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

there to translate?”
    â€œHe’s on his way, sore as hell.”
    â€œWell, fill him in and get on with it.”
    He put down the phone and turned to Kolan, who was regarding him with interest.
    â€œForgive me for taking up so much of your time,” Masuto said.
    â€œI am fascinated.”
    â€œA few minutes more?”
    â€œAs long as you wish.”
    â€œI am told that Israeli Intelligence is just about the best in the world.”
    â€œIs it? Possibly, yet not good enough to tell us that the Yom Kippur War was coming. Perhaps it is estimable by comparison, since there is so little intelligence among any of the intelligence services. Intelligent human beings do not become spies, and it has become a rather loathsome profession. Perhaps we have more who are motivated by patriotism than other countries, perhaps because there is little else we can offer.”
    â€œAnd yet you were unable to find Schwartzman.”
    â€œThat, Sergeant Masuto, is not the work of Israeli Intelligence. Do you know how many Schwartzmans there are still at large, still hidden among decent people? Hundreds.” He watched Masuto thoughtfully through the smoke of his cigar, and Masuto, studying the hawklike face, the pale blue eyes, wondered how much he could ever know about such a man, regardless of how open and ingenuous his comments might be.
    â€œYou are trying to find out about Schwartzman in Germany,” Kolan observed.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œI could not help overhearing your conversation on the telephone.”
    â€œAnd you don’t think I will discover anything worthwhile.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?”
    â€œYour manner.”
    â€œI am not prejudiced against the German police. They are handicapped because they want so desperately to forget.”
    â€œThat isn’t your handicap, Mr. Kolan.”
    â€œTrue. We want to remember. It is very important that we remember.”
    â€œI can understand that. I have only one more question, and then I will take up no more of your time.”
    â€œI assure you, my time is at your disposal.”
    â€œDo you collect stamps?”
    â€œWhat an odd question! But of course — Schwartzman was a stamp dealer. A peculiar profession for a pathological madman to finish with. As a matter of fact, I do collect stamps — but only Israeli stamps.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œNot at all. It has been a pleasure to know you, Sergeant Masuto. By the way, if my opinion is worth anything, I would guess that you will not find out who murdered Ivan Gaycheck.”
    Masuto smiled. “Oh, I will certainly discover who killed him. But whether I can arrest the killer — well, who knows?” At the door to Kolan’s office, he paused and said to the consul general, “You must not consider me slipshod in my methods because I did not ask you where you were between twelve and one o’clock yesterday.”
    â€œI would not think of you as being slipshod in your methods. Not at all. Do you want to know where I was between twelve and one o’clock yesterday?”
    â€œI think not,” said Masuto.

8
    JACK BRIGGS AGAIN
    Two o’clock. Masuto sat in his car, took out of his pocket the picture of the girl that he had found in Gaycheck’s wallet, and brooded over it. Was it his own background that made him feel that fifty percent of the young women he saw in West Hollywood were identical with the girl in the photo? Or was it because a disproportionate number of young women with blue eyes and straight blond hair eventually make their way to Hollywood? On the other hand, wonders came out of a bottle, and there appeared to be an irresistible urge among such girls to look alike.
    He put the picture back in his pocket and drove west on Wilshire Boulevard for about a mile to another high rise. There he scanned the directory, found the name of Jack Briggs listed under Pisces Productions, and wondered idly who was a Pisces,