The Case of the Poisoned Eclairs: A Masao Masuto Mystery (19 page)

He looked at the view for a moment or two more, and then he went inside. Like most Los Angeles restaurants, the place was underlit. Lamps on the tables, a few lights at the entrance, but for the most part a muted interior. There was a bar, a screen, and a dozen tables. At the far end, a spinet piano at which a black man improvised the blues.

A tall, good-looking man of about fifty, dark-haired, with a long, narrow face that had become habitually fixed in an expressionless mask, wearing working evening clothes, approached Masuto. He studied the detective, examining his battered tweed jacket, his wrinkled gray flannel trousers, and his tieless shirt.

“Can I help you?” The noncommittal question which left a variety of outs.

Masuto showed his badge.

“Would you come into the light?”

Obligingly, Masuto put the wallet which contained his badge under the reservation light. “Detective Sergeant Masuto,” he said. “Beverly Hills police.”

“Aren't you out of your territory, Sergeant?”

“Mr.—”

“George Denton.”

“I see. This is your place?”

“That's right.”

“Now I'm sure,” Masuto said, “that you know enough about the way the law functions in Los Angeles County to know that I can go anywhere in the county in pursuit.”

“Is that what you're doing?” Denton asked sardonically. “Hot pursuit? Isn't that what the law says?”

“That's what I'm doing.”

“Well, look around you. I know every customer in the place. No criminals. So unless you got a warrant, I'd rather not have the fuzz around. It gives my place a bad name.”

“Your place has a bad name.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just this,” Masuto said quietly. “You're running a classy whorehouse. Now I don't mind you defending your business, but don't knock mine. I'm a mild-mannered person, but I've had a long day, and I'd just as soon come down on you like a ton of bricks as not. I don't owe you one damn thing, and if you think I couldn't smash this joint and close up your lousy business, just try me. And if you think I'm off my own turf, I'll pick up that phone and have two black-and-whites here in five minutes, and then you can tell your story to the L.A. cops.”

“Hey, wait a minute. Hold on.”

“And you'll address me as Sergeant Masuto.”

“Okay, Sergeant. Okay. Look, I run a quiet, decent place here. No one gets cheated and no one gets rolled. I been in business twelve years and I never had no trouble. You can't blame me for getting a little riled when a Beverly Hills investigator comes in and starts asking questions. My God, why would you want to close me up? I'll show you places in Beverly Hills with five times the action we ever have here.”

“I don't want to close you up. I want some information.”

“Okay, Sure. Come over here and sit down.” He led Masuto to a small table near the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you. Do you know Mitzie Fuller?”

“She was Mitzie Kogan when I knew her. That was before she married Billy Fuller. I suppose he found out that she had turned a few tricks, and that finished their marriage. She was a good kid. A real beauty. A real strawberry blonde beauty. But she hasn't been back here since she met Fuller. She told me she wasn't coming back. I was glad. I wished her luck.”

“That was how long ago?”

“Almost two years ago.”

“And before that, how long did Mitzie work out of this place?”

“Three years, give or take a few months.”

“How did it work?” Masuto asked. “I mean, what time did she turn up?”

“Between eight and nine most of the time. You can see, there's not much action before then. Of course, there were nights when she'd come in at six or seven and just hang around listening to Joe over there playing the piano. She was crazy about his blues, and you don't hear much blues these days, nothing but rock.”

“Joe was working here then?”

“That's right. I keep my help. That ought to say something about the kind of a place I run.”

“Would Mitzie stand at the bar or sit at a table?”

“Sometimes the bar, sometimes a table, sometimes up there with Joe. It would depend. Say, what's she into? I'd hate to see that kid get hurt.”

“So would I.” Masuto took a picture out of his pocket. “Do you know this man?”

“I know him,” Denton said, studying the picture. “His name was Smith, but that ain't his name. Nobody's name is Smith.”

“Do you know his real name?”

“No. I'm not curious about the customers' names.”

“When did he first come here? Can you remember?”

“Jesus—who can remember? Maybe four years ago, maybe a little more. He gave Mitzie a short fling. Then he turned up with a girl, and after that, no more Mitzie. Mitzie left him alone. Like she never saw him.”

“He came back with the girl—or was that the last time?”

“He came back, two or three times a week. Why not? My food is as good as anything in L.A. and the prices are not out of line. I don't bother people and I don't ask questions.”

“Didn't he use a credit card?”

“No, cash. Always cash. That's all right. This is a place where men come with other men's wives. It happens. I handle a lot of cash.”

“Always with the same girl?”

“Yeah.”

“And how long did that go on?” Masuto asked.

“Maybe nine months.”

“And what did he call the girl? And what did she call him? If they were here that many times, you must have heard names.”

“Yeah. She called him Jack and he called her Kate.”

Masuto took out of his pocket the picture of Kelly—Catherine—Addison that Beckman had lifted from the album in Laura Crombie's bedroom. He put it in front of Denton.

“That's the girl.”

“You're sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

He put the picture back in his pocket. “What was their relationship?” he asked Denton.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. You watched them night after night. Were they sleeping with each other?”

Denton shrugged. “I'd say so. I don't know what the kid saw in him, except that he was good-looking and knew his way around. These stupid kids go for older men. I didn't like him. I felt he was a bastard. So did Mitzie. But what the hell, it was no business of mine.”

“Can I talk to Joe?” Masuto asked, nodding at the black pianist.

“Yeah.”

“How's his memory?”

“Better than mine.”

He took Masuto over to the black pianist. “Joe, this is Sergeant Masuto of the Beverly Hills police.”

Joe nodded and went on playing. “A Nisei. They're beginning to integrate.”

“Talk to him.”

“I'm not crazy for fuzz,” Joe said.

