Howard Fast - The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs

“Must I? Ana is here. I arranged for the hearse to come here for her body.”

“When?”

“At three o’clock.”

“Then you have plenty of time. This won’t take more than an hour, with the driving. I’ll be happy to drive you both ways.”

He thought about it for awhile, then nodded. “I’ll take my own car.”

“The police station is on Rexford, just south of Santa Monica. Do you know where that is?”

“I know. Yes.”

After Fortez had made his statement, and after it was typed up and Wainwright had read it, the captain said to Masuto, “Did you tell him about Doc Baxter’s theory?”

“No. What for? He has enough grief.”

“Still, if there’s anything to it, he could have fed her the stuff in a mug of coffee.”

“Come on,” Masuto said. “A Mexican murder is an act of violence, an act of rage. If this is what Baxter says it is, it’s a thousand years removed from those poor kids. It’s diabolical.”

“If it’s what Baxter says it is. I still don’t buy it.”

Beckman walked in as Masuto entered his office, and stood in silence for a long moment, watching Masuto.

“What is it, Sy? What did you learn?”

“You give me a creepy feeling at times.”

“That’s because I’m a wily Oriental. What did Omi have to say?”

“He says you can’t get botulism from an eclair. He also says you can’t get botulism from Lubie’s chocolates, which in case you never heard of Lubie’s chocolates are maybe the most expensive candy in the world, and they’re sold on North Canon Drive over here in Beverly Hills for eight and a half dollars a pound.”

“I know the place where they sell Lubie’s chocolate.”

“On your pay?”

“I don’t buy them. I just know where they’re sold. So maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me what the devil you’re talking about.”

“All right. All right.” Beckman spread his hands. “Other cops, they got muggers and rapists. We got the cutes, only not so cute. I go downtown and ask all the questions. Absolutely quiet on the food poisoning front, not even a troop of boy scouts who let their sandwiches sit in the sun too long, not even a restaurant closed down for a dirty kitchen, except-”

“Except what?”

“This cousin Omi Saiku of yours, strange duck, knows more about poison than an encyclopedia, shows me some sweet pea seeds-deadly. You ever know that? You can die from eating sweet pea seeds or morning glory seeds or potato leaves-”

“Will you please get to the point? What about Lubie’s chocolates?”

“I’m getting there. I’m just saying I’m glad he’s on our side. So he says to me, ‘Masao’s found a botulin in an eclair.’ Then he grins, like it’s some special earth-shaking discovery in the poison field. ‘Then tell Masao we found a botulin in a chocolate bonbon. He will enjoy that. I am sure that police work in Beverly Hills is very dull.’ Then he tells me that this dame-” He took out his notebook to consult it. “Name of Alice Greene, lives over here on Roxbury Drive. Well, he tells me that she feeds a couple of pieces of this Lubie candy to her dog, a Pekinese, and the dog freaks out. She takes the dog to her vet over on Western, a Dr. Carver, but he can’t save the dog. However this Dr. Carver is no fool and he gets this Greene lady to go back and bring him the candy. Then he sends the candy along to Cousin Omi, and what do you think?”

“The candy is loaded with botulin.”

“Right. The whole top layer, nine of these oversized chocolate creams. This cousin Omi of yours, he says that if the candy produced the botulin, it’s the first time in either the history of candy or botulism that it happened. Only it didn’t happen. Omi shows me exactly how the stuff was shot into the candy pieces, as crazy as that sounds. Can you imagine feeding eight-and-a-half-dollar candy to a mutt?”

“It wasn’t meant for a dog. What the devil do we have here? Omi gave you the candy, didn’t he?”

“No. He wants to run some more tests. He knows we don’t have a poison lab, and anyway he wants to talk to you. He says you should come down there first chance you get.”

“What about prints?”

“They took care of that and Dr. Carver was careful. The only prints on the box are Mrs. Greene’s. That’s as far as they’re taking it down at the Los Angeles cops. They say it’s our turf and our case.”

“I hope you thanked them,” Masuto said bleakly.

Laura Crombie

“I swear to God,” Captain Wainwright said, “I’ve lost my taste for this lunatic world we live in. Snipers sit up on the hillsides and shoot motorists they’ve never met, terrorists execute heads of state, and lunatics poison Pekinese dogs.”

“All killers are lunatics, to one degree or another,” Masuto said. “This one is sick, very sick.”

“Well, at least you got something to work with. Someone bought the eclairs and someone bought the candy. Run that down and we have our man,” Wainwright said.

“Perhaps.”

“And keep it quiet, Masao. If there’s one thing this city doesn’t need, it’s a bizarre murder case.”

“I’ll keep it as quiet as I can, but nothing’s going to wash out the fact that it’s bizarre. That’s exactly what it is,” Masuto responded.

Beckman agreed with Masuto. “When I was with the L.A. cops, Masao,” he said, “a killing was done with a knife or a gun. But this botulism-”

“All right, but it’s our baby now, so you get over to the people at Lubie’s Sweet Shop and try to jog their memories. They’re going to put you off and tell you that they sell a hundred boxes of that stuff every day, but I don’t think they do, even in Beverly Hills. Was it a one-pound box?” Wainwright asked Beckman.

“It was,” Beckman answered.

“Did you note the arrangement of the candy, the color, the shapes?” Masuto asked.

“Was I born yesterday, Masao?”

“Then give them the information as precisely as possible and just keep working at them until they remember something,” Masuto said.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Then meet me at the Crombie place. It’s on Beverly Drive. Better jot down the address.”

The Crombie house wasn’t large, considering its location on Beverly Drive in the very center of Beverly Hills. The tourist buses, which can be seen at almost any time of any day twisting up and down the streets of Beverly Hills, never failed to include Beverly Drive between Santa Monica Boulevard and Sunset Boulevard. This stretch of about a mile of glamorous homes had once housed some of the most glittering film stars of another age. The stars had died or moved away, but the houses remained, and the Crombie house was by no means the grandest among them. Architecturally, it would have been called a modified French chateau, and since it was large enough for six or seven bedrooms, Masuto was somewhat surprised that the woman who opened the door for him stated that she was Mrs. Laura Crombie.

She was a tall, handsome woman in her mid-forties, with a lean body, a well-defined face, light-brown hair swept back from her brow, and little makeup. She wore slacks and a blouse, and regarded Masuto curiously from behind the chain which held the door half open.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police,” he said, showing her his badge. “I’d like to talk to you, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes-yes, of course. Is it about Ana, poor child? I called the hospital, and they told me.” She unhooked the chain. “Forgive me, but I’m alone in the house. I’ve had no one to replace Ana.” She stood aside for him to enter, closing the door behind him. “You’re Japanese. Forgive me. I don’t usually make personal remarks. I think it’s fine that we have a Japanese policeman here.”