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

by Howard Fast

  “But she couldn’t have known she would find him.”

  “You yourself brought up the question of faith.”

  “I think your story would be more reasonable if you made it less than an obsession with her.”

  “If you wish.”

  “I keep reminding you that it is your story. What happened after she discovered the picture in …” She groped for the name.

  “Der Spiegel.”

  “Der Spiegel, yes.”

  “A great deal must have happened, but that is not directly pertinent to my story. The important fact — in terms of my story — is that five years later she moved to Beverly Hills, and then one day, possibly on the street, possibly through the window of his store, she saw Ivan Gaycheck — and she knew that she had found Captain Gaylord Schwartzman.”

  “And she recognized him, after so many years? That’s not very plausible, is it, Masao?”

  “I think it is. At least, I will make it that way for the sake of my story.”

  “Of course. It’s your prerogative. I keep forgetting that it’s your story.”

  “From that moment on she began to plan his death.”

  “His death? But, Masao, simply in terms of your story, and to be consistent, would you say that this character of yours began to plan an execution? Rather than a murder?”

  “I didn’t use the term murder.”

  “Sorry.”

  “She was a very clever woman, very cool, very determined. Did I say that she had brown eyes?”

  “No, Masao, I don’t think you did.”

  “But once, perhaps years ago, she played a role in the theater that called for blue eyes and blond hair. I said that her hair was brown, didn’t I?”

  “No, Masao.”

  “Well, theatrically, it is no problem. Blue contact lenses changed her eyes to blue, and a wig gave her blond hair. She had saved the wig and the lenses, so now they were available. Since she was very slender and had a boyish figure, she decided to give herself a large bust. A size-thirty-six brassiere, well padded, took care of that. She put on a long skirt and a sweater, and that way, carefully made up — no problem for an actress — she became a very young and attractive woman with an English accent.

  “But why, Masao? Why did your character go to all this trouble?”

  “Because she was sensitive and bright and thoughtful — as very few killers are. For the most part, they are pathological. She was the exception.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  “Quite sure. You see, she realized that the great danger existed in the possibility that the purchase of a gun could be traced to her. She was determined that this would never happen.”

  “Yes. That would be very clever.”

  “Dressed in her disguise, she drove downtown to a store on San Pedro Avenue and bought a small twenty-two-caliber Webley-Fosbery automatic pistol. It was what they call —”

  “Stop it, Masao!” she said suddenly. “Stop it! It’s a silly game.”

  “You don’t want to hear any more?”

  “I do. Every bit of it. But not with this sophistry of your contriving a story.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “You are telling me how you think I killed Ivan Gaycheck. Go on.”

  “Very well. After you bought the gun, something happened that you didn’t plan. Your husband found the stamp and sold it to Gaycheck. The day of the funeral, you dropped him off at his office. That was twelve o’clock. You had something to eat with your son, and then you dropped him at school. You drove to North Canon, parked, and walked over to Gaycheck’s store. You knew that Haber left at twelve-thirty. Either he was gone, or you waited until he left. Then you went into the store. Possibly, you invented some story to make Gaycheck think you might be interested in the purchase of the One-Penny Orange. He would have had it in his safe. He opened the safe and took it out. He closed the safe and rose to face you. By then the gun was in your hand, and you shot him. You are a very strong woman, in spite of your slenderness — and very controlled. You straightened his body, to make it appear that someone of great strength had caught his body and lowered it to the ground. Then you put the One-Penny Orange in your purse, left the store, and drove home. That’s it — all of it.”

  He was very tired now, tired and used up. He leaned back in his chair and watched her, wondering why, after he had spelled it out so carefully, he should still feel that to know this woman, to love her and receive her love in return, would be all that any man should ask of life.

  Minute after minute passed, and she sat there and said nothing, only watching him. She had the slightest smile on her face.

  “Masao …”

  “Yes?”

  “I am not shocked or frightened or bewildered. I knew what you were going to say when you telephoned me earlier. I knew why you were coming here.”

  “You did know?”

  “Yes. Are you going to ask me whether what you spelled out is true?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to lie to me.”

  “And you think I would?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because in your mind, you are totally justified. You have no guilt, no remorse. You have been carrying a burden since you were a child, and now you have cast it off.”

  “You are so sure of yourself.”

  “I am a policeman. I know my job and I do it well.”

  “You are a brilliant and remarkable human being. Do you think there are many men like you? Yet you are willing to spend your life as a cop in this wretched town.”

  “I have my karma, you have yours.”

  “And what does that say and what does that signify? Oh, you make me so furious!”

  “What else would you suggest?” he asked tiredly.

  “What should I suggest, Masao? Oh, it’s not that we have known each other twenty-four hours or so. Not that. I think I know you better than I have ever known a man before, and I want you desperately. To what end? We both know how utterly impossible it is.”

  “Yes we both know that.”

  “So it’s up to you. What will you do?”

  “What can I do?” he asked her, suddenly terribly weary. “You have gotten rid of the pistol, the contact lenses, the wig — all the rest of it, and you are clever enough to have done it in such a way that they will never be found again. There were no witnesses. There is not one shred of evidence, and if I were to arrest you, the district attorney would throw me out of his office.”

