaycheck any more than to discuss Israelis and Japanese.”

“No. I came to talk about Buchenwald — if it doesn't distress you too much?”

“Whatever I can tell you. I have not treasured the memories, so they are somewhat vague.”

“How long were you there?”

“About two years.”

“I am interested in a German publisher who was sent to Buchenwald and who died there. His name was Wolf Bernie Kramer. Do you by any chance remember him?”

Kolan thought about it for a while, then shook his head. “I'm afraid not.”

“Were many men executed in the manner you described — by a firing squad?”

“They preferred the gas chamber. The firing squad was special, a visible thing. To show — to make an example.”

“Was Schwartzman always in command of the firing squad — during the time you were there?”

“I'm not sure. I have not been of much help, have I?”

The telephone rang. Kolan answered it. “For you,” he said to Masuto, handing him the phone. “You can take it in the next room if you wish privacy.”

“It's all right.” Masuto took the phone. It was Beckman.

“Did it occur to you, Masao,” he said, “that it is now nine o'clock in England?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Well, I lucked out. They have an answering service that was impressed with the fact that a Beverly Hills cop was calling London, and they put me through to one of the directors. He gave me the number of an old gentleman who has been with the firm for forty years — get that? Forty years. Feller by the name of Brisham, only you don't spell it that way. Anyway, I hit the jackpot. Are you listening?”

“I'm here,” Masuto said.

“Well, stop being so goddamn silent. It seems there was a guy back in the thirties, name of Lord Skeffington, and it seems that lots of these British lords, they don't have the money for a pair of shoes. So this Skeffington inherits a stamp collection from his father, and what do you think is a part of it? Guess.”

“The One-Penny Orange.”

“Jackpot. The original cover. So he turns it over to Gibbons, they should be the agents and sell it for him, and they let the word out that they got it and it's up for grabs. It turns out they got a very good connection on the Continent, this same Wolf Kramer who publishes their catalog in German.” Beckman paused to let it sink in.

“Go on,” Masuto said.

“So Kramer comes up with a buyer, and the price is eight thousand pounds, and the pound was five dollars then, so that makes it forty thousand smackeroos, which ain't hay even back in those days.”

“Who was the buyer?”

“That, my boy, is something they never found out. Kramer acted as the agent. But this old Brisham character, he tells me that it's his suspicion that Kramer himself was the buyer.”

“What happened to the cover? Does he know?”

“Nobody knows. According to Brisham, it disappeared from the face of the earth. He claims that it could not have been sold or offered at auction anywhere without Gibbons knowing about it.”

“Good. Sy, that's good — very good. Now get on the horn to Germany.”

“Wait a moment — Masao, for Christ's sake, it's after ten P.M. in Germany.”

“Police stations don't close.”

“I didn't make one call. I made three calls. One to the answering service, one to the director, and one to Brisham. I asked for charges — one hundred and seventy-five bucks. Do you know what it's going to cost when I start tracking around Germany? Anyway …”

“Do it! Do you have Guttman there to translate?”

“He's on his way, sore as hell.”

“Well, fill him in and get on with it.”

He put down the phone and turned to Kolan, who was regarding him with interest.

“Forgive me for taking up so much of your time,” Masuto said.

“I am fascinated.”

“A few minutes more?”

“As long as you wish.”

“I am told that Israeli Intelligence is just about the best in the world.”

“Is it? Possibly, yet not good enough to tell us that the Yom Kippur War was coming. Perhaps it is estimable by comparison, since there is so little intelligence among any of the intelligence services. Intelligent human beings do not become spies, and it has become a rather loathsome profession. Perhaps we have more who are motivated by patriotism than other countries, perhaps because there is little else we can offer.”

“And yet you were unable to find Schwartzman.”

“That, Sergeant Masuto, is not the work of Israeli Intelligence. Do you know how many Schwartzmans there are still at large, still hidden among decent people? Hundreds.” He watched Masuto thoughtfully through the smoke of his cigar, and Masuto, studying the hawklike face, the pale blue eyes, wondered how much he could ever know about such a man, regardless of how open and ingenuous his comments might be.

“You are trying to find out about Schwartzman in Germany,” Kolan observed.

“Oh?”

“I could not help overhearing your conversation on the telephone.”

