JACK BRIGGS AGAIN
Two o’clock. Masuto sat in his car, took out of his pocket the picture of the girl that he had found in Gaycheck’s wallet, and brooded over it. Was it his own background that made him feel that fifty percent of the young women he saw in West Hollywood were identical with the girl in the photo? Or was it because a disproportionate number of young women with blue eyes and straight blond hair eventually make their way to Hollywood? On the other hand, wonders came out of a bottle, and there appeared to be an irresistible urge among such girls to look alike.
He put the picture back in his pocket and drove west on Wilshire Boulevard for about a mile to another high rise. There he scanned the directory, found the name of Jack Briggs listed under Pisces Productions, and wondered idly who was a Pisces, 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.
“You’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?”
“Yes, I do speak English,” Masuto said.
“Well, 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.”
“That’s because I am not Mr. Kamino,” Masuto explained. “When do you expect Mr. Briggs?”
“Then you’re another Japanese distributor.”
“No. So sorry. I’m a policeman.”
“A 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.
“If you have a few minutes.”
“I 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.”
“Then ten minutes, if you can spare it.”
“Okay. 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.
“It 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.”
“No police force can prevent burglaries,” Masuto said quietly. “We are not pushing you around, Mr. Briggs.”
“Don’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?”
“I felt your wife and son were possibly in great danger.”
“Horseshit. 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.”
“What murder?” It came out poorly. His surly aggressiveness had slipped away, and Masuto felt his simulated ignorance.
“Don’t you read the papers?”
“I have been up to my ears all day.”
“A 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?”
“No.”
“That’s strange, Mr. Briggs.”
“Why?”
“I 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.”
“She may have mentioned it. It slipped my mind.”
“Ah so. Of course. She telephone you today — or you telephoned her?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Just curiosity.”
“I phoned her. Goddamn it, you come in here with these stupid accusations …”
“I make no accusations. Pardon me if that is the impression I give.”
“Why don’t you come out with what you’re here for and let me get back to work.”
“Did you know Ivan Gaycheck?”
“Who?”
“Ivan Gaycheck. The man who was murdered.”
“No. I didn’t know him. I never heard his name before.”
“But your wife mentioned him.”
“Look, mister — don’t try to pull anything on me. If my wife mentioned his name, it slipped my mind.”
Watching him keenly, Masuto said, “There is a Mauritius stamp called the One-Penny Orange. Does that mean anything to you?”
He was a few seconds slow. “What?”
“One-Penny Orange.”
“What in hell are you talking about?”
“Then your wife did not mention that either?”
“Mention what?”
“The One-Penny Orange.”
“Look, when I spoke to my wife, I was thinking of other things.”
“The One-Penny Orange,” Masuto said, rather didactically, “is a Mauritius postage stamp of great value. I have reason to believe that this stamp was in the possession of your mother-in-law, Mrs. Hilda Kramer. I also have reason to believe that it was stolen from her.”
“You’re out of your mind. My mother-in-law never had a pot to pee in.”
“Nevertheless, I believe that she had this stamp in her possession for years — without knowing that she owned it.”
“Play it any way you like.” He looked at his watch. “My time is up, Masuto. I don’t have to answer any questions. Furthermore, I don’t intend to see you again. You got anything to say, you can say it to my lawyer.”
“Why?”
“What in hell do you mean, why? Don’t you understand English?”
“I mean that I haven’t accused you of anything and I did not come here to arrest you for anything.”
“I’m finished. That’s all.” He got up, walked around the desk, and opened the door. Masuto rose, walked to the door, then paused.
“Mr. Briggs?”
Briggs shook his head grimly.
“Mr. Briggs, wouldn’t you, as a matter of plain curiosity, be interested to know what that particular One-Penny Orange is worth?”
Briggs stared at him without replying.
“Ah so — then I will tell you. It is worth over three hundred thousand dollars, and if you doubt my credibility you might call the Holmbey Stamp Center downtown and ask for Mr. Holmbey. I am sure he would be delighted to give you a price.”
Blandly, innocently, Masuto’s dark eyes met Briggs’ pale blue eyes. He could almost feel Briggs’ tension, the enormous effect he was making to control himself.
“Ah, so sorry,” Masuto said sympathetically. “So much for so little. So very sorry.” He smiled and walked out, feeling somewhat ashamed of playing a silly role, yet taking a non-Buddhist and bitter satisfaction in what he had just done.
He drove back to the station then, and on his way to his desk he poked his head into the room where Cora ran the various machines without which no modern police force can function.
“Greetings, Masao,” Cora said. “Come in and let me try to tempt you.”
“You always tempt me.”
“And all I get is the inscrutable. What can I do for you?”
“Jack Briggs, B-r-i-g-g-s. Maybe the Jack stands for John on his birth certificate. From his accent, I’d guess he stems from Texas or maybe Oklahoma. He’s in the porny trade, so maybe there’s something there. Get a make on him if there is any from the F.B.I., and if there’s nothing there, try the Texas State Police.”
“The Texas Rangers.”
“What?”
“That’s what they call themselves — the Texas Rangers.”
“Go on.”
“Truth.”
“Okay, Texas Rangers. But sit on it. Tell them it’s critical, an emergency. I’ll be at my desk — for a little while anyway.”
