The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs

9

Alan Greene

At headquarters, Masuto paused and listened. Fredericks, a uniformed cop, was leaving, and Masuto asked him, “Who’s in there?”

“Wainwright, the city manager, and the mayor. They’ve been at it since eight-thirty.”

The mayor was an unsalaried position. Like the president of the lodge who was the butt of everyone’s anger, he did it for the “honor.”

“There is no police force in the world,” Wainwright was saying, his voice clear through the thin door, “that can prevent crime. I got a forty-page report from the F.B.I., if you want to read it. There’s just no way we could have anticipated what happened to Mrs. Greene.”

“As I understand, there were two policemen on the scene.” That was the city manager.

“There could have been ten cops on the scene. How would they know that the car was wired? You don’t look for a wired car in Beverly Hills.”

“All right. That happened.” The mayor’s voice. “But the rumor’s out that three other murders are tied into this.”

A long silence.

“Well, for Christ’s sake, yes or no?”

“Yes,” Wainwright said shortly.

“What did you say? Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus God, four lousy murders! We’re not that big. Don’t you understand? We’re just not that big.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Wainwright said, “three of them took place outside the Beverly Hills city limits. So technically, those three belong to the Los Angeles cops.”

“Well, who tied them in?”

“Masuto.”

“Why?” the mayor cried. “For Christ’s sake, why? What’s the motive?”

“Because that’s the way it is. If it’s that way, that’s the way it is,” Wainwright said.

“What do you mean, that’s the way it is. You just told us the way it is. Los Angeles has these killings,” the mayor said.

“We got them too.”

Masuto stopped listening and went into his office. It was a quarter after nine in the morning now. The Los Angeles Times had cleared space on the front page for the death of Alice Greene. It was mostly a picture of the burned car with only a few words of background squeezed in at the last moment. They specified that the two-seater Mercedes was priced at twenty-seven thousand dollars. It was almost obligatory to include a price in any Beverly Hills story. The deaths of the Chicano boy and the chemist rated only a few lines on inside pages. Violent death was hardly a novelty, unless of course it occurred in Beverly Hills inside a Mercedes.

Masuto dialed the number of the Crombie house. Mrs. Crombie answered.

“Our handsome Oriental jailer,” she said. “When do we get sprung?”

“Soon, I hope. May I talk to Detective Beckman?”

“He’s at breakfast.”

“See if he can tear himself away.”

“Hold on. He’s finishing his second order of scrambled eggs and waffles and honey. I’ll let him take it in the library where he’ll have some privacy.”

A minute or so later, Beckman’s voice came over the phone, thickened by the fact that he was still chewing. “Do you know, Masao,” he said, “those Arabs got something. Living with three women has its points.”

“I’m sure. Anything happen?”

“Not a thing.”

“How are the ladies?”

“A lot calmer. I can’t say the same for my wife. You got to talk to her, Masao. She’s sore as hell at me. All she had to hear is that I’m spending the night in a house with three Beverly Hills divorcees and she let go at me like God knows what I was up to. Like I’m doing this for fun.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Come on. You know better than that.”

“All right, Sy. Now listen to me. You’ve been in that house for quite a while. In and out of every room, right?”

“Right.”

“Now think. Mrs. Crombie had a daughter. Did you see the girl’s picture anywhere?”

After a long moment of silence, Beckman said, “I wasn’t looking for it, Masao. Maybe I saw it and paid it no mind.”

“Just think for a while, Sy.”

He thought about it. “I just can’t remember. Like I said, I wasn’t looking for it.”

“All right. I want you to look for it. No questions and don’t give any hint of what you’re looking for. Just let them know that your instructions are to keep checking out the house.”

“And if I find it, what do you want me to do, pinch it?”

“No, no, no. Absolutely not. If you find a picture of the girl, just leave it alone. Don’t touch it. Also, I want you to find out what the name of Mrs. Crombie’s first husband was. Do it in a casual way. Nancy Legett would know. If you’re alone with her, you might just ask as a matter of curiosity.”

“Got it. You’ll call back?”

“Within the hour.”

Masuto put down the telephone and stared at the newspaper on his desk. He turned over in his mind what Roshi Hakuin had said to him. The trouble with putting questions to a Zen master was that the answers were always too simple. Complex answers to questions are always easy to understand. Simple answers are impossible to understand. Many, many years ago, this same Roshi Hakuin had given Masuto the ten pictures of the cow, ten very simple pictures of a little boy and a cow. “Look at them and when you know what they mean, come to me and tell me.” It was five years before Masuto was able to answer correctly.

Now he did not have five years, or even five days. The madman he was dealing with would not be deterred by Detective Beckman and the locked doors of a house-given the supposition that he could keep the women in the house for even another day. An unwillingness to believe in impending danger is a very human quality. Otherwise, Masuto reflected, why would we all be so willing to live here in California on top of a whole network of earthquake faults?

