Case of the Sliding Pool

by Howard Fast

  He emptied one envelope onto the coffee table. “Diamond ring. With the price of ice these days, it’s got to be maybe sixty, seventy grand. Gold bracelet. Emerald brooch—right on the front of her dress where he couldn’t miss it.”

  Masuto picked it up and examined it, a large emerald set in a nest of rubies. “About thirty thousand dollars,” he concluded. “Wouldn’t you say so, Sy?”

  “Just about.”

  “And a Swiss watch.” He emptied the other envelope. “Lundman’s wallet. Four hundred and twelve dollars in cash. Another Swiss watch. Sapphire pinky ring. And six credit cards. That killer is one indifferent son of a bitch.”

  “Or very rich and very careful. He’s not a thief, he’s a murderer. He takes no chances.”

  “Suppose we talk about him.”

  “Can you give me a little more time, Pete?” He grinned at Bones. “As long as you’re not reading me my rights and we’re cooperating?”

  “All right. I shot off my mouth too quick. It’s a habit.”

  “I want to talk to the maid and poke around the house. And I’d like Sy to talk to some of the people outside.”

  “We covered that. They see no evil and hear no evil.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing to write home about. One woman saw a car pull away down the street. She thinks it was a black Mercedes. She thinks a man was driving. No plate numbers, but she thinks it was a California plate. Could she describe the man? No. That’s it, in a town where they’re maybe five thousand black Mercedes.”

  “Two-door or four-door?”

  “She thinks four-door.”

  “I’d still like Sy to talk to her.”

  “Okay. And what do I do—sit around and wait for you?”

  “It’s five o’clock now,” Masuto said. “If you can make it at the Beverly Hills police station at seven, I’ll give you all I have. I know that takes you out of your way, but Wainwright will be sore as hell if I spell it out for you and he doesn’t know what’s going on. Which he doesn’t. Also, I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “You’re stretching it.”

  “I know.”

  “You got any more killings lined up for me?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Okay. Wainwright’s office at seven.” He turned to Beckman. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to our Mercedes witness.”

  The Lundman maid was full of grief and fear of the cold, unpredictable Anglo world that surrounded her. She spoke English, but Masuto felt that her own language would put her more at ease, and he asked her in Spanish what her name was.

  “Rosita, señor.”

  “Good. We will speak in your tongue. You cared deeply for the Lundmans?”

  “She was like a mother to me. Who would do this?”

  “An evil man. You must not think of death now, only of your own life which was spared because you were downstairs. In this house, only Mr. and Mrs. Lundman lived?”

  “Yes, señor. Only the two.”

  “Did they have children?”

  “One son in San Francisco. He is an architect. I gave the police his telephone number and they called him. He was close to them. He will feel great sorrow.” She began to sob again, and Masuto waited.

  “When you were downstairs, the door to the basement was closed?”

  “Yes, señor.”

  “Were any of the machines going? I mean the washing machine.”

  “Yes, the dryer. I was ironing Mr. Lundman’s shirts, and the towels were in the dryer.”

  “The man who came, he must have rung the doorbell. Did you hear it?”

  “No, señor. In the basement, when the door is closed, you don’t hear the doorbell. When I work down there, I leave the door open.”

  “Why did you close it this time?”

  “Mrs. Lundman asked me to. She said she would get the door if anyone came.”

  “Was she expecting someone?”

  “I don’t know, señor.”

  “But when the police came, they rang the bell and you heard it. How was that? Had the clothes dryer stopped?”

  She looked at him bewilderedly. “Yes, it stopped.”

  “But you said that even without the dryer going, when the door is closed, you don’t hear the bell.”

  “Señor,” she whispered, “the door to the basement was open.”

  Masuto stood up. “Come, Rosita, we’re going down to the basement.”

  “Please, señor, not now. I am afraid.”

  “It will be all right, Rosita. Just stay behind me.” He drew his revolver, and the remaining L.A. investigator, still in the living room, said, “What’s that for?”

