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

Jack Briggs or one of his partners — and how strange it was that so many Americans, bereft of any religion or faith, turned in such desperation to astrology. Pisces Productions was on the eleventh floor, and the reception room that Masuto entered proudly displayed blown-up stills from the current hit of Pisces, Open Mind . Trying not to appear too interested in nude women and oversized mammaries, Masuto asked the pretty girl at the reception desk whether Mr. Briggs was in.
    â€œYou’re Mr. Kamiho, the Japanese distributor, aren’t you?” she said. “Mr. Briggs was not expecting you until later, but Mr. Maper is in. Mr. Briggs is still out to lunch, but he said that if you came early, I was to give you our presentation book of stills, because you can usually get a more thoughtful appraisal of the product from the stills than from the print. You do understand me? You do speak English?”
    â€œYes, I do speak English,” Masuto said.
    â€œWell, you certainly do. I think your English is marvelous. Absolutely marvelous. The way everybody in the world speaks English, and it just gives me an inferiority complex. I can’t even say sukiyaki in Japanese, and you don’t even have an accent.”
    â€œThat’s because I am not Mr. Kamino,” Masuto explained. “When do you expect Mr. Briggs?”
    â€œThen you’re another Japanese distributor.”
    â€œNo. So sorry. I’m a policeman.”
    â€œA Japanese policeman?” The outer door opened and she spread her hands. “There you are.”
    Masuto turned to see Briggs, who regarded him without pleasure. “You want to see me?” Briggs demanded.
    â€œIf you have a few minutes.”
    â€œI got an important meeting in ten minutes, Sergeant, and what happened yesterday is over, except for seventy-five bucks it cost me to have the door fixed.”
    â€œThen ten minutes, if you can spare it.”
    â€œOkay. Come on in.”
    He led the way into his office. He was a big man, heavy in the shoulders, his neck layered with fat — an odd match for the slender sensitivity of his wife. He liked to be with his work. The walls of his office were like double spreads from Playboy magazine. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and stared moodily at Masuto.
    â€œIt pisses me off,” he said, “to be pushed around by a two-bit police force. If you clowns were doing your job my house wouldn’t have been ripped off.”
    â€œNo police force can prevent burglaries,” Masuto said quietly. “We are not pushing you around, Mr. Briggs.”
    â€œDon’t give me that crap. First you third-degree my wife, and now you’re here. Who the hell are you to tell her she can’t step out her front door?”
    â€œI felt your wife and son were possibly in great danger.”
    â€œHorseshit. What danger?”
    Masuto shrugged. “As you please. I only suggested it to her. But I am not only investigating a burglary. I am chief of homicide in what you characterize as our two-bit police force. I am investigating a murder.”
    â€œWhat murder?” It came out poorly. His surly aggressiveness had slipped away, and Masuto felt his simulated ignorance.
    â€œDon’t you read the papers?”
    â€œI have been up to my ears all day.”
    â€œA stamp dealer in Beverly Hills was murdered yesterday — somewhere between twelve-thirty and one o’clock. I spoke to your wife about it. Didn’t she tell you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThat’s strange, Mr. Briggs.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI told her that I felt there was a connection between the murder of Ivan Gaycheck and the break-in at your house. I’m amazed that she wouldn’t mention it to you.”
    â€œShe may have mentioned it. It slipped my mind.”
    â€œAh so. Of course. She telephone you today — or you telephoned her?”
    â€œWhat difference does that