The Case of the Sliding Pool

by Howard Fast

  Ishido had come from a moderately important Samurai family; but moderately important or not, his was still Samurai. Masuto’s father had been a gardener; and Kati remembered this as Masuto finished his dinner and headed for the door.

  “Masao,” she called softly.

  He paused and turned to her.

  “You are going to see Ishido?”

  “Yes, I told you so. It’s no great joy, but I have to see him. I don’t know who else can help me now.”

  “Like that? The way you are dressed?”

  He was wearing his brown tweed jacket and gray flannel trousers. The jacket was two years old and the trousers were wrinkled. He wore a white shirt without a tie and open at the neck. His brown shoes were scuffed and needed shining.

  “This is the way I dress,” Masuto said with annoyance. “I am a policeman, a cop. Ishido knows that. He has been kind enough to see me on very short notice—insufferably kind—and I have no intention of deluding him with the notion that a Beverly Hills cop can afford to buy his clothes at Carroll’s,” he said, referring to the fine men’s shop at the corner of Rodeo and Santa Monica.

  “But you might well convince him,” Kati said, smiling, “that a Beverly Hills cop has a wife who can press trousers most excellently.”

  “Would it make you happy?”

  “Please.”

  Masuto took off his trousers, and sat glumly and unhappily in his underwear in the kitchen. When his son and daughter glanced in and began to titter, he snapped at them angrily.

  “What has come over you?” Kati asked.

  “I have reached a point where I can conceal my ignorance from everyone but myself.”

  “Oh, Masao, the things you say!”

  “Why didn’t I trust myself? I sensed it from the beginning. There were two men. One was strong, demonic, aggressive, pathological. The other was weak and malleable. Kati, if Cutler were the strong man, there would have been no need for him to kill Lundman. Because if he were Cutler, his face would have been changed, his fingerprints absent—then how could anyone identify him or accuse him? But the other man, John Doe, he was not wanted by the F.B.I. No one was looking for him—unless Lundman or Mrs. Brody remembered. And do you know why they would remember? Because he, John Doe, and not Cutler was the strong, demonic, and aggressive one.”

  “I really don’t know what on earth you’re talking about,” Kati said.

  “I should have known, sensed it, but no, I spend two days looking for evidence. Well, that’s over. Perhaps we’ll never find him, and certainly, we can never convict him. But we shall see.”

  He pulled on his trousers and said to Kati, “I dislike going there. The last time I was there, I came as a kinsman and left as a policeman.”

  “Be natural. When you are natural, you are the most charming man in the world.”

  “Ah, so. Yes. I will try. Don’t wait up for me. I will probably be very late.”

  In spite of Masuto’s apprehensions, Ishido appeared delighted to see him. He did Masuto the honor of answering the door himself, a small, smiling man in a magnificent black robe. Seated in Ishido’s living room, which was tastefully but sparsely furnished in the Japanese manner, Masuto accepted a paper-thin teacup from an attractive young woman in her mid-twenties. The tea was green and pungent, and after it had been poured the attractive young woman disappeared. Well, Ishido was a widower. He was entitled to live as he saw fit.

  “In the past, Masao,” Ishido said to him, “you attempted a discussion in Japanese. Perhaps that was unfortunate.”

  “We will talk in English if you prefer,” Masuto said.

  “It will be better. It is the tongue you were born to and the tongue I have spoken for thirty-four years. There is a legend around, Masao, that I long for the old days. Nonsense! I love Los Angeles, and I shall die here. For a Buddhist, there is no foreign land.”

  “I must agree with you.”

  “You still meditate?” Ishido asked.

  “Ah, yes. Indeed.”

  “Good. And Kati and the children?”

  “All well.”

  “Good. Very good. Now what may I do for you, Masao? You have come with a rolled drawing in your hand. Do you desire my opinion as an art expert?”

  Masuto unrolled the sketch the police artist had made and spread it out on the low tea table.

