The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs

“Why?”

“I don’t know. If I knew, we wouldn’t be arguing. All I’m asking is that you give Beckman and me a free hand on this case.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes-maybe another day, maybe a week. I don’t know.”

Wainwright sighed and nodded. “Okay, but don’t talk to the press. Not a word. You want to make a murder case out of this, you can have the time. But keep it quiet.” He stared intently at Masuto. “You keeping anything back?”

“Would I?”

“You damn well would. All right, it’s yours.”

Polly intercepted Masuto on his way out. She was small and blonde and blue-eyed. “What do I have to do,” she asked him, “to get a reaction from Detective Sergeant Masuto?”

“You get it all the time. I hide it behind Oriental inscrutability.”

“Which means?”

“That I adore you but don’t dare show it.”

“Bull. You are married. Every decent man is married. Try a singles bar some night and you’ll see what I mean. Don’t you want to know what downtown has to say about your Tony Cooper?”

“That’s what I asked.”

“Well, here it is.” She read from a slip of paper. “Three arrests, homosexual practice, no convictions, all of it ten years ago. You know, it should be the women who do the resenting, not the cops. We suffer when the men leave the market place, and as far as I’m concerned the cops have got better things to do than to pull people in for being gay. You know how they do it?”

“I have heard,” Masuto said.

“They entice them into porno movie houses and then arrest them. I think it stinks. Our boys wouldn’t do that, would they, Masao?”

“No, we’re too short on cops. Thanks, Polly.”

It was almost six o’clock when Masuto parked on Camden Drive across the street from the beauty parlor, but the shop was still open. Only a single customer remained, a brown head being trimmed by a slender, dark man in a white jacket with pink stripes. Masuto crossed the street and entered the shop.

“We don’t do men and we’re closed,” the man in the striped blazer told him.

“Tony Cooper?” Masuto stood just inside the door.

“That’s right.” He stared at Masuto thoughtfully, and then said to the woman in the chair, “Don’t move, baby. I’ll be with you in a minute.” Then he walked over to Masuto and whispered, “Fuzz?”

Masuto nodded.

“Oriental fuzz. I’ll be damned.” Still in a whisper, “Can you come back? She’s the end of the line.”

“I’ll wait.”

Masuto sat down and picked up a copy of Architectural Digest and leafed through the pages. You could gauge the prices at a hairdressing establishment by the kind of magazines they left around. Architectural Digest probably indicated a twenty-five or thirty dollar haircut. It was part of the trivia that went into Masuto’s store of facts. A policeman living very simply in a small house in Culver City-which is to Beverly Hills what Brooklyn is to Fifth Avenue-he did his daily work in one of the wealthiest communities on the face of the earth. It called for a certain kind of balance and a special kind of perspective, and he thought of this as he leafed through the magazine, looking at photographs of the homes of millionaires. He had never envied wealth, although often enough he pitied those who possessed it; but then, he was a Zen Buddhist, and that gave him his own unique handle on things. Sy Beckman handled it by ignoring it; it just happened to be the shop where he worked.

Cooper finished with the lady whose hair he had been cutting and saw her to the door. Then he turned to Masuto and shook his head. “You guys never give up, do you?”

“I try not to, but if you’re thinking about your record, I couldn’t care less.” He showed his badge. “Masuto, Beverly Hills police.”

“Okay, but what can I do for you? Is it a violation or tickets to the annual ball?”

“Neither. I want to pick your brains, and I want whatever I pick to stay with you, because if any of it gets out, I will come back and lean on you very heavily.”

“Now?” he demanded indignantly. “It’s a quarter after six. I’m closing. I’ve had a hard, lousy day. The help goes home at five, but if some broad wants a haircut at six, I stay.”

“Now.”

“I got a date.”

“Call them and tell them you’ll be late.”

“I don’t have to answer any questions.”

“I don’t have to be nice,” Masuto said gently.

“All right. You win. You want coffee?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Cooper regarded him curiously. “You’re a damn funny cop. I never knew they had a Jap on the police force here.”

“You live and you learn.”

“I shouldn’t have said that-Jap,” Cooper said. “I meant Japanese. What the hell, you pick it up. I’ll get the coffee. Maybe you want a drink?”

Masuto shook his head, and Cooper went to the back of the place and then emerged with two cups.

“Sugar and cream?”

“Just straight.”

He handed Masuto the coffee and sat down beside him. “Since that lousy film came out, everyone thinks this business has class and glamour. It doesn’t. You work your ass off and take crud all day. I been on my feet nine hours.”

“A man should enjoy his work,” Masuto said.

“Do you enjoy yours?”

“At times, yes. Right now, no.”

“Where do I fit in?”

“Here are four names: Laura Crombie, Alice Greene, Nancy Legett, and Mitzie Fuller. How many of these women do you know?”

“I know all of them.”

“Oh? And how is that?”

“They’re customers.”

“I’d like to know about them.”

“I don’t talk about my customers. I got maybe two or three principles. That’s one of them.”

Masuto smiled. “That’s admirable. But I’m a cop, and these four women are in great danger. So in this instance, I suggest you put your principles aside.”

“What kind of danger?”

“Someone is trying to kill them. I’m telling you this because I think it’s the only way I’ll get you to open up, but it stops with you.”

The hairdresser stared at Masuto. “Are you putting me on?”

“No. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Who? Who’s trying to kill them?”

“I don’t know. It could even be you.”

Cooper shook his head slowly. “Not likely. Oh, I hate some of these biddies enough to want to kill them, but it’s not my style. I couldn’t kill a mouse. Anyway, I’m a vegetarian.”

Masuto did not regard it as a non sequitur. “You’re not a likely suspect, but you do know all four of them.”

“Customers. I know maybe two or three hundred dames in this town. Mostly they don’t bother me. I take them for what they are. They take me for what I am. It doesn’t drive them out of their minds to have their hair cut