  “I’m not sure,” Masuto told him. “The killer opened the basement door. It’s a million-to-one shot against him still being there, but why take chances?”

  “We looked in the basement.”

  “We’ll look again. Is there an outside door to the basement?” he asked Rosita.

  “Yes, there is.”

  The door leading to the basement was in the kitchen, and the staircase was dark. Masuto flicked on the light. “Do you leave this light on when you work in the basement?”

  “No, there is a switch at the bottom of the staircase. There are windows in the laundry room.”

  “He didn’t leave by the basement,” the L.A. investigator said. “The basement door has a dead bolt and it was locked from the inside.”

  They went down the stairs and searched the basement. There was a short corridor at the foot of the basement stairs. To the left was a room that contained the furnace and the hot water heater. The laundry room was to the right, and opening off the laundry room, Rosita’s room. Both rooms had high, narrow windows.

  “You turned off the dryer,” Masuto said to Rosita. “What did you do then?”

  “I was tired, señor. I went into my room and closed the door and lay down on my bed and smoked a cigarette.”

  Masuto noticed an ashtray with a cigarette butt in it. “Then if he had looked in the cellar, he would not have seen you—unless he went into your room?”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “I was beginning to believe he made no mistakes.”

  “How’s that?” the L.A. investigator asked.

  “Maybe one mistake. I want to go through the house with Rosita.”

  “The lieutenant said to give you your head.”

  Masuto looked at Rosita. “How old are you, Rosita?”

  “Twenty-three.” She was very simply, plainly beautiful, and it occurred to Masuto that when Mexican or Japanese women are beautiful, they have a kind of beauty that no Western European woman can match, a kind of earthy openness that harks back to the beginning of things.

  “You are very young, and you have a long life ahead of you. We must see that you come to no harm.”

  “I am so afraid.”

  “Now you are with me, Rosita, and there is nothing to be afraid of. I promise you that. Now we will go upstairs.”

  The L.A. investigator was listening to them. “She speaks English,” he said with some annoyance. “You got something I shouldn’t hear?”

  “She’s more comfortable in her language, just as I imagine you are more comfortable in yours.”

  “They come here and go on welfare; you’d think they’d learn to talk the damn language.”

  “It was their country. We came here,” Masuto said gently, taking the girl’s arm and leading her up the stairs.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  He led her from room to room, two bedrooms, a den with a television set in it. “Look at everything, Rosita. Tell me if anything’s been touched or moved.”

  In the bedrooms nothing had been touched. In the master bedroom, there was a jewel box on the dressing table. Evidently, the Lundmans did not believe in locking away their valuables in a safe deposit box. Masuto raised the lid and stared at the array of pearls, diamonds, and gold chains.

  “She always kept them here, Rosita, like this?”

&
nbsp; “She said they were insured, and that if she couldn’t enjoy them, there was no use having them.”

  “She trusted you.”

  “Yes, señor.” The tears began again.

  In the den there was a large mahogany desk. It contained a file drawer. “That was opened,” Rosita said.

  “How do you know?”

  “You see, it is not closed completely. I am careful. I keep the drawers closed.”

  Masuto opened the file drawer and glanced through it. “Mr. Lundman was retired?”

  “Yes. Last year he retired.”

  Evidently, he had kept ten years of business and personal financial records. Even if his records had gone back thirty years, as the foreman on the job he would keep no records of workers. The killer must have known that. He had opened the file out of curiosity. As Masuto had already surmised, he was a curious and methodical man. He would give himself a specific length of time in the house, perhaps ten minutes, which he would consider a safe interval. He would check the house, check the basement.

  Masuto shook his head in exasperation. I am working from the wrong end, he told himself. I am following him. He’s too smart for that. The only way is to begin at the beginning, but what is the beginning and why?

  “Do you have a family?” he asked Rosita.

  “In Mexico City, señor.”

