The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) (7 page)

“Two. The Weill brothers in New Orleans own a cover with two penny stamps on it.”

“And if you had it, what would you charge for it?”

“That depends. The last time I looked at the price in
Gibbons
— that's the British catalog — well, it was some years ago. It might have been the 1972 catalog. They had it for twenty-two thousand pounds. What was the pound then — two-sixty? Something of the sort. Well, I might put it up at auction with a base price of sixty thousand.”

“You said …” Masuto began.

“Ah, you want it simple. It is not simple. You see, it depends on the stamp. If the stamp is on an original cover — well, then the sky is the limit. I think only five exist.”

“Cover?”

“Envelope, in your terms. But in those days, Sergeant Masuto, they had no envelopes. They folded a sheet of paper and sealed it with wax. That would be the cover. The 1847 Orange on the original cover — and proven authentic — well, don't know. I could pick up the phone here, put in a call to Clevendon, tell him what I had, and tell him the price was four hundred thousand dollars. And by God I think he'd pay it. No — I wouldn't do that. We have three generations of reputation to uphold. Oh, I'd let Clevendon know all right, let a few others know as well, and then I'd take it to London and put it up at auction with a bidding bottom of one hundred thousand pounds. Who knows? It might fetch half a million or more. Anything is possible in today's inflated world.”

“And if such an original cover were to exist and be stolen, what would be the prospects for the thieves?”

“On the black market? No legitimate dealer or collector would touch it, but there are one or two Middle Eastern collectors and one in France — I mention no names. Of course, the price would be considerably less.”

“But if there were no report of the theft — if it simply surfaced?”

“Ah, then the sky's the limit.”

“And would the thief try to sell it here?”

“I think not. Stolen here? Why sell it here? London would be a better market.” He cocked his head and regarded Masuto impishly. “Ah, Detective Masuto, behind that Oriental mask of yours lies an interesting speculation. You are apparently quite ready to be convinced that somewhere, somehow, the unpleasant Mr. Gaycheck found a One-Penny Orange — a motive for his murder. And you are also speculating that perhaps I could have done this not entirely unwholesome deed.”

Masuto smiled.

“But you have only to look at me. Surely I am not the type who murders?”

“Is there a type who murders?”

“You are a most unusual policeman — but of course you know that. Yes, I would imagine there is a type that is given to acts of violence. Unlike myself. I lead a sequestered life. By the way, how was the good Gaycheck sent to his reward?”

“You did not like him.”

“I found him distasteful.”

“He was shot in the middle of the forehead with a small pistol, probably an automatic, with a twenty-two-caliber short slug. Short as distinguished from the high-velocity bullet. He died instantly.”

“As a reward for his good deeds. By the way, he perished my debtor.”

“Oh?”

“He owes me eighteen hundred dollars for a stamp I gave him on consignment.”

“A ten-cent black 1847 George Washington?”

“Sergeant, you amaze me. Yes.”

“It's being held in the sheriff's station on San Vincente in West Hollywood — in the property office. As evidence. If you put your claim in there and show proof of ownership and indebtedness, you should be able to have it in a few days. I thought it was worth three thousand.”

“Catalog price. A collector might pay close to that. I gave it to Gaycheck on consignment. He said he had a customer for it.”

“Then you did do business with Gaycheck?”

“I do business with any stamp dealer whose credit is not subject to suspicion. In business, one does not make moral judgments.”

“Was there any reason to make a moral judgment of Ivan Gaycheck?”

“Come, come, Sergeant. You know precisely what I mean. By the way, how comes my stamp to the West Hollywood sheriff? Gaycheck was murdered in Beverly Hills.”

“The stamp was found in the possession of Ronald Haber.” Masuto's face was impassive, his eyes fixed on Holmbey. “He lives in West Hollywood.”

“Gaycheck's assistant. I don't understand.”

“Haber was murdered a few hours ago.”

“Good heavens!” Holmbey drew a deep breath. “Murdered. What the devil goes on? Is it open season for stamp dealers?”

