“She has a mother who won’t talk about her. My guess is that the mother can’t talk about her, and I haven’t got time for psychoanalysis.”
“All right, we’ll give it a try.”
“I want it quick.”
“Yeah? I want the moon.”
“Even if you find one of the cops, have him call our station. Polly there will patch him through to wherever I am.”
Back in his car, Masuto felt a certain satisfaction. It was beginning to come together. Very slowly, yet it was beginning to come together.
He drove back to Beverly Hills and Beverly Drive. The media had given up, and, except for a couple of curious kids, there was no one in front of the Crombie house. Still in the driveway were three cars, the Porsche, the Seville, and Beckman’s Ford. Masuto parked behind the Ford, walked to the door, and touched the bell.
There was a peephole, and he could imagine Beckman staring at him. Then the door opened.
“I’m being relieved,” Beckman said. “You’re taking over.”
“No such luck. Where are the ladies?”
“Inside playing bridge. I’m the dummy. It don’t matter that I can’t play bridge worth a damn. They taught me the game and now I’m trapped, and every lousy play I make, that Crombie dame rakes me over the coals. She is a lulu. Tell you something else, Masao, with these three dames locked up together, their love for each other is going downhill swiftly. They’re beginning to snap and snarl, especially the two older ones.”
At that moment, Laura Crombie’s voice. “Mr. Beckman, what’s going on out there?”
“Sergeant Masuto. We’ll be in in a moment.”
“It’s your deal.”
“Sy,” Masuto said softly, “I want one of the pictures. Kelly, Catherine. The Crombie kid. Grown, not as a child. Take it out of the album.”
“We could ask. I hate to steal it.”
“Mr. Beckman!” from inside.
“We are not stealing it. We’re borrowing it. Don’t worry. We’ll put it back.”
“Okay,” Beckman said.
“While I’m here. I only have a few minutes.”
Beckman shook his head.
“Don’t worry. I’ll send you upstairs,” Masuto said.
Beckman led him through the house to a bright, beautifully-decorated breakfast room that overlooked the gardens and pool. The furniture was bamboo and flowered chintz, the floor was of imported Spanish tile, and the bay window set in shiny brass fittings. There were plants and flowers everywhere, and Masuto looked at it with such pleasure that Laura Crombie abandoned her tight-lipped expression of annoyance.
“You like the room, Sergeant?”
“Very much.” He turned to Beckman. “Go through the house while I’m here, Sy.”
“Again?” Mrs. Crombie asked.
“Please. Then I can report back that he checked the house while I was present.”
Beckman strode out on his mission, and Nancy Legett said, “Sometimes, Sergeant, I wonder whether you are not a little mad. This whole notion that someone is trying to murder us-”
“Stop that, Nancy!” Laura Crombie said sharply.
Nancy Legett began to cry. She sat bent over the table on which the cards had been dealt, her body wracked with sobs. Mitzie Fuller put her arms around her.
“Come on now, darling,” Mitzie said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“Nothing’s going to be all right,” she sobbed. “We’re all going to be killed, the way Alice was killed. You know that. I know that. He killed Alice first, and then it’s our turn.”
“Who killed Alice?” Masuto asked gently.
“Arthur Crombie. Didn’t you know?”
“No, no, that’s too much,” Laura Crombie said. “Now see here, Nancy, we’re old friends, but that doesn’t give you the right to carry on like this.”
“I wish I could stay, but I can’t,” Masuto said firmly. “Now listen to me!”
They stopped squabbling and turned to him. Mitzie said cheerfully, “Right on, Charlie Chan. Oh, no. That was terrible of me. That was inexcusable of me. Please forgive me.”
“More inexcusable since I am a Nisei, which means of Japanese parents. However, I’ll forgive you.”
“Bless you.” She leaped up and kissed his cheek. “There’s my apology.”
“Thank you. Now, I want a picture of each of your ex-husbands.”
“You’re kidding,” Laura Crombie said.
“Dead serious. Of course, Mrs. Greene presents a problem.”
“You read the
“How do you know I read the
“Because the
“Mrs. Crombie?”
“I’ll find a picture of Arthur for you.”
“Mrs. Legett?”
She was unwilling to meet his gaze.
“Mrs. Legett, did you hear me? I have to have a picture of your ex-husband.”
Still avoiding his gaze, blushing, she opened her purse and took a two-by-three photo out of her billfold. She handed it to Masuto. The two other women stared at her in disbelief, and then, unable to contain herself, Mitzie cried out, “Oh, no! I don’t believe it.”
“That’s enough,” Laura Crombie snapped.
“And you, Mrs. Fuller?” Masuto asked Mitzie.
“I’ve insulted you and kissed you, so no more of that Mrs. Fuller stuff. Mitzie. I’ve decided you remind me of Richard Boone, only you’re better looking. As for a picture, I wouldn’t have that little bastard’s picture within a mile of me. But all you have to do is call the studio.”
“Metro?”
“That’s right. That’s where sonnyboy is shooting his new picture.”
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
“You will? I knew it! I knew it! I knew that little son of a bitch is the one. Oh, I hope you get him, Masuto. And I hope they have public seating at the gas chamber. I want to be there, right in front.”
“Mitzie, how can you!” Nancy cried.
“It’s easy.”
“I’ll get the picture for you,” Laura Crombie said.
On the way out of the house, Beckman slid the picture of Catherine Addison into Masuto’s side pocket.
“There’s a possibility that Polly will put a call in to here,” Masuto said to Beckman, “from an L.A. cop. I’m going to stop off at my house and then I’m going on to Metro. So you’ll catch up with me in either place.”
11
The Director and the Producer
Long ago, it was said that no one knows Brooklyn, the suggestion implicit being that even if one set out to master such knowledge, the quest would be fruitless. The same might be said of Los Angeles. Long, long ago, the vast California county of Los Angeles contained dozens and dozens of separate towns and villages and cities, Los Angeles City being the largest. Through the years, under the impetus of urban sprawl and enormous population growth, these dozens of cities had come together, the way cookie dough placed too close on the cookie sheet will spread and join. Masuto worked in Beverly Hills, which was almost entirely surrounded by metropolitan Los Angeles;
