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

off.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œAnd you answer no questions. None. No crowds. If the media come, shunt them over to the captain. No one gets inside. Fill in the captain on what we know, which is nothing. Throw the latch on the door and lock it behind you, and knock if you want back in.”
    Officer Cutler nodded and left. Masuto turned to Haber. “How do you feel?”
    â€œBetter now — I think.”
    â€œWould you like to sit down?” There was a small desk and a chair in one corner of the back room.
    â€œFunny, there isn’t even a bloodstain,” Haber said, staring at the carpet.
    â€œNo. The bullet remained in his brain or in the back of the skull. Then, whoever shot him caught his body and eased it down. Very cool.” Masuto glanced at Beckman and smiled slightly.
    â€œHow do you know?” Beckman demanded.
    â€œThe way the body was. No one dies and falls that way — on his back, laid out. No way. No, indeed.”
    â€œSo it wasn’t a dame.”
    â€œA strong, cool woman — who knows? You found the body?” he asked Haber. The assistant nodded. “Tell me about it,” Masuto said.
    â€œI leave for lunch at twelve-thirty. One hour. Mr. Gaycheck leaves — I mean he would have left, he usually left when I returned. He always had a two o’clock sitting reserved at Scandia. He would return about three-thirty, but if he had an appointment with a customer maybe earlier. I shouldn’t say customer. He always insisted on the word client . I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
    â€œNo, it doesn’t. Did he have an appointment today?”
    â€œI don’t think so. You can look at his appointment book.”
    â€œWhere is it?”
    Haber pointed to the desk, and Beckman walked over and picked up a leather-bound log book. He opened it and showed it to Masuto. For this day, nothing except two scrawled letters — P and M . Masuto held out the book to Haber.
    â€œDoes that mean anything to you?”
    â€œPM — afternoon, I guess.”
    â€œHe knew it was the afternoon,” Beckman said.
    â€œYes, I suppose so.”
    Masuto riffled through the pages of the log. Dates, names, prices — no other notation of PM.
    â€œHe said nothing to you about any appointment today? Expecting someone?”
    Haber shook his head.
    â€œYou went to lunch — where?”
    â€œAt Juniors. I had a corned-beef sandwich …”
    â€œAll right. What time did you return?”
    â€œOne-thirty. Exactly.”
    â€œExactly?” Masuto raised an eyebrow.
    â€œI am a precise person.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œI went in. No one in front. I came back here, and …” He spread his hands. “That’s it. I saw him on the floor, dead. I called the police. Then I called an ambulance.”
    â€œHow did you know he was dead?” Beckman snapped.
    Masuto shook his head, and Haber began to blubber that nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
    â€œAll right,” Masuto said, not unkindly. “You called the police. What then?”
    â€œI was in front. I couldn’t stay there.”
    â€œNo one else came into the shop before the police?”
    He shook his head. “We don’t have many customers — clients — off the street. Mostly by appointment. But what I don’t understand is, why didn’t anyone hear the shot?”
    â€œA twenty-two don’t make that much noise,” said Beckman. “There was two doors between here and the street. But if he took him in here, it must have been somebody he knew.”
    Masuto stared at Haber, who was frowning.
    â€œWell?” Masuto demanded.
    â€œI guess so,” Haber agreed.
    â€œWho?” demanded Beckman.
    Haber shook his head. Masuto motioned toward the cases. “Was anything taken — stolen — or sold, or removed?”
    â€œI didn’t look.”
    â€œWell, look now.”
    While