“I imagine that the person who killed Haber was looking for something of great value — which Haber may or may not have provided.”

“The One-Penny Orange?”

“Perhaps.”

“I still don't understand. I don't want to sound egotistical, but if there were a One-Penny Orange in Los Angeles or indeed anywhere in America, missing or presented for sale, I would know about it.”

“I'm sure you would.”

“Then what on earth gives you this fixation on the One-Penny Orange? Do you have any evidence, any reason to believe it exists?”

“Perhaps.”

“Hardly an expansive answer. Well, Sergeant —”. He glanced at his watch. “I've given you a half hour of my time. I have not done away with either Haber or Gaycheck, but you are welcome to add me to your list of suspects if it pleases you. And if you do come across that One-Penny Orange, I should be delighted to know about it.”

“Only one more question.”

“Yes?”

“You must know most of the important collectors in this area. Are there any of the stature of this man you mentioned — Clevendon?”

“There is no one of Clevendon's stature as a collector — unfortunately.”

“Perhaps. But I speak of people who could afford the price of such a stamp.”

“Yes, a few. But I see no reason why I should supply their names.”

“I can't force you to,” Masuto admitted. “On the other hand, I think the D.A. could be persuaded to issue a warrant that would permit me to examine your books — more time-consuming for me, and, I am sure, much more unpleasant for you.”

Holmbey's mood changed. His face hardened and his blue eyes closed to slits. He stared at Masuto without replying.

“There are other ways,” Masuto said quietly. “There are dealers in Beverly Hills and Westwood who could supply the information. I am not threatening you.”

“Very well,” Holmbey said coldly. “There are only four of them, and you're quite right. Any legitimate dealer would know who they are, so in fact I violate no confidence. Frank Goldway in Palos Verdes, Jerome Clayton in Pasadena, Raymond Cohen in Bel Air, and Lucille Bettner in Beverly Hills.”

Masuto jotted down the names. “Thank you,” he said, rising. “You've been very generous with your time.”

On his way back to Beverly Hills, Masuto pulled into a gas station to fill his depleted tank, and while waiting he telephoned his cousin, Alan Toyada, who was in the research department of Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith.

“Well, Masao,” Toyada greeted him, “I see you're working again. Live in Beverly Hills and get scragged.”

“I am not interested in your poor sense of humor. I want to know about Holmbey's — the stamp dealer in downtown L.A.”

“Masao, you know I specialize in Japanese stocks. Anyway, Holmbey's is not listed. It's a family outfit.”

“You have Dun and Bradstreet and other sources. I want to know their condition, their financial standing — or whatever you call it.”

“All right. Drop around this afternoon and I'll have it for you.”

“Please, Alan, I want it now.”

“Now? I can't drop everything.…”

“You can. It won't take you five minutes. I'm in a phone booth in a gas station, but I'll call you back in ten minutes.”

“Masao, I can't just …”

“The next time you want a traffic ticket fixed …”

“When did you ever fix a ticket for me? When?”

“I'll call you back in ten minutes.” Then Masuto hung up, paid for the gas, and drove off. Back in Beverly Hills, he stopped at a pay phone and called Toyada again.

“Okay, Masao — I got what you want. To put it succinctly, their condition is lousy. They are up to their ears in debt, and they have a quarter-of-a-million bank loan callable in about thirty days. Unless they have resources not listed, it's questionable whether they can meet it. Maybe they can float another loan to cover, maybe not. One doesn't know. If you're going to lend them money, think twice.”

“Thank you.”

“Look, Masao, if you're on the pad and you got money to burn, come around and see me. Stay away from places like Holmbey's.”

“Very funny. Goodbye.”