  “I will not give you my opinion as an art expert,” Ishido said.

  “The work of a police artist. He draws well, if mechanically.”

  “Of course. So very sorry for my levity. For that purpose it is excellent.”

  “Tell me, sir,” Masuto said, “is it true what I have heard?”

  “And what have you heard?” Ishido asked, smiling.

  “I must go beyond common courtesy, but it is absolutely necessary if you are to help me.”

  “A situation not uncommon.”

  “I have heard that you are as wealthy as Norton Simon, with better taste and a wider circle of influence here in southern California.”

  “I have never counted Norton’s wealth, but I have the most profound respect for his taste. Are you after him?”

  “Oh, no. Certainly not.” Masuto pointed to the police drawing. “Do you know this man?”

  Ishido studied the picture thoughtfully. “I’m afraid not. No, I have never seen that face before. Do you know him, Masao?”

  Masuto took a long, deep breath. “Yes, as a skeleton we found under a swimming pool in Laurel Way.”

  “Ah, so. Yes. I read about the skeleton. Who murdered the man, Masao?”

  “I hope that before I leave here tonight, honored kinsman, you will tell me his name. Otherwise …” Masuto folded his hands and shook his head.

  “Am I a suspect, nephew?” Ishido asked undisturbed.

  “Heaven forbid. Our suspect is five feet eight and a half inches tall, and he weights at least fifty pounds more than you do.”

  “Remarkable, Masao. You know how tall he is and you know how heavy he is. Do you also know the color of his eyes?”

  “Blue, I’m quite certain.”

  “Ah, so! We have here a game in the old sense, when they used to say that the only game worth anything was one where a human life was at stake. You have made a presumption that this man is a part of what the younger folk would call the southern California establishment.”

  “With all due humility, yes. And I am told that you know them all.”

  “Perhaps most, Masao. But satisfy my curiosity. Where did you get a picture of the man you found under the pool?”

  “From the F.B.I. Except that I, being a fool, decided that this man is the murderer.”

  “But he is not.”

  “No, he is the victim.”

  “You pique my curiosity and my sense of the game. Let us discuss the murderer. He is five feet eight and a half, blue eyes, heavily built—and wealthy? But of course he would be wealthy if you place him in the establishment.”

  “In nineteen fifty,” Masuto said, “he embezzled two million eight hundred thousand dollars from a bank. The embezzlement was not done by the murderer, but by his partner, whom he subsequently killed. I suspect he transferred the wealth to Los Angeles.”

  “Bearer bonds, some bank accounts,” Ishido guessed.

  “Ah, so,” Masuto nodded. “But he is filled with a sense of power, aggressiveness. He must move into the community of power.”

  “The business world?”

  “So I would guess.”

  Ishido poured some hot tea and sipped it. Then he closed his eyes and touched his fingers to his forehead. “Nineteen fifty-one—the latter half?”

  “I can only guess, and I am reaching a point where I must doubt my guesses. The man under the pool was killed, I believe, in June or July of nineteen fifty. If it took him a year to establish himself—?”

  “In what field?” Ishido asked mildly.

  “I don’t know. I have given no thought to that.”

  Smiling thinly, Ishido nodded. “Did I hear or read so
mewhere that these two people, the Lundmans, were killed with the bare hands of the murderer?”

  “Perhaps I mentioned it. I am not sure it was in the papers.”

  “Karate?”

  “I think so.”

  “So we add to our portrait, Masao. He is an enthusiast of the old art, which he perverts. To kill in karate is not only ignoble, but a perversion of all the excellence that endows the martial arts. Do you still practice, Masao?”

  “Yes, when I can.”

  “Masao,” Ishido said softly, “what hornets’ nest do you stir up here? Tell me, do you have any evidence you can bring against this man?”

  “No.”

  “So it is when you function in a democracy. Your police are very efficient, and at times, as for example with yourself, quite intelligent. But powerless. Here is a man who killed in cold blood—how many times did you say, Masao?”

