The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery (4 page)

“The real estate man?”

“Yes, do you know him?”

“I know about him—just the things one hears and reads. I have to be indelicate. How much alimony does he pay you?”

“None. Anything Arthur Crombie touches comes up gold. Six months after we were married, my father died. I was the only heir, and the estate was worth millions. I gave Arthur half of it. It was a stiff price to pay to get him out of my life, but well worth it.”

“You're not fond of him?”

“He's a bastard, period. But if you're thinking that he'd want to kill me, well, no way. He has the money and he knows he's not in my will. He couldn't care less whether I'm alive or dead.”

“Where is your will?”

“You mean, where do I keep it? Somewhere in the study. Does it matter?”

“Perhaps. Tell me about the others. Are they all married?”

“All divorced. Does that surprise you?” She had reacted to the expression on Masuto's face. “You see, we're all in the same boat—shock, boredom, frustration. Certainly four divorced women in Beverly Hills are not that unusual.”

“Could you give me the names of the husbands—the ex-husbands?”

“Yes—”

He had his notebook ready.

“You think—one of them?” she asked slowly.

“I don't know what to think—yet.”

“But why all of us? If we had eaten the pastry, it would have been all of us. Why? What sense does it make?”

“I don't know. Suppose we start with Mrs. Greene.”

“She was married to Alan Greene. He operates a chain of clothing stores. The big one is down on Wilshire.”

Masuto nodded.

“Nancy,” Laura Crombie went on, “was married to Fulton Legett, the film producer. That's a rotten story. They were married in New York about twenty-two years ago. He was a gofer at ABC television. Nancy worked as a secretary at the same company. Then he quit to try TV production. For years she supported him and took his garbage. He's one of those angry, aggressive, ambitious little bastards. Then Nancy's mother died and left her sixty thousand dollars, and she gave it to Fulton and he used it as seed money to produce
Flames
—”

“Seed money?”

“Start-up money—to option the property and pay a writer to do a screenplay. The film was a hit, and suddenly Fulton was a millionaire. They moved out here and bought a house on Lexington Road. Then two more big hits, and Fulton was a millionaire and Nancy was forty and not very attractive anymore. At that point, you trade the forty for the two twenties. Fulton dumped her. The wages of virtue.”

Masuto nodded and scribbled in his notebook.

“And then there's Mitzie. She's a beauty and a doll. You can't feel too sorry for her. She was married to Bill Fuller, the director. It lasted six months. She doesn't talk about it or him, but from what I've heard he's a louse.”

She was hardly reticent in her judgments, Masuto decided, and said thoughtfully, “You don't like men very much, do you?”

“Don't misjudge me. We're not talking about the genus. We're talking about four men. I don't like any of them.”

“Do you know where Fuller is working now?”

“I think Mitzie mentioned he's doing a film at Metro.”

“I see.”

Masuto closed his notebook and stared at Laura Crombie thoughtfully. “Suppose I said that all four of you are in very great danger.”

“I'd believe you.”

“Would the others?”

“I could convince them.”

“Could you be convincing enough to have them all here tonight?”

“If they haven't made other plans.”

“Even if they have, I want them here. It's very important.”

“At what time?”

“Say ten o'clock—and if I'm late, please wait for me. And until then, I'd like them to stay indoors and not to let any strangers into their homes. I'd like you to do the same. And again remind them about the food. Will you do that for me?”

“All right. But this is crazy—absolutely crazy.”

“I know,” Masuto said gently. “Much of the world is crazy, but this is where we are.”

Omi Saiku

When Masuto walked into police headquarters on Rexford Drive, the city manager was there talking to Wainwright, and Wainwright nodded for Masuto to join them.

“What I want to know,” Wainwright was saying, “is how the hell this stuff gets out. There are no blabbermouths here. Masuto and Beckman are on it, and they don't talk.”

“Frank Lubie called me. He smelled something in Beckman's questions. He was sore as hell at even the implication that something could be wrong with his candy. You know, he has a point. If what you tell me gets out, it could ruin him. He's not only a sizable taxpayer, but his factory's here in town.”

“Can we put a lid on it?” Wainwright asked Masuto. “What do you think?”

Masuto shrugged. “The vet knows. Mrs. Greene knows. They know down at L.A.P.D. It's not just a question of the candy. It's a lot more than that.”

“What's a lot more?” the city manager asked.

“We have a poor Mexican kid murdered by some lunatic who seems determined to kill four other women. Ana Fortez was a mistake. If any of the others die, I don't think it will be a mistake.”

“Four women!” Wainwright exclaimed. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Briefly, Masuto summed up his conversation with Laura Crombie.

“I know Mrs. Crombie,” the city manager said. “You're making an inference, Masuto. It could all be some kind of accident. What's the point in scaring these women to death?”

“They won't die of fright. Other things are more deadly,” Masuto replied.

“I think you're out of line—way out of line.”

“Hold on,” Wainwright said. “I'll agree that Masao is guessing. But I've had experience with his guesses. Usually they come off pretty good.”

“You mean you agree with this notion that some lunatic is trying to kill these four women? Why? Because they play bridge together? For Christ's sake, Wainwright, this is Beverly Hills!”

“That doesn't give us any exemption from crazies,” Wainwright said.

“All right. If you buy it, what do you intend to do about it?” the city manager asked.

“I don't know. We could put cops at their houses. What do you think, Masao?”

Masuto shrugged. “For how long? A week, a month? You get something like this with no reason and no motive and no direction—well, I don't know. I think those women are in danger, terrible danger. But I don't know why or how.”

“If we don't and something happens,” the city manager said, “I get the backlash.”

