Case of the Sliding Pool

by Howard Fast

  “He could go to Europe or Brazil. I read that such people go to Brazil.”

  “No, he is here.”

  “Why does he stay here?”

  “I don’t know. Apparently, that was his plan from the beginning—to remain here.”

  “Then, Masao, I think he would go to a plastic surgeon and have his face changed.”

  “Yes, he would, wouldn’t he,” Masuto said slowly. “I know why I continue to be a policeman. It is because I lack the intelligence to be anything else. A plastic surgeon. He could have left the country, but apparently he didn’t want to.”

  “Could such a man be in love with a woman?”

  “Yes, but how could he explain plastic surgery to a woman?”

  “Tell her he was in a bad accident, an auto crash?”

  “Possibly. On the other hand, he may have determined to remain here simply because this is where he wanted to be. If it was plastic surgery, then there must be some record of it. On the other hand, knowing how he works—”

  “Why don’t you see Dr. Leo Hartman?”

  “Who is Dr. Leo Hartman?”

  “The most important plastic surgeon in Beverly Hills.”

  Once again Masuto stopped eating to stare at Kati. “How do you know such things?”

  “I read newspapers and magazines, Masao. You can go everywhere. I must stay here with the children, so I read.”

  As early as Masuto might arise, Kati was always awake first, and this morning, when he entered the kitchen at seven o’clock, his pot of tea and his bowl of rice was ready. Since he was already dressed in his working clothes, gray flannels and a tweed jacket, Kati expressed surprise at the fact that he apparently did not intend to meditate.

  “I thought I would drive down to the Zendo,” Masuto explained. “I have not been there in quite a while, and I feel a need to talk to the Roshi.”

  “Can he solve crimes?” Kati asked lightly.

  “Only the crimes honest people commit.”

  “Why, whenever I ask a question that relates to Zen, must you give me an answer that makes no sense?”

  “Perhaps because Zen makes no sense.”

  “Do you see? That is exactly what I mean.”

  Masuto drove downtown thinking that his wife was a remarkable woman, whom he knew very little. Well, when it is so hard to know ourselves, why should we expect to know another?

  The Zendo was a cluster of old frame buildings on Normandie Avenue off Pico Boulevard. The members of the Zendo, young married people, most of them from southern California, had bought the buildings cheaply—since they were in an old, run-down neighborhood—renovated them, connected the backyards, and turned the whole thing into a sort of communal settlement. One of the houses had been made into a meditation hall with two slightly raised platforms running the length of a polished floor, and stained glass windows at one end. It was done with loving care, a cool, contemplative place. A Japanese Zen master had been sent from Kyoto to guide them, and this Roshi—as a Zen teacher is called—had been with them now for eleven years.

  Masuto was a frequent visitor to the Zendo, and this morning he entered the meditation hall, removed his shoes, and composed himself to meditate. The hall was open to any who wished to come there to meditate, but by now, at a quarter to eight, the regular meditation was finished, and only the Roshi still sat, cross-legged. Masuto took his place facing the old man, and for the next forty minutes, they both sat in silence. Then the Roshi rose, and Masuto also rose and bowed to him.

  “To come here with a gun in your armpit,” the Roshi said, shaking his head.

  “It is a part of my way of life.”

  “You come here only when you are troubled, as if the answers to the evils you encounter could be found here.” He spoke in Japanese, and Masuto had to listen intently to follow his thought.

  “And are there answers here?”

  “If you are here, yes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course not. You are a fool. Can a fool understand?”

  “I try.”

  “You know what a koan is, Masao. A koan is a question to which there is no answer. So you meditate upon it and find the answer.”

  “Even when there is no answer?”

  “Only when there is no answer. Would it be a koan otherwise?”

  Driving back to the Beverly Hills police station on Rexford Drive, Masuto reflected on his brief conversation with the Roshi and admitted to himself that he had derived little sustenance from it. Possibly, the Roshi’s meaning lay in the fact that the question was also the answer. Then he would simply have to dwell upon the question.

