The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) (16 page)

“And what's that, if I may ask?”

“Masao Masuto.”

“You might find him a lot different than you imagine.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“But, Ellen, Gaycheck is dead. If your husband obtained and sold the stamp without legal right, it might still be recovered. It would belong to you.”

She met his eyes directly and said, “But, Masao, you know and I know that the stamp willnever be recovered. It is gone. Let that be the end of it.”

“I told you that it was a stamp of great value. Do you remember? I said three hundred thousand dollars.”

“I remember. I didn't believe you.”

“I have been told that at auction it might well bring more.”

“Truly? Or are you simply saying that?”

“I've never lied to you. I wouldn't.”

“Then what do you suppose Gaycheck actually paid Jack for the stamp?”

“I could only guess. But since, given time, your husband would eventually discover its true value, I would guess that Gaycheck paid him at least fifty thousand dollars. Now, as I said, if you prove the transaction illegal, you can recover that money.”

“You know that I can't, Masao.” She smiled and reached across the table and placed her hand on his. Just a touch. Then she withdrew it. “Anyway, I am sure Jack made a mental inclusion of that in the settlement. Let him have it. Bernie is worth it.” She looked at him — as tenderly, he thought, as any woman had ever looked at him.

“Poor Masao,” she said gently. “What a quandary for an honorable man!”

“Perhaps less than you imagine. Did I tell you that I am a Zen Buddhist?”

“No. I don't know what that means.”

“It's a very ancient thing in Japan, a way of life, a religion, a way of being — a way of watching and listening. But it precludes judgment. We don't judge.”

“Ever?”

“Yes.”

“Then how can you be a policeman?”

“With some agony, I suppose. It's my thing, as the kids say, my karma, my fate. It's the way I experience mankind. Others do it differently. But a policeman is not called upon to judge. He is given a set of rules and disciplines, and he obeys them.”

“I see.”

“Shall I tell you a story, Ellen?”

“If you wish. If it will keep you here. I dread your going away, because I know that when you do, I will never see you again.”

“It's the story of a little girl, a child of great beauty and great sensitivity. A child who had to face the horrors of this life before any child should be called upon to do so.”

“Has the child a name, Masao?”

“We'll call her Ellen.”

“Yes, I imagined you would.”

“When Ellen was very young, her father was taken away. Perhaps she remembered the incident, the brutality and savagery of it. Perhaps she knew it only from her mother telling her, and possibly she did not remember her father at all. But wisely or unwisely, her mother kept nothing from her. Her mother told her that her father had been taken to a place called Buchenwald, and that there he had been executed by a firing squad under the command of a man called Gaylord Schwartzman. Possibly Ellen's mother learned somehow that this Captain Schwartzman delivered the final killing shot himself. It was something he enjoyed doing.”

Masuto paused, watching her. “You want me to continue?”

“Yes, Masao.”

“I think it was less what happened to her father than what happened to her mother.”

“Yes, Masao, you are probably right.”

“The poverty, the indignity, the shame that her mother endured. When I look at the child, it seems to me that the mother must have been very beautiful once.”

“But not when she died, Masao.”

“I don't know when the child decided to become an actress, but the decision was inevitable.”

“Why, Masao?” she asked him softly. “Why was the decision inevitable?”

“Because very early in life she prepared a role for herself.”

“What role?”

“The role of one who brings justice, as she saw it, to an unjust world. The role of a debt collector — a debt owed to her mother and father. A very strange role for such a child.”

“But a time must have come when the child became a woman. You know, Masao, you really don't understand women at all. You think you do, and I imagine you have loved many women in your own time and you respect them, but you don't understand them. I imagine that's the Japanese part of you.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

“Because when the child became a woman, she put aside childish things.”

“If you say so.”

“I don't say so. You are telling me a story. I simply adjust one of your characters.”

“If you wish to,” he said slowly, “you can continue the story.”

“But that's impossible. It's your story. How could I possibly continue it?”

“Very well. Then I will go on. The child became a woman and the woman became an actress. She played many roles, but never abandoned the single, central role she had chosen for herself.”

“She was very consistent.”

“Oh, yes. I grant that. But she had a problem. While she had chosen her role, a part of the script was missing.”

“What part, Masao?”

“Gaylord Schwartzman. You see, not only did she have no idea where he was or even whether he was alive or dead, but she had no notion of what he looked like.”

“But, Masao, if this woman was as consistent as you say, she must have had a kind of faith.”

“Yes, I suppose so. A kind of faith.”

“And this faith would have assured her that Gaylord Schwartzman was alive. You see, Masao, if you make her a consistent character, then your story must be equally consistent.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I see that I must make her an even more remarkable person than I had considered her to be.”

“And what happened then?”

“Of course, it's not so strange.”

“What is not so strange?”

“Each one has his karma. I must give her hers. She waited patiently, and then some years ago her patience was rewarded.”

“How, Masao?”

“I'm not too sure of this part of the story, so I must guess. Her mother must have taught her to read German. Perhaps her mother was a subscriber to
Der Spiegel
…”

“
Der Spiegel?
”

“The German news magazine. Their
Time
magazine, so to speak.”

“I see. Yes, go on.”

“Or possibly she read the magazine herself. And then, one day, she was going through the September 1972 issue of
Der Spiegel
and there on page twenty-two she found a picture of Captain Gaylord Schwartzman.”

“Bravo!” Ellen smiled and clapped her hands. “How precise you are, Masao, the date, the page — well, that is how a story should be told, precisely with all the facts. And what did your character do then?”

“She tore out the page and kept it with her. Oh, I imagine she looked at it until it fell to pieces, but the face of Captain Schwartzman was engraved on her memory. It no longer mattered whether she had the picture or not.”

“But why? To what end?”

“Can't you guess?”

“I don't want to guess, Masao. I want to hear it from you. I want to hear your story.”

“The answer is simple enough. Her faith told her that someday she would find Captain Schwartzman, and she had decided that when she did find him, she would kill him.”

“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.”