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

— yes. It’s a face I will never forget. Do I sound regretful? But not for that man in the coffin, Sergeant. We Jews have a saying that one must have compassion — even for one’s enemies. But for that man I have no compassion, God forgive me. I had hoped it would not be him, so that one day we might take him alive. But it is. After thirty-three years, a death so peaceful, so easy.”
    â€œI think no death is easy,” Masuto said. “And thirty-three years — how long is that in God’s time?
    â€œI don’t know,” Kolan said. “But it’s over now, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt’s over.”

5
    JASON HOLMBEY
    It is said that no one knows all of Los Angeles, and that perhaps is no more mysterious than the saying that no one knows all of Brooklyn, and when one adds to this the fact that within Los Angeles county there are over fifty separate cities, districts, neighborhoods, cities within cities, and that all of them dwell together in a sort of amiable confusion, one simply accepts this improbable puzzle without trying to understand it. Yet in the midst of this is a venerable and valid old-fashioned city, with narrow streets, old buildings, new buildings, skyscrapers — a tight urban cluster that is known all over Los Angeles as “downtown.”
    It is said in Los Angeles that many people live out their lives in such places as Beverly Hills, San Fernando, Santa Monica, and Glendale without ever going downtown, but that is probably an exaggeration. Masuto, who knew the city better than most, having been born there, was a frequent visitor to downtown, and since he was an observant person, he remembered Holmbey’s Stamp Center quite well. It was a most unlikely building, a small, three-story red brick Georgian house, nestled in a dingy section of Fourth Street, covered with ivy, and looking for all the world like a refugee from Berkeley Square in London. It was also the home of one of the largest stamp dealers in the United States.
    It was nine-thirty when Masuto parked his car in the red no-parking spaces in front of Holmbey’s, put his police card in plain view, and walked into the place, which looked more like an old-fashioned country bank than a stamp dealer’s. There were oak counters, elderly gentlemen with green visors, and a gaunt, spinsterish woman who regarded him suspiciously and asked what she might do for him.
    â€œI am a police officer,” said Masuto, showing his identification. “I would like to talk to the manager.”
    â€œThere is no manager, as you put it. Holmbey’s is run by Mr. Jason Holmbey III.”
    â€œThen I’ll talk to Mr. Jason Holmbey III.”
    â€œPlease be seated, Mr.…?”
    â€œSergeant Masuto.”
    â€œMr. Masuto, while I see whether Mr. Holmbey can see you. Do you have an appointment?”
    â€œI’m afraid not.”
    â€œThen I am afraid your visit has been in vain. Mr. Holmbey does not see people except by appointment.”
    Masuto was slow to irritation, and even when it occurred, he refused to allow it to show. Now he said softly, “Tell Mr. Holmbey that either he will see me and talk with me, or I will come back with a warrent and bring him in as a material witness to a murder.” All of which was very sketchy and conceivably impossible, but which nevertheless made the required impression on the very gaunt and spinsterish woman and sent her hurrying away. A few minutes later, a man in his middle thirties, dressed in a vested herringbone tweed suit, with a cheerful face and wire-rimmed glasses, emerged through a door behind the showcases, glanced around, located Masuto, shook hands with him, and cheerfully asked what he might do for him.
    â€œAgatha is our watchdog. She is very imposing, don’t you think? She was my father’s secretary, and her mission now is to protect me.”
    â€œOnly a few questions,” Masuto replied.
    â€œThen