  When he reached the police station, Wainwright was waiting for him with a demand as to what in hell all this was with Beckman. “He said you assigned him to stay with the girl. Yeah, he called me. I told you we couldn’t provide protection for the girl.”

  “It’s not costing the city a cent.”

  “Who’s paying? You? Beckman?”

  “Gellman’s giving us the room without charge.”

  “Masao, that stinks! That’s taking. I run an honest force, and you’re the last man in the world I’d ever accuse of taking.”

  “All right. If you feel that way, I’ll pay for it myself.”

  Wainwright threw up his arms in despair. “Why? Why do you always put me on the spot?”

  “I’m not trying to put you on the spot, captain. I just can’t see a human being killed when I can prevent it. And as surely as the sun will come up tomorrow, I know that if he can find that girl, he’ll kill her. The odds are that he will find her, but Beckman is there and I think Sy can get him first.”

  “Look, Masao,” Wainwright said, “it’s not that I don’t have respect for the way you figure things. I’ve seen it work out too often in the past. But in this case you’re guessing, and I can’t go on your guesses. Morrison called me this morning. They picked up a black man who does windows down there, and they found a set of brass knucks on him and they found his fingerprints in the old lady’s house. They’re holding him and they’re going to charge him with her murder, and that blows your theory all to hell.”

  “You’re putting me on.”

  “I damn well am not! Morrison says he’s going to charge him, and he feels he’s got a conviction in the bag.”

  “I just don’t believe I’m hearing this. There are possibly ten thousand sets of brass knuckles in Los Angeles, and if this black man does windows, and maybe housecleaning too, since most of them do both, his fingerprints would have to be in her house. I hate these fingerprint tricks. Has he confessed?”

  “Morrison didn’t mention that.”

  “If it were a white man, they wouldn’t waste ten minutes on it. But Morrison figures he can stiff a black man and close the case and be a big hero. Well, Morrison is not only a fool, he’s a malicious and meretricious fool. Any lawyer can knock that case out of court, but so help me, if it comes to a courtroom, I’ll offer myself as a witness and blow Morrison’s case to pieces.”

  “Masao, cool down! Morrison is only doing his job.”

  “Like hell he is! All right, I’ll do something else. You gave me three days, and I’m going to hold you to your word. I’m going to hand you the killer in three days, and we’ll make Los Angeles and Inglewood eat crow. Do I still have the three days? What about that?”

  “You got them,” Wainwright said, shaking his head hopelessly. “I said three days. You got them.”

  Masuto turned on his heel to leave, and Wainwright called after him, “Masao!”

  “Yes?”

  “Forget about paying for that room. Gellman owes us maybe a thousand parking tickets. It’s time he paid off with something more than a few tickets to our annual ball.”

  “You’re all heart,” Masuto said, grinning.

  “Yeah, I’ve been told that before.”

  On his way out, Masuto stopped and spoke to Polly, who ran the switchboard. She was small, very pretty, and very blond and blue-eyed,
and she said plaintively, “It’s nine days since you last spoke to me. What did I do wrong?”

  “I’ve been on vacation, Polly.”

  “Do you know what I hate? I hate married men. I hate the institution of marriage. I hate the fact that every handsome, decent man in this town is either married or queer.”

  “If I believed you, I’d divorce Kati tomorrow.”

  “You’re a liar, sergeant.”

  “Sometimes, yes. Look, Polly, have you ever heard of a plastic surgeon name of Leo Hartman?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Myself, for one. How old do you suppose he is?”

  “Very good looking, gray hair, gray mustache. I don’t know. Maybe fifty-five, maybe sixty. You can’t tell with these Beverly Hills types. Maybe they do facials on each other. Professional courtesy.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I read the magazines, sergeant.”

  “Yes, that figures. Can you get me his address?”

