The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) (14 page)

“Did you run the name through?”

“We did. No Angela Cartwright. You want to hear something else?”

“Let me guess.”

“Go ahead, smartass. Guess.”

“She wrote left-handed.”

“How the hell did you know that? You're right. She signed the register with her left hand. It was like a little kid's scrawl.”

“Wouldn't yours be if you wrote left-handed?”

“Now what the hell does that mean?”

“It means we'll never trace the handwriting. Pete, thanks. I'm very grateful.”

“You want to leave it there, Masao?”

“For the time being.”

He put down the phone and sat at his desk, staring into space. “Are you okay, Masao?” Beckman asked him.

“Sure. I'm all right, Sy.”

“You're sure? You don't look all right.”

“I'm okay.”

“Anything else?”

“No, nothing else.”

“Then it's okay with you if I push off now?”

“Okay,” Masuto said.

“You don't want me to drive you? You look lousy.”

“I can drive myself. Get out of here and go home and get some rest.”

“Should I leave you the morgue pictures?”

“No, I don't need them.”

Beckman picked up the photos. “Good night, Masao.”

“Good night.”

Masuto sat at his desk, his chin in his hands, staring into space. Wainwright stopped by on his way out. “Why don't you go home and go to bed,” he said to Masuto.

“I will. All in good time.”

“For Christ's sake, Masao, it's almost nine o'clock. You been up since four in the morning.”

“I know.”

“I was pretty nasty before. It's not you, Masao. It's my goddamn ulcers.”

“I know.”

“Don't think I don't know what you been through today. Don't think I don't respect it.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant that.”

“I know.”

“Well, good night.”

“Good night, Captain.”

After Wainwright had left, Masuto took out his notebook, found a number, and dialed it. “Mrs. Briggs?” he said.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Sergeant Masuto. I'm calling to tell you that the danger is over. Permanently. Your son can come and go as he pleases.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes, I'm quite sure.”

“You've been very kind,” she said. “I don't know how to thank you.”

“There's no need to thank me. But you could help me.”

“How?”

“I'd like to talk to you tonight.”

“Of course. Why don't you come right over.”

“I can't right now. It would be later, perhaps at eleven o'clock. Would that be too late?”

“Not at all. Please come whenever you are free. I never go to bed before midnight.”

“Your husband won't object? I would want to talk to you privately.”

“Sergeant Masuto, my husband is not here. He has left me.”

“Left you?”

“We have separated. There will be a divorce. He packed his things this afternoon and moved into the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. So you see, he cannot object to our talking privately.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“There is nothing for you to feel sorry about. It was a mutual decision. We both had reached a point of hatred that was unendurable. You must not think of me as a bereaved woman, except in terms of my grief over my mother's death. If it were not for that, I could say that I am a happier person than I have ever been during the past dozen years. I do not want to bore you with my past, but my marriage was not precisely made in heaven.”

“I think I understand,” Masuto said. “If you don't want me to come tonight …”

“But I do. I will wait for you. You can make it as late as you please.”

11

LUCILLE BETTNER

Still Masuto sat at his desk and stared into space. He had gone a whole day without meditation, without being quiet and trying to know who he was and where he was; and his weariness was due more to that than to lack of sleep. Then he opened a drawer of his desk and took out the two account books he had taken from Gaycheck's desk. He went through the small book, half hoping he would not find it. More than anything, he wanted to abandon it now, forget, go home and soak in a hot tub and listen to Kati's quiet talk, as she told him, detail for detail, what their children had done that day.

But it was there — Lucille Bettner — the same name that Holmbey had given him, with the address and the telephone number. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello? Who is this?” The voice was soft, almost quavering, with just the faintest trace of an English accent.

“My name is Detective Sergeant Masao Masuto. I am chief of homicide at the Beverly Hills Police Department. I would very much appreciate it if you could spare me a few minutes of your time.”

“But what on earth have I to do with homicide or the Beverly Hills Police Department? Are you sure you have the right person?”

“Your name is Lucille Bettner?”

“Yes.”

“I am investigating the death of Ivan Gaycheck.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Could I come over now?”

“It's quite late.”

“I realize that. But this is very important.”

“Very well. Do you know how to find my house?”

“I think so.”

“You will press the button at the gate. We have a television identification camera there, so you will have to provide some kind of identification. I am sorry to inconvenience you so, but that's the world we live in, isn't it?”

“I suppose so,” Masuto agreed. “I'll be there shortly.”

He went downstairs, got into the patrol car that Beckman had reserved for him, and drove north toward Sunset Boulevard. The night was cold and he felt chilled. He fumbled for the unfamiliar heating mechanism of the patrol car, failed to find it, and gave up. Vaguely, he remembered the Bettner estate, which could just be glimpsed from Sunset Boulevard. It was a great, half-timbered castle, built in the twenties, when Sunset Boulevard was a quiet carriage road and not the major traffic artery it is today. Then Sunset Boulevard was the treasured goal of the new rich, the film stars and directors and producers, and there they built their giant monuments to an era that is gone forever.

The Bettner house was set back from the road on a rise of ground, sheltered by a high hedge. Masuto turned off Sunset into the driveway and found his way barred by an enormous iron gate. He got out of his car, pressed the button on the gatepost, then located the camera device. It was dark now, which meant that there was some kind of infrared device on the camera, and as Masuto displayed his badge to the camera eye, he reflected on this strange technological culture that had turned an entire nation into something that had never existed before.

“Okay,” a man's voice said, coming from some hidden loudspeaker. “Get back in the car and drive up to the house.”

Masuto followed the instructions obediently. The iron gate opened noiselessly, and he drove up the driveway to where a stone-pillared breezeway marked the entrance to the house. A dour gentleman dressed in black greeted him as he got out of the car.

