The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery

by Howard Fast

  “My goodness, Inspector, when you’re a Mike Tulley you have to expect it, don’t you? I mean, we used to watch the Perry Mason program on TV every now and then, and you always know who is going to get it, because it’s the kind of person you feel so nasty about you could kill him yourself, and once I said to Murph that if we were running one of those programs in our own set, why it would be Mike Tulley, naturally.”

  “Then you have no sympathy for Mike Tulley?”

  “Goodness, I adored Mike. What has that got to do with him being a louse? If I had to eliminate every man who’s a louse, I’d become a Vestal Virgin or something. Is that right? Vestal Virgin? You know, I dated Mike. When we were kid actors. Did you know that I was an actress, Inspector?”

  It was thick, turgid. He was in a dream. She was playing with him or she was an idiot—or he was an idiot. The smile was fixed on her face, and her sharp, tiny white teeth reminded him of a cat’s fangs. Every so often, she would touch her lips with the point of her tongue and leave them red and glistening—and then she would pass the back of a thumbnail across the velvet that covered her breasts.

  “Oh, a very good actress indeed. Not that I ever really got a chance—don’t you think I am a good actress, Inspector?” she asked archly.

  “And weren’t you moved by Mr. Greenberg’s death?”

  “Al was a sweetheart, but he was so sick, Inspector—so sick. You have no idea. Murph used to tell me that Al would sometimes stay up all night, he was so afraid of dying in his sleep. Well, that’s one of the risks you take when you marry a popsie. Not that I haven’t dated popsies, and there was one from Houston, Texas, who was worth a hundred million if he was worth a dime, but he could barely walk, and his doctor said he might live another ten years. Well, that’s a long stretch for a girl to wait, Inspector. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that Murph’s a popsie, but that white hair of his puts you on. Murph was fifty last week, and I don’t call that a popsie, not by a long shot. So Phoebe knew exactly what she was getting into, and who can cry over five million dollars—or whatever Al leaves Phoebe?”

  At that moment, Masuto heard cars stopping outside, and Stacy rose and said wistfully, “Oh, there they are. And we were having such a wonderful chat, weren’t we, Inspector?”

  But in the first group were only Arlene Cotter and Trude Burke. The men had gone on to the other chapel where Mike Tulley’s body lay, and when they returned with Lenore Tulley, it was almost ten o’clock. Then they waited for Phoebe Greenberg, who arrived a few minutes later.

  But in the waiting time, Arlene Cotter and Trude Burke managed three drinks each. Arlene drank straight gin on the rocks, and Trude mixed brandy, sherry and ice. They sat in the enormous living room and grinned maliciously at Masuto. They begged him to take a drink.

  “One little sip, Sarge,” Arlene Cotter urged him. “I have never seen a Nipponese drunk.”

  “That’s a real nasty thing to say,” Stacy observed. As hostess, she forbore to actually drink, but instead nipped dainty sips from the sherry bottle. “You ought to apologize.”

  “Come to think of it,” Trude observed, “you take a lot of garbage, don’t you, Sarge?”

  “All in a day’s work,” Masuto shrugged.

  “What does it take to burn you?”

  “I don’t burn.”

  “Come on, Mr. Chan,” Arlene said nastily, “everybody burns. It’s not a question of susceptibility but of degree. Even our dark, comfortable little hostess here burns—right through the pretty pool of sherry that keeps her lit all day.”

  “How can you!” Stacy exclaimed dramatically.

  “Because she’s a bitch,” Trude said. “It’s easy enough, Stacy, if you only got a talent for it. Why be a louse, when with a little thought and effort you can be a thoroughgoing bitch like dear Arlene?”

  “That’s a lovely speech,” Arlene replied, going to the bar and refurbishing her drink. “I’ve often wondered why Sidney never put you into the office, but I suppose your talents for public relations lie in other directions.”

  “Touché!” Trude grinned. “Did you hear it on TV or read it in a book?”