  “Take me a moment.” She riffled through the pages of a telephone book. “Here it is. Camden, between Santa Monica and Wilshire. I’ll write it down for you. But don’t go through with it, sergeant. You’re perfect just the way you are. Don’t listen to those creeps who don’t like Oriental faces. I love you just the way you are.”

  “I’ll think about it carefully,” Masuto agreed.

  It was only a few blocks from Rexford Drive to Camden Drive. Hartman’s office was in a small, elegant medical building, and his tastefully furnished waiting room contained four ladies, none of whom, as far as Masuto could judge, was so unattractive as to require the attention of a plastic surgeon. But Masuto had discovered long ago that the only way to function as a police officer in Beverly Hills was to suspend all personal judgments and accept whatever came his way without question. He went to the little window through which Hartman’s receptionist gazed out upon the waiting room, and asked to see the doctor.

  “You want an appointment?”

  “I want to speak to him.”

  “I can give you an appointment”—she consulted her day book—“oh, let us say in three weeks.”

  “I’m afraid I must see him immediately.” Masuto showed his badge. “I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police. It’s a matter of great urgency, and I must see him now.”

  “But he’s with a patient.”

  “He’s not operating, is he?”

  “He does not operate here,” the receptionist said scornfully. “He operates in a hospital.”

  “Then he can leave his patient for ten minutes. Will you please tell him that I must see him now.”

  She stared at Masuto, who put on his sternest look, and then she rose and disappeared. A few minutes later she opened a door at one side of the waiting room. “Follow me, please.”

  The doctor was waiting in his office, a large comfortable room furnished with a desk, two comfortable chairs, and several expensive potted palms. Polly’s description, Masuto decided, fitted him very well, except that in Masuto’s judgment, Hartman was well past sixty.

  The doctor sat behind his desk, and stuffed a pipe with tobacco. “Please sit down, sergeant,” he said to Masuto. “Ordinarily, nothing short of an earthquake could make me break off an examination of a patient, but Miss Weller put your case strongly. What on earth can I do for you?”

  “I’ll only take a few minutes of your time, and I’m very grateful that you could see me now. It is a matter of utmost urgency, and you’ll forgive me if I don’t explain. I have a few questions that perhaps only you can answer.”

  “I am puzzled, but shoot.”

  “We’ll go back to nineteen-fifty, over thirty years ago. Could you possibly tell me who was practicing plastic surgery in that year—or would it be so large a number of physicians that you couldn’t possibly name them?”

  “Now hold on. It depends upon what you mean by plastic surgery. Reconstructive surgery was practiced in every hospital in southern California, but if you mean elective facial surgery, a field which to a degree centers around rhinoplasty, then that narrows the field considerably.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  “Then I can help you with this area. There was Amos Cohen, over in Hollywood, Ben McKeever, here in Beverly Hills, and Fritz Lennox, who worked at the medical center in Westwood. And, of course, myself. I opened my office here in forty-six, when I came out of the army. Yes, I’m older than I look, sergeant, and as yet I’ve had no face-lifts. I’ve thought of it, but I’m too old to care, and if there’s one thing a surgeon dreads, it’s to have some other surgeon operate on him. Now those three men I mentioned had the field practically sewn up, if you’ll forgive the pun. I know. I had the devil’s own time breaking in. Of course today I could give you a list of twenty, but back then cosmetic surgery was still something of a novelty, and most of those who elected it were aging actors. Today it’s different. Mothers bring me children of ten or eleven years, and there’s the men, more of them every year. We live in a time when beauty skin deep has become a national obsession. By the way, it’s odd that you should ask me about nineteen fifty.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the year Ben McKeever died.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Terrible tragedy, terrible. His office was in a small, frame building, over on South Spalding. Lovely place. He had even fixed up his own operating room there, although for my part, I’ll work only in a hospital. Well, it caught fire one night, and he and his nurse were burned to death. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in the grisly details?”

  “I would. Every detail you can remember.”

  “I really hate to go into it, hate to drag these things out of the past. It was pretty well hushed up at the time.”