  “No one here? No dear friend?”

  “I am only here three years, señor, and all the time working here for the Lundmans.”

  “No man you love and can trust?”

  “Oh, señor!”

  “Then you must trust me, Rosita. I’m going to take you with me. I’m not going to arrest you, but you must not stay here. You see, the newspapers and television people, who are outside by now, well, they will report that you were here when the murders took place. You didn’t see the murderer, but there is no way that he can be sure of that. And that means that he will come after you.”

  “Dear Mother of God, señor, what will I do?”

  “You will not be afraid. You will come with me and you will do what I tell you to do. Is that clear?”

  “Yes—but the house?”

  “The house will be sealed and an officer will remain here until Mr. Lundman’s son comes. We’ll go downstairs, and you will go to your room and change into a plain dress. Pack a small bag, a change of clothes, toothbrush, things of that sort, enough for a few days. Then wait for me in your room.”

  They went downstairs, and as Rosita started for the basement door, the L.A. investigator demanded to know where she was going.

  “To her room for the moment. I’m taking her with me.”

  Beckman entered as the L.A. man shouted, “What the hell do you mean, you’re taking her with you! The lieutenant says she stays here.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Billy,” Beckman said, “what’s with you guys? We’re on your side. If Masuto says he’s taking her, he’s got a damn good reason.”

  “I’m meeting Pete Bones at seven,” Masuto said soothingly. “When I see him, I’ll have the girl with me. But meanwhile, I want to remind you that she’s not under arrest. She can’t be detained. She has the right to come and go as she pleases, and in a few minutes we’re going out through the back basement door, which you can lock behind us.”

  “You’re building one big pile of trouble for yourself, sergeant.”

  “We’ll try to live with it.”

  Downstairs, Rosita was ready and waiting, and as they went out through the cellar door, Beckman said, “They are one lovely bunch, those L.A. cops. Just sweet, kind, gentle souls.”

  “They do their job.”

  “So do we. There are ways.”

  6

  ROSITA

  They stopped to eat at a Mexican restaurant in West-wood, halfway between Brentwood and Beverly Hills. Once a small, pretty college town, Westwood was now a contiguous part of Los Angeles, although still dominated by UCLA. The little restaurant was packed with students. Rosita watched them wistfully. “They seem so alive and happy,” she said in Spanish. “It’s hard to understand being happy.”

  “Give it time,” Masuto said. “We’ll speak English. My friend, Detective Beckman, has trouble with Spanish.”

  His mouth full of tamales and beans, Beckman was having no trouble with Mexican food. He finished chewing and said, “Four years of high school Spanish—it’s the way they teach, Masao, lousy. My wife says I should take a course in night school. Then I’d never see her. Maybe she’s right. Anyway, we got nothing from that dame who saw the Mercedes. Now she says maybe it was a Jaguar. But I found a kid who says it was a black Mercedes, a four-fifty SL. The kid is a mavin on cars, so what he saw is dependable, but he didn’t look at the plates or who was driving.”

  “The four-fifty is a two-door sports car. Bones said the woman saw a four-door. It’s like confusing a grapefruit with a tangerine.”

  “That occurred to me. So maybe we got nothing.”

  “Which is what we had to begin with—a corpse that doesn’t exist and a killer who doesn’t exist.”

  “Except that according to you, the corpse is the killer. Bones will love that.”

  “I don’t think Bones loves anything, not even himself. Wait for me outside the station, Sy, and then I want you to take Rosita here into our office and stay with her. Also, call Kati and tell her I’ll be late.”

  “What do I tell my wife?”

  “Tell her you’ve started night school in Spanish.”

  Rosita smiled. It was the first time Masuto had seen her smile. She was even prettier when she smiled.

