by Howard Fast
“Maybe. They didn’t come through.” Masuto smiled. “If they do, it won’t matter. He took care of things like that.”
“How do you take care of prints?”
“There are ways, believe me. If a man is tough enough, he can burn them off.”
“So what it amounts to is that you have nothing. You have his picture and his name, and you got nothing. Not one shred of evidence. Masao, I ought to have my head examined. I’ve put two men on the payroll of the City of Beverly Hills to work chasing ghosts, and I’ve damn near talked you into making me believe in your ghosts.”
“I’ve called off the New York trip. That’s a boost to your budget.”
“All right. What do you get in exchange?”
“I want you to call Kennedy and make peace with him and borrow his police artist for tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Because we can’t afford a police artist of our own,” Masuto said gently.
“That’s very funny. You know, Masao, there are people who tell me the Japanese don’t have a sense of humor. They’re wrong. You let me talk the city manager into sending a man to New York, and now you don’t have to go to New York. That’s funny too. You just about tell Captain Kennedy that he’s a horse’s ass, and now you want me to talk him out of his police artist. That’s even funnier.”
“Give him a deal. Quid pro quo. He lends us the artist, we give him the murderer of the Lundmans.”
“Masao,” Wainwright said seriously, “I have more respect for you than you might imagine. We’ve worked together a good many years now, and I’ve seen you pull more rabbits out of the hat than you can shake a stick at. I’m even ready to believe that this is a photograph of the killer. But you still got nothing, not a shred of evidence, not one bit of anything I can bring to the D.A. That is, considering that you could find Stanley Cutler. I know you don’t have a high opinion of the feds, but they got maybe the biggest facility in the world, and they’ve been looking for Cutler these thirty years, and they have come up with zilch. Maybe Cutler’s dead, maybe in Brazil, and it’s still not beyond the realm of possibility that some lunatic killed the Lundmans. God knows, there are plenty of them.”
“The Lundmans and Mrs. Brody in one day—that would be stretching coincidence too far.”
“It happens.”
“No, I can’t accept that.”
“What then, Masao? You want me to promise Kennedy that we’ll wrap this up and deliver him his culprit. Then we wash out. Where does that leave me?”
“You’re right,” Masao said after a moment. “You can’t promise that. But I need that artist.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
He went back to his office. Beckman was waiting for him, and the telephone was ringing as Masuto entered. It was Williams, calling from Washington. “I’m sorry, Masuto,” he said, “but we don’t have prints.”
“You’d better explain that.”
“During the war Cutler pulled a man out of a burning tank. Seared his fingers. Got a citation for it.”
“What about prints when he went into the army?”
“He joined up in Europe. There are no prints, Masuto, there just aren’t any. Now look, if you people have a lead on Cutler, we want him.”
“What about the statute of limitations?”
“There’s none on retrieving the money, and we’ll let the lawyers worry about the rest.”
“Hold on a moment,” Masuto said. “Do you have anything on that soldier he pulled out of the tank? Did he recover? His name? Anything?”
“We thought of that. No way we could trace him.”
“Wouldn’t his name be on the citation?”
“Not necessarily. There were witnesses to the incident. That’s all you need for the citation.”
Masuto put down the telephone and turned to Beckman. “We have a beauty, Sy. We have a brilliant psychopath who goes in for perfect crimes. Your average criminal has an IQ of ninety or ninety-five. Cutler’s IQ is one hundred and thirty-seven. He climbed into a burning tank to save a G.I. and seared his ten fingers. At this point, I’m ready to believe he did it consciously and purposefully.”
“That’s crazy, Masao. No one burns himself on purpose.”
“No? Perhaps not. Will the girl keep the door locked?”
“Right. She’s scared enough. Did you square me with Sophie?”
“I think so. Now here’s where we are, Sy. I’m going to lay out everything we have.”
