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

  The Case of the One-Penny Orange

  A Masao Masuto Mystery

  Howard Fast writing as E. V. Cunningham

  1

  JACK BRIGGS

  They say that a house that might sell for a hundred thousand dollars in Scarsdale, New York, would easily fetch a quarter of a million on a good street in Beverly Hills, and without such niceties as cellar and attic. The Spanish Colonial house that Jack Briggs had just purchased, which was situated on Camden Drive between Elevado and Lomitas, would hardly rate one hundred thousand, even in Scarsdale. The price to Briggs was two hundred ninety-five thousand, of which he had put down one hundred twenty thousand in cash.

  Detective Sergeant Masao Masuto was aware of the sale price, just as he was aware of the fact that the former owner of the house, Cliff Emmett, had had in quick succession a divorce, a film that bombed, and a heart attack — while the purchaser, Jack Briggs, was one-third owner of the very sucessful X-rated Open Mind — “a totally new departure in the porno field,” as one critic put it. The fact that Masuto carried with him a sort of Who’s Who in Beverly Hills — in his mind and unprinted — was a source of constant amazement to his colleagues on the fourteen-man detective force of the Beverly Hills Police Department. As for Masuto, this was not a matter of great effort; as a Japanese — a Nisei, which means a native-born American whose parents were Japanese immigrants — and the only Japanese on the force, he took his job a little more seriously than might otherwise have been the case. He was essentially of a curious disposition — and as he once put it, Beverly Hills provoked him to endless curiosity.

  As, for example, the fact that Jack Briggs’ house had been broken into and ransacked — and nothing was taken. He was on his way to headquarters from his home in Culver City when the word came through on his band, and the boss told him that he could look in if he wished to but that it was not absolutely necessary, since Detective Sy Beckman was already on the scene. For Masuto, a ripped-off house with its contents intact was more intriguing than a simple run-of-the-mill robbery. He was already on Santa Monica Boulevard when he got the word, and a few minutes later he parked his aging Datsun in front of the Briggs home.

  Masuto had rather liked Cliff Emmett, whom he had met once in connection with a simple robbery and who had gone down with his own bundle of trouble; perhaps because he worked in Beverly Hills, Masuto did not envy the rich, and now as he looked at the sprawling ochre-colored house with its red tile roof, he wondered what had become of Emmett. Quick rich and quick poor — there was a lot of it in Beverly Hills.

  Beckman’s car and a police car were parked in front of the house, the police car occupied by Officer Frank Seaton, who was scribbling in a pad, and who nodded at Masuto and informed him that Beckman was inside.

  “Nothing to it, Masao.” He shrugged. Officer Seaton was not curious.

  Beckman opened the front door for Masuto. He was alone in the tiled foyer. “This one’s kinky,” he said. “I don’t like them kinky.” Beckman was an enormous man, six feet three, slope-shouldered, with a large nose and chin and heavy brows, and belligerently Jewish and ethnically conscious. He adored Masuto.

  “Why kinky?”

  “Where there’s breaking and entering, I like something stolen. They claim nothing’s missing.”

  “Who claims?”

  “Jack Briggs and his wife, Ellen. Occupants and owners. One child, Bernie, in school. Mother died, day before yesterday.”

  “His mother?” Masuto asked.

  “Her mother. Funeral this morning. They come back and find the kitchen door jimmied open — lousy amateur job — and the place ransacked.”

  “Where are they?”

  Beckman turned his head and nodded, and Masuto followed him into the living room. A huge wooden door connected it with the foyer. Two steps down. A big room, brown Mexican tiles on the floor, beamed ceiling, large ornate chairs and couch. For all that he had lived his life in California, Masuto could never get used to the local notion of what was decorative and what was beautiful. Briggs, a large, fleshy man, overweight, balding, was sprawled in an armchair, sipping a tall glass of whiskey and soda. His wife — good features, brown hair, slender — was slowly straightening the rooms, putting back in place the contents of drawers and sideboard that had been dumped aimlessly on the floor. Both of them depressed, morose — understandable enough, Masuto decided, in two people who return from a funeral to find their home ransacked and disordered.

