Free The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) by Howard Fast Page A

said.
    â€œGod almighty.”
    â€œYou know, they keep it in a sort of refrigerator, a temperature control room they call it. That’s locked too, and the door was jimmied. And down in the right-hand comer of the door, they scratched the same three letters, J.D.L. The kind of thing you might not even notice if you didn’t look. I couldn’t make head or tail of it, but one of the men at the plant had been reading about this Jewish Defense League, and so that’s how it got into the papers. Me, I just don’t believe in crooks that leave calling cards, and anyway we don’t have no Jewish Defense League here, and when the cops put out some inquiries in L.A., the people in that outfit were as indignant as hell. Funny thing, this stuff is never used as an explosive. The bomb squad in L.A., they don’t come up with anything either.”
    â€œAny leads?”
    â€œAbsolutely nothing. Felcher’s a small outfit with only fourteen people working there, and they all come out clean.”
    â€œYet it had to be someone local.”
    â€œWe got only one thing in that direction, and it leads absolutely nowhere. They got nice landscaping in front of the plant and they use a Chicano gardener, name of Garcia. He’s an old guy, and lived here for years and clean, plain, quiet life, never been busted for anything. Every now and then he picks up a kid to help him, mostly Chicano kids. Two weeks ago, this guy asked for a few days’ work. Said he was broke and he’d work for ten dollars a day. He works out a day and then never shows again.”
    â€œAny name?”
    â€œHe says his name is Frank. No last name, and Garcia didn’t push. About twenty years old, five seven or so, dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds, and that’s it. No leads, no trace, nobody else seems to remember him. Yeah, he had an accent.”
    â€œSpanish?”
    â€œNo. Not Oriental either. Garcia’s sure he wasn’t Spanish. Garcia heard him muttering to himself, and it wasn’t Spanish. You want to talk to Garcia?”
    â€œNo,” Masuto said after a moment. “I think you got everything there was to get. Anyway, I have an uncle who grows oranges near here, and I want to see him before it gets dark.”
    â€œToda Masuto? Is he your uncle?”
    â€œYou know him?”
    â€œThe real estate guys would like to put out a contract on him. He has some of the best land around. Say hello for me.”
    The road to Toda Masuto’s neat white cottage was lined with orange and lemon trees, and when Masuto parked in front of the house, the little old man and his wife came out to greet Masuto and Beckman with a delight that their formality hardly concealed. When the bowing and the exchange of courtesies and the family inquiries were completed, Toda said, “Well, sonny, what brings you here?” He had been born in Japan, but he had only the faintest trace of an accent. Masuto had told Beckman that Toda was past seventy, but he was skinny and vigorous and worked in his groves every day. They sat at a small lawn table in front of the house. Mrs. Masuto had gone into the house and now emerged with a tray containing a teapot, cups and cakes. Toda poured the tea, his eyes twinkling as he looked at the two men.
    â€œTwo detectives. Either you’ve come to arrest me, or the real estate trust hired you to beguile me off my land. May I say, with sincere apologies, such is not possible. So very sorry. The land remains in groves until we die. Then my unworthy son, who teaches physics at Stanford, may do with it as he pleases. However, I shall leave the house and two acres of land to your mother, who has always been my favorite sister-in-law.”
    â€œThat’s very generous of you, Uncle,” Masuto replied. “But I come merely to talk about oranges.”
    â€œSo?” Now he smiled. “You will stay a week perhaps?”
    â€œAll my