The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery by Howard Fast Page B

him.
    â€œI brought you two hamburgers and coffee.”
    â€œWith pickles?”
    â€œWith pickles.”
    â€œYou know,” Beckman said as he unwrapped the first hamburger, “under that cold, inscrutable shell of yours, you got heart.”
    â€œI’m relieved to know that. What happened?”
    â€œYou mean with the kid or here?”
    â€œFirst the kid.”
    â€œWell, we rounded up a couple of kids near the bakery, and they identified him. Jesus Consolo, fourteen years old. A good kid. Never got into any trouble, no dope, tenth grade, good marks. The L.A. investigators matched it up with a missing report, and I let them break the news to his parents. I’m no good for that kind of thing. I got a fourteen-year-old kid of my own, Masao, and I swear if I ever find that lunatic bastard—”
    â€œNo, you won’t. Now what about the kids who identified him? Did they see anything?”
    â€œNothing, nothing—nothing until it stinks. This bastard leaves no loose ends.”
    â€œThey all leave loose ends.”
    â€œI sure as hell hope so.”
    â€œAnd what about here?”
    â€œWell, when I got here, I rang the bell and told Mrs. Crombie that I’d be here in the car. She wasn’t crazy about the idea, and I asked her about the three other women, just to make sure they were inside.”
    â€œWere they?”
    â€œYeah, they’re there. I told her to bolt the back door and to call me in case anyone came to the back door. That’s it. All quiet as a graveyard.”
    â€œGood. Patch in a call to your wife and tell her you won’t be home tonight.”
    â€œWhat? She’ll skin me.”
    â€œI want you to stay overnight in the Crombie house.”
    â€œYou’re putting me on.”
    â€œDead serious. I’m going to convince all four women to remain there overnight and I want you to stay with them.”
    â€œAnd that’s what I tell my wife—that I’m sleeping in Beverly Hills with four dames?”
    â€œIf you want to be perfectly honest.”
    â€œMasao,” Beckman said seriously, “I think you’re a little nutty with this one. They don’t need me there overnight. They lock the doors and the windows. Every one of these Beverly Hills houses has a burglar alarm system.”
    â€œI need you there.”
    â€œYou’re a heartless bastard.”
    â€œAm I? Locking you up with four lovely women—that’s what every red-blooded American boy dreams of, or so I’m told.”
    â€œOkay, okay. When will you be back?”
    â€œBefore ten. Just hang in.”
    â€œI still don’t know exactly what I’m supposed to do if someone comes to the door.”
    â€œJust find out who he is and what he wants. You don’t keep him or her out. Let Mrs. Crombie decide about that.”
    Masuto’s radio phone was speaking to him as he drove off. Wainwright’s voice was demanding, “Where the hell are you, Masao?”
    â€œTurning a corner two blocks away.”
    â€œWell, get over here. Do you know what time it is? It’s eight o’clock, and I’m sitting here on my butt when I should be home eating a decent dinner, and I’m sitting here because the Los Angeles cops are sore as hell. They want your scalp and they want me here when they take it.”
    â€œI’ll be there in two minutes.”
    â€œWhat in hell have you been up to?”
    â€œTwo minutes.”
    Masuto pulled into his parking space on Rexford Drive and went inside. Wainwright was pacing in front of Masuto’s office. “What’s this all about?” he snapped.
    â€œI don’t know. I have to call my wife.”
    â€œSo help me, Masao, if there’s one thing a crummy little police force like ours can’t afford, it’s a ruckus with the L.A. cops. Not now. Not with the city refusing to shell out a nickel for new equipment. We depend on those miserable