  When Masuto walked into Wainwright’s office at the Beverly Hills police station, three men were waiting for him along with Wainwright. There was Pete Bones and with him his boss, Captain Kennedy of the L.A. police, whom Masuto had tangled with before, and a short, hard-faced man who was introduced as Chief Morrison of the Inglewood police. On Wainwright’s face was a look of pained yet resigned sufferance, an expression Masuto was not unfamiliar with. “Sit down, Masao,” he said bleakly.

  “I’m here in Beverly Hills when I should be at home,” Kennedy said, “because, goddamnit, you’re pulling one of your stunts again, Masuto, and so help me God, this time you’re going to give us the bottom line. The lieutenant here says he was ready to read you your rights, and maybe he went too far, but first you’re down in Inglewood on a murder nobody knows about yet, and then you call Bones and tell him today is killing day and then you turn up before the bodies are cold—and just what in the hell is this all about? You people turn up a skeleton that was put under a swimming pool thirty years ago, and now we got a slaughterhouse all over L.A. County.”

  “It appears that way, doesn’t it,” Masuto agreed.

  “What do you mean, appears?” Morrison snapped. “You’re a Beverly Hills cop. You think something’s going on in Inglewood, you call me. You don’t go barging down to our turf like you got a license for the whole county. Maybe that old lady would still be alive if you had followed proper procedure.”

  “Would she?” Masuto asked mildly. “Or would you tell me that no crime has been committed and that there was nothing you could do? Or would you tell me that since she hadn’t testified or agreed to testify at a pre-trial hearing, the rules didn’t permit you to give her protection. I wasn’t born yesterday, hardly, and I’ve been a cop for a long time. So if you’re ready to listen to me and hear what I have, I’ll spell it out for you. Otherwise, forget it. My boss is Captain Wainwright here. I don’t owe the rest of you one damn thing.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Masao,” Wainwright exclaimed, “we’re cooperating! We’re not like the army and navy. We’re all on the same side.”

  “Cool down,” Kennedy said. “Maybe we’re too hard on you. But if you let us in on things along the way, it would be easier.”

  “He don’t even let me in,” Wainwright said. “He’s the Lone Ranger. The trouble is he’s good. He’s the best damn plainclothes cop this city ever had. So why don’t we listen
to him?”

  “Go ahead,” Kennedy said.

  “All right,” Masuto agreed. “Saturday it rained, on top of a winter of too much rain. A swimming pool on Laurel Way slid down into the canyon, and we found this skeleton under it. We pegged it as put there thirty years ago, and my partner, Sy Beckman, put in some work yesterday and got dates and the name of the builder out of the town records. I made some guesses. One: the killer worked in the excavation. Two: the victim worked in the excavation. I have reasons for my guesses, but I won’t go into them now. Anyway, thirty years go by. You don’t have to be a genius to decide that the first person to see is the building contractor, providing he’s still alive. Let me underline something. It was our killing, a Beverly Hills homicide. Alex Brody was the contractor. I had his address and I drove down to Inglewood, but I was too late. Not for Brody. He died years ago, but too late to save his wife, who may or may not have known something. The killer took no chances. He read about the pool in the newspapers or saw it on TV, and he decided to kill Mrs. Brody. If there was anything in her house to incriminate him, he took it with him. Then I called Pete here and asked about any homicide with a similar M.O. Then I drove to Whittier, where I have an uncle in the home-building business. He’s an old man, and he knows everyone who operates in L.A. County. He remembered that Lundman was the foreman on that Laurel Way job, and as soon as I heard that, I called Bones and I called my partner, Sy Beckman. I was too late. Do you think I enjoy living with that? But if you can tell me where I acted improperly, I’m ready to listen.”

  They were silent for a while after Masuto had finished. Then Kennedy said, “You tie it all together? You’re convinced that the same man who killed the body under the pool did the killings today?”

  “It’s too tight to be a coincidence.”

  “Why now?”

  “Because as long as his victim was safely under the pool, he had nothing to worry about.”

  “Suppose Brody and Lundman were alive? What could they give us? They didn’t witness the murder. Why kill them?”