The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) (15 page)

“A ridiculous price — three hundred thousand dollars.”

“Is that really so ridiculous?”

“Not perhaps at auction. You see, Sergeant, at auction the owner would probably set a base price of one hundred thousand dollars. That is, the bidding would start only if there were an opening bid of one hundred thousand. From there, the bidding might go to one hundred fifty thousand, two hundred, even four hundred thousand. Strange things happen at auctions. But in a straight deal between buyer and seller, three hundred thousand dollars is utterly exorbitant. I told him that, and he began to threaten me with sales to other collectors. I informed him that I was not impressed, and that he could call me again when he was ready to discuss reasonable terms.”

“Why wouldn't he hold on to it and put it up at auction?” Masuto wanted to know.

“Ah. That is interesting, is it not, Sergeant. Why wouldn't he? I asked myself that. There could be only two reasons. One — that his provenance lacked substance and the stamp had been stolen.”

“And you think that was the reason?”

“No. I think Gaycheck was convinced that he had legal title to the stamp.”

“Are you sure?” Masuto pressed her. “This is very important for me to know. Are you sure that Gaycheck was convinced that he had legal title to the stamp?”

“Yes, I am. And I'll tell you why, Sergeant. You do not call a collector and anticipate the possession of a stamp to be stolen, and if you do have a stolen stamp, you don't try to deal with Lucille Bettner. You take it to Europe or the Middle East, where those oil kings will buy anything, stolen or not. And Gaycheck was ready to give me a bill of sale. There could be no deal without that.”

“And does this thing you call provenance — I suppose it's a sort of pedigree — does this go with the bill of sale?”

“I certainly does. I would not touch such a stamp unless I knew who the previous owners were. If it turned out to be Skeffington's stamp, then I would want to know who had owned it between Skeffington and Gaycheck, and I would want proof that it had changed hands legally each time.”

“And Gaycheck was willing to supply such proof?”

“So he said.”

“I see. You said there were two reasons Gaycheck would be unwilling to put it up at auction. What is the other?”

“There is a great deal of publicity attendant to such an auction, Sergeant Masuto, especially if a One-Penny Orange is to go on the block. A man like Gaycheck is rather unsavory. His past might not bear scrutiny.”

“And he never called back a third time?”

“No. He died yesterday.”

Masuto rose. “You have been very kind and very patient.”

“Not at all. This has been so pleasant.”

“Only, there is one thing I don't understand.”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“You wanted the stamp so badly. Why did you take no steps to see whether it is still among Gaycheck's effects?”

“Because, Sergeant,” she replied, smiling, “I am quite certain that Gaycheck was murdered for the stamp. So now it is a stolen stamp, and I have simply dismissed it from my mind.”

“I see.”

“Do you find my explanation adequate?”

“Quite adequate,” Masuto said.

He was at the door when Mrs. Bettner said, “Sergeant?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bettner?”

“You know, the stamp will surface again. Such things always do. You have only to keep your eyes open, and then you will have your murderer.”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Why?”

“Because the murderer will probably do precisely as you suggest — take the stamp to Europe or the Middle East and sell it there.”

“I suppose so. What a pity!”

“Thank you again, Mrs. Bettner.” Then he left, closing the door behind him.

12

ELLEN BRIGGS AGAIN

It was quarter to eleven when Ellen Briggs opened the door for Masuto, and then she gave a startled exclamation at the sight of his face. “You poor man! What have they done to you?”

“It's nothing. I'll tell you about it. May I come in?”

“Please.” She closed the door behind him and stared at his face again. She had made no attempt to dress for his coming. She still wore blue jeans and a work shirt, her brown hair pulled back and tied behind her neck, her slender figure almost boylike, her dark eyes filled with compassion. “How awful! What happened to you?”

“You remember the three men on motorcycles outside of the school?”

“Yes.”

“I met up with them in Topanga Canyon.”

“Oh, no.”

“Now they'll never trouble you again.”

“They robbed my house?”

“Yes.”

“And you arrested them.”

“Yes …”

“You don't want to talk about it, do you? I know that whatever happened must have been dreadful. I don't know how a man like you can be a policeman.”

“How do you know what kind of man I am, Mrs. Briggs?”

“I know. Do you think you could call me Ellen? I feel I have known you such a long time. What is your first name?”

“Masao.”

“Masao. That's a nice name. May I call you that?”

“If you wish.”

“That's silly of me, isn't it? But I can't think of you as a policeman, only as a friend, and heaven knows, I have few enough friends. Please come inside. I'm in the kitchen again. Do you mind?”

“I don't mind, no.”

He followed her into the kitchen and stood there rather awkwardly. “Do sit down, please,” she said, “and don't pay any attention to me. You can't leap up every time I do.” He nodded and sat down at the kitchen table. “You look so tired. Will you have some coffee? Or something to eat?”

“Do you know,” he said smiling for the first time, “I think I would. That is, if you don't mind. Suddenly I'm very hungry. I forgot my dinner entirely.” Then he shook his head. “But no. That would be an imposition.”

“It would not be an imposition. Do you know you have a very nice smile, but you ration it. Please. I'm a good cook.”

“I don't want you to cook anything for me.”

“What would you say to scrambled eggs, ham, brown rice, applesauce, butter, and toast? The rice is cooked. I only have to warm it. The whole thing won't take ten minutes.”

“Right now it sounds like a banquet.”

“Good. Do you want to smoke? Shall I bring you an ashtray?”

“I don't smoke, thank you.” He watched her as she beat the eggs, sliced the ham, warmed the rice, and put the bread into the toaster. He felt that one can tell a great deal about a woman simply by watching her prepare a meal. Ellen Briggs was coordinated, alert, efficient. Her competence would flow over into anything she did, and whatever she did she would do well. Yet she had married Jack Briggs. Why? he wondered.