  Beckman made the introductions. “Detective Sergeant Masuto — this is Mrs. Briggs.”

  “I am honored,” Masuto said. “I saw you in Major Barbara. You were very good.”

  A faint hint of a smile. “In that wretched little barn on Las Palmas?”

  “I love the theater — even in wretched little barns. I have seen many splendid actors in such places.”

  The smile became more than a hint, and Masuto experienced the qualm of uneasiness he always felt when he allowed himself to fall into a formal speech pattern. It was part put-on and part a necessity that rose out of a section of his being; he was two persons, he always would be.

  She thanked him, and Jack Briggs climbed out of the chair in response to Beckman’s curt introduction. His look said that he was dubious about Orientals — particularly on the police force.

  “Detective Beckman tells me nothing was taken,” Masuto said.

  “Because there was nothing worth taking.” He was not a pleasant man; his wife turned her back on him and returned to the disorder. “Every nickel I had went into buying this barn. I been a long time hungry, Lieutenant.”

  “Sergeant,” Masuto said gently, nodding at a pair of silver candlesticks that lay on the floor.

  “Plated, They’re not worth carrying away.” Suddenly, he exploded in anger. “You see this room? Every goddamn room in the house — like a mother-fuckin’ earthquake! And for what? You know what you can do with Beverly Hills, Lieutenant — you can take it and shove it you-know-where!”

  “May I look at the other rooms?”

  He was back in the chair with his drink. “Be my guest.” His wife folded down to the floor, cross-legged, and began to weep gently, a broken ashtray in her hands, her position as broken and forlorn as the cheap piece of crockery. As Masuto left the room, followed by Beckman, he felt a wave of compassion for the woman — yet objectively. Perhaps his greatest virtue as a policeman lay in the fact that he was always the outsider.

  They went from room to room. Every room in the house had been searched, not with care or skill but wildly and stupidly, drawers emptied, contents flung around on the floor, pictures taken from the walls, some of them ripped from the walls, some of them torn from their frames. An image was reflected, the fury of barbarians, but then the world that Masuto inhabited was a world of barbarians. In the kitchen and pantry the destruction was even worse, dishes swept to the floor and shattered, flatware dumped from the trays, sugar and flour bins emptied.

  “They sure as hell wanted to find something very bad,” Beckman said.

  The kitchen door had been jimmied as unprofessionally as the search had been conducted, probably, Masuto decided, by the simple process of inserting the curved end of a short crowbar and forcing the door open.

  “These are no pros,” said Beckman.

  “Unless they wanted us to grant them amateur status.”

  Beckman picked up a watch that lay on the kitchen table. “Why did they leave this? It’s worth fifty bucks.”

  “Five with a fence. They weren’t looking for watches.”

  They returned to the living room. Jack Br
iggs still sat where they had left him; Ellen Briggs was staring at a framed photo of a woman. She held it for Masuto to see.

  “You photograph well,” Masuto said.

  “My mother. Years ago. Poor woman.” She placed the picture on a table. “One room done. I’m afraid to face the rest of the house.”

  “Your home was searched,” Masuto said to Briggs. “Not neatly, but very thoroughly. What were they looking for?”

  “You got me.” Briggs shrugged.

  “You must have some idea.”

  “None. Just none.”

  He turned to Mrs. Briggs. “You mother’s death — did you insert a death notice in the newspaper?”

  “In the L.A. Times, yes.”

  “So they knew the time of the funeral and when the place would be empty. I mean, there was no mistake, Mrs. Briggs. They wanted this house.”

  The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Beckman said. He returned a moment later with Sweeney, the fingerprint man. “Fingerprints,” he explained to the Briggses. “This is Officer Sweeney.”

  “Where do you want me to start, Sergeant?” he asked Masuto.

  “Forget it,” Masuto replied.