“You can leave your car where it is, Officer. I'll take you to Mrs. Bettner.”

The man in black led the way into the house, a huge, high-ceilinged foyer with straight-backed oak chairs set around it, purchased no doubt from some ancient British manor house, and then through an immense baronial living room, up a wide flight of stairs, down a hallway. The man in black knocked at a door.

“Mrs. Bettner?” He was almost shouting. “The policeman is here!”

“Well, bring him in, Alfred. Don't keep him standing in the hallway.”

Alfred opened the door and Masuto entered.

“You can leave him here, Alfred. It's quite all right.”

Alfred closed the door and Masuto looked around him. The combination bedroom and sitting room was cheerful and charming, done in pale pastel colors, very different from the room below. Mrs. Lucille Bettner sat in an armchair. She was a frail little woman, very old, certainly past eighty, Masuto decided, but her eyes were bright and alert, and her voice, though quavery, was aggressive and youthful.

“Oh, you are Japanese,” she said. “How interesting! I didn't know that we had a Japanese on our police force. Los Angeles policemen are so young and handsome and unimaginative — it's quite discouraging, don't you think?”

“I am a Nisei, Mrs. Bettner.”

“Still Japanese. Do you know, I spent seven months in Japan — but that was long, long ago, before that hideous war. I adore them. I have a Japanese acquaintance. A lovely gentleman whose name is Ishido. We have interests in common. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. Now please sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, ma'am,” Masuto said as he seated himself. “But thank you.”

“And you want to see me about that frightful Ivan Gaycheck affair. Actually, I knew him only slightly. We had a few business dealings — which I did not enjoy. I know that one doesn't speak ill of the dead, but I was not fond of Mr. Gaycheck. But I certainly didn't wish him dead — and one doesn't expect that sort of thing in Beverly Hills.”

“No, ma'am, one doesn't.”

“What is the world coming to!” She leaned toward him and smiled. “Do I have your name correctly — Sergeant Masuto?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I suppose you want to ask me questions about my dealings with Mr. Gaycheck. Go right ahead.”

“Thank you. You are a stamp collector, Mrs. Bettner?”

“My dear Sergeant Masuto, I am not simply a stamp collector. I have one of the best collections in the United States. Possibly Clevendon's is better than mine, and I suppose that President Roosevelt's was rather unique, but it doesn't take much skill and effort to build a stamp collection when you have been president of the United States for more terms than one can count, and you must forgive me if I sound nasty, but I am a Republican and I was never an admirer of President Roosevelt. You see, my husband — I'm sure you have heard of him — well, he was an extraordinary man and he built an extraordinary studio and he left me more millions of dollars than you can shake a stick at; and in return I gave him my youth. I'm not sure it was a very good bargain. But there I was after he died, sixty-five years old, my family dead and gone back in England — and what does an old woman do? I was past my time of acting, and there are no parts for old women worth looking at, and my children are grown and gone. I was fit for nothing in particular, and through some whim I took up stamp collecting. Well, believe me, I found some purpose. You might sneer at this …”

“No, no,” Masuto said hastily. “I would not dream of sneering at it.”

“Be that as it may, Sergeant, it is something to be one of a very few. I love stamps and I know the field. I know more about stamps than anyone in Los Angeles, more than Ivan Gaycheck ever knew and more than that young wiseacre downtown, Mr. Jason Holmbey.”

“I am sure you do.” She had spoken in the loud tones of a person hard of hearing; Masuto now raised his voice. “Could you tell me when Gaycheck first spoke to you about the One-Penny Orange?”

She smiled and shook a finger at Masuto. “You are a sly one, aren't you? And you don't have to shout at me. My hearing is not of the best, but I can hear you quite well when you speak in a normal voice. So you know about the One-Penny Orange.”

“Yes, I do.”

“And when did he first mention it? I believe it was about a week ago. Yes, just a week ago.”

“Did he have it then?”

“No. No, he did not. You see, he telephoned me and told me he was on the track of a One-Penny Orange on the original cover. I don't know how well versed you are in this, Sergeant Masuto, but a One-Penny Orange on the original cover is not unlike the paintings of Leonardo da Vinci — in one manner. We know how many there are and where they are. I have been trying to buy one for years, and Gaycheck knew this. He said he had a line on one and that he had every hope of obtaining it during the next few days. As a matter of fact, I made a good guess at which one it was — the cover that was sold in the 1930s and then disappeared from sight.”

“You amaze me, Mrs. Bettner.”

“Do I? Well, that's very nice. Thank you.”

“That was a week ago?”

“Yes. He had the gall to ask me whether I was interested. He knew that I was. The gall of him!”

“And then?”

“He called me — let me see, was it three days ago? Yes.”

“And he had the stamp.”

“Yes. He called and told me that he had the stamp and was ready to do business. I told him that I wanted the provenance, that I would have no part of stolen goods. I am not one of those demented collectors who will buy stolen property and lock it away somewhere and gloat over it. My collection is public. I do articles for the
Collectors' Quarterly
.”

“What did he say to that?” Masuto asked eagerly.

“He swore up and down that he had come by the cover honestly and that he had full legal title to it. But that means nothing with a man like Gaycheck. I told him that I wanted to see a bill of sale, and he said that was no problem, that he would have it for me.”

“Did he mention the name of the seller?”

“No, he did not. Of course, he wouldn't — not until he made a deal with me.”

“Did he set a price?”

“Well, first he insisted that I come down to his store and look at it. I suffer from arthritis, Sergeant Masuto, and it is very difficult for me to get around. I am not a recluse, but I leave my house only when I have to. I told Mr. Gaycheck that I would not dream of coming to his store until we had discussed the price.”

“Then he did set a price?”