“What are you thinking, Detective?” she asked him.

“It would be impolite for me to reveal it.”

“That's very Japanese.” She grinned at him. “Tell me.”

“All right. I was wondering how a woman like you came to marry Jack Briggs.”

“You like women a great deal, Masao, but you don't know much about them.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if you did, you would know that women like myself very often marry a Jack Briggs, and there's no way in the world they can explain why. It's called masochism.”

“I know what it's called. That doesn't explain it.”

“No, it doesn't.” She piled his plate with eggs, ham, and brown rice. “Eat and don't think about such things. You know the story of the little boy who kept hitting his head against the wall. When they asked him why he did it, he explained that it felt so good when he stopped.”

“Ah so.” The food was delicious. Between mouthfuls, he asked her how her son was.

“He's asleep. I'm afraid I frightened him, keeping him locked up in the house all day. I haven't yet told him about his father.”

She sat down opposite him at the kitchen table, putting her chin on her clasped hands and watching him, smiling slightly.

“You're very happy.”

“Not very happy, no, Masao. I still have a knot of grief inside me for my mother. But without that — well, I am happier than I have been for a long, long time. I am free. Do you know what that means?”

“I think so.”

“I have stopped hating Jack Briggs — well, almost. Hate is very corrosive. Doesn't it strike you as odd that I am talking to a detective whom I met only yesterday? But I refuse to think of you as a policeman. Are you married, Masao?”

“Yes.”

“Happily?”

“As such things go, yes. My wife is a very simple and rather old-fashioned Japanese woman. She is very much in love with me.”

“I can understand that. I think I am a little in love with you myself — just a very little, and nothing to trouble you or upset you.”

Masuto put down his knife and fork and stared at her. She was wearing no makeup. Her fine deep brown eyes met his directly, and to his taste she was as beautiful a woman as he had ever known. Her nose was fine and straight, a slight flare at the nostrils, and her mouth was wide and expressive.

“It does trouble you. I'm sorry I said that.”

“No, no, Ellen Briggs. It makes me feel warm and good — for the first time today. I thank you.”

“Finish your food.”

He ate the last scrap of food on his plate.

“Do you want more?” she asked him. “It's no trouble.”

“No. This is fine. Thank you.”

She took away his dish and refilled his coffee cup, and then again seated herself opposite him. “Please begin, Detective Masuto.”

“Begin?”

“Your coming here tonight. You are my friend, I think, but you didn't come as a friend. You came as a policeman.”

“I don't know.”

“But you do know.”

“Ah so.” He nodded.

“When you say ‘Ah so,' Masao, is it to remind people that you are Japanese?”

“It's a foolish habit.” he sipped his coffee. “Ellen” he said, “when did you discover that your husband had sold the stamp?”

She was not surprised or perturbed at his question, and answered him directly or plainly. “The day after my mother died. The evening before the funeral.”

“He told you?”

“Yes.”

“How did he tell you? I mean, how much did he tell you or explain to you about the transaction?”

“Well, he told me that there was a stamp dealer in town who had been tracing this particular stamp, the One-Penny Orange, for years. Apparently a rare stamp is something like a famous painting. The dealers keep track of it as it is sold and resold, and I suppose they found some indication of my father buying it and then found out what had happened to our family. Anyway, this dealer finally traced it to my mother. He called Jack at the office, and they had lunch or something and discussed it. Of course, I'm telling you Jack's story. Jack said he would have to take the matter up with my mother, because if she had the stamp, even if she didn't know she had it, it belonged to her. Then Mother died, and since she was dead Jack felt that it was all right to take the stamp and sell it.”

“To Ivan Gaycheck?”

“Yes, to Ivan Gaycheck.”

“And how much did he say Gaycheck paid him for it?”

She rose and went to the counter where her purse lay. She brought it back to the table and opened it, saying as she did so, “He told me that Gaycheck paid him a thousand dollars in cash. Tax-free cash. He made a great point of that. He gave me half. He was cutting me in, as he put it.” She took out of her purse five one-hundred-dollar bills and laid them on the table. “There it is — five hundred dollars for my mother's life.”

“Why do you say that?”

She was silent for a while. Then she sighed and shook her head.

“But you don't believe your husband's story?” Masuto said.

“No, I don't.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I think he went into my mother's room the day before — the day she died. I think he found the packet of letters and cut the ribbon, as you noticed. I think my mother found him going through the letters. They were very precious to her — the only thing of my father's that remained to her. I think she struggled with him, and in that struggle her heart gave way. Then Jack placed her body on the bed. She was dead. Who was to know how she died?”

“But all this is only conjecture, Ellen.”

“I know.”

“Why did you lie to me? Why didn't you tell me this when I saw you this morning?”

“To what end? As you say, it's only conjecture.”

“Did you face your husband with your conjecture?”

“Yes, last night.” She unbuttoned her cuff and pushed up her sleeve. Half of her arm was black and blue. “He uses his hands when he gets angry.”

“Yet he agreed to the separation.”

“Why shouldn't he have agreed, Masao?”

“Because he's a bastard and because we have community property in this state.”

“I waived that. My mother had an insurance policy of five thousand dollars and I was the beneficiary. It's all I need and all I want. I signed a property waiver for my husband this afternoon. He will have the house and his money, and in return I get Bernie and his agreement not to contest the divorce.”

“He'll give up his son?”

“Jack never loved anything. He couldn't. He's very happy to have the child out of his life.”

“And what will you do, Ellen?”

“I'll go to England and get a divorce there or on the Continent. They still have theater in London, and where there's theater, I can work. I'm a good actress.”

“I know that.”

“And I won't be unhappy to leave, Beverly Hills is not for me. There's only one thing here that I regret leaving, and that's not for me in any case.”