by Howard Fast
“I want him, Masao,” Wainwright said, “and I want him quick. We’re a small town, and we can’t have this. If the media start putting two and two together, they’re going to tie this whole package in to Beverly Hills. We got four murders now. You say the other three women are inside?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to them, Masao. If anything does, I am going to be one angry son of a bitch. I got enough to explain. They’re going to come down on me like a ton of bricks over what happened here tonight.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You talk those women into spending the night here. I’m going to leave two men here, one in front and one in back, and when the bomb squad people come, I want them to go through the basement of the house as well as the cars and the garage. God only knows what that lunatic is up to.”
A few minutes after Wainwright left, the bomb squad arrived, their big armored truck grinding into the driveway. Kelp, the head of the squad, looked at the remains of the Mercedes and shook his head. “You hate to see it with a car like that.” He had worked with Masuto before. “Anyone in it?” he asked.
“A lady.”
“God help her.”
“Those two cars might also be wired,” Masuto said, pointing to the Seville and the Porsche.
“They’re classy cars. Do you have the keys?”
“I’ll get them for you.”
“Do you want us to be careful of prints? Are you going to dust the cars?” Kelp asked.
Masuto shook his head. “Not with this one. He doesn’t leave prints. What do you think it is?” nodding at the burned Mercedes.
“Just a guess. Dynamite and a detonator. She turned the ignition key and it blew, is that it?”
“That’s it.”
His men were already working on the burned car. “Dynamite,” one of them called out.
“Does a job like that take skill?” Masuto asked.
“Nothing to it if you know something about cars. The explosive end of it is very primitive. Tie a few sticks of dynamite together and attach a detonator. Funny thing about dynamite. Blow a stick here on the driveway and it wouldn’t even put a hole in it. Go off like a big firecracker. But confine it properly and it’s a demon. The connection with the ignition is a little more complicated, but nothing I couldn’t teach you in fifteen minutes.”
“So it doesn’t require an expert?”
“Not at all. But don’t misunderstand me. There are experts in this business. Did she lock her car?”
“Not the doors.”
“That makes it easier, because the hood release is usually inside. We’ll go over the cars, Masao, but you’d better get me the keys.”
“I’ll do that. I also want you to look at the car in the garage and then check the basement.”
“What in hell have you got going here?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Well, it ain’t the Beverly Hills I read about. We’ll check out the place, Masao.”
Then Masuto went into the house for the keys.
The Women
It was eleven o’clock. The bomb squad had done its work and departed, discovering no other lethal contraptions. The car in Laura Crombie’s garage and the two cars in the driveway were clean. The burned wreckage had been towed away, and a uniformed policeman was stationed in front of the house, with another at the back of the house. Masuto had left orders that the press and the television people, who were on the scene no more than twenty minutes after the incident occurred, should be told nothing, and they were barred from the house by the policeman on guard.
“Still,” Beckman said to Masuto, “sooner or later you got to talk to them.”
“I don’t. Let Wainwright talk to them.”
They were in the kitchen of the Crombie house, seated around the big kitchen table—Beckman, Masuto, Mitzie Fuller, Nancy Legett, and Laura Crombie. Laura Crombie had put up a large pot of coffee and sliced ham for sandwiches. Masuto and Beckman were both hungry. Mitzie Fuller, who said she couldn’t even think of food, had two sandwiches. Only Nancy Legett did not eat. She was still struggling for composure, and every few minutes she would begin to weep silently. Laura was self-contained and practical. She had things to do. It was her house and these were her guests.
“Violence is new to you,” Masuto said to them. “I hate violence as much as you do and I fear it too, but I live with it. My wife is made miserable by it, but she accepts it because it is my life. Tonight you must accept it, because if we are ever to find out who is doing this, we must talk calmly. I must ask you questions, and you must answer them sensibly.”
“It’s crazy,” said Laura. “What kind of a person am I? Instead of weeping for Alice, I keep thinking of all that glass in my driveway.”
