Howard Fast - The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs

“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.”

Catherine Addison

Masuto picked up his phone and dialed the Crombie number. Mitzie Fuller answered. “Well,” she said, “if it isn’t Mr. Inscrutable himself! Do you know what I feel like? I feel like I’m under house arrest in a Banana republic. This is no life, Sergeant, and I don’t like ladies enough to spend the rest of my life in their company. Either you spring us or I’m going to bust out.”

“Give it until tonight,” Masuto said.

“Now if you’ll be our baby sitter, I might be able to relax and enjoy it.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible right now. Please stay with it. Is Detective Beckman around?”

“He is always around. Only the bathrooms are safe from Detective Beckman’s prowling presence. I’ll call him.”

Beckman got on the phone and said, “Masao, these gals are driving me nuts. Also, the phone doesn’t stop. Every goddamn newspaper, TV station, and wire service in the world has been calling here. It’s one thing for me to say no comment. But these dames-they talk to their friends. So whatever stories get out, don’t blame me. I’m just the keeper. Outside in front, we got two TV cameras and crews, maybe six reporters, and a nice sprinkling of the public. Nothing like this ever happened before on Beverly Drive.”