The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online Page A

Masuto asked.
    â€œTo the store.”
    â€œYou haven’t finished your eggs.”
    â€œTake the eggs and stuff them.” Wainwright tossed two dollars on the table and stalked out.
    Masuto finished eating without haste. He was puzzling over the fact that there were three keys in Haber’s pocket. He had simply presumed that one of them was the key to the store, but if that were the case — no, it couldn’t be. He paid his check and drove back to the house on Lapeer. Williams was just leaving, getting into his car when Masuto pulled up.
    â€œCould I see the keys again?” Masuto asked him.
    â€œYou had your breakfast. I been in that lousy hole for five hours.”
    â€œPlease forgive me.”
    Williams handed him the keys. He separated the car key and tried one of the door keys in the outside door of the apartment, the door that would be opened by a responsive buzz. It fit.
    â€œThe other one is to the apartment upstairs?” he asked Williams.
    â€œRight. Why didn’t you ask me? I could have told you.”
    â€œI like to do things the hard way,” Masuto said. “Thank you.”
    Then he drove to Beverly Hills, to the store on North Canon. There was a prowl car parked in front, and behind it, Sy Beckman’s car. Officer Frank Seaton opened the door for him. The place was a shambles, the cases broken open, stamps scattered everywhere.
    â€œI thought you patrolled these streets,” Masuto said.
    â€œFor Christ’s sake, Sergeant, don’t lean on me. I took enough chickenshit from the captain. Anyway, those velvet drapes were drawn, and anyway I didn’t come on duty until seven o’clock this morning.”
    Beckman came out of the back room. “One lousy morning, Masao. What in hell’s been going on?”
    Haber’s been beaten to death in his place in West Hollywood.”
    â€œSo I’m told. The captain’s burning. What’s eating him?”
    â€œThis and that. Is he here?”
    â€œHe went back to the station. He says for you to get your ass over there as soon as you turn up.”
    Masuto nodded and went into the back room, followed by Beckman and Seaton. “They had the key to the front door,” Seaton said. “Maybe if they had jimmied it open, someone would have noticed it.”
    â€œI’ll tell them,” Beckman said sourly. “Where do you suppose they got the key, Masao?”
    â€œFrom Haber.” He was staring at the safe. It was not a very good safe to begin with, but it was no professional job that had opened it. Neither was it strictly amateur, but rather somewhere between the two. They had drilled holes around the dial, torn off the dial, then forced the door open.
    â€œWhat was in it?” he asked Beckman.
    â€œNothing. They cleaned it out and dumped the stuff on the floor with everything else.” He motioned to the broken cabinets, the emptied desk drawers, the litter of stamps and papers. “Nothing that means anything. It’s one hell of a mess, isn’t it? I only got here half an hour ago and I got to straighten out this mess. You’d better get over to the station, Masao.”
    When Masuto entered Wainwright’s office, a small, hawk-faced man of about fifty was already there, facing Wainwright, who sat behind his desk and greeted the detective without pleasure.
    â€œThis is Mr. Zev Kolan, the Israeli consul general in Los Angeles.” And to the hawk-faced man, “This is Detective Sergeant Masao Masuto. He’s in charge of the case.”
    Masuto shook hands — a very strong grip for so small a man. “What can I do for you, sir?”
    â€œGive me some proof that Ivan Gaycheck is actually Gaylord Schwartzman.”
    â€œI told him that we sent the prints to Interpol and they made the identification,” said Wainwright.
    â€œYes,” said Mr. Kolan. “I am sorry to trouble you, but this has happened before. The Interpol