  “Six that I know of.”

  “Each killing predetermined, planned, executed with assassinlike precision, and we know of the murders and we know who he is. But we cannot touch him.”

  “Respected uncle!” Masuto said sharply.

  “Yes?”

  “You said we know who he is. True, we know who Stanley Cutler is. But I strongly suspect that Stanley Cutler is not the killer but instead is the victim.”

  “Ah, so. I agree.”

  “Then if you know who the killer is, you know who John Doe is.”

  “Yes. I think so. Insofar as knowledge and truth have any meaning or substance. Frequently I doubt that they do.”

  “Speaking philosophically, I agree with you. But in wholly mundane terms, uncle, do you know this man I seek?”

  “I know one who fits your description. In nineteen fifty he bought a half interest in a small aerospace company in Orange County. I know him because we have had various business dealings and because we belong to the same country club, the West Los Angeles Club.”

  Amazed that his uncle, still Japanese for all his wealth and power and taste, had been admitted to the West Los Angeles Club, which had built such solid ramparts against Jews, Mexicans, and other lesser breeds, Masuto attempted to conceal his response; but Ishido simply shrugged and asked him, “Why so astonished, Masao?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Come, come. You are absolutely amazed that they would admit me, a former officer in the imperial army, a Japanese, an Oriental, into their sacred precincts. But my dear Masao, I am inordinately wealthy—which is all that counts. Then my having been with the army of the enemy becomes romantic, being an Oriental becomes exotic, and my being rather small and withered is overlooked—and in any case, my manners are so much better than theirs. So, you see, I was invited to join. I don’t play golf, but I do frequently dine there, both for lunch and for dinner. The food is excellent. Ah, now!” He clapped his hands and grinned at Masuto. “We shall all dine there together, myself, you, and the murderer.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “But of course I am. Not only serious but enchanted. Can you guess who this man is who fits your description? Come, Masao, I have given you one hint already—the aerospace company. Let me give you another—the gift of twelve magnificent Picassos to the Los Angeles Museum of Art.”

  “Incredible,” Masuto whispered. “It can’t be. Saunders Aerospace is the largest company of its kind in the West. It’s a prime supplier for the Pentagon. And Eric Saunders—you do mean Eric Saunders?”

  “I certainly do,” Ishido said cheerfully.

  “You mean Eric Saunders is either Stanley Cutler or—”

  Ishido poured another cup of tea and handed it to Masuto. “Come now, nephew. It is time to end this confusion. You showed me that very clever drawing of Stanley Cutler as he would be today if he were made over by a plastic surgeon. There is no Stanley Cutler. The skeleton is Stanley Cutler. Eric Saunders is Eric Saunders, very clean, as they say here, very public. No secrets in Eric Saunders’s past, no need for plastic surgery or any of that nonsense. We are talking about one of a half dozen of the most distinguished citizens of southern California, an industrial tycoon of major national importance. He is the youngest son of the Earl of Hewton. You know, Masao, when the old Earl died and the estate was neck deep in debt, Eric bought it and made a gift of it to the British National Trust. Didn’t want it himself. He’s an American citizen, member of the Republican National Committee, president of Saunders Aerospace, on a dozen boards, including several fine universities, a millionaire a hundred times over, and a member of the West Los Angeles Country Club.”

  “And also a murderer?”

  “Who knows? But what an incredible possibility! You know, he does fit your description. Came here in nineteen fifty or so with apparently unlimited funds. People took it for granted that he had a line of credit from his British bankers. But he might well have laundered the money through Mexico and back to England and then here. He’s about the height you want, blue eyes, fifty-nine or sixty, I would say, splendid physical condition.”

  “Is he a friend of yours?” Masuto asked.

  “Ah, that would be an unhappy turn of events. No. Neither a friend nor an enemy, although I should not enjoy having him as an enemy. But if he is the man you seek, he is certainly not your common murderer.”

