The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery Page 2

“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 éclair.’ 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 éclairs 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 château, 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.”

  “I’m a Nisei, Mrs. Crombie, which means that I was born here. However, you may think of me as Japanese if you wish. I am not entirely Westernized.”

  “You’re very nice, and that’s a very nice way to forgive my rudeness. Come in and sit down. Can I offer you anything, a cold drink, perhaps?”

  “No thank you, nothing.”

  She led the way through a living room furnished with overstuffed pieces covered in bright printed linen into a library, bookshelves and brown leather chairs and couch. All in good taste, Masuto reflected, a huge and enormously expensive Kirman rug on the floor of the living room and three lovely Degas pastels on the wall of the library. She sat down in one of the leather chairs, and he sat facing her.

  “I will have to ask you a good many questions,” he told her. “I hope you will not mind and I hope you can give me the time.”

  “No—I don’t mind and I do have the time. But why?” she wondered, frowning. “I think Ana’s death is a terrible thing—she was so young and alive and bright. But food poisoning happens, and I’ve begged her not to eat those wretched tacos.”

  “She didn’t die from eating tacos or any other Mexican food, Mrs. Crombie. She was poisoned by the éclairs you gave her to take home.”

  There was a long silence. Then Mrs. Crombie whispered, “Oh, my God, no. No!”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  The woman sitting across from Masuto shook her head woefully. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. I know how you must feel,” he said gently.

  “Of course it was my fault. I gave her the pastry.”

  “There was no way you could have known what you were giving her. Did you eat any of the pastry or did you give her all of it?”

  Laura Crombie shook her head, tried to speak, then closed her eyes.

  “Can I get you something?” Masuto asked her.

  “No—give me a minute. I’ll be all right.” A moment later, she appeared to have recovered. “Go on, Sergeant.”

  “The important thing is to know where you bought the pastry.”

  “I didn’t buy it.”

  “You didn’t buy it? Was it a gift? Did someone bring it?”

&
nbsp; “It was delivered.”

  “But who sent it? Who bought it?”

  She shook her head. “You must think me a totally empty-headed fool. I’ll try to explain. I am divorced, and I live alone in this huge, ridiculous barn of a place. I don’t know why. Inertia, and also some good memories as well as some bad ones. Ana took care of the place. I don’t entertain very much. I don’t go out much and I dislike travel intensely. I have all the money I could possibly need and I find myself bored to distraction. Years ago, I used to play bridge. Last month, I decided to try to put a bridge game together, which would take care of at least one afternoon a week. I had two friends who were interested, and then we found a third. The day before yesterday was the third afternoon we met. I always serve something—tea, sandwiches, fruit, sometimes salad. But all four of us watch our weight fanatically. That’s the Beverly Hills syndrome, you know. Well, just before my friends arrived—that was about noon—the pastry was delivered. I was sure it was from one of them, but they all denied it. You know—big joke, conversation piece, let’s forget about calories for once in our lives and take the plunge—how much can you gain from one éclair? Then it turned into a sort of contest of will power, and in the end, not one of us touched the stuff. Then when Ana, poor child, was ready to leave, she saw me start to throw the pastry into the garbage pail. She said, I think, ‘Oh, no, please, not those beautiful éclairs!’ So I gave her the éclairs. How could I refuse her?”

  “No, you couldn’t,” Masuto agreed. “That was all—three éclairs?”

  “Oh, no. There were eight pieces, if I remember right. Three éclairs, three strawberry tarts, and two feuilletés á la crème.”

  Masuto had his notebook out. “Feuilletés á la crème? What are those?”

  “Pastry horns with a cream or custard filling.”

  “And the strawberry tarts would also have some sort of custard base?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did you do with the rest of the pastry?”

  “As I said, I threw it away—into the garbage. I adore such pastry. I put it beyond temptation.”

  “And the garbage? Is it still here?”

  “It was picked up yesterday.”

  “What about the box in which the pastry came? Did Ana take the box with her?”

  “No. We wrapped her three éclairs in aluminum foil.”

  “Then you have the box?” Masuto said eagerly.

  “I’m afraid not. When I threw the pastry away, it was box and all. If I had only known. You don’t think that whatever bakery it was is just spreading this food poisoning all over the place?”

  “No, I doubt that. But about the box—tell me about it. Was there any printing on it, the name of the bakery perhaps?”

  “No, it was just one of those plain cardboard boxes that bakeries put their pastry in.”

  “This feuilleté stuff—is it common? Could you find it in many bakeries?”

  “I wouldn’t think so. There are really only four good pastry shops in this whole area. I should think it would have to come from one of those four.”

  “Could you give me the names?”

  At that moment, the doorbell sounded.

  “That may be Detective Beckman,” Masuto told her. “I asked him to meet me here.” He followed her to the front door. Beckman, oversized, slope-shouldered, stood there shaking his head.

  “Nothing, Masao.”

  “Wait here a moment, Sy.”

  She was standing behind him, watching intently. Not a foolish woman by any means. The tendency to regard any wealthy divorced woman as an empty-headed fool was something Masuto did not share. “I want to write down the names of those four bakeries,” he said to her. “Could I have a few minutes alone with Detective Beckman? Then if I can impose on you a little more?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She opened the door wider and asked Beckman to step in. Then she gave Masuto the names of the bakeries. “I’ll be in the study,” she said to him.

