The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery (13 page)

“What in hell are you talking about?”

“Alice Greene's will. A million and a half. It goes to dogs and cats.”

“And where does that get us?”

“Nowhere. Precisely nowhere.”

“I been with the city manager and the mayor, Masao. They want my scalp. Maybe they took it with them already. It's twelve hours since a murder took place in Beverly Hills, and we haven't tied up the case. It doesn't matter that the L.A.P.D. with seven thousand men on the force can't solve the Hillside Strangler killings, to which they have assigned more men than we got on our whole force. One murder in this town makes them insecure.”

“It makes me insecure.”

“I guess that's funny. They want crime prevented. There is no way to prevent a crime.”

“There has to be,” Masuto said.

“What does that mean?”

“Those three women are going to die unless we prevent it.”

“Well, you got Beckman living in there, living the life of a goddamn gigolo, with three dames waiting on him hand and foot. What else can I do? I told you you could have cops outside, front and back, but you didn't want that. We could put another cop inside, and if they start screaming about sixteen hours overtime, let them scream. They're going to holler about everything else. And for Christ's sake, don't let it drop that we got three murders pending. That's all I need.”

“It's not a jail, Captain. Sooner or later, the women have to come out.”

“Then, goddamnit, Masao, get the bastard!”

“I know who he is,” Masuto said thoughtfully. “Getting him is another matter.”

Wainwright exploded. “What! Did I hear you right—you miserable slant-eyed pain in the ass? Did I actually hear you say you know who this murderous mother is, and you had the crust to sit here and hear me get my ass roasted by the mayor and the city manager?”

“I have always defended you as a non-racist,” Masuto said unhappily. “My eyes don't actually slant, so it's a kind of unhappy euphemism—”

“Goddamnit, I got excited! If you don't know me by now—”

“Anyway, I'm not sure.”

“What do you mean, you're not sure? A moment ago, you were sure.”

“Suppose I know who he is? That's an inner knowledge, based on what you might call a smell of things. Where is my proof? Where is my evidence, motive?”

“Who is he?”

Masuto shook his head.

“Goddamn you, Masao, you played this game with me before. I want to know who he is!” Wainwright shouted.

“I could be wrong.”

“I've never known you to be wrong—not when you pull this kind of thing on me.”

“Give me until tonight. If I don't bring him in tonight, I'll give you whatever I've got, and you can take it from there.”

“Masao, don't play this game with me. If you know who he is, we can take him and find the gun. The gun will tie him in.”

“He's crazy, but madness is not synonymous with stupidity. You're not dealing with a housebreaker or a mugger. If we take him now, we not only tip our hand, but we'll have to turn him loose. And if that happens, he won't make the one mistake that I think he'll make sooner or later.”

“And how do you know he'll make it now?”

“Because no one's perfect and there are no perfect crimes. He made a whole series of errors, first with the éclairs, then with the candy, then with the kid and the chemist, killing again and again to cover his own blunders. He's frightened and he's in a hurry. That's where he gave himself away. He was trapped in a moment in time, and he began to kill, and when I find that moment and find out why it trapped him, I've got him. Oh, he is very clever—but stupid at the same time. That's the pathological part of him.”

“I wish I knew what in hell you're talking about. I still want his name.”

“I can't talk you out of that?”

“Not this time, Masao. If anything happens to one of those three women, on top of what has already happened, this whole damn department is going up in smoke.”

“If I give you his name,” Masuto said slowly, “will you give me twenty-four hours? Twenty-four hours before you turn it over to the L.A. cops, twenty-four hours before you pick him up and begin to grill him?”

“That would really be tying my hands, Masao.”

“No, sir. With all deference, that would be saving your neck. Because if you pick him up now, not only will his lawyer have him out of here in fifteen minutes, but he would slap this city with the biggest false arrest suit it ever entertained. And as you are fond of telling me, this is not downtown Pittsburgh. It's Beverly Hills.”

Wainwright stared at him thoughtfully; then he nodded. “Okay. You got your twenty-four hours. Now give me the name.”

Masuto took a pad, scribbled the name, and then handed the bit of paper to Wainwright.

“I'll be damned,” Wainwright said.

“I could be wrong. Remember that.”

“You're wrong about one thing. I'd think twice before I pulled him in or handed his name over to the L.A. cops. I'd want to see some unshakable evidence.” He looked at the name again, then folded the slip of paper and put it in his pocket. “Maybe we'll get lucky this time.”

Catherine Addison

Masuto picked up his phone and dialed the Crombie number. Mitzie Fuller answered. “Well,” she said, “if it isn't Mr. Inscrutable himself! Do you know what I feel like? I feel like I'm under house arrest in a Banana republic. This is no life, Sergeant, and I don't like ladies enough to spend the rest of my life in their company. Either you spring us or I'm going to bust out.”

“Give it until tonight,” Masuto said.

“Now if you'll be our baby sitter, I might be able to relax and enjoy it.”

“I'm afraid that's impossible right now. Please stay with it. Is Detective Beckman around?”

“He is always around. Only the bathrooms are safe from Detective Beckman's prowling presence. I'll call him.”

Beckman got on the phone and said, “Masao, these gals are driving me nuts. Also, the phone doesn't stop. Every goddamn newspaper, TV station, and wire service in the world has been calling here. It's one thing for me to say no comment. But these dames—they talk to their friends. So whatever stories get out, don't blame me. I'm just the keeper. Outside in front, we got two TV cameras and crews, maybe six reporters, and a nice sprinkling of the public. Nothing like this ever happened before on Beverly Drive.”

