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

said Beckman.
    â€œNo, sir …” Haber began to shake again. “Because Mr. Gaycheck was a very careful man. He never opened the safe without blocking the view with his body.”
    â€œWhat did he keep in the safe?” Masuto asked.
    â€œAny cash over fifty dollars. Also some bearer bonds of his own — I don’t know how much. And if we had a very valuable stamp, he would put it in the safe.”
    â€œLike what?” Beckman snapped.
    â€œWell, last week we had a ten-cent black 1847 George Washington. It was in fine condition and any collector would pay three thousand for it. He put that in the safe.”
    â€œIs it in there now?”
    â€œNo. We took it on commission from Holmbey’s, downtown. The sale didn’t come through and I brought it back yesterday. Are you going to arrest me?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œWell — Mr. Gaycheck was murdered.”
    â€œDid you murder him?” Masuto asked gently.
    â€œGood God, no!” Haber burst out. “Murder him? I never fired a gun in my life. I wouldn’t know how. I have a bad back, so I was never even inducted.”
    â€œThen we won’t arrest you, Mr. Haber.” Masuto smiled. “Did Gaycheck have a wife, children, relatives? Have you notified anyone?”
    â€œNo, sir. He wasn’t married. No one. He would mention that, no relatives, no family.”
    â€œFriends?”
    â€œNone that I knew of. He would have lunch occasionally with some of the other dealers or with a client. That was business.”
    â€œHow old was he?” Masuto asked, going through the wallet now. An American Express card, a Bank-Americard, a two-by-three photograph, but no driver’s license.
    â€œI don’t know,” Haber answered slowly. “I never asked him.”
    â€œDid he drive a car?”
    â€œNo. He has a small condominium on Burton Way. He either walked or used a cab.”
    â€œThere’s one hundred and three dollars here in his wallet. I want you to count it.”
    Haber’s hand shook as he counted the money.
    â€œThese keys. For the shop and the apartment?”
    Haber nodded.
    â€œThis key?” It was a third door key.
    â€œThis is the shop key,” Haber said. “I suppose one of the others is his apartment.”
    â€œAnd the third key?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œNo safe-deposit key. Did he have a box?”
    â€œI don’t know. I don’t think so.”
    â€œAll right. Give your address and telephone number to Detective Beckman. Then you can go home. But for the time being, I don’t want you to leave the county.”
    â€œWhat about the store?”
    â€œThe store will be sealed until we can have the safe opened and examine its contents. The rest is up to the legal department at City Hall. Detective Beckman will give you a number you can call for information.”
    While Beckman took down Haber’s address and phone number and ushered him out of the store, Masuto studied the photograph he had found in Gaycheck’s wallet. It was a picture, head and shoulders, of a young woman, no older than twenty-five, no younger than twenty. Straight blond hair, two buttons open on the blouse, good-looking, and not unlike any one of several hundred girls to be seen any day on the streets of West Hollywood. He was still staring at it when Beckman returned.
    â€œSy,” Masuto said, “take the keys and the wallet and check them into the property department. I’m hanging on to this photo, so make a note of that. When you get back to the station, you can start to type out the report. I’ll talk to the captain and I’ll fill you in if there’s anything.”
    After Beckman left, Masuto continued to study the portrait for a while. Then he wandered around the back room, stared at the stamps in the locked cases, and went through the two drawers in the small desk. There were two ledgers, a large general cash