Then he looked up and through the glass upper half of his office door, he saw the man. That would be Alan Greene, a tall, heavy-set, fleshy man of about fifty, gray hair set in a twenty-five-dollar hairdo, a fifty-dollar silk shirt, a thirty-dollar tie, and above it a wide, heavy chin, a tight mouth, and cold blue eyes. Masuto rose and opened the door for him.

“I’m Alan Greene,” he said, regarding Masuto curiously. They always regarded him curiously on the first meeting, and while they looked at him, the question in their minds was, What is a Jap doing on the police force here? But except occasionally, it remained unspoken.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto.”

“Yeah. They told me outside you’re in charge of this case.”

“Why don’t you sit down, Mr. Greene?”

He seated himself reluctantly, as if he were giving up an advantage. “What the hell goes on here?” he demanded suddenly. “You know the whole damn thing has to be a mistake. Nobody had any reason to kill Alice-except me.”

“Except you?”

“Don’t look at me like that, Sergeant. What you’re thinking is pure bullshit.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“I just told you that I’m the only one who had any reason to kill my ex-wife.”

“Did you kill her?”

“If I had, you can be sure of one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I would have strangled her with my bare hands.”

“I see.” Masuto nodded. “So you feel that it’s the manner of her death that exonerates you.”

“Jesus Christ, what in hell gives with you? You don’t seriously think that I murdered my wife?”

“You just said-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted. “And if you were married to that broad, you’d say the same thing. Would I kill her? If I had a dollar for every time I thought of breaking her neck, it would add up to enough to buy this crummy police station of yours. Do you know what I paid her? Five thousand dollars a month, not to mention what she collected under that beautiful law of ours called the Community Property Act. She could have paid me five grand a month and never missed it. She’s been shacked up with Monte Sweet, not just for the year we’ve been divorced but for five years before that, and you are looking at the number one sucker in the world who was the last one to know. Everyone else knew it, everyone. Not me. So you ask me, would I kill her? In spades. But mister, I am not connected with the Mafia. I never have been. Monte Sweet is. Monte Seteloni. That, my friend, is his real name.”

“Why the Mafia?” Masuto asked him.

“Because what happened last night was a Mafia killing. Who else wires cars?”

“It’s not terribly complex. Could you, Mr. Greene?”

“Could I what?”

“Could you wire a car to explode when the ignition key is turned?”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. You know, I don’t know why I’m sitting here at all, answering these stupid questions. I don’t have to. I don’t have to answer one goddamn question.”

“No,” Masuto said, smiling slightly, “you don’t. You can get up and walk out of here right now. But I want to bring in the man who murdered your wife, and I will. If it’s you, I’ll bring you in. If it’s someone else, I’ll bring him in. Perhaps you want to help.”

For almost a minute, Greene sat in silence, staring at Masuto. Finally, he said quietly, “Tell you something, Sergeant. If she had come to me, say yesterday, the day before, and she says to me, Al, let’s give it another shot-if she did that, I don’t know what I would have done. I was so goddamn crazy about that woman it drove me up the wall. I’m not saying I would have gone back into it. You got to be demented to keep putting your hand in a meat grinder. But that was the way I felt about her. Sure, I wanted to kill her. But I didn’t.”

“And the car?”

“Do you know what that little two-seater Mercedes cost? Twenty-seven big ones, and every nickel of it my money. Like I said, I would have strangled her. I wouldn’t have smashed up the damn car.”

“I asked whether you could have wired it.”

“You’re persistent, aren’t you? You’d find out. I was in the engineers in Korea. You’re damn right I could have wired it.”

Masuto regarded him with new respect. This was a cool, calculating man, totally in command of himself. If he were the killer, the line he was taking was the best he could take. Admit motive. Admit desire. Admit ability. Leave no skeletons to fall out of closets when the doors were opened.

“Do you own a pistol, Mr. Greene?” Masuto asked him.

“I do. And I have a permit for it.”

“What caliber?”

“Twenty-two.”

“I see. A heavy gun, one that takes longs?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Sergeant. Alice was not shot. She was killed in a car explosion. What the devil has that got to do with pistols?”

“There’s a connection. I’d rather not go into it right now. But as you pointed out before, you don’t have to answer any questions.”

“I got nothing to hide.”

“Then you’re a fortunate man. I asked you about the pistol.”

“It’s a Browning automatic target gun. I use longs, that’s right. I belong to the Beverly Hills Pistol Society, although I don’t get to the range as often as I would like to.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“I could put a bullet through your head at thirty yards,” he said, smiling-his mouth smiling while his eyes remained cold and fixed on Masuto.

“I hope the occasion will not arise.”

“I don’t shoot people, only targets, Sergeant. And now if you’re through investigating my own talents as a killer, I would like to get down to the subject at hand. Why was Alice murdered?”

“I was hoping you would tell me.”

“You got to be kidding.”

“You lived with her for ten years. Who would want to kill her?”

“We been through that.”

“What about Monte Sweet?”