  “Thank you.”

  They stood inside the door, Beckman looking around the place curiously. “Eight-and-a-half bucks for a pound of candy,” he said reflectively.

  “And you got nothing?”

  “Would you believe, Masao, that they sold twenty-four boxes of the stuff already today, and it ain’t two o’clock yet? What is it with money? Has it gone out of style?”

  “You pushed them?”

  “Sure I pushed them, but there is no way in the world they could give me anything worth a damn. We don’t know when the candy was bought—maybe last week, maybe a month ago. It’s a standard box, each one the same as the next.”

  “I figured that’s the way it would be.”

  “Great. I got nothing eke to do with my time.”

  “Now you have. Here are the names of four bakeries. That’s just a beginning, but hit these four first. Two days ago, a pastry carton was delivered to this address—three chocolate éclairs, three strawberry tarts, and two things called feuilletés. I have it written down here. These feuilletés are pastry horns with a cream filling. That narrows it. I’ll see you back at headquarters.”

  Masuto closed the door behind Beckman and went into the study. Laura Crombie stood in one corner of the room, and she stared at Masuto unhappily as he entered.

  “There’s more to this than just a case of food poisoning, isn’t there?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Have you had lunch, Mr. Masuto?” she asked unexpectedly.

  “It’s not important.”

  “I think it is. I can give you scrambled eggs and coffee.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t impose on you.”

  “You certainly can. I’m hungry too. And I’m frightened. Do you know how often a woman who lives alone in this strange society of ours is frightened? I’m frightened right now at the thought of what you are going to tell me. And you must tell me, I suppose?”

  “I must—yes.”

  Masuto sat at the big wooden table in her kitchen, watching her prepare eggs and coffee and toast. She moved deftly. She was a competent woman.

  “You have no family?”

  “None. I’m alone in the world. I had a daughter.”

  “Oh?”

  “She died.” Shortly and thrust aside. She had no desire to talk about the daughter who had died. “Do you like your eggs soft or well done?”

  “Either way. Tell me about these women who are your bridge friends.”

  “Don’t you think you should first tell me what this is all about?” When Masuto hesitated, she added, “You probably pride yourself on being inscrutable. Well, Nisei or not, you’ve given me a feeling of disaster ever since you entered this house.”

  “You’re very sensitive, Mrs. Crombie.”

  “Or frightened. I overheard you talking to the other detective. I wasn’t eavesdropping. His voice carries.”

  “I know.”

  “Alice called me this morning.”

  “Alice Greene?” It was Masuto’s turn to be surprised. “Was she one of your bridge partners?”

  “Yes. And her dog ate some candy and died. Lubie candy. You don’t get food poisoning from candy. Not from Lubie’s candy.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Then I think it’s time you let me in on what is happening to us.”

  “All right. Ana Fortez died of a type of food poisoning called botulism. Do you know what that is?”

  “Only that it’s very deadly.”

  “Very deadly. It begins with a bacillus that produces a poisonous toxin. Now there are various types of stomach disorders that can result from eating a bad éclair, but botulism is not one of them. Botulism can only be produced when the bacillus is in an airtight area, and it is almost always the result of putrified meat or badly canned vegetables, not éclairs.”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t understand you, Sergeant. You told me that Ana had died from eating the éclairs that I gave her.”

  “So she did. A
nd she died of botulism. I would guess that the éclairs were intended for you or your guests. I would also guess that the rest of the pastry was equally deadly.”

  “But you said—”

  “That you can’t have a natural botulin in an eclair. That’s right. I would still be guessing, but I would suppose that someone grew the botulism toxin and injected the pastry with it.”

  “Oh, my God! But why? Why?”

  “We’ll get to that. Right now, I would like you to telephone Mrs. Greene and the other two women you played bridge with and suggest to them that they refrain from eating anything sent to them or delivered to them, regardless of its origin—at least until I can arrange to speak to them.”

  There was a telephone on the kitchen wall. Laura Crombie started to say something, then swallowed her words, stared at Masuto, hesitated, and then went to the telephone. Masuto watched her and listened.

  “Just do as I say…. Please…. No, I can’t explain over the phone…. I’m sitting here with a policeman and he says he will see you and explain everything…. Yes, it has something to do with Ana’s death…. Yes, I’m frightened too.”

  The other calls followed more or less the same pattern, and when Laura Crombie returned to the kitchen table, Masuto pushed his pad and pen toward her. “Please give me their names and addresses.” Her hand was shaking as she attempted to write. “I’ll write them,” Masuto said gently. “Suppose we start with Alice Greene.”

  He put down name, address, and telephone number. Next, Nancy Legett, and then Mitzie Fuller.

  “Tell me about them,” Masuto said. “How you met them, how long you know them.”

  She didn’t respond. As if she had only this moment realized it, she whispered, “Someone is trying to kill us. All of us. Isn’t that what you’re telling me?”

  “No!” he said sharply. “That’s not what I’m telling you. At this moment, I have no idea what is going on, whether this is some stupid joke, some monstrous prank, or whatever.”

  “No, no, no.” She took a deep breath and got hold of herself. “I am not going to be hysterical, Sergeant Masuto, but if you want me to be frank and open with you, then you must be quite frank with me. For all I know, you may be convinced that I am behind all this, that I poisoned Ana and that I sent the candy to Alice. After all, you have only my word about the pastry being delivered here.”