The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery (14 page)

“Do you?”

Masuto shook his head.

“Then what the hell are you asking me for? What am I, some kind of schmuck? When the Mafia comes into this county, I will know about it, and if they put out a contract, I'll know about that too. I'm not saying I can make an arrest stick, but I will know about it.”

“Let's pretend we're on the same side,” Masuto said, smiling. “I'm not trying to do you in. I come bearing gifts.”

“What kind of gifts? And what do you want?”

“Only a little help.”

“Yeah. What kind of gifts?”

“We have four murders,” Masuto said. “Three of them took place in Los Angeles.”

“That Chicano maid was working in your town.”

“Yes, but she went home to L.A. before she ate those éclairs. So technically, it's yours. We don't want any more killings than we have to have. Now I think I can clear this up before midnight today, and if I do, I give you my word I'll call you in for the arrest.”

“You can't do that even if you wanted to, which I don't believe for a minute.”

“You know I can. I'll get through to you or to whoever you designate, and you have a car cutting through Beverly Hills, and I'll put out an assist and your car picks it up and makes the technical arrest.”

“No. It's clumsy.”

“If I already have the man? I'll tell you something else, when I go after him, I may very well be in Los Angeles. I can't say at this point.”

“You know, Masuto, every time I see you, you got trouble for me. Every time I see you, you got some crazy project. You come here and tell me you got a killer lined up and you want to hand him over to me. Why?”

“Justice. More killings on your turf.”

“Bullshit. You know who the killer is, give me his name and we'll do the rest. We're not the worst police force in the world.”

“Maybe the best. We're not up to names. But you can't tell me it won't be a feather in your cap to clear up four killings.”

Bones leaned back in his chair and stared at Masuto. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. We got a deal. But don't rat on me. If you do, I'll take it out of your hide. Now what do you want in exchange?”

“Very little. Perhaps a month or two more than three years ago, a young woman whose name was Catherine Addison was killed in a car crash. I want to know exactly when and where the accident took place. I want you to locate the policeman or policemen who attended the accident at the time and I want to talk to them, and if you assigned an investigator to the case, I want to talk to him as well.”

Bones grinned slowly. “You got to be kidding.”

“Oh, no. I'm very serious.”

“Three years ago? Are you crazy, Masuto? Suppose no other car was involved in the accident? Suppose no one was booked? Suppose it didn't even happen in Los Angeles? Did it?”

“I don't know.”

“You got a lot of nerve coming down here with something like this.”

“I know.”

He opened the pad in front of him. “What did you say her name was?”

“Catherine Addison.”

“Hasn't she got relatives, a family? There are easier ways to get at this.”

“She has a mother who won't talk about her. My guess is that the mother can't talk about her, and I haven't got time for psychoanalysis.”

“All right, we'll give it a try.”

“I want it quick.”

“Yeah? I want the moon.”

“Even if you find one of the cops, have him call our station. Polly there will patch him through to wherever I am.”

Back in his car, Masuto felt a certain satisfaction. It was beginning to come together. Very slowly, yet it was beginning to come together.

He drove back to Beverly Hills and Beverly Drive. The media had given up, and, except for a couple of curious kids, there was no one in front of the Crombie house. Still in the driveway were three cars, the Porsche, the Seville, and Beckman's Ford. Masuto parked behind the Ford, walked to the door, and touched the bell.

There was a peephole, and he could imagine Beckman staring at him. Then the door opened.

“I'm being relieved,” Beckman said. “You're taking over.”

“No such luck. Where are the ladies?”

“Inside playing bridge. I'm the dummy. It don't matter that I can't play bridge worth a damn. They taught me the game and now I'm trapped, and every lousy play I make, that Crombie dame rakes me over the coals. She is a lulu. Tell you something else, Masao, with these three dames locked up together, their love for each other is going downhill swiftly. They're beginning to snap and snarl, especially the two older ones.”

At that moment, Laura Crombie's voice. “Mr. Beckman, what's going on out there?”

“Sergeant Masuto. We'll be in in a moment.”

“It's your deal.”

“Sy,” Masuto said softly, “I want one of the pictures. Kelly, Catherine. The Crombie kid. Grown, not as a child. Take it out of the album.”

“We could ask. I hate to steal it.”

“Mr. Beckman!” from inside.

“We are not stealing it. We're borrowing it. Don't worry. We'll put it back.”

“Okay,” Beckman said.

“While I'm here. I only have a few minutes.”

Beckman shook his head.

“Don't worry. I'll send you upstairs,” Masuto said.

Beckman led him through the house to a bright, beautifully-decorated breakfast room that overlooked the gardens and pool. The furniture was bamboo and flowered chintz, the floor was of imported Spanish tile, and the bay window set in shiny brass fittings. There were plants and flowers everywhere, and Masuto looked at it with such pleasure that Laura Crombie abandoned her tight-lipped expression of annoyance.

“You like the room, Sergeant?”

“Very much.” He turned to Beckman. “Go through the house while I'm here, Sy.”

“Again?” Mrs. Crombie asked.

“Please. Then I can report back that he checked the house while I was present.”

Beckman strode out on his mission, and Nancy Legett said, “Sometimes, Sergeant, I wonder whether you are not a little mad. This whole notion that someone is trying to murder us—”

“Stop that, Nancy!” Laura Crombie said sharply.

Nancy Legett began to cry. She sat bent over the table on which the cards had been dealt, her body wracked with sobs. Mitzie Fuller put her arms around her.

“Come on now, darling,” Mitzie said. “Everything's going to be all right.”

“Nothing's going to be all right,” she sobbed. “We're all going to be killed, the way Alice was killed. You know that. I know that. He killed Alice first, and then it's our turn.”