  “You forget the One-Penny Orange.”

  “No, I don’t forget the One-Penny Orange.”

  “You could have the house searched, if you are so sure of all your conjectures. If it’s here, you would find it. And then you would have the evidence you need to arrest me.”

  “My dear Ellen, did I ever at any time since I first saw you, yesterday afternoon — did I ever underestimate you?”

  “No, my dear, I don’t think you did. But then, neither did I ever underestimate you.”

  “Your house has been disturbed enough. The One-Penny Orange isn’t here.”

  “Then where is it?”

  “In the mail, on its way to London, to some friend who will hold the letter until you arrive, or to general delivery — it doesn’t matter. It’s gone. Anyway, it’s yours. It belongs to you.”

  “Thank you, Masao.”

  He almost lost his balance as he rose. “It’s past midnight, and I’m very tired.”

  “Poor Masao.”

  “Ellen …” He cut off his words and shook his head. “No, I think we have both said enough.”

  “Masao?”

  “Yes?”

  “I must ask you something.”

  “All right.”

  “And you must tell me the truth. You must not lie to me. It’s very important.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, if I can.”

  “If you had the evidence to support what you sa
id here tonight — if you had it, Masao, would you arrest me?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. He stood there, his dark eyes half closed, his face a brooding mask. Then he said slowly, “Yes, I would.”

  “You would, yes. Somehow I’m glad you answered it that way.”

  “I must go now.”

  She walked with him to the front door, and there she said to him, “I won’t see you again, ever, will I?”

  “No.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “For Europe?”

  “Yes. Bernie and I — we’ll catch the noon plane for New York. From there to London. I suppose there are ways you can stop us.”

  “I won’t stop you.”

  “Thank you, Masao.”

  She stood in front of him, looking up at him. She put her hands on his shoulders, tenderly, and then he took her in his arms and kissed her. He held her like that, fighting the feeling that he wanted never to let go, and then released her.

  “Dear Masao,” she whispered.

  He opened the door, walked out, closed it behind him, got into the patrol car, and drove home to Culver City.

  13

  KATI

  Kati must have been watching through a window for the arrival of his car, and when she saw the patrol car pull into the driveway she ran out, terror-stricken that this was news of what she had always feared. Her relief when she saw Masuto step out of the car was so great that she burst into sobs. He cradled her in his arms, calming her.

  “It’s all right, little Kati, it’s all right.” And then he said in Japanese, very softly, “My destiny is with you, beloved. You know that. I will always return when you wait for me.”

  She did not see his face until he had come through the kitchen door, and then she gasped in horror. “Oh, Masao, what did they do to you?”

  “It is nothing. Only small flesh cuts. They don’t even pain me.”

  “But how did it happen?”

  “My car was smashed. I was cut by flying glass.”

  “How?”

  “Dear Kati, I can’t talk about it now. I am all right. There is only one thing I want, and I want it desperately.”

  “What is it, Masao?”

  “A hot bath. As hot as you can draw it.”

  “But I have food waiting for you.”

  “I have eaten.” He looked at her, her small, anxiety-filled face, her worried brown eyes, and then he gathered her in his arms and held her tightly. “Dear Kati,” he whispered, “I am not much of a husband for you, am I? I fill your days with fear and doubting, and I give you so much pain.”

  “You are the best husband in the world. If I were to be reborn a thousand times, I would want no other husband than you.”

  “And I didn’t even call you. I am a stupid and insensitive man. I don’t deserve your love.”

  “You were occupied with your work, and that is as it should be. When I had worried sufficiently, I called Captain Wainwright. He told me that you were all right.”

  “Oh?”

  “He said he will see you at eight o’clock in the morning.”

  “Ah so. Well, I will meditate a little, while you draw the bath.”

  He sat cross-legged, his body erect, his eyes half closed, trying to be without thought, to listen to the silence and to the darkness of the night. But it was no use, because on his mind’s eye was printed the face of a woman who had murdered a man and who would go unpunished — and he himself, Masao Masuto, had concurred.

  And then he asked himself, “Unpunished?” No one went unpunished, each made his own atonement, his own karma; and for two people, Masao Masuto and Ellen Briggs, the pain was established and it would never go away. He knew that.

  Then he was able to meditate for a little while.

  Barefoot, wrapped in a saffron-colored kimono, he went into the bathroom. The full tub was steaming. He let himself into it, wincing at first with the pain of the very hot water, and then relaxing as the heat seeped into his bones.

  Kati came in, bearing a large, folded white towel, smiling with pleasure at the sight of him alive and well and relaxed in a steaming tub of hot water, such a fine, lean, long-legged, handsome man who did not realize that she was the luckiest woman on the face of the earth.

  “I had the towel in the oven, Masao. It will stay hot. And I put a heating pad in the bed.”

  “You are very good to me.”

  “Little things. You must not thank me for little things.”

  “There are no little things in a gift of love,” he said in Japanese.

