The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) (6 page)

“I don't see what I can do for you,” Wainwright said.

“I saw Schwartzman once.”

“You saw him?”

“He killed me.” Both policemen stared at him. He did not appear insane, Masuto thought — no indeed, very sane. Kolan said softly, “Eight of us were condemned to death at Buchenwald. I was fifteen then. He commanded the firing squad. I was hit in the shoulder, low, under the bone. Then Schwartzman drew his pistol and administered the
coup de grace
.” He pointed to a pale scar on his temple. “He was careless. I was thrown into an open mass grave that they dug outside the walls. Hours later, I regained consciousness. I crawled out of the grave and made my way to a farm. They sheltered me. Not all Germans were Nazis. But I think I would recognize Schwartzman — even today, so many years later, even dead.”

For a while after he finished speaking, the two policemen were silent. Then Wainwright said, “If you would please wait outside for a few minutes, Mr. Kolan?”

Kolan nodded and left. Wainwright stared at his hands for a moment or two, then said to Masuto, softly and ominously, “I don't like to be played for a horse's ass, Masao. How did you know the safe had been opened?”

“I didn't know. I made an educated guess. There's a family named Briggs on Camden Drive …”

“I know about the Briggs case. Nothing was taken.”

“Gaycheck on the same day. Nothing is taken. Then Haber — and from the look of it, nothing was taken except whatever bills he had in his wallet.”

“Whoever murdered Gaycheck didn't take his money.”

“Someone else. The robbery crew was moving systematically. First Briggs, then Haber. They took the key to the store from Haber. You saw the store.”

“I saw it.”

“I guessed. It wasn't a brilliant guess — just a guess.”

“And can you guess who murdered Gaycheck?”

“I might. But that would be the wildest guess of all — with nothing to support it.”

“And Haber?”

“I couldn't even guess,” Masuto said. “Maybe later. What do you want to do about Kolan?”

“The body's at Cleary's Mortuary. Take him over there and let him have a look. It's the least we can do.”

Driving to the mortuary, Masuto explained to Kolan that Beverly Hills was too small and too peaceful to have a police morgue.

“Peaceful?”

“Most of the time. So we have a contract arrangement with several funeral homes. It suffices.”

“You're Japanese, aren't you, Sergeant?”

“Yes. Nisei. That means born in America of Japanese parents.”

“Have you ever been to Israel?”

“On a policeman's pay?” Masuto laughed. “I'd like to go. Someday — who knows? But I've never even been to Japan.”

“You'll find it interesting.”

There was a funeral in progress at Cleary's, and a tall, skinny man in striped pants and a frock coat whispered them into a back room. In front of the coffin, in what he called their “holding room,” he explained that there had been an autopsy and that they had been given no instructions for embalming. “It will be messy,” he apologized.

“His face?” Kolan asked.

“Very nice — very nice indeed.” Then he opened the coffin, and for a few minutes Kolan stared at the chalk-white face of what had once been Ivan Gaycheck, né Gaylord Schwartzman.

Then he turned away and nodded.

“Schwartzman?” Masuto asked.

“It's Schwartzman — yes. It's a face I will never forget. Do I sound regretful? But not for that man in the coffin, Sergeant. We Jews have a saying that one must have compassion — even for one's enemies. But for that man I have no compassion, God forgive me. I had hoped it would not be him, so that one day we might take him alive. But it is. After thirty-three years, a death so peaceful, so easy.”

“I think no death is easy,” Masuto said. “And thirty-three years — how long is that in God's time?

“I don't know,” Kolan said. “But it's over now, isn't it?”

“It's over.”

5

JASON HOLMBEY

It is said that no one knows all of Los Angeles, and that perhaps is no more mysterious than the saying that no one knows all of Brooklyn, and when one adds to this the fact that within Los Angeles county there are over fifty separate cities, districts, neighborhoods, cities within cities, and that all of them dwell together in a sort of amiable confusion, one simply accepts this improbable puzzle without trying to understand it. Yet in the midst of this is a venerable and valid old-fashioned city, with narrow streets, old buildings, new buildings, skyscrapers — a tight urban cluster that is known all over Los Angeles as “downtown.”

