by Howard Fast
“Where did she keep them?”
“I don’t think I know. You see, we only moved into this house a week ago — it’s such a splendid house. This is the first time Jack — my husband — made any money. I wanted her to have a few years of peace and happiness.…” She broke into tears, covering her face with her hands. “She wouldn’t have! Oh, damn it, she wouldn’t have. Jack hated her. She had no peace and no happiness. I wasn’t even with her when she died.”
“How did she die?”
“Oh, let me wash my face. I feel so rotten. All those years of wretched poverty, and there might have been a fortune under my nose. She could have lived like a human being. Please — please excuse me.”
She fled into the bathroom behind the kitchen, leaving Masuto to sit there and stare at the half-eaten slice of cake on his plate and to wonder whether the edifice he had created was a total fiction. He liked her, respected her, and felt his heart go out to her — and pondered the strange fact that women like Ellen Briggs so often married men like Jack Briggs. Then she came back, her eyes reddened but dry.
“I’m all right now. I suppose you want to see Mother’s room?”
“Yes. But I asked you before — and you don’t have to answer if it’s too painful — I asked you how your mother died.”
“She died of a heart attack, Sergeant Masuto. Alone. I wasn’t even there to be with her. Just three days ago. I had gone with Bernie to the school to register him. I left him there and came home. I went up to her room, and she was lying on her bed — dead.”
“I am sorry,” Masuto said. “I make you talk about things you don’t want to talk about, and I force you to remember things you should not have to remember. I am so sorry.”
She led the way up the stairs. All the bedrooms were off a central hallway. Her mother’s was a corner room, bright and cheerful, with a wooden balcony. But it was still in total disorder, clothes on the floor, the drawers emptied and flung about senselessly, papers and letters scattered about. Ellen walked around, picking up envelopes and folded letters. Without a word, she handed them to Masuto. They were written in German and carried old stamps of the time of the Third Reich.
“These are the letters, Mrs. Briggs?”
She nodded. Masuto handed them back to her, then walked around the room — aimlessly, it appeared to Ellen, except that his dark eyes were restless and excited. Then he got down on his knees and reached under the bed. When he stood up, he had a piece of faded blue ribbon in his hand.
“Is this the ribbon that the letters were tied with?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He stared at the ribbon until she was prompted to say, “What is it, Sergeant Masuto?”
“Don’t you see? The ribbon was cut with a pair of scissors. Not with a knife, but with a pair of scissors.”
“Well?”
He motioned at the room. “Do such people pick up scissors to cut a ribbon?” Suddenly he snapped the ribbon in his fingers. “See how easily it breaks.” And even more abruptly, “Did you have the back door fixed?”
His tone of voice startled her. “Yes. The locksmith came early this morning. He not only fixed the lock, he put a bolt on the door.”
Masuto looked at his watch. “It’s twenty after eleven. What time does your son get out of school?”
“For lunch? Eleven forty-five. Why?”
“Come with me! We’ll pick him up.”
“But the school bus will bring him.”
“I said we’ll pick him up,” Masuto snapped. “Now don’t argue with me. Come.”
In his car, she complained that he was arbitrary and rude.
“Not rude. I am never rude,” Masuto protested. The accusation hurt him.
“You have no right to order me around like this.”
“I have the right to keep a hurtful thing from happening to you and your son.”
“What hurtful thing? What are you talking about?”
They were almost at the school now.
“Why doesn’t your son have a hot lunch in school?” Masuto asked.
“You must know everything. You’re the most inquisitive man I ever met.”
“Yes, assuredly.”
“He will have his lunch in school when I’m working. I’m not working now. I feel better when I prepare his lunch.”
“I see.” He pulled up next to the curb, with the school entrance plainly in sight. “It’s just a few minutes. I’ll wait here. Go to the door and bring him here when he comes out.”
“But …”
“Please do as I say.”
She got out of the car, turned to look at Masuto, swallowed whatever she had intended to say, and walked across to the school. Masuto snapped on his radiophone and called the dispatcher. “This is Masuto. I’m parked in front of Rogers’ Primary School. I want the nearest patrol car on this street. Get him over here quickly, but slow as he goes down the street. I want him to park behind me, and then follow me when I pull away.”
He got out of his car then, wondering, as he had so often before, whether he was right in rarely carrying a gun. A time would surely come when he would regret that decision. He stood by his car, studying the area, the sun-drenched lawns, the empty walks. Not a soul was in sight. He told himself then, in that moment, that he had too much imagination for a good policeman.
A school bus pulled into the driveway next to the school; then a second one.