“That’s understandable. It’s less frightening, less awful. Your mind avoids the horror. Sy,” he said to Beckman, “get a broom and sweep up that glass.”
“Oh, no. No. I’ll do it tomorrow,” she protested.
“Glad to. Gives me something to do,” Beckman said, relieved to be released from this well of emotion.
“Now all of you listen to me,” Masuto said to the women. “We’re in this together. He tried to kill me too.” He touched the Band-Aid on his chin. “A long shot that missed.”
“Oh, no!” Nancy Legett exclaimed.
“This crazy monster—what does he want?” Mitzie Fuller asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, and perhaps we can right here. Let me spell out the sequence of events, so they’ll be clear in your minds. Try to think clearly and objectively. I know how hard that is and I know what a disturbing day you’ve all had, but I want you to put that aside. You are thinking that it is impossible. It is not impossible. Mrs. Greene will not be helped by our indulgence, but she may be avenged by our objectivity.”
“I’ll try,” Nancy said. “I know you mean me. I’ll try.”
“I mean all of you. Now let me trace what happened. A package of poisoned pastry was sent here. The man who sent it—”
“How do you know it was a man?” Mitzie interrupted.
“I know. Leave it at that. The man who sent it was intent upon killing one of you—not all of you—but one of you. Yes, it was to his benefit if more than one of you died, even if all of you died.”
“I don’t understand,” said Laura.
“A very simple conclusion. Since all of you might have eaten the pastry, he was ready to accept all four murders. Or some of the four, since some of you might not have eaten. It was a scattershot thing. Even the death of one of you might have satisfied him.”
“But why?”
Beckman returned to the room. “Quiet?” Masuto asked him. Beckman nodded. “Go through the house,” Masuto said, “doors, windows—”
Beckman nodded and left the room.
“Why?” Masuto said. “Well, for one thing, he’s insane. But perhaps all murderers are. And for another—well, let me reserve that for the time being.”
“You don’t think there’s anyone—anyone hiding here?” Nancy asked.
“No, but it never hurts to be thorough. Let me go on. Ana Fortez ate the pastry and died. The Chicano boy who bought the pastry and who probably delivered it here was murdered on the same day. The chemist who prepared the poisonous toxin was murdered today.” The fear in the eyes of the three women increased. “I don’t like to tell you this,” Masuto said, “but I must. You must know what kind of a man we are dealing with.”
“Why must we know?” Nancy asked tremulously.
“Because I’m sure you know him. We’ll hold that for awhile. I want to ask you who killed Alice Greene.”
They shook their heads in bewilderment.
“Guess,” he urged them. “The most likely candidate. Who hated her enough to kill her?”
“No one.”
“She’s dead. Who hated her enough to kill her?”
“Her husband,” Laura Crombie said softly.
&nbs
p; “Is that what you mean by ‘know him?” Nancy Legett asked plaintively. “Do you mean that this monster is someone we know, someone we have spoken to?”
“Didn’t you hear him?” Mitzie Fuller said shrilly, a note of hysteria in her voice. “He thinks Alice’s husband is the killer.”
“Her ex. Not her husband, her ex,” Laura corrected her.
“No, I do not!” Masuto said sharply. “Will you all please pay attention to what I am saying? Including Mrs. Greene, you are four divorced women. You have that in common. You are friends. You are attacked as a group. I must find a reason, a motive. I must know who has the need to destroy you. Mrs. Greene was killed. This does not mean her husband killed her. It also does not mean that he is innocent. We deal with him as a person under suspicion.”
At that moment, the telephone rang, an explosive sound that startled all three women. There was a wall extension in the kitchen, and Laura Crombie picked it up.
“Alan,” she said. Pause. “Yes, it’s true. It’s terrible—too terrible to believe.” Pause. “No, we don’t know why. The whole thing is like a nightmare.” Pause. “I tell you I don’t know any more than that. She turned the ignition key, and the whole car went up in flames. It was awful. She never had a chance.” Pause. “Yes, the police were here. I believe Sergeant Masuto is in charge of the case.” She looked at Masuto.