“Who killed Alice?” Masuto asked gently.

“Arthur Crombie. Didn't you know?”

“No, no, that's too much,” Laura Crombie said. “Now see here, Nancy, we're old friends, but that doesn't give you the right to carry on like this.”

“I wish I could stay, but I can't,” Masuto said firmly. “Now listen to me!”

They stopped squabbling and turned to him. Mitzie said cheerfully, “Right on, Charlie Chan. Oh, no. That was terrible of me. That was inexcusable of me. Please forgive me.”

“More inexcusable since I am a Nisei, which means of Japanese parents. However, I'll forgive you.”

“Bless you.” She leaped up and kissed his cheek. “There's my apology.”

“Thank you. Now, I want a picture of each of your ex-husbands.”

“You're kidding,” Laura Crombie said.

“Dead serious. Of course, Mrs. Greene presents a problem.”

“You read the
Times
,” Mitzie said. “You are one strange detective.”

“How do you know I read the
Times?
”

“Because the
Examiner
has a picture of Alice and her ex right there on the front page. I'll tear it out for you.”

“Mrs. Crombie?”

“I'll find a picture of Arthur for you.”

“Mrs. Legett?”

She was unwilling to meet his gaze.

“Mrs. Legett, did you hear me? I have to have a picture of your ex-husband.”

Still avoiding his gaze, blushing, she opened her purse and took a two-by-three photo out of her billfold. She handed it to Masuto. The two other women stared at her in disbelief, and then, unable to contain herself, Mitzie cried out, “Oh, no! I don't believe it.”

“That's enough,” Laura Crombie snapped.

“And you, Mrs. Fuller?” Masuto asked Mitzie.

“I've insulted you and kissed you, so no more of that Mrs. Fuller stuff. Mitzie. I've decided you remind me of Richard Boone, only you're better looking. As for a picture, I wouldn't have that little bastard's picture within a mile of me. But all you have to do is call the studio.”

“Metro?”

“That's right. That's where sonnyboy is shooting his new picture.”

“I'll be there in an hour.”

“You will? I knew it! I knew it! I knew that little son of a bitch is the one. Oh, I hope you get him, Masuto. And I hope they have public seating at the gas chamber. I want to be there, right in front.”

“Mitzie, how can you!” Nancy cried.

“It's easy.”

“I'll get the picture for you,” Laura Crombie said.

On the way out of the house, Beckman slid the picture of Catherine Addison into Masuto's side pocket.

“There's a possibility that Polly will put a call in to here,” Masuto said to Beckman, “from an L.A. cop. I'm going to stop off at my house and then I'm going on to Metro. So you'll catch up with me in either place.”

The Director and the Producer

Long ago, it was said that no one knows Brooklyn, the suggestion implicit being that even if one set out to master such knowledge, the quest would be fruitless. The same might be said of Los Angeles. Long, long ago, the vast California county of Los Angeles contained dozens and dozens of separate towns and villages and cities, Los Angeles City being the largest. Through the years, under the impetus of urban sprawl and enormous population growth, these dozens of cities had come together, the way cookie dough placed too close on the cookie sheet will spread and join. Masuto worked in Beverly Hills, which was almost entirely surrounded by metropolitan Los Angeles; he lived in Culver City, which was another enclave into Los Angeles, and the studios of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer were also in Culver City.

But there was no non-urban countryside to be crossed between Culver City and Beverly Hills, or between the two of them and Los Angeles. The streets of one merged into the streets of the other, and even the oldest citizens would have been hard pressed to tell you what constituted the border between one place and another.

Usually, driving from work to his home, Masuto would take Motor Avenue or Overland Avenue south from the Twentieth-Century Fox Studios on Pico Boulevard. Both routes were in the direction of the MGM Studios, which were less than a mile from Masuto's home. Perhaps Motor Avenue passed closer to his house. Masuto drove that way, and a few minutes before one, he parked in the driveway of his house.

Kati, who was vacuuming the living room, let out a squeal of surprise as he entered. “Masao, what is it? What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“You're afraid to tell me. I don't care. I'm just so happy to see you. I don't care.”

“What don't you care about?”

“You've been fired. All right. Good. I never enjoyed having a policeman for a husband.”

“I haven't been fired. I'm going to MGM, and this is on the way, and I'm tired of eating junk food. I thought that if I stopped off here, I'd get a decent lunch. But maybe with the consciousness-raising, you haven't got the time or inclination, and if that's the case I'll understand.”

“Stop teasing me. I have tempura all prepared for tonight, but you may just call me and tell me that you're having dinner with four more women—”

“I might.”

“I have shrimp and string beans and sweet potato and zucchini all cleaned and ready.”

“It sounds incredible.”

He sat at the kitchen table, while the room filled with the delicious smell of deep-fried shrimp and vegetables. He had the pictures spread out in front of him, the three men and the girl.

“What do you think of Monte Sweet?” he asked Kati.

“Monte Sweet?”

“The comic. You've seen him on television.”

“The one who hates everyone. Oh, no, I can't bear to watch him, he's so filled with hatred and rage. How can a man be so terrible?”

“It's his stock in trade.”

“Why is it funny to say terrible things about other people?”

“Perhaps all humor consists of a kind of hatred. We laugh at the suffering of others.”

“I don't.”

“Because you, Kati, are a very special person.”

She placed the platter of tempura and a bowl of rice in front of him, and Masuto picked up his ivory chopsticks, reflecting on what a pleasure it was to eat with these beautiful artifacts rather than with the barbaric knife and fork, which turned an approach to food into an attack.