Then, down the street and parking next to the curb, facing his car, three men on motorcycles, wearing leather trousers, leather jackets, and helmets with sunproof visors; no faces were visible. This surprised him. Motorcycles were not a part of his calculations. Hadn’t all the witnesses at Lapeer, where Haber had been murdered, spoken of the sound of a car starting? How could anyone confuse the sound of a car with the sound of three motorcycles?
Having parked the cycles and dismounted, they stood in a tight group; they watched Masuto, and they watched Ellen Briggs, who now stood in front of the school door. The door opened and the children began to come out. The three men in leather took a few steps and Masuto took a few steps. They watched him, and then they saw the patrol car pull up behind Masuto’s Datsun.
Masuto waved an arm, and the policeman got out of his car and came toward him. Ellen Briggs took her son’s hand. Masuto never took his eyes from the cyclists.
The uniformed cop joined Masuto. “What’s up, Sergeant?”
The three men moved back to their motorcycles, mounted, and roared away down the street. Masuto relaxed. Ellen Briggs and her son walked toward them. The boy, small, light-haired, was chattering to his mother.
“It’s all right, Bailey,” Masuto said to the policeman. “I’m taking them over to their home, on Camden. Just follow me, and then park outside until I come out.”
The policeman nodded and went back to his car. Masuto opened the door of his car for Ellen Briggs and her son. “Now, would you tell me …”
“I’m taking you home,” Masuto said. “I’ll talk to you there.”
“You don’t know how provoking this whole thing is.”
“I do.”
The boy whispered, “What is he, Mom? Is he some kind of cop? He’s a Jap, isn’t he?”
“Just be quiet.”
Masuto parked in front of the house on Camden. “Wait here,” he said to Ellen Briggs. The patrol car pulled up behind him. Masuto nodded at Officer Bailey, then walked down the driveway to the back of the house and looked at the kitchen door. He circled the house and came back.
“We’ll go inside now,” he said to Ellen.
“You are impossible,” she said slowly.
“Just do as I say, please.”
She and the boy walked with him to the door. She opened the door with her keys, and the boy went inside. Masuto touched her arm as she started to follow. “One moment, please, Mrs. Briggs.” She turned to face him. “Do you trust me?”
“I would like to — if you would tell me what that charade at the school was all about.”
“In time.”
“Why must you be so damn mysterious?”
“Because I am in something with a dozen loose ends dangling, and I haven’t put them together, and anything I say about it would only add to your worries. So would you please trust me?”
She hesitated, thought about it for a moment or two, drew a deep breath, then sighed. “Very well.”
“I don’t want you to send your son back to school today. Keep him at home.”
“But what shall I tell him?”
“Invent something. I want you to lock your doors. Stay in the house. The boy is not to go out to play.”
“Not even in the backyard?”
“No, not even in the backyard.”
“But I haven’t done my shopping.”
“Don’t do any shopping today. Don’t open the door for anyone.”
“But this is ridiculous.”
“No, it is not ridiculous. Will you do as I say?”
She stood there staring at Masuto. Then she nodded. “Very well.”
“I’ll try to come back this evening. I think it will be over by then — so it’s only one afternoon.”
“What shall I tell my husband?”
“What time will he be home?”
“Seven — perhaps later.”
“Then you will simply tell him that I said what I said — for your safety and for the child’s safety.” She nodded unhappily. “Thank you.”
He waited until she had gone inside and he had heard the door lock behind her. Then he walked back to where Officer Bailey sat in his patrol car.
“What the hell is this all about?” Bailey asked.
Masuto shrugged. “Can you come by here every half hour or so?”
“If it’s all right with the chief.”
“Tell him I asked for it — you or someone else.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Motorcycles.”
“The same three?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re really sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
Again, Masuto shrugged. “Just keep your eyes open.”
7
ZEV KOLAN
It was twelve forty-five when Masuto returned to Beverly Hill police headquarters. He sent out for a sandwich and coffee, and then in the records room he picked up the last three days’ Los Angeles Times. He chewed his ham and cheese without tasting it, while he read the death notice:
“Hilda Kramer, beloved wife of Wolf Bernie Kramer and Mother of Ellen Kramer Briggs. Rest in peace.”
Wainwright stopped by his desk. “What have you got, Masao?”
“A few pieces.”
“Do you know who killed Gaycheck?”
“I think so.”
“You wouldn’t want to share that knowledge?”
“I could be wrong.”
“You give me a pain in the ass — so help me God, you do, Masao.”
“Being inscrutable is part of the ploy. Look, Captain, I think I know who murdered Gaycheck. I have no evidence, absolutely nothing. I also have a notion about Haber.”
“Not the same party?”
“No, indeed. Hardly — but it’s in motion. Maybe I can wrap it up by tomorrow, maybe never.”
“That’s cheerful.”