It is said in Los Angeles that many people live out their lives in such places as Beverly Hills, San Fernando, Santa Monica, and Glendale without ever going downtown, but that is probably an exaggeration. Masuto, who knew the city better than most, having been born there, was a frequent visitor to downtown, and since he was an observant person, he remembered Holmbey's Stamp Center quite well. It was a most unlikely building, a small, three-story red brick Georgian house, nestled in a dingy section of Fourth Street, covered with ivy, and looking for all the world like a refugee from Berkeley Square in London. It was also the home of one of the largest stamp dealers in the United States.

It was nine-thirty when Masuto parked his car in the red no-parking spaces in front of Holmbey's, put his police card in plain view, and walked into the place, which looked more like an old-fashioned country bank than a stamp dealer's. There were oak counters, elderly gentlemen with green visors, and a gaunt, spinsterish woman who regarded him suspiciously and asked what she might do for him.

“I am a police officer,” said Masuto, showing his identification. “I would like to talk to the manager.”

“There is no manager, as you put it. Holmbey's is run by Mr. Jason Holmbey III.”

“Then I'll talk to Mr. Jason Holmbey III.”

“Please be seated, Mr.…?”

“Sergeant Masuto.”

“Mr. Masuto, while I see whether Mr. Holmbey can see you. Do you have an appointment?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Then I am afraid your visit has been in vain. Mr. Holmbey does not see people except by appointment.”

Masuto was slow to irritation, and even when it occurred, he refused to allow it to show. Now he said softly, “Tell Mr. Holmbey that either he will see me and talk with me, or I will come back with a warrent and bring him in as a material witness to a murder.” All of which was very sketchy and conceivably impossible, but which nevertheless made the required impression on the very gaunt and spinsterish woman and sent her hurrying away. A few minutes later, a man in his middle thirties, dressed in a vested herringbone tweed suit, with a cheerful face and wire-rimmed glasses, emerged through a door behind the showcases, glanced around, located Masuto, shook hands with him, and cheerfully asked what he might do for him.

“Agatha is our watchdog. She is very imposing, don't you think? She was my father's secretary, and her mission now is to protect me.”

“Only a few questions,” Masuto replied.

“Then suppose we sit down in my office.” He indicated the way, and Masuto followed him into an imposing, oak-paneled room. There were two large oil portraits on the walls, which Masuto imagined depicted Holmbey I and Holmbey II.

“Now …?”

“Sergeant Masuto.”

“Sergeant Masuto. What can I do for you? And you, on the other hand — you would not mind showing me your credentials?”

Masuto opened his wallet and showed his badge.

“Ah! But you are a Beverly Hills policeman. Aren't you rather far off base?”

“No, sir. In Los Angeles County, any police detective working on a case has reciprocal rights — even to the extent of making an arrest.”

“But you are not here to make an arrest. At least, I hope not. Of course — it's the Ivan Gaycheck business. I read about it in this morning's
Times
.”

“More or less.”

“Am I a suspect?”

“No, indeed.”

“Why not? I disliked the man intensely. He's a dealer, I am a dealer. So why not?”

Masuto spread his hands disarmingly and smiled. “This woman — I believe you called her Agatha — you said her mission is to protect you. From what?”

“My dear Sergeant Masuto. I am sure the world of postage stamps is alien to you, but it is very much a world, and in that world I am considered — I say this without boasting — one of the half-dozen leading authorities. Holmbey's is the third largest dealer in the United States, the largest west of the Mississippi, so you will understand that I am sought out by an endless flow of collectors and dealers, for purchase, for sale, for authentication, for identification. My provenance is usually accepted by any dealer or collector. If I were not protected, my life would be a nightmare.”

“So. You are very young for all that,” Masuto said with respect.

“I grew up with stamps. Quite natural for a Holmbey.”

“Well, I am grateful for the time you are granting me.”

“Not at all. I'm fascinated. Crime and stamps rarely mix. Ask and I will answer to the best of my ability.”