“And if they go out of their homes, if they go shopping or on a date, does the cop follow them?” Masuto asked. “We don't know what we're dealing with, and until we know something more, it's not going to help to put cops outside their houses. Anyone who is crazy-smart enough to get hold of botulism toxin is smart enough to get around a cop standing outside a house.”

“All right, get on it,” the captain said to Masuto. “You'll be talking to those women?”

“Tonight.”

Beckman was waiting in Masuto's office. His broad, heavy face had what Masuto thought of as his “mission accomplished” look.

“You found the bakery?” Masuto asked.

“Right. La Consoler on Third Street,” Beckman answered.

Masuto couldn't help smiling.

“The owners of the bakery don't think it's funny. They're sore as hell. They're going to sue the city,” Beckman said.

“I was smiling at the name. It means to console, to comfort.”

“Well, that's what they do. You could eat yourself into an early grave at the place. They're the only outfit in this part of the city that makes those feul—what do you call them?”

“Feuilletés.”

“Right. First they couldn't be bothered, and then I had to lean a little and tell them about the Fortez kid.”

“I wish you hadn't.”

“Masao, there was no other way. They just brushed it off until I got serious. There were maybe twenty customers in the place. My God, don't they eat nothing but cake in this town? Then the manager took me behind the store, and we called the clerks in one by one. One of them was an old lady of about seventy, and, believe it or not, she remembered. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because it was a Mexican kid and he just handed her a slip of paper which specified the pastry. It came to seven dollars and seventy-five cents for eight pieces of pastry, would you believe it? He gave her a ten-dollar bill.”

“A Chicano kid. Just that. What did he look like?”

“Maybe fourteen, fifteen years old. What does a Chicano kid of that age look like? Blue jeans, tee shirt, dark skin, dark eyes, black hair—”

“There are at least a thousand like that within five miles of here,” Masuto said with annoyance.

“Can I help that, Masao? At least the old lady remembered.”

“I'm sore at myself, not at you.”

“They'll be calling the city manager,” Beckman said.

“He'll have a busy day. Did the saleswoman keep the slip of paper on which the order was written?”

“I thought of that. No. The kid asked to have it back. It's open and shut, Masao. X drives up in his car, sees the kid, gives him the paper and a ten-dollar bill. Buy the cake and keep the change.”

“It could be. And that might just mean that the kid hangs out in the neighborhood. So get over there, Sy, and ask around. One Chicano kid knows another. Take a couple of bills from expenses, and buy a little information. It's the only thread we have, and a damn thin one.”

“I'll try,” Beckman agreed. “Where will you be?”

“Downtown with Omi. I'm curious about botulism.”

Beverly Hills, like many other small cities in Los Angeles County, has limited police resources. The country tends to regard Los Angeles County as a single metropolitan area, but in reality it encloses more than seventy towns and cities, as well as a considerable unincorporated area. Most of the small cities in the county have their own police forces; some depend on the sheriff's office, which polices the unincorporated areas of the county; and then to one degree or another, many of the small towns depend for additional resources on the police force of the city of Los Angeles, the largest metropolitan area in the county. Omi Saiku ran the poison laboratory for the Los Angeles Police Department. He was a small, cheerful man whose dark eyes peered out of heavy glasses. He welcomed Masuto into his tiny room, a single table, a single chair, and shelves of mysterious bottles.

As Masuto entered, Omi rose from the microscope into which he had been peering and said, “Ah, estimable cousin, you deign at last to visit my house of horrors.”

“Wainwright calls that kind of talk my Charlie Chan routine,” Masuto replied sourly.

“Ah so. He does not distinguish between the Chinese and the Japanese. A Western failing. Did you know that Roshi Azuki is in Los Angeles? Tomorrow he will attend za-zen at the Zen Center. Can you join us?”

“Tomorrow I'll be looking for a homicidal maniac.”

“Yes. Of course. Your botulism man.”

“Man?” Masuto demanded. “Why man? Why not woman?”

“Because no woman would kill in such a manner.”

“Why not?”

“I have been in this room for twelve years,” Omi said. “The poison homicides and suicides of the whole state reach me eventually. There are patterns. Strychnine is the most common and the most frequently used by women. Now what is a poison, Masao? Strictly but generally speaking, it is any substance that causes change in the molecular structure of an organ. That's not difficult. It's less a question of substance than of quantity. Alcohol, morphine, cocaine, nicotine are all deadly in sufficient quantity. But according to my records, ninety-five percent of women murderers do not plot bizarre poisonings. Driven to desperation, they take whatever is at hand, arsenic, found in Paris green, phosphorus in rat poison, and of course strychnine, easily come by. The fancy poisoning is done by men, and by golly this botulism of yours is the fanciest I've seen in a long while. Now take this bacillus botulinus. Why do we see so little of it? Why are whole populations not ravaged by its poisonous toxin? Thank mother nature, who always gives with one hand and takes away with the other. In other words, bacillus botulinus is anaerobic.”

“Which means what?”

“Simply that it will not grow in the presence of air. It requires low temperature and airlessness. Now don't think that you can take a piece of meat, let it putrefy, exclude the air, and grow a botulin. Maybe yes, maybe no—most likely no. To grow a botulin, you require the botulism bacillus, and since it cannot live in the presence of air, the likelihood is that you won't get it. The only place it seems to turn up these days is in canned goods, and even there it's only one out of a thousand bad cans that produces a botulinus. But here, honored cousin, here we have something unique—not the putrefaction which produces the botulinus, which in turn produces the deadly toxin, no indeed—here we have the toxin itself, no putrefaction, no source, simply the deadly poison. And that, my dear Masao, is the work of a chemist. Find the chemist and you find your murderer.”