  Sweeney turned and left, and Briggs said, “That’s a hell of a note. Don’t you give a damn who did this?”

  “People who do this kind of thing don’t have fingerprints, Mr. Briggs.” He turned to Mrs. Briggs. “I don’t understand — if you will forgive me, I have to ask questions. Why just the two of you? After a funeral …”

  “I know.” She nodded wanly. “I have no relatives. My mother was a refugee from Germany. I was the only relative who escaped — I was just a child. She had some friends in New York, but when we moved out here, two months ago — well, it was a small funeral. My son, my husband, and myself.”

  “Your son?”

  “We dropped him off at school and then drove here. We had lunch first, so there was no reason for him to miss the afternoon session. Better in school than to sit here and try to grapple with death. He’s only twelve years old.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  “I thought of something,” Briggs said. “Maybe they figured I’d have a print of the film here.”

  “Open Mind?”

  Briggs grinned. “So you’re a porny freak.”

  “I read the trades,” Masuto said coldly. “Suppose you had a print here. What would it be worth?”

  “You can’t really protect a porny print,” Briggs said. “Certainly not in the foreign market. If the mob got hold of it, they could turn it into a hundred grand — no sweat.”

  “They’re going to pirate it sooner or later,” Beckman said sourly.

  “Later — later.”

  “A print would be this size,” Masuto said, holding his hands eighteen inches apart. “Bigger than a breadbox. You don’t look for that in small drawers or behind the backing of a wall painting.”

  “You tell me.”

  The telephone rang. Ellen Briggs answered. “Yes, he’s here. It’s for you,” she said to Masuto. “A Captain Wainwright.” She handed the phone to Masuto.

  “Masao,” the chief of detectives said, “are you finished there?”

  “Just about.”

  “Then get your ass over to Gaycheck’s on North Canon. The stamp place.”

  “What’s up?”

  “You’ll tell me. He’s just been murdered. In broad daylight. So help me God, I don’t know what this town’s coming to!”

  2

  IVAN GAYCHECK

  Masuto was the observer, not the observed. By sight or name he knew at least half a thousand people out of the population of Beverly Hills, yet even those who had met him before would forget, and then evince surprise at the fact that this tall, slender Nisei was a policeman in their city. He had been to Ivan Gaycheck’s stamp emporium only once, when the place had been burglarized, and Gaycheck, ranting, had claimed the loss of twenty-two thousand dollars’ worth of stamps, but he remembered the man well — short, stout, a background of no ascribable nationality, an accent impossible to pin down, pale blue eyes, and a reputation in the trade for being only slightly on the brighter side of shady.

  Now, in death, his blue eyes were wide open, his puffy face set in an expression of aggrieved surprise. He lay in the back room of his store, between two display cases and in front of the safe where he kept the most valuable of his treasures. The safe was un-opened; the display cases were unopened; but between his two open eyes, directly in the middle of his forehead, was the small, neat puncture of a .22-caliber bullet. He was covered with a rubber morgue sheet, and guarded, better in death than in life, by Officer Cutler. The two ambulance attendants were waiting for the detectives, and Gaycheck’s assistant was in the bathroom, being sick.

  Masuto bent over the body, turned back the sheet, and stared for a moment or two at Gaycheck’s face.

  “Twenty-two,” Beckman said.

  “Close. Those are powder burns.”

  “Twenty-two short,” Beckman said. “One of those little-bitsy guns. Ladies’ purse gun.”

  “That’s a brilliant deduction,” Masuto said sourly.

  At that moment, Dr. Sam Baxter, the medical examiner, entered the back room, rubbing his hands cheerfully and demanding to know where the corpse was. His question remained unanswered. He grinned, took out his glasses and polished them, then knelt by the body.

  “He’s a damn freak,” Beckman said.

  “Dead. Instantaneous. Bullet in the brain. Twenty-two caliber, I think, but I can’t be sure until I dig it out.”

  “We didn’t know he was dead,” Beckman said.