When Masuto had finished spelling out what he had from Williams and whatever other pieces he had put together, Beckman stared at the picture and shook his head. “What does it add up to, Masao? A picture thirty years old of a man who had facial surgery, a name that doesn’t belong to him anymore, and no fingerprints. That’s a stacked deck. Suppose you find him? How do you prove his identity? With Lundman dead, how do you tie him into a crime that happened thirty years ago? As far as the Lundmans are concerned, there’s a perfect murder. No weapon, no witnesses.”
“Except Rosita.”
“Come on, Masao. She wasn’t a witness. You know that. The D.A. would laugh at it.”
“You’re sure she’s all right until five o’clock?”
“Unless he can walk through a steel door.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me either. Now I’ll tell you what we’re going to do. We’re going to visit banks, not the branches, but the main offices. Here’s the way I worked this out. I believe that Cutler planned this for years. He got out of the army and got himself a job in a bank. Meanwhile, he had worked out a pattern of embezzlement. That wouldn’t be too hard for a man of his caliber. There are plenty of books on the great embezzlements, and in those days they were going out of their way to give jobs to vets—especially vets who had won decorations. Cutler had a partner. For some reason, I believe, Cutler selected Los Angeles for his ultimate goal, perhaps because it was the other side of the continent, more likely because most of the money in L.A. is new money. Now Cutler had a problem. Money is a problem. Two or three million dollars is a huge problem.”
“I should have that kind of a problem.”
“Still a problem. What do you do with it? You can’t keep it under a mattress. So the way I see it, Cutler had a partner, a loyal, devoted partner who obeyed orders and who trusted Cutler with his life.”
“And who ended up under the swimming pool.”
“Exactly. How he got this partner we may never know. Possibly the man whose life he saved. In any case, Cutler would have chosen someone his size with the same eye and hair color, so that the driver’s license and everything else would fit. Cutler funneled the money through him; it would have been too risky to try to do it himself. I imagine that for the most part they bought bonds, government bonds, company bonds, municipal bonds, all as good as cash. His partner could open accounts in half a dozen brokerage houses, and they spread their winnings over a year. But at the same time, a man like Cutler would see to it that they had some cash resources at their destination—namely L.A. At least that’s my guess. I’m trying to think the way he thinks, and by now I have a pretty good notion of how he thinks. Perhaps his partner made two or three trips to Los Angeles, and each time he’d open a few bank accounts—nothing spectacular, perhaps ten thousand here, five thousand there. His partner must have been overwhelmed at the way Cutler trusted him to open the accounts in his own name, but at the same time he was signing his death warrant. Again, we’ll never know how Cutler persuaded John Doe to sign on that job as a day laborer. Maybe it was simply a way to drop out of sight. You don’t look for a high-class embezzler on a construction job. But persuade him he did, and there he saw the opportunity to get rid of John Doe forever, and he took it.”
“And you figure we might get lucky and find two or three bank accounts for the same name?”
“It’s a long shot.”
“Too long, Masao. Thirty years too long.”
Masuto stared at him for a moment, then he picked up the telephone and asked Polly to get him the manage
r at the central office of the Los Angeles branch of the Crocker Bank. The phone rang, and Masuto picked it up, introduced himself, and stated his case. The man at the Crocker Bank, whose name was Johnson, sighed deeply and said, “I’m afraid not, sergeant.”
“Why not?”
“Because thirty years is just too long. We do have a central storage depot and we do have a great deal of material on microfilm, but to be able to find and compare the names of small depositors in nineteen fifty or in nineteen forty-nine—well, I’m just afraid it’s impossible.”
“How impossible?”
“Impossible, sir. Well, let me be honest. I’m not absolutely sure that those records don’t exist. I would have to go to our central office in San Francisco for full information. Then someone would have to spend days going through the microfilm—providing the records have been kept. We do keep records of our own accounting over that period, but names of depositors? Most unlikely. But let me say this. Give me the name of the depositor, and I’ll try to track it down.”