“I’ll talk to him,” Masuto said.
“He’s here, if you wish to talk with him.” She handed Masuto the telephone.
The voice was crisp and businesslike, yet Masuto felt he could detect an undercurrent of emotion and uncertainty. “This is Alan Greene. I was married to Mrs. Greene.”
“This is Sergeant Masuto. I’m in charge of the case.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“No more than Mrs. Crombie told you.”
“There’s a damn sight more than that.”
“All right. Suppose you come over to headquarters tomorrow at ten A.M.”
Hesitation, then, “Okay, I’ll be there. Meanwhile, where have they taken Alice’s body?”
“To the morgue at All Saints Hospital. Could you notify her next of kin?”
“The only kin I know about is a brother in New Orleans. They haven’t seen each other in years. I don’t think the son of a bitch would lift his ass unless he’s in her will. I’ll take care of the funeral arrangements.”
“Talk of the devil,” Mitzie said as Masuto sat down at the kitchen table again.
“He said he’ll take care of the funeral arrangements,” Masuto told them.
“Alan’s all heart,” Laura said.
“And you think he hated her enough to kill her?”
“You never think in those terms, do you?” Laura Crombie replied. “He was paying her five thousand a month, but he could afford it. Would he kill her? He knew she’d never marry Monte and let him off the hook.”
“Monte Sweet?”
“Yes. The comic.”
“Where is he now?”
“He was in Vegas.”
“Do you know when? Is he still there?”
“If you’re thinking of Monte as a suspect, forget it. He couldn’t kill a fly. Anyway, she showered him with gifts.”
“What about her will?” Mitzie said. “Who else would she leave it to? That house of hers has to be worth half a million.”
“Mrs. Fuller,” Masuto said to Mitzie, “who would want to kill you?”
Oddly enough, she began to giggle. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she apologized. Masuto found her enchanting, and silently called himself to order. He enjoyed beautiful women. They disturbed his objectivity, and Mitzie Fuller was very beautiful—orange-colored hair that did not come out of a bottle, large blue eyes, and a round figure that was five pounds short of being plump. “I don’t know why I’m doing this, but your question—”
“I asked it.”
“I never thought of myself that way. Who does? Who ever says to herself, I’m being set up for a murder? Well, sure, Billy Fuller would like to kill me. If he could get away with it. If it wouldn’t interfere with his career. If it could be written into his contract. In fact, he specified the act. But who doesn’t? I mean married, who doesn’t?”
“I’m not sure I know what you do mean,” Masuto said.
“Well, you know how it is. No, maybe you don’t. Maybe the Japanese don’t operate that way.”
“What way?”
“You know—you bitch, I’m going to kill you.”
“You’re telling me that’s what your husband said to you?”
“But it doesn’t mean anything. First of all, I made the number one mistake that any woman can make. I married a film director. That’s a very special kind of guy. You know, Sergeant, your sex is nothing to write home about, even under the best of circumstances, but if you were to list types of men from A to Z, with A being the very rare nice guy, Z would have to be a film director. They are power-ridden little tin gods—”
“Oh, come on,” Nancy Legett interrupted her. “I’ve known decent directors. Some of them are pussycats.”
“But seriously, does your husband hate you enough to kill you?” Masuto asked.
“Yes,” she said, flatly and bleakly. The laughter was gone.
“Why?”
Her lips came together and tightened. Masuto waited.
“His hatred,” she said finally, “is a personal matter that I don’t intend to talk about. And it’s not the lousy alimony he pays. He took on a picture for seven hundred thousand dollars, and after a month of pre-production, the producers found him so obnoxious they paid him four hundred thousand to break his contract. So the money’s nothing.”
“Was he in the army?”
“The navy. He’s a lieutenant in the naval reserve.”
“And where is he working now?”
