Howard Fast - The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs

“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.