Howard Fast - The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs

“I’m starved,” was the first thing Beckman said to him.

“I brought you two hamburgers and coffee.”

“With pickles?”

“With pickles.”

“You know,” Beckman said as he unwrapped the first hamburger, “under that cold, inscrutable shell of yours, you got heart.”

“I’m relieved to know that. What happened?”

“You mean with the kid or here?”

“First the kid.”

“Well, we rounded up a couple of kids near the bakery, and they identified him. Jesus Consolo, fourteen years old. A good kid. Never got into any trouble, no dope, tenth grade, good marks. The L.A. investigators matched it up with a missing report, and I let them break the news to his parents. I’m no good for that kind of thing. I got a fourteen-year-old kid of my own, Masao, and I swear if I ever find that lunatic bastard-”

“No, you won’t. Now what about the kids who identified him? Did they see anything?”

“Nothing, nothing-nothing until it stinks. This bastard leaves no loose ends.”

“They all leave loose ends.”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

“And what about here?”

“Well, when I got here, I rang the bell and told Mrs. Crombie that I’d be here in the car. She wasn’t crazy about the idea, and I asked her about the three other women, just to make sure they were inside.”

“Were they?”

“Yeah, they’re there. I told her to bolt the back door and to call me in case anyone came to the back door. That’s it. All quiet as a graveyard.”

“Good. Patch in a call to your wife and tell her you won’t be home tonight.”

“What? She’ll skin me.”

“I want you to stay overnight in the Crombie house.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“Dead serious. I’m going to convince all four women to remain there overnight and I want you to stay with them.”

“And that’s what I tell my wife-that I’m sleeping in Beverly Hills with four dames?”

“If you want to be perfectly honest.”

“Masao,” Beckman said seriously, “I think you’re a little nutty with this one. They don’t need me there overnight. They lock the doors and the windows. Every one of these Beverly Hills houses has a burglar alarm system.”

“I need you there.”

“You’re a heartless bastard.”

“Am I? Locking you up with four lovely women-that’s what every red-blooded American boy dreams of, or so I’m told.”

“Okay, okay. When will you be back?”

“Before ten. Just hang in.”

“I still don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to do if someone comes to the door.”

“Just find out who he is and what he wants. You don’t keep him or her out. Let Mrs. Crombie decide about that.”

Masuto’s radio phone was speaking to him as he drove off. Wainwright’s voice was demanding, “Where the hell are you, Masao?”

“Turning a corner two blocks away.”

“Well, get over here. Do you know what time it is? It’s eight o’clock, and I’m sitting here on my butt when I should be home eating a decent dinner, and I’m sitting here because the Los Angeles cops are sore as hell. They want your scalp and they want me here when they take it.”

“I’ll be there in two minutes.”

“What in hell have you been up to?”

“Two minutes.”

Masuto pulled into his parking space on Rexford Drive and went inside. Wainwright was pacing in front of Masuto’s office. “What’s this all about?” he snapped.

“I don’t know. I have to call my wife.”

“So help me, Masao, if there’s one thing a crummy little police force like ours can’t afford, it’s a ruckus with the L.A. cops. Not now. Not with the city refusing to shell out a nickel for new equipment. We depend on those miserable bastards. I don’t want them to mark us lousy.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“A lieutenant, Pete Bones. He’s coming up here with a Captain Kennedy.”

“Pete’s an old friend.”

“He didn’t sound like a friend, old or new.”

“Let’s take it easy and wait until they get here. Meanwhile, I have to call Kati, or I’ll have more trouble than the Los Angeles cops could ever give me.”

Masuto went into his office and dialed his home number. The first thing Kati said was, “Your dinner has spoiled.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think you are. I think it’s something you’re saying. There are other policemen in the world and they work from nine to five and they see their children and their wives.”

“You haven’t gone to that women’s consciousness-raising session yet?”

“I’m going tonight. I thought you would be here. Then when I realized you would not be here, I telephoned Suzi Asata, and she will be my baby sitter. I will have to pay her five dollars. I don’t think it ought to come out of my household money. I think it ought to come out of your pocket.”

“I agree with you,” he said meekly.

“You do?”

“Yes. Why should that surprise you?”

“Oh, Masao, why do you make me so angry?”

“I don’t think you’re really angry.”

“Please tell me that you will not do anything dangerous tonight.”

“I promise you.”

“And what will you do?”

“Only talk to some ladies.”

“Stop teasing me. Why must you always tease me?”

“I’m not teasing. I promise to tell you the whole story when I see you. I am not talking to these ladies for pleasure. I am talking to them because they are part of this case I am on.”

“I sometimes think that it is always a pleasure for you to talk to American ladies.”

“Kati, I love you.”

“Well-”

“Believe me. And how are the children?”

“Someday you will see them and decide for yourself.”

He put down the phone as Polly entered. She was still small, blonde, and pretty. “I stayed an extra hour waiting for you, Masao.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not making a pass. I’m saving that until you get divorced.”

“I have no intention of getting divorced,” he said severely.

“Baloney. All cops get divorced. Their wives can’t put up with them. Anyway, we can save that discussion for another time. What I got for you now is a very funny phone call.”

“Tell me about it.”

“First place, foreign accent but phony.”

“How do you know it was phony?”

She shrugged. “You watch enough TV, you know. He says to me, Who’s on the poisoned candy case? Me, nobody tells me anything. I just answer the phone, and everything else I do, which is practically everything around here, it’s guess-work. So I ask for his name, and he says Horst Brandt, to go with the phony German accent.”

“Address?”

“Just as phony, I’m sure.” She took a slip of paper from her purse and read him the address. It had a familiar ring, and Masuto consulted his notebook. It was Alice Greene’s address on Roxbury Drive.

“Does it mean something?” Polly asked him.

“Maybe. Maybe not. You’re sure he said candy? Nothing about eclairs?”

“What eclairs? Candy, eclairs. Nobody tells me a thing around here.”

“And you’re sure it was a man’s voice, not a woman’s?”

She stared at him in disgust. “What am I, Masao, a jerk, a nut? A man’s voice. I told you that.”

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

“So I tell him that if it’s a homicide case, it’s Sergeant Masuto’s department. Then he says, ‘Masuto? You mean that Jap plainclothes cop?’ He sort of forgets his accent too, and believe me, I get plenty steamed with that kind of talk and I’m ready to tell him to buzz off and sell his apples somewhere else, but I got enough sense to know that it may be important, so I tell him, yes, but we don’t talk about people that way, and then he wants to talk to you, and I tell him you’re not in but expected.”