“They tell me he’s doing a film at Metro. I couldn’t care less.”
“And what about you, Mrs. Legett?” Masuto asked, turning to Nancy. “Who would want to kill you?”
“That’s a terrible thing to ask me.”
“But I must,” Masuto said softly.
“Why should anyone want to kill me? I’ve never hurt anyone. I never hurt my husband. Even when he told me he was leaving me, I didn’t make it hard for him. I knew he had stopped loving me long ago. Perhaps I had stopped loving him too. I don’t know. And I don’t have any lovers to make him jealous or angry. Look at me. Do I look like a woman who has lovers?”
She began to sob, and Laura Crombie put her arm around her and said to Masuto, “Must you, tonight? We’re all tired and frightened.”
“I’m afraid I must. Please, try to pull yourself together, Mrs. Legett. I promise you, there will be no more danger, no more hurt and fear—but only if you help me. You must help me.”
“I’ll try.”
“You don’t feel that your ex-husband hates you?”
“No.”
“That’s no good, Nancy,” Laura told her. “You have to tell him the truth. Otherwise we’ll never get to the bottom of this.”
“Why should he hate me? It’s four months since he made any support payments. I don’t dun him. I pay for the children’s support. I don’t ask anything of him.”
“Nancy!”
She sighed and nodded.
“Enough to kill you?” Masuto pressed her.
“No!” she snapped
“All right,” said Laura Crombie. “You won’t, I will. Fulton Legett is a cold-blooded bastard. He has ice in his veins. His children do not like him, and for that he blames Nancy—”
“Laura, stop,” Nancy pleaded.
“No, I will not stop. Someone has to tell Sergeant Masuto, and you won’t. Nancy wanted the divorce, because that bastard was destroying her. Cutting her to pieces, putting her down every time she opened her mouth, and do you know why? Because she has more brains in her little finger than he has in that stupid skull of his.”
“Please stop,” Nancy begged her.
&n
bsp; “No, I will not stop. This isn’t gossip. We’ve just seen Alice murdered, and we’re sitting here fighting for our lives.” She faced Masuto. “He became a producer because Nancy made him one. That was twenty years ago. Nancy found a delightful story, emptied her own personal bank account to option it, and then talked Paramount Pictures into putting up the money to develop it and accepting Fulton Legett as the producer. That was a hit and his next three pictures were hits because Nancy chose them and supervised, even while she was pregnant. She still owns half of his company, and they have an agreement whereby if one dies, the other inherits.”
“Laura, how could you!” Nancy burst out. “You’re practically accusing Fulton of being behind this whole thing, of killing Alice and three other people. Why would he?”
“I don’t know why he would want to kill me,” Mitzie said. “He keeps calling and trying to take me out. I hate to say this, Nancy, but he does have the reputation of being bad news.”
“You never told me,” Nancy said.
“Why bug you? You’re out of it and I have no intention of getting into it.”
“How do you happen to know him?” Masuto asked Mitzie. “I understood that you and Mrs. Crombie met only a few weeks ago.”
“He knows Billy, my own ex. He’s been after Billy to do a film for him, but Billy follows the money and right now Fulton Legett is broke. I don’t know how much you know about the film business, Sergeant, but the game is played like a jigsaw puzzle. If you can get a top-flight director and put him together with an important star and an important property, which is what they call a book in this business, a property, you’re well on your way to getting a studio to finance a film. That’s why Fulton Legett has been nosing around my Billy.”
Masuto nodded, and asked Nancy Legett, “Was your husband in the army, Mrs. Legett?”
“Yes. He was in Korea.”
“In the infantry?”
“No, he was an airplane mechanic.”
“Why are you so certain,” Laura Crombie asked Masuto, “that one of our ex-husbands is the man you are looking for?”
“I’m not certain. But whoever the killer is, he links the four of you together. Apparently, he knows all of you, what your tastes are, what your habits are. Now tell me, do you know William Fuller, the director?”