“I don’t have the name of the depositor.”
“What? Are you trying to make a fool of me, sir? Is this really the Beverly Hills police?”
“You can call back if you wish. This is the Beverly Hills police. We are trying to find out whether the same name appears in several banks.”
“Without knowing the name?”
“The fact of the duplication would establish the name.”
“Sergeant, you’re wasting my time. It’s impossible.”
Masuto looked at Beckman and nodded.
“What did he say?”
“He says it’s impossible.”
“I thought so. The L.A.P.D. might cover something like that, if they could put twenty men on it and take a month. We’re too small, and who knows if the records exist? You want me to try another bank?”
“No, it wouldn’t be any different.”
“So what’s left?”
“Rosita, the police artist, and, I think, my kinsman, Ishido.”
“Who is Ishido?”
“He is Kati’s father’s cousin. He was an officer in the Japanese Imperial Army, and he has lived in Los Angeles these past thirty-three years. He has enormous interests in Mitsubishi and Sony, and before he retired he represented Mitsubishi on the West Coast. He is also Samurai, which may not mean much here, but still counts among the folk from the old country. Now he collects Japanese stamps and Chinese jade. He has more millions than we have fingers between us, and since he is what he is, and I am a policeman, you can imagine that he does not look too kindly upon me. I sometimes think that he has never forgiven Kati for marrying me. On the few occasions when I have seen him, he has been very courteous, but that’s his manner.”
“And you figure him as a connection?”
“I hope so.”
“So we washed out with the banks. What do I do now?”
“Go back to the lovely Rosita.”
“You know,” Beckman said, “you are putting a large temptation in the face of an ordinary cop. I am human, Masao, and that kid is just too damn pretty.”
“Exercise restraint.”
“If Sophie ever found out, she’d cut my throat.”
“We’ll try to keep it a secret.” And then, as Beckman was about to leave, Masuto said, “Sy, if Cutler should get on to us and somehow get into that room with you, use your gun. Don’t try to take him and put cuffs on him. Use your gun, even if he’s unarmed. Shoot out a kneecap or something.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“At this point, I don’t know.”
“He’s five eight. I’m twice his size. I’ve never met the man I couldn’t take, and I don’t go for that karate crap.”
“This might be the first time.”
“I’ll think about it.”
When Beckman had left, Masuto went into Wainwright’s office and stood waiting.
“Yeah,” Wainwright said. “I did it.”
“We get the police artist?”
“He’ll be over here at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“Captain, you’re wonderful.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s your turn to be Mr. Wonderful. Pick up a box of one dollar Flaminco cigars. Make sure they’re genuine Flamincos and that they come from the Canary Islands, wherever they are. There are twenty in a box, so it will cost you twenty bucks.”
“What for?”
“For Kennedy. It’s part of the deal.”
Masuto went back to his office and called Dr. Leo Hartman. “I would like to see you tomorrow,” he said, “at about noon.”
“That’s impossible, sergeant.”
“Yes, I’ve spent the day hearing that things were impossible. Let me put it this way, Dr. Hartman. You indicated that Ben McKeever was a man you admired. Perhaps I can tell you that he was murdered and his nurse was murdered. If you will give me an hour of your time tomorrow, it’s possible I can bring in his killer.”
“My God, sergeant, that was thirty years ago.”
“His killer is still alive, free, and prosperous. Is it worth an hour of your time?”
“Are you being serious?”
“Very serious.”
“All right. Come in at twelve fifteen. I can give you forty-five minutes. Will that be enough?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll have some sandwiches sent in. Have you any preference?”
“Whatever you choose will be fine. I’ll be bringing another man with me.”
“I hope you’re right, sergeant. It was an ignominious way to die.”
Masuto met Wainwright on his way out, and the captain asked him where he was off to.
“Home,” Masuto said.
“It’s only half past four. You’re making an early day of it.”
“I got home at nine yesterday.”