  Ronald Haber, the dead man’s assistant, a man of about thirty, usually pasty-faced and even pastier now, came out of the bathroom, looked at the body, and did a quick about-face. The sound of him puking came through the closed door.

  “Any other wounds?” Masuto asked.

  “One was enough.” Baxter pulled off the sheet. “Clean as a whistle. Didn’t even disturb the handkerchief in his coat pocket. The man’s surprised. The lady smiled at him, put her little gun in his face, and poof!”

  “Why a lady?”

  “Little gun, little lady.”

  “Brilliant,” Masuto agreed moodily. “You should be a cop. When did it happen, Sam?”

  “What time is it now?”

  “Just three.”

  The doctor patted Gaycheck’s cheeks and bent one of his arms. “Two hours ago — give or take a few minutes.”

  “Can we take it away, or are we on permanent assignment here?” one of the ambulance attendants demanded. “You know, there might just be a live one waiting for the wagon.”

  “Empty his pockets first,” Masuto told Beckman.

  Beckman emptied Gaycheck’s pockets, piling change, bills, wallet, and keys on the display case. The attendants covered the body, lifted it onto a stretcher, and rolled it out. The assistant came out of the bathroom and stood in front of the bathroom door, shaking. Dr. Baxter picked up his black bag and left with a cheerful goodbye. Sweeney then entered.

  “You want prints?” he asked Masuto aggressively.

  Masuto shrugged.

  “You lift a guy’s spirits, Masao. You sure as hell do. You make him feel nice and secure in his job.”

  “Oh, go ahead and dust the place.” Masuto sighed.

  “Thanks.”

  Masuto turned to Officer Cutler and asked him who had found the body and who had called him. Cutler pointed to Haber.

  “That one.”

  “Who’s outside?” Masuto asked.

  “Jackson.”

  “He can take off. I want you outside until we lock up and seal off.”

  “Right.”

  “And you answer no questions. None. No crowds. If the media come, shunt them over to the captain. No one gets inside. Fill in the captain on what we know, which is nothing. Throw the latch on the door and lock it behind you, and knock if you want back in.”

  Officer Cutler nodded and left. Masuto
turned to Haber. “How do you feel?”

  “Better now — I think.”

  “Would you like to sit down?” There was a small desk and a chair in one corner of the back room.

  “Funny, there isn’t even a bloodstain,” Haber said, staring at the carpet.

  “No. The bullet remained in his brain or in the back of the skull. Then, whoever shot him caught his body and eased it down. Very cool.” Masuto glanced at Beckman and smiled slightly.

  “How do you know?” Beckman demanded.

  “The way the body was. No one dies and falls that way — on his back, laid out. No way. No, indeed.”

  “So it wasn’t a dame.”

  “A strong, cool woman — who knows? You found the body?” he asked Haber. The assistant nodded. “Tell me about it,” Masuto said.

  “I leave for lunch at twelve-thirty. One hour. Mr. Gaycheck leaves — I mean he would have left, he usually left when I returned. He always had a two o’clock sitting reserved at Scandia. He would return about three-thirty, but if he had an appointment with a customer maybe earlier. I shouldn’t say customer. He always insisted on the word client. I guess it doesn’t matter now.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Did he have an appointment today?”

  “I don’t think so. You can look at his appointment book.”

  “Where is it?”

  Haber pointed to the desk, and Beckman walked over and picked up a leather-bound log book. He opened it and showed it to Masuto. For this day, nothing except two scrawled letters — P and M. Masuto held out the book to Haber.

  “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “PM — afternoon, I guess.”

  “He knew it was the afternoon,” Beckman said.

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Masuto riffled through the pages of the log. Dates, names, prices — no other notation of PM.

  “He said nothing to you about any appointment today? Expecting someone?”

  Haber shook his head.

  “You went to lunch — where?”

  “At Juniors. I had a corned-beef sandwich …”

  “All right. What time did you return?”

  “One-thirty. Exactly.”