“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.
“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.”