by Howard Fast
Then he turned away and nodded.
“Schwartzman?” Masuto asked.
“It’s Schwartzman — 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.”
“I think no death is easy,” Masuto said. “And thirty-three years — how long is that in God’s time?
“I don’t know,” Kolan said. “But it’s over now, isn’t it?”
“It’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.
“I am a police officer,” said Masuto, showing his identification. “I would like to talk to the manager.”
“There is no manager, as you put it. Holmbey’s is run by Mr. Jason Holmbey III.”
“Then I’ll talk to Mr. Jason Holmbey III.”
“Please be seated, Mr.…?”
“Sergeant Masuto.”
“Mr. Masuto, while I see whether Mr. Holmbey can see you. Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then 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.
“Agatha 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.”
“Only a few questions,” Masuto replied.
“Then suppose we sit down in my office.” He indicated the way, and Masuto followed him into an imposing, oak-paneled room. There were two large oil portraits on the walls, which Masuto imagined depicted Holmbey I and Holmbey II.
“Now …?”
“Sergeant Masuto.”
“Sergeant Masuto. What can I do for you? And you, on the other hand — you would not mind showing me your credentials?”
Masuto opened his wallet and showed his badge.
“Ah! But you are a Beverly Hills policeman. Aren’t you rather far off base?”
“No, sir. In Los Angeles County, any police detective working on a case has reciprocal rights — even to the extent of making an arrest.”
“But you are not here to make an arrest. At least, I hope not. Of course — it’s the Ivan Gaycheck business. I read about it in this morning’s Times.”
“More or less.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“No, indeed.”
“Why not? I disliked the man intensely. He’s a dealer, I am a dealer. So why not?”
Masuto spread his hands disarmingly and smiled. “This woman — I believe you called her Agatha — you said her mission is to protect you. From what?”
“My dear Sergeant Masuto. I am sure the world of postage stamps is alien to you, but it is very much a world, and in that world I am considered — I say this without boasting — one of the half-dozen leading authorities. Holmbey’s is the third largest dealer in the United States, the largest west of the Mississippi, so you will understand that I am sought out by an endless flow of collectors and dealers, for purchase, for sale, for authentication, for identification. My provenance is usually accepted by any dealer or collector. If I were not protected, my life would be a nightmare.”
“So. You are very young for all that,” Masuto said with respect.
“I grew up with stamps. Quite natural for a Holmbey.”
“Well, I am grateful for the time you are granting me.”
“Not at all. I’m fascinated. Crime and stamps rarely mix. Ask and I will answer to the best of my ability.”
“Thank you. There is a stamp called the One-Penny 1848 Mauritius. How much is it worth?”
“The One-Penny 1848 Orange, imperforate …”
“Imperforate?”
“The little holes, you know, perforations. Imperforate simply means cut with a scissors or a cutting machine. No perforations.”
“I see.”
“Canceled, five thousand dollars. Uncanceled, about twice that.”
Masuto shook his head. “No. Surely you are mistaken.”
“I am never mistaken — in stamps.” Holmbey smiled.
“But I was told …”
“By an expert? How much?”
“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
“Good heavens! Who was the expert — if you don’t mind telling me his name?”
“Mr. Odi Ishido.”
“Ishido? I know Ishido. Lovely gentleman, quite a competent amateur collector. Rather good on Japanese stamps, but he doesn’t know beans about the British colonies. You know, there is a Mauritius stamp that is the most valuable in existence. Not the Post-Paid One-Penny 1848, but the One-Penny Post-Office 1847. I suppose that’s what Ishido had in mind.”
“Then there is a One-Penny Mauritian stamp of great value?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. There certainly is. The One-Penny Orange of 1847 is the most valuable postage stamp in the world.”
“But what gives a tiny bit of paper such value?” Masuto asked.
“Ah! Good question. First of all, it’s the collector who gives it such value. If he did not desire it with demonic ferocity, well then, what would its value be? Nothing. And why does he value it? Mainly because of its rarity. When he has it, he has something that no one else or almost no one else in the world has. Why does one pay seventy thousand dollars for a Rolls-Royce? To have what few others have. Now I do not denigrate the collector. He is the lifeblood of our business. But there it is. And secondly — well, a stamp accumulates a mythology, thieves who try to steal it, kings and oil barons who vie for it, murderers who kill for it.”
&n
bsp; “Murderers?”
