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

Haber brooded over the display cases and Sweeney finished his fingerprint work, Masuto called Captain Wainwright at headquarters. Wainwright was upset. “Now just hear me, Masao,” he said. “This is not East Los Angeles. When a store is ripped off in one of the streets north of Wilshire and the owner is shot, it means every damn one of them will be breathing down my neck, the chief, the city manager, the mayor, and maybe fifty prominent citizens — and this is not a place without prominent citizens.…”
    Haber stood in front of Masuto, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he said.
    â€œIt doesn’t appear to be robbery,” Masuto told Wainwright. “At least not yet. Just a clean, neat murder.” He put down the phone. “How sure are you?” he asked Haber.
    â€œI know the contents of the cases. Anyway, they’re all locked.”
    â€œWhere is the key?”
    Haber pointed to the small pile of stuff from Gaycheck’s pockets. Sweeney packed his stuff away, grinning at Masuto.
    â€œNice prints, very nice prints. Nothing like a print on glass. You don’t have the murder weapon?” he asked Masuto hopefully.
    Masuto shook his head. He was going through the contents of Gaycheck’s pockets. “This key?” he asked Haber. Haber nodded.
    â€œThe trouble with you,” Sweeney said, “is that you got no faith in Western technology.”
    â€œOpens all the cases?” Masuto asked.
    â€œAll of them.”
    â€œTechnology,” Sweeney repeated, and then left.
    â€œThat man,” said Beckman, “gives me a pain in the ass. He draws down eighteen thousand a year, and I never known his goddamn fingerprints to give us anything.”
    â€œHow valuable is the stuff in the cases?” Masuto asked Haber.
    â€œAll of it? I don’t know — maybe twenty, twenty-five thousand dollars.”
    â€œThat’s very interesting,” Beckman said. “When his place was ripped off last June, he claimed a loss of twenty-two grand — it was twenty-two, wasn’t it, Masao?”
    â€œIt was. One case smashed and emptied.” He looked at Haber thoughtfully.
    â€œI had nothing to do with that.”
    â€œNow those,” said Masuto, pointing to a set of American stamps in the glass case, “what are they worth?”
    â€œThat’s a complete set of the TransMississippi Exposition, 1898, mint — a very nice set.”
    â€œMint?”
    â€œThat means they’re uncanceled, never been used for postage. In U.S. stamps, we deal only in mint, except for the very first issues. This set, well, it’s very nice. We could get almost two thousand for it.”
    â€œAre there fences for stamps?” Beckman demanded.
    â€œFences?”
    â€œPeople who buy stolen stamps,” Masuto explained.
    Haber hesitated. “I suppose so.”
    â€œAnd what might they pay for such a set?”
    â€œThere’s really no way to identify mint stamps. I suppose a thief could sell these to a dealer in some other city for at least seven or eight hundred dollars.”
    â€œWhy some other city?”
    â€œBecause if they were stolen, we’d circulate the information here in L. A. and dealers would be looking for them.”
    â€œAnd you’re absolutely sure there’s nothing missing from the cases?”
    â€œI’m sure.”
    â€œDo you have the combination for the safe?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œWho has it?”
    â€œMr. Gaycheck.”
    â€œWhere? Where did he keep it?”
    â€œIn his head, when he was alive.”
    â€œHe must have written it down somewhere,” Masuto insisted.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œHow long have you worked here, Mr. Haber?”
    â€œFive years — since Mr. Gaycheck opened the store.”
    â€œAnd all the times he opened the safe in those five years, you never caught the combination?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œBullshit!”