“What I’m wondering,” Masuto said, “is whether the L.A.P.D. would run an errand for us.”
“Maybe. If we’re nice to them. There have been times when they wanted errands on our turf. What do you have in mind?”
“I want to know about the gun — the little twenty-two-caliber job that killed Gaycheck. I think it was purchased in one of the gun stores downtown during the past week, maybe during the past three days. L.A.P.D. would know who carries that kind of merchandise. Ballistics is pretty certain it was an automatic, not a revolver, a purse gun, probably a fancy little toy with mother-of-pearl on the grip. I’m sure they don’t sell many of those.”
“Why downtown, Masao? This county is lousy with gun stores.”
“Just a notion. Maybe they can track it down and get us a reading on who bought it.”
“I’ll give it a try.”
As Wainwright turned away, Masuto said, “One other thing, Captain.”
“Oh?”
“I want you to authorize two telephone calls.” Detective Sy Beckman, sitting at the next desk, was listening and trying to look like he was not listening. “For Sy here,” Masuto said, nodding at Beckman. “I want him to make the calls for me.”
“I’m waiting,” Wainwright said coldly. “Goddamn it, Masao …”
Masuto held up a hand and smiled.
“All right. Tell me.”
“One to Germany. One to England.”
“No.”
“It’s important.”
“Use the Telex.”
“It won’t do. I need the telephone.”
“No. That loudmouth will sit on the phone for an hour and I’ll get a bill for three hundred dollars, and the city manager will burn my ass off.”
“Don’t blame me,” said Beckman. “I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Make the calls yourself,” said the captain.
“I have other things to do. I want to clean this thing up and get out of it. I want to go home and sit in a hot bath for an hour and eat some civilized food and feed my roses.”
“My heart bleeds for you. If you think I’m going to give Beckman a license to sit on the phone to Germany and England and bankrupt this department, you’re crazy.”
“If I enjoyed the expression, which I do not,” Masuto said quietly, “I would say that my heart bleeds for you, Captain. You’re only the chief of detectives in the wealthiest city in the world, and you’re arguing about two telephone calls.”
“Go to hell,” said Wainwright, turning on his heel.
“The calls?”
“Make them, but so help me, Masao, I’d better know the reason why.” And then he stalked away.
Beckman was staring at Masuto and grinning. “You do have a way with you, Masao.” He readied his pencil and pad. “Who do I call?”
“First of all, there’s a publisher in England, Gibbons — put that down, G-i-b-b-o-n-s. They publish the definitive British stamp catalog. Or maybe Gibbons is the name of the catalog, and someone else publishes it. I don’t know, but you can call Holmbey’s, the stamp dealer in downtown L. A., and get that information. Get through to Gibbons and find someone there who knows his business, and find out all you can about a stamp called the One-Penny 1847 Orange Mauritius.”
“How do you spell Morashus?”
Masuto gave it to him. “But don’t flounder around, Sy. I want specific information. I want to know whether there was an original cover — got that original cover — floating around on the European continent in the late 1930s, and what happened to it. I suspect it disappeared. I want my suspicions confirmed.”
“Come on, Masao. It don’t make sense. How the hell would they know about one stamp in the 1930s?”
“They’d know, because this is maybe the most important stamp in the world.”
“Okay.” Beckman sighed. “I’ll give it a try. Now what about the second call?”
“Get through to police headquarters in Bonn, West Germany. Maybe you want to pull in Guttman for that, you know, the cop of the night shift. He speaks German, or maybe they have someone over there who talks English.”
“Guttman’s asleep.”
“Wake him up. No one worries about waking us up. Now I want to know this — whatever they have on Captain Gaylord Schwartzman of the SS. He was stationed at the concentration camp in Buchenwald, and after the war he disappeared. I want to know whether he ever had anything to do with a German publisher whose name was Wolf Bernie Kramer and who died in Buchenwald.”
“Slow up,” said Beckman, making notes on his yellow pad. “Spell ‘Buchenwald.’”
“And that reminds me of something else,” Masuto said. “When you talk to Gibbons, bring up
the name of Kramer. He published the German edition of their catalog. Ask them specifically whether they can connect him in any way with the One-Penny Orange.”
“I’m as confused as hell,” said Beckman, “but I got it. What else?”
“I want to know two things — very important, if you can pin them down. I want to know how Kramer died in Buchenwald; and if it was by a firing squad, I want to know who commanded the firing squad. I also want to know whether they circulated Schwartzman’s photo and where and whether it appeared …” Masuto broke off suddenly, lost in thought.
“Masao?”
“Look, there’s a German magazine called Der Spiegel or something like that. It’s a big news magazine, like Time in America. There’s a good chance they have it on file down in the L.A. public library.”
“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.