“You’re a cop.”
“Sy’s wife is talking about divorcing him. Do you want Kati to divorce me?”
“I hear your people don’t go in for divorce.”
“So you hear.”
“I got three burglaries and a mugging. Right here in Beverly Hills. A car pulls up next to this lady’s car. Two guys jump out, open the doors, grab her purse, and drive off.”
“She should lock her doors.”
“All right. I gave you the week. I regret it, but I gave it to you.”
Chapter 10
THE POLICE
ARTIST
A few minutes before the police artist arrived the following morning, the postman brought in a glossy photo of Stanley Cutler, which Williams had dispatched by express mail. The police artist arrived a few minutes before ten, a young man of about thirty, tall, redheaded, and with a Texas accent. “Well now,” he said in a soft drawl, “I am mighty pleased to meet you. I’m Kenny Dawson, and you are Sergeant Masuto. I did suspect from your name that you would be some kind of Oriental. Japanese? Am I right?”
“You’re right, Mr. Dawson.”
“Now don’t call be Mr. Dawson, sergeant. Kenny will do. I hear you got a problem that wants an artist? Of course, I would think that in a place like Beverly Hills, which I hear has more millionaires per square mile than any other spot in the U.S. of A., they would have a police artist of their own.”
“We don’t have call for one very often. Are you good, Kenny?”
“Good enough. Gotta admit that I put aside my dreams of being another Frederic Remington for a steady job, but that don’t mean I have sold out. Now what have you got for me?”
Masuto handed him the glossy print of Stanley Cutler. “This picture was taken about thirty years ago. As you can see, it’s probably an identity photo for a job record.”
“Sure enough. Same technique as passport photos.”
“I want you to draw it, but to change it to conform to thirty years of aging. I can tell you that the man has not gained much weight. He stays in good physical condition. Do you think you can do that?”
“I’ll give it a try. You don’t have a profile, do you?”
“Just this. And we have an hour and a half. Is that enough time?”
“Plenty.”
“And one thing more,” Masuto added. “Can you use a medium where you can erase and make changes?”
“Sure. I’ll use charcoal without fixing it, and then we can pick it up with a kneaded eraser.” He looked at Masuto curiously. “By the way, you wouldn’t like to explain what I’m doing?”
“Well, you’re doing what few men get to do, compressing thirty years in an hour, and then we’re going to consult a plastic surgeon.”
“Yes, that answers my question.”
The telephone rang. It was Williams, calling from Washington, and he asked about the glossy print.
“We got it. Thanks for the cooperation.”
“By the way, sergeant,” Williams said, “there’s a ten-percent finder’s fee on the two million eight hundred thousand. Of course, the bank was paid off by the insurance company. That’s Transwest National Insurance. They put the finder’s fee on it back in nineteen fifty. I spoke to them this morning, and they say the fee is still in force, a very neat two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. Inflation puts a bite into it, but it’s still a nice piece of change.”
Wainwright was scowling at some papers on his desk when Masuto came into his office and sat down facing him.
“You got nothing to do,” Wainwright said. “You and Beckman, you really stiffed me. He’s shacked up with some cute Mexican babe, and you got nothing to do but sit here in my office with that Charlie Chan look on your face.”
“So sorry, but the artist is at work, and meanwhile Agent Williams called from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and he tells me the Transwest National Insurance Company put a ten percent finder’s fee on that two million eight embezzlement, and while thirty years has passed, the finder’s fee is still in force.”
“You got to be kidding.”
“Oh, no. No, indeed.”
“Masao, bums who pull off these jobs spend it quicker than you could walk to the bank.”
“Two million eight hundred thousand dollars?”
“It’s thirty years.”
“Let’s just suppose, captain, that this particular bum has other plans. He wants to be rich and powerful. The embezzlement money is his stake. He nurtures it, invests it. Possibly he goes into some business. These last thirty years have been very rewarding here in southern California. Today he has millions.”