  “In some ways, yes,” Masuto said. “He is as much a psychopath as any downtown hoodlum. In other ways—well, he presents problems.”

  “You must meet him of course?”

  “Why should he care to meet me?” Masuto wondered.

  “I will tell him that you are a master of the true Okinawan art.”

  “Karate? He practices karate?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then he is my man,” Masuto said, nodding somberly.

  “No, nephew. You have no evidence. He is possibly a murderer, but not your man. No one’s man.”

  The young woman appeared again, bearing a fresh pot of tea. She wore a black silk kimono, embroidered in gold thread. She set down the teapot and left. Ishido poured the tea, and then looked inquiringly at Masuto.

  “Something troubles you?” Ishido asked, a note of mockery in his voice.

  “Why do you give him to me?”

  “Ah. Isn’t it my duty to aid the police?”

  “With all due respect, I cannot accept such an explanation.”

  “Then let us simply say that my karma involves Saunders. You are a Buddhist. You comprehend karma.”

  “How long have you known Saunders? You said he came here in nineteen fifty. Did you meet him then?”

  Ishido smiled. “You are very clever, Masao, but you are also very presumptuous. I think we have talked enough. If you wish to know more about my relationship with Eric Saunders and why I lead you to him, join us for dinner as I suggested.”

  A few minutes later Masuto left Ishido’s house, aware that he was being used and irritated because he had no notion of why and how he was being used.

  Chapter 12

  THE BOMB

  The following morning, which was Thursday, Ishido telephoned Masuto at home. Kati answered the phone, and the fact that it was Ishido placed her in a quandary. For one thing Ishido was the most romantic and unapproachable part of her life. He was wealthy beyond Kati’s imagination; women had threaded in and out of his life; and he would embark for Tokyo as casually as Kati might embark for the closest supermarket. On the other hand, Masuto was meditating when Ishido called, and Kati fiercely resisted interrupting him at his meditation.

  “He will return your call in a few minutes, honored uncle. A thousand apologies.”

  “A thousand apologies are too many, my darling,” Masuto told her a while later. “Your kinsman, Ishido, is both a hunter and a game player. Like all men of great wealth, his life is a struggle against boredom, and I have displaced his boredom with a new and fascinating game. Believe me, he will find me. I cannot evade him until he sees this new game played out.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  The telephone rang.r />
  “Ah, so! Unless I miss my guess, there is Ishido again.”

  Kati anwered the phone and then handed it to her husband. “It is my honorable uncle.”

  “I must apologize,” Masuto told Ishido. “I was at my meditation.”

  “Of course. How insufferable of me to interrupt it. And now?”

  “Now I am finished.”

  “Ah, so. Very good.” Ishido, for all of his imperturbability, could not keep the excitement out of his voice. “I have spoken to my old acquaintance, Eric Saunders, and in spite of the fact that he has one of the most active social and business schedules of perhaps any man in southern California, he will be delighted to dine with both of us at the club tonight.”

  “Why?” Masuto asked coldly.

  If Ishido caught the icy note in Masuto’s voice, he gave no sign of it, simply repeating, “This evening at my club, Masao.”

  “I asked you why? Why should a man of affairs and of his importance take the time to dine with an ordinary policeman?”

  “Perhaps because he understands that you are not an ordinary policeman. Perhaps because I mentioned your consuming interest in the skeleton that was discovered under the swimming pool.”

  “No, that’s not enough. You are using me,” Masuto said angrily.

  “And were you not willing to use me? Of course I am using you, and you in turn are using me. This is no common homicide, Masao. You are up against a titan.”

  “No, sir, if you will forgive me. I am up against a sick and vile man, a psychopath, someone who should be locked up before he does more hurt to more people.”

  “As you will.”

  “Why did he agree to dine with us?”

  “Because I told him you had discovered that the skeleton under the pool was that of a man named Stanley Cutler.”