  She bowed formally, and in her flowered kimono, she was not of today but something out of an old Japanese print.

  “I will sleep well,” he said. “Don’t wake me tomorrow. Unplug the phone. I intend to sleep for the next twelve hours.”

  “But if you are not there at eight o’clock, Captain Wainwright will call and be very angry.”

  “Tell him to go to hell,” Masuto said.

  “Masao! I would not dare say such a thing.”

  “Ah so. Then tell him that I am asleep and that you are afraid to awaken me.”

  “It would be untrue. I am never afraid of you.”

  “Then don’t answer the phone, dear one,” Masuto said, closing his eyes and relaxing into the heat of the bath.

  A Biography of Howard Fast

  Howard Fast (1914–2003), one of the most prolific American writers of the twentieth century, was a bestselling author of more than eighty works of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and screenplays. Fast’s commitment to championing social justice in his writing was rivaled only by his deftness as a storyteller and his lively cinematic style.

  Born on November 11, 1914, in New York City, Fast was the son of two immigrants. His mother, Ida, came from a Jewish family in Britain, while his father, Barney, emigrated from the Ukraine, changing his last name to Fast on arrival at Ellis Island. Fast’s mother passed away when he was only eight, and when his father lost steady work in the garment industry, Fast began to take odd jobs to help support the family. One such job was at the New York Public Library, where Fast, surrounded by books, was able to read widely. Among the books that made a mark on him was Jack London’s The Iron Heel, containing prescient warnings against fascism that set his course both as a writer and as an advocate for human rights.

  Fast began his writing career early, leaving high school to finish his first novel, Two Valleys (1933). His next novels, including Conceived in Liberty (1939) and Citizen Tom Paine (1943), explored the American Revolution and the progressive values that Fast saw as essential to the American experiment. In 1943 Fast joined the American Communist Party, an alliance that came to define—and often encumber—much of his career. His novels during this period advocated freedom against tyranny, bigotry, and oppression by exploring essential moments in American history, as in The American (1946). During this time Fast also started a family of his own. He married Bette Cohen in 1937 and the couple had two children.

  Congressional action against the Communist Party began in 1948, and in 1950, Fast, an outspoken opponent of McCarthyism, was called before the House Un-American Activities Committee. Because he refused to provide the names of other members of the Joint Anti-Fascist Refugee Committee, Fast was issued a three-month prison sentence for contempt of Congress. While in prison, he was inspired to write Spartacus (1951), his iconic retelling of a slave revolt during the Roman Empire, and did much of his research for the book during his incarceration. Fast’s appearance before Congress also earned him a blacklisting by all major publishers, so he started his own press, Blue Heron, in order to release Spartacus. Other novels published by Blue Heron, including Silas Timberman (1954), directly addressed the persecution of Communists and others during the ongoing Red Scare. Fast continued to associate with the Communist Party until the horrors of Stalin’s purges of dissidents and political enemies came to light in the mid-1950s. He left the Party in 1956.

  Fast’s career changed course in 1960, when he began pub
lishing suspense-mysteries under the pseudonym E. V. Cunningham. He published nineteen books as Cunningham, including the seven-book Masao Masuto mystery series. Also, Spartacus was made into a major film in 1960, breaking the Hollywood blacklist once and for all. The success of Spartacus inspired large publishers to pay renewed attention to Fast’s books, and in 1961 he published April Morning, a novel about the battle of Lexington and Concord during the American Revolution. The book became a national bestseller and remains a staple of many literature classes. From 1960 onward Fast produced books at an astonishing pace—almost one book per year—while also contributing to screen adaptations of many of his books. His later works included the autobiography Being Red (1990) and the New York Times bestseller The Immigrants (1977).

  Fast died in 2003 at his home in Greenwich, Connecticut.

  Fast on a farm in upstate New York during the summer of 1917. Growing up, Fast often spent the summers in the Catskill Mountains with his aunt and uncle from Hunter, New York. These vacations provided a much-needed escape from the poverty and squalor of the Lower East Side’s Jewish ghetto, as well as the bigotry his family encountered after they eventually relocated to an Irish and Italian neighborhood in upper Manhattan. However, the beauty and tranquility Fast encountered upstate were often marred by the hostility shown toward him by his aunt and uncle. “They treated us the way Oliver Twist was treated in the orphanage,” Fast later recalled. Nevertheless, he “fell in love with the area” and continued to go there until he was in his twenties.

  Fast (left) with his older brother, Jerome, in 1935. In his memoir Being Red, Fast wrote that he and his brother “had no childhood.” As a result of their mother’s death in 1923 and their father’s absenteeism, both boys had to fend for themselves early on. At age eleven, alongside his thirteen-year-old brother, Fast began selling copies of a local newspaper called the Bronx Home News. Other odd jobs would follow to make ends meet in violent, Depression-era New York City. Although he resented the hardscrabble nature of his upbringing, Fast acknowledged that the experience helped form a lifelong attachment to his brother. “My brother was like a rock,” he wrote, “and without him I surely would have perished.”