Wainwright noticed Masuto coming into the squad room, and he stalked over to Masuto’s desk and flung two slips of yellow paper down on the desktop. “Read them and weep,” Wainwright snapped.
They were the charge slips for the telephone calls, one hundred seventy-five dollars to London, two hundred twelve to Germany.
“That’s beautiful,” said Wainwright. “That’s just beautiful.”
“What did Beckman get in Germany?”
“A big, fat nothing.”
“Where is he now?”
“At the public library, where you instructed him to spend the afternoon sitting on his ass. It don’t matter that the world goes on. Beckman spends the day in the library.”
“We hit the jackpot on the London call.”
“What jackpot? You know that forty years ago a German named Kramer maybe bought a very valuable stamp or maybe he didn’t. That’s one hell of a jackpot. Suppose you explain it to me, and suppose you tell me how I explain the call to Germany. We already knew who Gaycheck was. We got that on the Telex.”
“You’re upset,” Masuto said gently.
“Sure I’m upset. We got two murders and we got nothing.”
“Actually, one — because Haber belongs to the sheriff.”
“Screw the lousy sheriff and his idiot deputies. We got two, because they’re connected.”
“I think we have three,” Masuto said, even more gently.
“What!”
“If that’s the way you look at it.”
“What in hell do you mean? We got three murders? What am I, a joke? We got a murder and nobody tells me?”
“I’m telling you.”
“All right, all right,” he said, controlling himself and pulling a chair up next to Masuto’s desk. “Suppose you tell me about it, Masao. And make it good.”
“The name of the victim is Hilda Kramer. She was the mother of Ellen Briggs. It was the Briggses’ house on Camden that was burglarized yesterday.”
“I know that. Hilda Kramer died of a heart attack.”
“Apparently she had a bad heart and suffered a thrombosis. I think it was brought on in a struggle with someone who stole the One-Penny Orange from her.”
“You’re hipped on that One-Penny Orange. The break-in took place yesterday, two days after her death.”
“I know.”
“You got any evidence?”
“None.”
“But you know who the killer is?”
“Yes.”
“The same one who killed Gaycheck?” Wainwright asked sarcastically.
“No.”
“Oh? Three murders and three killers.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You know, Masao,” Wainwright said slowly, “you leave me speechless. It’s the first time, but you leave me speechless.”
“So sorry.”
“Okay. Look, Masao, I know you long enough and respect you enough to accept what you say — but it goes no further, not until you can bring me evidence and swear out a warrant and make an arrest. Not one word of this to the press or to anyone. Two murders in one day in Beverly Hills are enough. Three are impossible. Now who is the killer?”
Masuto shook his head. “Not now. Give me until nine tonight and I’ll pin it down.”
Whatever Wainwright might have said was interrupted by Masuto’s telephone. He picked it up. It was Beckman, from the library.
“Masao, I’ve gone through the two years of Der Spiegel they keep on file. Nothing. No picture of Schwartzman or anyone who resembles him.”
“Is two years all they have?”
“They have the eight years prior to that packed away in the basement. When I asked about it, they began to groan and whine.”
“Let them groan and whine. I want you to get it out and go through it, every page.”
“For God’s sake, Masao, I’ll be there until they close.”
“I expect you will.” He put down the phone and looked at Wainwright, who said:
“All right, Masao. Nine o’clock tonight. I’m going home and get a few hours of sleep. You might do the same.”
“Thank you, but I’m not tired.”
“Be patient and wait until I retire. You’ll be the boss then.”
Cora came over as Wainwright stalked away. “What was he whipping you about?”
“He didn’t sleep last night. That makes him nervous. He wants me to be patient and wait until he retires.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“What have you got for me?”
“From the F.B.I. — big zero. You get nothing from them unless you give them prints to put into their IBM machine. But the good old Texas Rangers came through.”
“Did they!”
“Providing,” Cora said, “that your Jack Briggs is the same as John Wesley Briggs. You didn’t even tell me how old he is.”
“The truth is, I didn’t ask him. About fifty.”
“Well, that fits. John Wesley Briggs, born in Dallas on the twelfth of March, nineteen twenty-six …”
“Twelfth of March. What is that called in that silly astrology thing?”
“It is not silly. Pisces. Don’t knock what you don’t know.”
“Pisces Productions. Good. Go on.”
“Three arrests before the age of twenty. One conviction — car stealing, suspended sentence on a juvenile plea.”
“The others?”
“Both assaults. Charges dropped.”
“Anything else?”
“One nice one that fits in with what you told me. In 1958, he was arrested for what the Rangers call publication of impermissible nudity. Isn’t that cute? In other words, girlie magazines. That was before the lid was taken off pornography.”
“No conviction?”
“No conviction. The magazine closed down and the D.A. dropped the charges. After that, Briggs seems to have left Texas. At least, the Rangers have nothing else on him. Rangers. Isn’t that darling? Did I do all right?”
“You did beautifully,” Masuto said.
“This darling Ranger I spoke to, he says that if you get him a set of prints, he’ll work on it. Why don’t you send me down there with the prints, Masao?”
“Because I want you where I can see your sweet face each morning.”
“I’ll just bet.”