  “It’s of the utmost importance. Please. It will rest with me.”

  “Well, it would appear that he and his nurse were having an affair. Here’s one reading of what happened. His nurse overdosed and died and either under the influence of some narcotic or in some insane fit of remorse, considering himself responsible for her death, he overdosed himself and set fire to the place. Now I’m not saying I believe this interpretation of the event. I knew Ben. He was a good man, and I never had any feeling that he was an addict, but who knows? Also, their bodies were badly burned, so I have doubts about the autopsy. When bodies are in a bad state, Beverly Hills autopsies could be slipshod. Then. Perhaps not now. We’ll never really know what happened.”

  “What suggested suicide?”

  “In a garbage container outside they found some hypodermic syringes which contained traces of heroin, and also a scrap of paper on which Ben had written something to the effect of, I know what I am going to do is wrong, but I am forced to do it—just about that, just a few words but enough to suggest suicide. But if he intended to write a suicide note, why was it found in the garbage? Why would he leave the syringes in the garbage? On the other hand, who is to say what a crazed man might do?”

  “And I presume that all his records were burned, destroyed?”

  “Yes. All of them. Why all the interest in Ben McKeever?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t reveal that now. But tell me, doctor, when exactly did this happen? Even the month of the year would help.”

  “I can’t remember the date. But I do know it was during the summer—July or August.”

  “Yes, that would be right. Just a few more questions and then I’ll bother you no more. First of all, how completely can facial surgery change a person’s appearance?”

  “Well, that depends. The nose can be changed. The appearance of the eyes—to a degree. Ears can be changed. A hairlip can be corrected, but not too much can be done with a mouth. The marks of age in the neck can be removed and certain changes can be made in the cheeks. So a person’s face can be changed a great deal. Of course, the art of facial cosmetic surgery is to make changes that improve without calling attention to the operation. But the shape of the head or the jaw cann
ot be changed.”

  “And if a man came to you for extensive cosmetic changes which he obviously did not need, what would you do?”

  “That depends. I would try to talk him out of it if I knew something about his background. If there were any shred of reason in his request and I considered it psychologically needful, I might go along with him. If he were an actor, I might just accept his request.”

  “Or if he was badly scarred?”

  “That would make a difference, of course.”

  “Or a hairlip?”

  “Of course.”

  “And just one more thing, the other two, Cohen and Lennox—what happened to them?”

  “Cohen died of a heart attack two years ago, I believe. Lennox is retired, but still alive, as far as I know.”

  “I’ve taken enough of your time,” Masuto said, rising. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “You wouldn’t care to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Sometime, perhaps. Not now.”

  8

  THE MIDTOWN

  MANHATTAN

  NATIONAL BANK

  Disconsolate, filled with a sense of defeat and frustration, Masuto returned to the police station on Rexford Drive, dropped into his chair, and put his arms on his desk, his chin on his hands, and brooded. Every trail came to a dead end; every gate was closed. A cold, calculating killer who destroyed without conscience or compunction. If he had murdered the doctor who changed his face and the nurse who assisted the doctor, he had planned it perfectly. Masuto could speculate that the killer had knocked them unconscious, shot heroin into them, planted the syringes, found the scrap of writing to plant in the garbage with the syringes, and then burned the house, destroying the doctor’s photographs and records. From the little Masuto knew about cosmetic surgery, there was at least the knowledge that every surgeon had before and after photographs. The evidence was all gone, and with it the reputation of the two people he had killed.

  Masuto prided himself on being beyond hate, yet he now felt hatred welling up within himself. He was locked in a shadowy struggle with a man who was an affront to human dignity, to conscience, to every concept of good and evil, indeed to the human race. According to Masuto’s own knowledge, this man had murdered four people, four people who had done him no harm, for Masuto was certain that the skeleton under the pool had been a friend of the killer. Otherwise, how had the killer persuaded him to go there with him at night and alone?