6

ELLEN BRIGGS

Driving to North Camden — north being north of the railroad tracks, the line through Beverly Hills that separates the middle class from the rich — Masuto recalled that he had not only seen Ellen Briggs play Major Barbara but he had also seen her play Hedda Gabler at the Huntington Hartford Theatre, which was quite different from the little shack on Las Palmas where she had performed in the Shaw play. The part was notably different as well, for while he had never cared for the Ibsen play as a dramatic work, he was always intrigued by the character of Hedda Gabler — the frustrated, hate-filled woman whose morality had disappeared under the pressure of her anger, who could kill and destroy without compassion or regret. He had always wondered whether there could be a great performance of the Hedda Gabler role without the actress sharing some part of the nature of Ibsen's character.

Well, he knew very little about actresses; but why hadn't Ellen Briggs mentioned the Hedda Gabler role? How could any actress resist saying, once he had complimented her on the Major Barbara role, “But did you see me as Hedda Gabler at the Huntington Hartford?”

Of course, there were the circumstances. Her mother's death, the funeral, and then the breaking into her house and the senseless chaos visited upon it. Perhaps the additional misery of the talented actress who does not make it. She was at least forty now, and Masuto had spent his life close enough to the entertainment industry to know that, with a few incredible exceptions, the actor who does not make it by forty will never make it.

It was half-past ten in the morning when Masuto parked his car in front of the Spanish Colonial house on Camden, and he had that strange feeling — not unusual when one is awake most of the night — that somewhere he had lost a day. Also, he had missed his regular early morning practice of meditation. Well, a day like today is not so different from a koan; he smiled a bit at the thought. He himself practiced in the Soto School of Zen, but in the Rinzai School one meditated upon a thing called a koan, a proposition that defies reason; and Masuto had always felt that murder, the destruction of one human being by another, defied both reason and civilization. It was certainly not an apt comparison, but it amused him.

When he rang the doorbell, Ellen Briggs opened the door for him, and the change in her appearance from the day before was so marked that he had to look twice to make sure it was the same woman. She wore old blue jeans that fit her slender figure tightly and a blue work shirt open at the neck, and her hair was drawn back and tied behind her head. She looked twenty years younger than the grief-stricken woman he had seen the day before, and the lack of makeup added to her attractiveness.

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then smiled. “Of course — Detective Masuto.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Briggs. May I come in?”

“Please.”

The living room was back in place and orderly. “I'm working in the kitchen now,” she explained. “It's good for me to have all this to do. You know, I don't suppose the thieves were in the house for more than an hour, but it will be three days before I clear up the wreckage.”

“It's always easier to destroy,” Masuto agreed. “Actors will rehearse a play for weeks, and a critic will destroy it with a few words.”

“I like that notion.” She stared at him with interest. “You are a most unusual policeman.”

“You don't have to stop what you were doing. I will be happy to sit in the kitchen, and I can talk to you while you work. I just have a few questions to ask you.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I would.”

She led him into the kitchen. “No, I shall not go on working. We will have tea together.”

He watched her with interest as she put up the water to boil, prepared the teapot, and set out a plate of sliced pound cake. She moved easily and gracefully, and he found himself admiring her and liking her.

“You have no accent at all,” he observed.

“Accent?”

“Foreign accent, I mean. You were born in Germany?”

“But I left there when I was three years old. So the fact that I have no accent is hardly remarkable.”

“That was in 1940?”

“Yes — but how did you know I was forty years old?”

“Just a guess.”

“Not a flattering guess, Sergeant Masuto.”

“It has nothing to do with your appearance. I simply felt it was before the war began. Later it would have been almost impossible.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Do you want lemon with your tea?”

He shook his head. “Your father was Jewish?”

“Half Jewish — but in Nazi Germany that was enough. My mother was not Jewish, but Hitler was not concerned with such niceties.”

“When did your father die?”

“He died in Germany, in a concentration camp. Some friends helped my mother to escape in 1940, and we got to England, and then here after the war.”

“That must have been a hard time for both of you.”

She put two slices of cake on a plate and handed it to him, looking at him rather quizzically. “I was very young. It was harder for my mother. But these things are not pleasant for me to talk about, and I don't see what such matters have to do with my home being broken into.”