The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs

“Is that why you come into the zendo with a gun under your coat?”

“I’m sorry, so very sorry. But what was I to do once I was here?”

“And what have I to do with killers and killing, Masao?”

“What turns a man into a murderer?”

“Fear.”

“But we are all afraid.”

“And we are all murderers.”

“This man,” Masuto said, “is like a thousand other men. He has money and position and respect. But he kills again and again. I am trying desperately to understand before I act.”

“Do you know who he is?” the Roshi asked.

“Yes-if I know why.”

“A long time ago,” the little old man said, “a young man came to a worthy roshi, and he said to him, Master, my father begs that I study Zen, but why? Tell me why. And this roshi, Masao, having more patience than I have, said to the young man, ‘If you study Zen, you will not be afraid to die.’”

“I have heard the story many times. It puzzles me.”

“Because you are stupid, Masao.”

Masuto nodded.

“What else? You are part of a large police force, but you come to a foolish old Japanese man for an answer to your problem. This is certainly a very stupid thing to do. Anyway, as you already told me, you know who this man is. And I have told you why he does what he does.”

The roshi rose and Masuto rose. They bowed to each other. The old man went to Masuto and put an arm around him.

“You are a good boy, Masao. Meditate more.”

“If I could only find the time.”

“Stand still and very quietly. The time will find you.”

9

Alan Greene

At headquarters, Masuto paused and listened. Fredericks, a uniformed cop, was leaving, and Masuto asked him, “Who’s in there?”

“Wainwright, the city manager, and the mayor. They’ve been at it since eight-thirty.”

The mayor was an unsalaried position. Like the president of the lodge who was the butt of everyone’s anger, he did it for the “honor.”

“There is no police force in the world,” Wainwright was saying, his voice clear through the thin door, “that can prevent crime. I got a forty-page report from the F.B.I., if you want to read it. There’s just no way we could have anticipated what happened to Mrs. Greene.”

“As I understand, there were two policemen on the scene.” That was the city manager.

“There could have been ten cops on the scene. How would they know that the car was wired? You don’t look for a wired car in Beverly Hills.”

“All right. That happened.” The mayor’s voice. “But the rumor’s out that three other murders are tied into this.”

A long silence.

“Well, for Christ’s sake, yes or no?”

“Yes,” Wainwright said shortly.

“What did you say? Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus God, four lousy murders! We’re not that big. Don’t you understand? We’re just not that big.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Wainwright said, “three of them took place outside the Beverly Hills city limits. So technically, those three belong to the Los Angeles cops.”

“Well, who tied them in?”

“Masuto.”

“Why?” the mayor cried. “For Christ’s sake, why? What’s the motive?”

“Because that’s the way it is. If it’s that way, that’s the way it is,” Wainwright said.

“What do you mean, that’s the way it is. You just told us the way it is. Los Angeles has these killings,” the mayor said.

“We got them too.”

Masuto stopped listening and went into his office. It was a quarter after nine in the morning now. The Los Angeles Times had cleared space on the front page for the death of Alice Greene. It was mostly a picture of the burned car with only a few words of background squeezed in at the last moment. They specified that the two-seater Mercedes was priced at twenty-seven thousand dollars. It was almost obligatory to include a price in any Beverly Hills story. The deaths of the Chicano boy and the chemist rated only a few lines on inside pages. Violent death was hardly a novelty, unless of course it occurred in Beverly Hills inside a Mercedes.

Masuto dialed the number of the Crombie house. Mrs. Crombie answered.

“Our handsome Oriental jailer,” she said. “When do we get sprung?”

“Soon, I hope. May I talk to Detective Beckman?”

“He’s at breakfast.”

“See if he can tear himself away.”

“Hold on. He’s finishing his second order of scrambled eggs and waffles and honey. I’ll let him take it in the library where he’ll have some privacy.”

A minute or so later, Beckman’s voice came over the phone, thickened by the fact that he was still chewing. “Do you know, Masao,” he said, “those Arabs got something. Living with three women has its points.”

“I’m sure. Anything happen?”

“Not a thing.”

“How are the ladies?”

“A lot calmer. I can’t say the same for my wife. You got to talk to her, Masao. She’s sore as hell at me. All she had to hear is that I’m spending the night in a house with three Beverly Hills divorcees and she let go at me like God knows what I was up to. Like I’m doing this for fun.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Come on. You know better than that.”

“All right, Sy. Now listen to me. You’ve been in that house for quite a while. In and out of every room, right?”

“Right.”

“Now think. Mrs. Crombie had a daughter. Did you see the girl’s picture anywhere?”

After a long moment of silence, Beckman said, “I wasn’t looking for it, Masao. Maybe I saw it and paid it no mind.”

“Just think for a while, Sy.”

He thought about it. “I just can’t remember. Like I said, I wasn’t looking for it.”

“All right. I want you to look for it. No questions and don’t give any hint of what you’re looking for. Just let them know that your instructions are to keep checking out the house.”

“And if I find it, what do you want me to do, pinch it?”

“No, no, no. Absolutely not. If you find a picture of the girl, just leave it alone. Don’t touch it. Also, I want you to find out what the name of Mrs. Crombie’s first husband was. Do it in a casual way. Nancy Legett would know. If you’re alone with her, you might just ask as a matter of curiosity.”

“Got it. You’ll call back?”