The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online

investigators show up.”
    â€œWhen will that be?”
    â€œAny time now. We run a busy city. It’s not Beverly Hills.”
    â€œWe’re getting there,” Beckman said. “Don’t put down Beverly Hills.”
    â€œYou stay with it,” Masuto said to Beckman. “Tail after the investigators. You can tell them what we’ve got, which is nothing. I don’t remember one like this. We have nothing—no lead, no motive, no direction.”
    â€œWe know one thing,” Beckman said.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThat this son of a bitch kills people the way we kill flies.”
    â€œHe’s insane. So are a thousand others walking around on the streets of this city. It doesn’t help now. Maybe later. See what you can find out about the kid. It’s possible that our killer just picked him up on the street; it’s also possible that they had a previous acquaintance. Maybe the kid had friends and one of them saw something. It’s just barely possible that the money is a coincidence—possible, but not likely. So if you have a chance, poke around the bakery again. Get a death picture. I hate to use them, but someone around the bakery might recognize it.”
    â€œI can get the bakery lady down to the L.A. morgue.”
    â€œI wouldn’t put an old lady through that. Get the picture and show it to her. That ought to do it.”
    â€œWhere will you be?”
    â€œDamned if I know,” Masuto said, shaking his head. “I’ll be at Laura Crombie’s house, but not until ten o’clock tonight.” Then he added, “I’ll call in. You’d better do the same.”
    Masuto went back to his car, sat for a moment or two staring through the windshield, then took out his notebook and called headquarters on his radiophone.
    â€œPolly,” he said to the lady who answered the phone, “this is Masao. Jot down this number.” He gave it to her. “Dial it and patch it through to me.”
    â€œFor you, Masao, it’s a pleasure.”
    He always reacted in surprise at the fact that women liked him. He never thought of himself as likable or lovable, a tall, dour-faced second generation Japanese man, yet nothing pleased him more than this almost consistent response on the part of women. He pardoned himself; he argued to himself that he had a good wife whom he loved, that he was scrupulous in his behavior as a policeman, that he was content. Or was he?
    This was no time to debate it. Laura Crombie’s voice came over the phone.
    â€œThis is Sergeant Masuto, Mrs. Crombie. There was a question I didn’t ask—at least I can’t remember asking it. Who received the pastry when it was delivered?”
    â€œDidn’t I tell you? Ana did.”
    â€œAnd of course she never mentioned who delivered it?”
    â€œNo. It wouldn’t be of any importance.”
    â€œYes. And since I left you, anything?”
    â€œNo, nothing out of the ordinary. I called the ladies. They’ll all be here.”
    â€œI’d like to change that,” Masuto said.
    â€œOh, no!”
    â€œPlease. I’d like you to call them again and get them to your house right now. And then I’m going to have a policeman sitting in his car across the street from your house.”
    â€œBut why?”
    â€œI’ll tell you why very bluntly and plainly—because I’m afraid.”
    â€œSergeant Masuto, we don’t live in a jungle. This is Beverly Hills.”
    â€œI know it is. Will you please do as I say?”
    â€œI suppose so. When will you be here?”
    â€œAbout ten, as I said.”
    â€œAnd we just sit here and wait for you? Come on, you can’t be serious!”
    â€œI am very serious. I know what I ask is a nuisance, but I’m trying to keep you alive—all of you.”
    â€œAren’t you being dramatic?”
    â€œI hope so. Enough to impress you.”
    He finished