Howard Fast
The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs
1
Sam Baxter
Masao Masuto was late at his morning meditation. Here it was already a few minutes past eight o’clock in the morning and still he sat cross-legged, like a saffron-robed Buddha, in the little sunparlor which he was pleased to call his meditation room. Kati, his wife, sent the two children off to school in a flurry of whispers, and then she stood staring at the figure of her husband. Had he fallen asleep? That, she knew, would be the ultimate sin in meditation-provided there was such a thing as a sin in meditation. She herself did not meditate; it was quite enough, she once told her husband, to run the house and take care of the children-aside from which she felt no need. She was not a policeman, thank heavens; her husband was.
She was in the kitchen, putting his breakfast together, when she heard him rise and go into the bedroom to dress. A few minutes later he leaned over her and kissed the spot where her neck joined her shoulder.
“That does not make everything all right,” she said.
“Is everything not all right?”
“I have been reading an article by Betty Friedan. About women. Do you know what she says about Japanese women?”
“Ah so. Will I get my breakfast or must I eat at the hash joint?”
“Your breakfast is already on the table.”
“You are really the most wonderful of wives,” Masuto told her.
“Only because I never stand up for my rights. Sono Asie is starting a consciousness-raising group for Nisei women. She asked me to join.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I’m not sure.”
“It’s an excellent idea,” Masuto said.
“You agree?”
“Why not? Higher consciousness is excellent in any situation, and if you neglect my home and my children, I can always divorce you and find a truly submissive woman.”
“Why must you always tease me?”
“Tease you? Never.” He finished eating, rose, and put his arms around her. “I love you very much. Join any group you wish. Now I must go.”
“To violence and death and murder. And now I have another day of worry.”
“Absolutely not,” Masuto said cheerfully. “There has been no death by violence in Beverly Hills for five weeks. In fact, I should not be surprised if they closed down the homicide department. Then I should be an ordinary policeman admonishing children of the rich who sniff cocaine and lecturing housewives on how to keep their oversized houses from being burgled.”
“That would not make me unhappy,” Kati told him.
Would it make him unhappy? As he drove north on Motor Avenue from Culver City, where he lived, into Beverly Hills, Masuto wondered about that. He had been in charge of Beverly Hills’ tiny homicide squad for five years now. Could it be that he had become fascinated with murder? It was the ultimate crime, the single hideous mark of the beast that had scarred man since Cain first raised his hand against his brother Abel. Of course, that was a Western myth; yet Masuto, like most Nisei, was a man whose consciousness was split between East and West.
“Why do men murder?” Kati had once asked him.
“Because they lose themselves somewhere,” he had replied, “and in that way they lose the rest of mankind.”
“That is a Zen answer,” Kati said with irritation. “You only confuse me with your Zen answers.”
He reached the police station on Rexford Drive, parked, and went upstairs. Well, he confused Kati, and very often he confused himself; there was no easy answer when he asked himself why he was a policeman-any more than an easy answer to the question of why murder was done. Yet he was content to remain where he was, to accept the fact that promotion was unlikely, that Beverly Hills was not yet ready for a Nisei chief of police. He had all that he desired, a good wife, two children, his meditation, and his rose garden.
In his office, Sy Beckman, the other half of the homicide division, was at his desk, feet up, reading the Los Angeles
“I don’t envy them.”
“Wainwright says to find him as soon as you come in.”
Wainwright-Captain Wainwright of the Beverly Hills Police Department-sat behind his desk and stared sourly at Masuto. His expression indicated nothing; it had become fixed many years before, and Masuto could remember and count the times he had smiled. “Over at All Saints,” he said to Masuto, “Doc Baxter has a cadaver that he wants you to look at. Anyway, it’s time you and Beckman stirred your asses and justified my having a homicide division.”
“We haven’t been sitting still,” Masuto said gently. “We’ve been on robbery. However, if the city fathers require murder, we can hire a contract man-”
“Oh, get the hell out of here,” Wainwright said tiredly. “Your humor stinks.”
“Do you want me?” Beckman asked Masuto.
“Finish the paper. It’s just possible I can handle Baxter alone.”
“Funny.”
Beverly Hills, in spite of the astonishing growth of the small, affluent city that was entirely surrounded by the city of Los Angeles, was still too small to have its own morgue and department of forensic medicine. Instead, it used the morgue and pathology room at All Saints Hospital, which was located just at the edge of Beverly Hills, one small wing extending into the domain of Los Angeles. Dr. Sam Baxter was part-time medical examiner for Beverly Hills, a tired, professionally nasty internist in his late sixties. He regarded each summons to work as a deliberate intrusion on his time and privacy, whereby he specified the members of the Beverly Hills police force as his nominal enemies.
He greeted Masuto with a cold stare. “Do you know how long I been waiting here? It’s almost ten.”
“I was informed and I came immediately,” Masuto said gently.
“What the hell, I’m not a cop. Or am I? Tell me?”
“No, doc. You’re not a cop.”
“But I got to turn up murder. God knows how many killers are walking the streets because you lamebrains over there on Rexford Drive can’t see what’s in front of your noses.”
“We do our best.”
“I just bet you do.”
“What have you got?” Masuto asked him. “Mostly we’re told about murder. It’s still sort of a novelty in Beverly Hills.”
“Don’t get snotty with me, Masao. You’re the chief of what they please to call their homicide squad, heaven help us.” As he talked, he walked across the hospital morgue to the refrigerated holding cabinet and pulled out one of the drawers. “Take a look at this.”
Masuto walked over to the cabinet and looked down at the pale, lifeless face of a young woman. Her hair was black, her features good. In death, she was wistful, as if pleading for all the years of life that had been taken from her.
“Ana Fortez,” Baxter said. “Twenty-one years old. Admitted to All Saints the night before last with a severe case of food poisoning. Died yesterday afternoon. Botulism.”