“I said, talk to him.”

“Okay, boss. I'll talk.” He stopped playing. Masuto took out the two pictures. Joe nodded. “That's right. That's the poor kid who went off the road up on Mulholland. Her name was Catherine Addison. You remember,” he said to Denton, “I told you about that.”

Denton didn't remember. He wasn't covering, Masuto decided, he just hadn't remembered. He remembered now.

“I'm sorry, Sergeant,” he said.

“He don't read the papers. I do,” Joe said. “I think I told him but I'm not sure.”

“Was she here the night she died?” Masuto asked him.

The black man closed his eyes and with one finger began to pick out a mournful tune on the piano. Masuto waited. Denton turned away to deal with a customer.

“Yes,” Joe finally said.

“And the man?”

“Yes.”

“Were they happy?”

“What's happy, Sarge? Who's happy? No, they was not happy. The kid was crying. She came to me and asked me to play ‘Blues in the Night.' I ain't crazy for it, but I played it.”

“Was Mitzie here that night.”

The black man's eyes turned cold, as if he had pulled a film over them. “I don't know nothing about Mitzie.”

“I like Mitzie,” Masuto said. “I'm trying to save her life. Maybe what you tell me could save her life. That's the truth.”

He thought about it for a while, his finger picking out a tune again. Then he said, “Yeah, Mitzie was here. Mitzie came over to me and asked me if I knew why the kid was crying. I remember because we never saw her again. We never saw Smith either.”

“You wouldn't remember what time that was?”

“Jesus, man, you want a lot, don't you? That was over three years ago. All right, I can tell you this. It was before the tables began to fill, so maybe it was before eight o'clock.”

“Thanks, Joe,” Masuto said.

“No sweat. Only don't make it hard for George. He's a decent man.”

The Killer

“Am I going to have trouble?” George Denton asked Masuto.

“Not unless you make it for yourself. I'm not a vice cop. Now I have to use a telephone.”

“Sure—sure, Sergeant. Use this one right here.”

Masuto dialed Laura Crombie's number. It was busy. He dialed it again. Busy. He was becoming increasingly nervous, increasingly irritated. Couples were coming into the restaurant now, an occasional single woman, an occasional single man. The women were good-looking, the men well-dressed, middle-aged. An open menu told him that the least expensive entree was twelve dollars.

He dialed again. Beckman answered. “Masao—thank God! We been turning the town upside down for you.”

“What happened?”

“Mitzie's gone.”

Masuto controlled an impulse to explode with anger. “All right,” he said evenly. “Tell me exactly what happened, short and quick.”

“She got a call from someone said he was Wainwright, and he said he was calling for you, and she was to meet you.”

“Where?”

“I don't know. All the ladies know is that it was a bar.”

“God damn you, where the hell were you?” Masuto demanded.

“In the can, taking a crap.”

“Oh, great—in the can!”

“There are times when you got to.”

“And you called Wainwright and it wasn't Wainwright.”

“Right. Jesus, Masao, who would think of it? She saw a chance to get sprung and she shot out of here in that yellow Porsche of hers. We got out an All Points. What do I do now?”

“Don't let either of those women out of your sight, if you have to tie them up. Wait a minute. What did she say—a bar or the bar?”

“Hold on.”

Masuto heard Beckman calling out to the women, “What did Mitzie say—a bar or the bar?”

And then in the phone, “Masao, they think she said The Bar.”

“All right. Tell Wainwright to put everything he has on that yellow Porsche.”

Masuto slammed down the phone and bolted out of the door of the restaurant. Below him, he saw the yellow Porsche pull into the parking lot. A man stood there. As the yellow car stopped, the man opened the right-hand door and got in. Masuto was already racing down the stairs, three at a time, as the Porsche pulled out of the parking lot.

Masuto took the last six steps in a single bound, ran to his car, started the motor, and then found the narrow driveway blocked by an incoming car. He waited, cursing himself for being a fool, for not having a second man in the house with Beckman, for not seeing the whole pattern and anticipating what would happen—and most terribly for a death that he could have prevented.

The driveway was clear, and he shot down it to the Laurel Canyon intersection. The Porsche was nowhere in sight. He had two choices. He could turn right down into the city of Los Angeles, and if the Porsche had gone that way, it was hopeless even to dream of finding it. That might be the clever turn for the Porsche if the man knew he was being followed. But there was no reason for him to suspect that he was being followed. On the other hand, if Masuto turned left, the road led up to Mulholland Drive, and in the past there was a connection with Mulholland Drive.

Masuto turned left. He threw his car into low gear, gunning it ahead and almost crashed his way into the line of traffic that was crawling up the single lane of Laurel Canyon Boulevard. He could hear the curses of the drivers, but he was unwilling to put on his siren and announce the chase. If he did and if the yellow Porsche was ahead of him, it could leave his Datsun as if his car was standing still. Instead he took risks that no sane man would take, swinging into the left lane again and again to pass cars, forcing oncoming cars to squeeze over to the wall of the canyon, bulling his way back into the traffic again and again.

As he approached the top of Laurel Canyon Pass, where Mulholland Drive intersects it, and where Laurel Canyon Boulevard sweeps on down into the San Fernando Valley, another choice faced him. If indeed the yellow Porsche was ahead of him, it had three choices: to continue ahead and down into the Valley, to turn right and follow Mulholland Drive to Cahuenga Pass, or to turn left on Mulholland. Since he couldn't see the car he hoped he was following, if indeed he was following it, he could toss a mental coin. Except that it was not in Masuto's manner to toss coins for lives, even mental coins. Just as he himself was in violent motion, so, he believed, was the killer. The killer would do what he had done twice before, turn left and westward on Mulholland Drive and let the road be the murderer.