“I thought that would interest you, Sergeant. There’s a whole history of murders to gain possession of stamps, but I am afraid I don’t have time to go into that today. Tell me — why does this One-Penny Mauritius interest you?
“I have my reasons. Could you tell me something about it?”
“Well, just off the top of my head without going to the books: orange, you know, color of the ink. Shows the head of the young Queen Victoria. Engraved copper by J. Barnard — rather a skilled engraver for such an out-of-the-way place. He was a watchmaker. This was his first attempt at stamps. You know, Mauritius is a bit of an island in the Indian Ocean. Curiously, it was the first British colony to print its own stamps. It was engraved and printed in Port Louis, largest town in Mauritius, and when Barnard engraved it he made a bit of an error. Errors — they make stamps valuable, indeed they do. Instead of putting post paid in his engraving, Barnard put post office there. Corrected it the following year, but the deed was done. Imperforate, as I said. They had no perforating machine on the island then, so the stamp had to be cut by hand. And lo, it was born — the One-Penny Orange 1847 Mauritius.”
“Do you have one that I could look at?” Masuto asked.
“Do I have one? My dear Sergeant, if I had one — if I had one — well, I wouldn’t have it. There are only fourteen recorded copies of the One-Penny Orange in the whole world. I’d sell it to Clevendon down in Texas for a king’s ransom.”
“Clevendon?”
“A very wealthy Texan who is one of the great collectors.”
“Tell me, Mr. Holmbey, how many of these stamps are there?”
“In the world?”
“Yes.”
“Recorded — fourteen. Unrecorded — who knows? Every now and then, one of them turns up. I suppose that originally they printed several hundred at least. I would have to look that up. I do know that the original plate still exists. You know, it wasn’t until May 6, 1840, that Great Britain printed its first stamps. With us, it was even later, and it was not until twenty years later that anyone ever dreamed of collecting stamps in an album. What a pity, so much was destroyed and discarded. But one happy thing did come about. It almost immediately became quite fashionable to paper walls, screens, candy boxes with canceled stamps, and this did save many valuable issues.”
“May I ask you who owns the One-Penny Orange?”
“Ah, indeed you may. In the world — well, I can name eight collectors who have it. Undoubtedly, there are others I do not know about.”
“And in the United States?”
“Two. The Weill brothers in New Orleans own a cover with two penny stamps on it.”
“And if you had it, what would you charge for it?”
“That depends. The last time I looked at the price in Gibbons — that’s the British catalog — well, it was some years ago. It might have been the 1972 catalog. They had it for twenty-two thousand pounds. What was the pound then — two-sixty? Something of the sort. Well, I might put it up at auction with a base price of sixty thousand.”
“You said …” Masuto began.
“Ah, you want it simple. It is not simple. You see, it depends on the stamp. If the stamp is on an original cover — well, then the sky is the limit. I think only five exist.”
“Cover?”
“Envelope, in your terms. But in those days, Sergeant Masuto, they had no envelopes. They folded a sheet of paper and sealed it with wax. That would be the cover. The 1847 Orange on the original cover — and proven authentic — well, don’t know. I could pick up the phone here, put in a call to Clevendon, tell him what I had, and tell him the price was four hundred thousand dollars. And by God I think he’d pay it. No — I wouldn’t do that. We have three generations of reputation to uphold. Oh, I’d let Clevendon know all right, let a few others know as well, and then I’d take it to London and put it up at auction with a bidding bottom of one hundred thousand pounds. Who knows? It might fetch half a million or more. Anything is possible in today’s inflated world.”
“And if such an original cover were to exist and be stolen, what would be the prospects for the thieves?”
“On the black market? No legitimate dealer or collector would touch it, but there are one or two Middle Eastern collectors and one in France — I mention no names. Of course, the price would be considerably less.”
“But if there were no report of the theft — if it simply surfaced?”
“Ah, then the sky’s the limit.”
“And would the thief try to sell it here?”
“I think not. Stolen here? Why sell it here? London would be a better market.” He cocked his head and regarded Masuto impishly. “Ah, Detective Masuto, behind that Oriental mask of yours lies an interesting speculation. You are apparently quite ready to be convinced that somewhere, somehow, the unpleasant Mr. Gaycheck found a One-Penny Orange — a motive for his murder. And you are also speculating that perhaps I could have done this not entirely unwholesome deed.”
Masuto smiled.
“But you have only to look at me. Surely I am not the type who murders?”
“Is there a type who murders?”