“Thank you. There is a stamp called the One-Penny 1848 Mauritius. How much is it worth?”

“The One-Penny 1848 Orange, imperforate …”

“Imperforate?”

“The little holes, you know, perforations. Imperforate simply means cut with a scissors or a cutting machine. No perforations.”

“I see.”

“Canceled, five thousand dollars. Uncanceled, about twice that.”

Masuto shook his head. “No. Surely you are mistaken.”

“I am never mistaken — in stamps.” Holmbey smiled.

“But I was told …”

“By an expert? How much?”

“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Good heavens! Who was the expert — if you don't mind telling me his name?”

“Mr. Odi Ishido.”

“Ishido? I know Ishido. Lovely gentleman, quite a competent amateur collector. Rather good on Japanese stamps, but he doesn't know beans about the British colonies. You know, there is a Mauritius stamp that is the most valuable in existence. Not the Post-Paid One-Penny 1848, but the One-Penny Post-Office 1847. I suppose that's what Ishido had in mind.”

“Then there is a One-Penny Mauritian stamp of great value?”

“Oh, yes, indeed. There certainly is. The One-Penny Orange of 1847 is the most valuable postage stamp in the world.”

“But what gives a tiny bit of paper such value?” Masuto asked.

“Ah! Good question. First of all, it's the collector who gives it such value. If he did not desire it with demonic ferocity, well then, what would its value be? Nothing. And why does he value it? Mainly because of its rarity. When he has it, he has something that no one else or almost no one else in the world has. Why does one pay seventy thousand dollars for a Rolls-Royce? To have what few others have. Now I do not denigrate the collector. He is the lifeblood of our business. But there it is. And secondly — well, a stamp accumulates a mythology, thieves who try to steal it, kings and oil barons who vie for it, murderers who kill for it.”

“Murderers?”

“I thought that would interest you, Sergeant. There's a whole history of murders to gain possession of stamps, but I am afraid I don't have time to go into that today. Tell me — why does this One-Penny Mauritius interest you?

“I have my reasons. Could you tell me something about it?”

“Well, just off the top of my head without going to the books: orange, you know, color of the ink. Shows the head of the young Queen Victoria. Engraved copper by J. Barnard — rather a skilled engraver for such an out-of-the-way place. He was a watchmaker. This was his first attempt at stamps. You know, Mauritius is a bit of an island in the Indian Ocean. Curiously, it was the first British colony to print its own stamps. It was engraved and printed in Port Louis, largest town in Mauritius, and when Barnard engraved it he made a bit of an error. Errors — they make stamps valuable, indeed they do. Instead of putting
post paid
in his engraving, Barnard put
post office
there. Corrected it the following year, but the deed was done. Imperforate, as I said. They had no perforating machine on the island then, so the stamp had to be cut by hand. And lo, it was born — the One-Penny Orange 1847 Mauritius.”

“Do you have one that I could look at?” Masuto asked.

“Do I have one? My dear Sergeant, if I had one — if I had one — well, I wouldn't have it. There are only fourteen recorded copies of the One-Penny Orange in the whole world. I'd sell it to Clevendon down in Texas for a king's ransom.”

“Clevendon?”

“A very wealthy Texan who is one of the great collectors.”

“Tell me, Mr. Holmbey, how many of these stamps are there?”

“In the world?”

“Yes.”

“Recorded — fourteen. Unrecorded — who knows? Every now and then, one of them turns up. I suppose that originally they printed several hundred at least. I would have to look that up. I do know that the original plate still exists. You know, it wasn't until May 6, 1840, that Great Britain printed its first stamps. With us, it was even later, and it was not until twenty years later that anyone ever dreamed of collecting stamps in an album. What a pity, so much was destroyed and discarded. But one happy thing did come about. It almost immediately became quite fashionable to paper walls, screens, candy boxes with canceled stamps, and this did save many valuable issues.”

“May I ask you who owns the One-Penny Orange?”

“Ah, indeed you may. In the world — well, I can name eight collectors who have it. Undoubtedly, there are others I do not know about.”

“And in the United States?”