“Now wouldn’t it make more sense to talk to him than to waste your time with me? He’s got Mafia connections, and Alice’s death was obviously a contract job. I’ll tell you something else. My ex-wife’s estate has to be worth better than a million. A lot better. Have you seen her house on Roxbury Drive?”

Masuto shook his head.

“I paid three hundred and twenty thousand for that house in nineteen seventy. She’s been offered a million for it.”

“How do you know? Did she tell you?”

“Arthur Crombie told me.”

“Ah so.” It escaped from him involuntarily. “Are you and Mr. Crombie friends?”

“We belong to the same golf club and-” He let that go.

“Were you going to say the same gun club?”

He stood up. “You know, Masuto, I don’t like what’s going on here. You want to talk to me about pistols, then I want to know why.”

Masuto sighed and shrugged. “I’m trying to get to the bottom of something, that’s all. You were saying that Mr. Crombie had a customer who was willing to pay a million dollars for your wife’s house.”

Standing there, Greene hesitated. Finally, he said, “I wish I knew what in hell you’re after.”

“A killer.”

“What the devil has her house got to do with that?”

“You brought up the question of the house.”

“Right. I did. Actually, the offer was one million two hundred thousand. That’s not as crazy as it sounds, not in Beverly Hills. The house has seven bedrooms, a tennis court, and a swimming pool. An Iranian or an Arab made the offer, according to Crombie. I loved that house, and now it’s gone. Do you wonder that I’d like to kill that broad?”

“Gone? Has it been sold?”

“What in hell’s the difference? You don’t think I’m in her will?”

“Who is in her will?”

“I’ll give you long odds that every nickel she had goes to Monte Sweet.”

“You never had children?”

“One miscarriage. She’d never take a chance again.”

“Who are her lawyers?”

“Kellog and Cohen. They’re in Westwood, I think.”

Masuto scribbled down the names.

“Whoever did it,” Greene said, “find the bastard.”

“Yes, I intend to,” Masuto said. “Meanwhile, I trust you won’t be leaving town for the next few days.”

Greene stared at Masuto for a long moment; then he nodded and left. Masuto dialed Information and got the telephone number for Kellog and Cohen. When he dialed that number, the woman’s voice at the other end asked who he would like to speak to.

“Mr. Kellog.”

She made the connection, and after a moment a man’s voice told him that it was Kellog.

“This is Detective Sergeant Masuto of the Beverly Hills Police Department. I’m calling you concerning the death of Alice Greene, who, I understand, was a client of yours.”

“Yes. What can I do for you?”

“I suggest you get our number from Information and call me back. In that way, you can be certain the call is valid.”

“Masuto?”

“That’s right.”

He put down the phone and waited. A minute or so later, it rang. “What’s all this about?” Kellog asked him.

“Your firm drew up Mrs. Greene’s will. I would like to know who the beneficiary is under that will.”

“Now you know I can’t do that, Sergeant Masuto. This is a confidential matter between my client and myself.”

“Your client is dead.”

“That changes nothing. When the will is read, the beneficiary will become public. Until then, I must protect my client’s confidentiality.”

Masuto’s voice hardened. “Your client, Mr. Kellog, is not only dead. She was savagely murdered. Her death was hideous and painful. I am engaged in an investigation of her death, in an effort to find the murderer. If you persist in your attitude, which constitutes interference with my investigation, I shall have to get a court order to examine that will. You know that I can get such an order. Wouldn’t it be much simpler for you to name the beneficiary? Time is important.”

There was a long silence, and then Kellog said, “Well-since you put it that way-I can’t see that it will do any great harm.”

“Thank you.”

“Actually, there are three beneficiaries-the Bowdow Home, the Happy Bark Cemetery, and the Wolf Society.”

Masuto was scribbling furiously. “Would you repeat the second one?”

Kellog went through the names again.

“And what exactly are these places?”

“The Bowdow Home is a hospital for dogs and cats, out in the Valley. The Happy Bark Cemetery is, as you might infer, a cemetery for well-loved pets. The Wolf Society-well, that’s a bit more complicated. Not only do they carry out a whole program of anti-vivisectionist propaganda, but they are also in the vanguard of the wolf-jackal investigation and controversy.”

“And what might that be?” Masuto asked.

“As I understand it, there is a theory that the husky, the chow, the Pekinese, and a few other breeds of dogs are descended from the wolf, while all other dogs are derived from the jackal. Mrs. Greene explained this to me at some length, but it remains rather fuzzy in my mind. In any case, the Wolf Society devotes itself to serious work on this theory.”

Masuto took a deep breath and asked, “Are there no other beneficiaries?”

“None.”

“Can you tell me the size of the estate?”

“That will have to be determined in probate, but I should guess it will amount to at least a million and a half-that is, including the property.”

Masuto thanked him and put down the phone. Wainwright came into his office, and Masuto said, “Has it ever occurred to you that only huskies, chows, and Pekinese dogs are descended from wolves? I would have said the Pekinese evolved from a hamster, but that shows how much I know.”

“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 eclairs, 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.”