Read The Case of the One-Penny Orange: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Two) for Free Online Page A

Masuto asked Williams.
    â€œAll of them.”
    â€œThey were all awake?”
    â€œThere was a hell of a fight and racket in here. One of them called us. A young girl, name of Cindy Lang.”
    â€œJust one? How many tenants in the place?”
    â€œFour on this floor. Those were the ones who heard it.”
    â€œAnd only one called you?”
    â€œThat’s the way it is, Sergeant.”
    â€œDid any of them see anything?”
    â€œThey claim no.”
    â€œThey’re lying,” said another deputy.
    â€œMaybe yes, maybe no,” Williams said. “Nobody wants to get involved.”
    â€œRunning feet? That could tell something. Two feet sound one way. Four feet sound different.”
    Williams turned to the deputy at the door, who shrugged and said, “I never asked them that.”
    â€œWell, goddamn it, ask them!” Williams snapped. The deputy left, and Williams said to Masuto. “They heard a car start.”
    â€œThey always hear a car start.”
    â€œDid they hear anything else?”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œVoices.”
    â€œMen’s voices. Nothing very clear.”
    â€œAny of the tenants know Haber?”
    â€œNo. Or so they say. He was a loner.” Williams looked around the apartment. “They must have searched the place first. After they killed him, they took off.”
    â€œWhat was on his person?”
    â€œKeys and wallet. You want to see it?”
    Masuto nodded. Williams took a brown envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Masuto. Wainwright dropped into a chair, sighed deeply, and half closed his eyes. The deputy who had been at the door returned.
    â€œWell?” Williams demanded.
    â€œSome say two feet, some say four feet, some say six feet — which means one person or two or three.”
    â€œI could have never figured that out,” Williams said.
    â€œWhat did Cindy Lang say?” Masuto asked. He was going through the wallet: Master Charge, driver’s license, insurance card, but no bills. Three keys.
    â€œIf he had bills, they took them,” said Williams. “I don’t think they were after money, but it’s a habit with hoods. They didn’t want his credit card.”
    â€œWho’s Cindy Lang?” the deputy asked.
    â€œYou got a brain like a sieve,” Williams said disgustedly. “She’s the kid who called us. The blond in apartment F.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œWell, what did she say?”
    â€œShe says she thinks there were three of them.”
    Masuto nodded. Wainwright was dozing now. The photographer gathered his stuff and left.
    â€œWhat killed him?” Masuto asked Williams.
    â€œSkull fracture, over the left temple.”
    â€œBrass knuckles?”
    â€œThat’s what the doctor thinks.”
    â€œYou mind if I look around?”
    â€œBe my guest. But this place has been searched like an earthquake hit it.”
    â€œThey didn’t find what they were looking for,” Masuto said. “So they decided to beat it out of Haber. Except that he didn’t have it.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWho knows?”
    â€œThen how the hell do you know he didn’t have it?”
    â€œThey killed him.”
    â€œMaybe after they took it.”
    â€œMaybe.” Masuto went into the bedroom. The search was thorough, bedclothes torn off the bed, mattress turned over, pictures ripped off the walls — and in the bathroom, bottles emptied, toothpaste tube slit open. He went to the closet. Haber had been in his shirt-sleeves at the time of the murder. His jacket hung in the closet. Masuto took the jacket and spread it out on the bed. Wainwright had finished his nap, and he and Williams were watching now. Masuto folded back the lining, and there, attached to it with two strips of Scotch tape, was a small plastic envelope containing a single stamp.
    â€œI’ll be damned,” Williams whispered.
    Wainwright said