“Just keep the doors locked. What about the picture?”

“You're right. There isn't a picture of the kid anywhere in the house. I mean a framed picture, or a picture on the wall, or one of those pictures you stand on a table or a piano.”

“You're sure?”

“Absolutely. But let me tell you this. In Mrs. Crombie's bedroom, I saw one of those big, classy leather-covered picture albums. I leafed through it, and, Masao, every picture in it is the daughter Kelly.”

“How do you know it's Kelly?”

“Well, it's obvious, isn't it? Unless there's some other kid in Mrs. Crombie's life. Oh, it's the daughter, all right, and it starts with her as an infant and takes her right through, I guess until right before she died. If you want one of the pictures, I can slip it out. Who knows if she ever looks at the book.”

“No—not yet. I think I can get a picture somewhere else. Now look, keep those women inside.”

“I'll try.”

Masuto was on his way out when Wainwright called after him. “Hold on a moment, Masao. One thing.”

“Yes?”

“Why does he have to kill all the women?”

“Then there's no motive—or four motives.”

“You mean that cold-blooded bastard would kill four women just to lay down a smoke-screen?”

“He's running scared and he has a lot to protect. He's killed three people already. A man like that is totally without conscience or morality. He will kill a human being the way you or I might kill a fly. You read about that kind of thing. There was that fellow in Texas who killed eleven people. You just don't look for it in a place like this.”

“Which one of the four is he after?”

“I'm not sure. I could guess, but I'm not sure.”

“Alice Greene?”

“I'm just not sure.”

“And you don't think he'll drop it now?”

“He can't drop it. It has him by the throat.”

“Which is what worries me, Masao. If anything happens to one of those women, we're in it up to our ears. At this point, I don't give a damn about the cost. I can put four men around that house day and night.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that's not the problem. The problem is keeping them in the house. I'll go down the line on the fact that nothing will happen to them while they're there. But we can't keep them there. You know by now the kind of women we deal with in Beverly Hills. They've had it their own way; they've always had it their own way. All I can do is ask them to stay there, and maybe while they're scared enough they will. But the fear will wear off, and my guess is that by tomorrow, no force on earth can keep them there. But while they're there, Beckman is with them, and there's no one I'd trust more than Beckman in a situation like that.”

“All right,” Wainwright agreed uneasily. “Where are you off to now?”

“Downtown—oh, I am stupid, I don't have a brain in my head.” He broke off and stalked back to his office and called the Crombie house again. This time, the phone was busy. He kept dialing, looking at his watch, dialing. It was eleven o'clock. The day was running away.

Beckman answered the phone.

“Sy, did you get her first husband's name?”

“Whose first husband's name?”

“Crombie's.”

“Yeah. I forgot to tell you. She was married to a guy named Neville Addison. He invented a type of radar for use on small military vehicles and made himself millions. From what I've been able to get from Mrs. Legett”—he dropped his voice—“this Crombie dame is worth millions, but millions.”

“Good enough,” Masuto said. “Hang in there.”

Outside, the press was waiting, pleading with him. “Come on, Sergeant, open up. Give us something. Is the Mafia established in Beverly Hills?”

“Is this a contract job?”

“How does Monte Sweet fit into it?”

“Where is Monte Sweet?”

“Was he romancing this broad? Come on, give.”

Masuto got into his car and drove away. He was totally into it now, putting it together, piece by piece. He felt that he had most of the pieces, the only trouble being that the most important pieces were blank. He felt driven, compelled. The shadow figure who opposed him was locked with him in combat. Masuto knew, and by now the killer was aware that Masuto knew.

He pulled his car into the parking lot at the Los Angeles Police Department and went inside. On a day when every minute counted, luck was with him. Lieutenant Pete Bones was at his desk.

Bones regarded him sourly.

“I know,” Masuto said, “but if you could wrap up those two killings you got and maybe fish another one out of the bin, you wouldn't hate me so much. Right?”

“I don't hate you. You're just one curious son of a bitch, and that pisses me off. What the hell have you got, some kind of lousy Oriental crystal ball?”

“Come on now, Pete,” Masuto said gently.

“How in hell did you know that those two bullets would match up?”

“Two bullets?”

“You know damn well what I'm talking about. The bullet that killed the Chicano kid and the bullet that killed the chemist.”

“Same gun?” Masuto said innocently.

“You know, if it was anyone else, I'd say you're mixed up in something, but the word is you're an honest cop. Not that I'm taking my hat off to the Beverly Hills Police Department.”

“No,” Masuto agreed. “Of course not.”

“All right. You got this thing with the botulism. Omi Saiku filled me in on that. It had to be a chemist, and you figured the chemist had to be dirty, so there was a dirty chemist somewhere whom we might have picked up, and if we put the screws on him, he would have implicated your killer. So your man killed him. You laid that out uptown. But how in hell could you be sure that the Chicano kid tied into it?”

“I don't know how many plainclothes detectives you have in the L.A. force,” Masuto said. “Perhaps a thousand. We don't have enough to make up a good poker game. So I have to guess. Sometimes I guess right.”

“Let me make a guess,” Bones said, “that the killing you had last night ties into this.”

“That's good guessing.”

“Nah! Not even smart. We got a Chicano housemaid who dies of botulism who works for this Crombie woman, and then we got this Mafia-type killing in her front yard.”

“Is that what you think?” Masuto asked. “The Mafia?”