“You are a most unusual policeman — but of course you know that. Yes, I would imagine there is a type that is given to acts of violence. Unlike myself. I lead a sequestered life. By the way, how was the good Gaycheck sent to his reward?”
“You did not like him.”
“I found him distasteful.”
“He was shot in the middle of the forehead with a small pistol, probably an automatic, with a twenty-two-caliber short slug. Short as distinguished from the high-velocity bullet. He died instantly.”
“As a reward for his good deeds. By the way, he perished my debtor.”
“Oh?”
“He owes me eighteen hundred dollars for a stamp I gave him on consignment.”
“A ten-cent black 1847 George Washington?”
“Sergeant, you amaze me. Yes.”
“It’s being held in the sheriff’s station on San Vincente in West Hollywood — in the property office. As evidence. If you put your claim in there and show proof of ownership and indebtedness, you should be able to have it in a few days. I thought it was worth three thousand.”
“Catalog price. A collector might pay close to that. I gave it to Gaycheck on consignment. He said he had a customer for it.”
“Then you did do business with Gaycheck?”
“I do business with any stamp dealer whose credit is not subject to suspicion. In business, one does not make moral judgments.”
“Was there any reason to make a moral judgment of Ivan Gaycheck?”
“Come, come, Sergeant. You know precisely what I mean. By the way, how comes my stamp to the West Hollywood sheriff? Gaycheck was murdered in Beverly Hills.”
“The stamp was found in the possession of Ronald Haber.” Masuto’s face was impassive, his eyes fixed on Holmbey. “He lives in West Hollywood.”
“Gaycheck’s assistant. I don’t understand.”
“Haber was murdered a few hours ago.”
“Good heavens!” Holmbey drew a deep breath. “Murdered. What the devil goes on? Is it open season for stamp dealers?”
“I imagine that the person who killed Haber was looking for something of great value — which Haber may or may not have provided.”
“The One-Penny Orange?”
“Perhaps.”
“I still don’t understand. I don’t want to sound egotistical, but if there were a One-Penny Orange in Los Angeles or indeed anywhere in America, missing or presented for sale, I would know about it.”
“I’m sure you would.”
“Then what on earth gives you this fixation on the One-Penny Orange? Do you have any evidence, any reason to believe it exists?”
“Perhaps.”
“Hardly an expansive answer. Well, Sergeant —”. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve given you a half hour of my time. I have not done away with either Haber or Gaycheck,
but you are welcome to add me to your list of suspects if it pleases you. And if you do come across that One-Penny Orange, I should be delighted to know about it.”
“Only one more question.”
“Yes?”
“You must know most of the important collectors in this area. Are there any of the stature of this man you mentioned — Clevendon?”
“There is no one of Clevendon’s stature as a collector — unfortunately.”
“Perhaps. But I speak of people who could afford the price of such a stamp.”
“Yes, a few. But I see no reason why I should supply their names.”
“I can’t force you to,” Masuto admitted. “On the other hand, I think the D.A. could be persuaded to issue a warrant that would permit me to examine your books — more time-consuming for me, and, I am sure, much more unpleasant for you.”
Holmbey’s mood changed. His face hardened and his blue eyes closed to slits. He stared at Masuto without replying.
“There are other ways,” Masuto said quietly. “There are dealers in Beverly Hills and Westwood who could supply the information. I am not threatening you.”
“Very well,” Holmbey said coldly. “There are only four of them, and you’re quite right. Any legitimate dealer would know who they are, so in fact I violate no confidence. Frank Goldway in Palos Verdes, Jerome Clayton in Pasadena, Raymond Cohen in Bel Air, and Lucille Bettner in Beverly Hills.”
Masuto jotted down the names. “Thank you,” he said, rising. “You’ve been very generous with your time.”
On his way back to Beverly Hills, Masuto pulled into a gas station to fill his depleted tank, and while waiting he telephoned his cousin, Alan Toyada, who was in the research department of Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner & Smith.
“Well, Masao,” Toyada greeted him, “I see you’re working again. Live in Beverly Hills and get scragged.”
“I am not interested in your poor sense of humor. I want to know about Holmbey’s — the stamp dealer in downtown L.A.”
“Masao, you know I specialize in Japanese stocks. Anyway, Holmbey’s is not listed. It’s a family outfit.”
“You have Dun and Bradstreet and other sources. I want to know their condition, their financial standing — or whatever you call it.”