“And you don't think I will discover anything worthwhile.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Your manner.”

“I am not prejudiced against the German police. They are handicapped because they want so desperately to forget.”

“That isn't your handicap, Mr. Kolan.”

“True. We want to remember. It is very important that we remember.”

“I can understand that. I have only one more question, and then I will take up no more of your time.”

“I assure you, my time is at your disposal.”

“Do you collect stamps?”

“What an odd question! But of course — Schwartzman was a stamp dealer. A peculiar profession for a pathological madman to finish with. As a matter of fact, I do collect stamps — but only Israeli stamps.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all. It has been a pleasure to know you, Sergeant Masuto. By the way, if my opinion is worth anything, I would guess that you will not find out who murdered Ivan Gaycheck.”

Masuto smiled. “Oh, I will certainly discover who killed him. But whether I can arrest the killer — well, who knows?” At the door to Kolan's office, he paused and said to the consul general, “You must not consider me slipshod in my methods because I did not ask you where you were between twelve and one o'clock yesterday.”

“I would not think of you as being slipshod in your methods. Not at all. Do you want to know where I was between twelve and one o'clock yesterday?”

“I think not,” said Masuto.

8

JACK BRIGGS AGAIN

Two o'clock. Masuto sat in his car, took out of his pocket the picture of the girl that he had found in Gaycheck's wallet, and brooded over it. Was it his own background that made him feel that fifty percent of the young women he saw in West Hollywood were identical with the girl in the photo? Or was it because a disproportionate number of young women with blue eyes and straight blond hair eventually make their way to Hollywood? On the other hand, wonders came out of a bottle, and there appeared to be an irresistible urge among such girls to look alike.

He put the picture back in his pocket and drove west on Wilshire Boulevard for about a mile to another high rise. There he scanned the directory, found the name of Jack Briggs listed under Pisces Productions, and wondered idly who was a Pisces, Jack Briggs or one of his partners — and how strange it was that so many Americans, bereft of any religion or faith, turned in such desperation to astrology. Pisces Productions was on the eleventh floor, and the reception room that Masuto entered proudly displayed blown-up stills from the current hit of Pisces,
Open Mind
. Trying not to appear too interested in nude women and oversized mammaries, Masuto asked the pretty girl at the reception desk whether Mr. Briggs was in.

“You're Mr. Kamiho, the Japanese distributor, aren't you?” she said. “Mr. Briggs was not expecting you until later, but Mr. Maper is in. Mr. Briggs is still out to lunch, but he said that if you came early, I was to give you our presentation book of stills, because you can usually get a more thoughtful appraisal of the product from the stills than from the print. You do understand me? You do speak English?”

“Yes, I do speak English,” Masuto said.

“Well, you certainly do. I think your English is marvelous. Absolutely marvelous. The way everybody in the world speaks English, and it just gives me an inferiority complex. I can't even say sukiyaki in Japanese, and you don't even have an accent.”

“That's because I am not Mr. Kamino,” Masuto explained. “When do you expect Mr. Briggs?”

“Then you're another Japanese distributor.”

“No. So sorry. I'm a policeman.”

“A Japanese policeman?” The outer door opened and she spread her hands. “There you are.”

Masuto turned to see Briggs, who regarded him without pleasure. “You want to see me?” Briggs demanded.

“If you have a few minutes.”

“I got an important meeting in ten minutes, Sergeant, and what happened yesterday is over, except for seventy-five bucks it cost me to have the door fixed.”

“Then ten minutes, if you can spare it.”

“Okay. Come on in.”

He led the way into his office. He was a big man, heavy in the shoulders, his neck layered with fat — an odd match for the slender sensitivity of his wife. He liked to be with his work. The walls of his office were like double spreads from
Playboy
magazine. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and stared moodily at Masuto.

“It pisses me off,” he said, “to be pushed around by a two-bit police force. If you clowns were doing your job my house wouldn't have been ripped off.”

“No police force can prevent burglaries,” Masuto said quietly. “We are not pushing you around, Mr. Briggs.”

“Don't give me that crap. First you third-degree my wife, and now you're here. Who the hell are you to tell her she can't step out her front door?”

“I felt your wife and son were possibly in great danger.”