  “Will you please stop!” Stacy cried. “How do you think the Inspector feels? He’s a guest in my house.”

  “Oh, climb down, Stacy,” Arlene said. “You know, you give me a pain in the ass. That’s crude—”

  “Say that again,” Trude agreed.

  “—but there are times when crudity is obligatory,” she went on, paying no attention to Trude. “In the first place, Mr. Chan is a sergeant, not an inspector. In the second place, he is not one bit bothered by anything we say here. He welcomes it, and he considers himself very clever to be sitting there and waiting for the proper moment to pounce on some stupid remark we make.”

  “Then why don’t you shut up,” Trude said.

  “Because I got nothing to hide from him, but with you the case is a horse of another color,” Arlene said.

  “My dear lady,” Trude said, patting the pink curls that covered her head, “you don’t even talk coherently, and before I’d crawl out on any limb and cut it off behind me, I’d think twice. Maybe three times. Because little old darling Arlene from New Orleans is maybe a little old sitting duck to Trude here.”

  “Stop it!” Stacy said again. Masuto felt that she was trying to weep with vexation and was equally frustrated by the fact that the tears would not come.

  “Now she’s insinuating that I don’t come from New Orleans,” Arlene said to Masuto, a trace of a southern accent suddenly appearing in her voice. “But if I were married to Sidney Burke, I would stop insinuating. Because wherever I come from, doll, my husband doesn’t practice a little pimping on the side.”

  “Balls,” Trude said.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me, lovey. Because if there is any kind of pimping ever invented, dreamed of, or even speculated upon, Jack Cotter has had his finger in it. Sidney Burke may be a crumb, but at least he weighs in at one fifty and not at a ninth of a ton like that ex-Lothario butterball of yours.”

  “That’s a beauty,” Arlene said grandly. “I won’t argue it—not for a moment. The truth is that Jack weighs two thirty, and most of it is hard bone and muscle and he could still break Sidney in two.”

  Stacy began to giggle. She stood in front of the bar, holding a tiny shot glass half full of sherry in her hand and giggling uncontrollably.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Arlene demanded.

  “Oh, the two of you—you’re just like two little girls in finishing school. And then they begin boasting about how strong their daddies are—”

  “What!” Arlene exclaimed.

  “Finishing school!” Trude shouted.

  “God save us!” Arlene cried.

  “Say that again, lovey.”

  “Tell us more about finishing school.”

  “And your daddy, honeybunch.”

  “All the daddies that you used to boast about.”

  Masuto was watching them, but particularly watching Stacy. Her giggles stopped. She flung the shot glass at Arlene, missing her by a hair’s breadth. Her body tensed. The softness left it. And under the black velvet dress, her body seemed to have the flowing strength of a giant cat, and her pale eyes flashed. Stacy thrust out one hand toward the two women, and spoke coldly and menacingly. “That’s enough. I’ve had a bellyful of you two bitches! Now just shut up or I’ll break your necks—both of you! And don’t think I can’t do it!”

  Even Masuto recoiled from the supressed hate and violence of Stacy Anderson. Arlene Cotter and Trude Burke simply sat in their chairs and said nothing and stared at the rug.

  And then the men arrived with Lenore Tulley, and shortly after that, Phoebe Greenberg arrived.

  There was a corner arrangement in the living room of two big Lawson couches—both in red leather and brass studs—and four facing armchairs. Lenore Tulley and Phoebe Greenberg sat on one couch, and facing them, Sidney Burke, Arlene Cotter an
d Trude Burke. Sidney sat in the middle. Murphy Anderson had an armchair, and his wife, Stacy, hovered between the guests and the bar. Masuto was in another armchair and Cotter, self-appointed to begin the meeting, had wrapped himself over a cockfight chair and rocked gently as he faced the others. He was a big man, and while he ran to fat, Masuto agreed with Arlene that he could handle himself. He had that look about him. Masuto recalled him now in the old Westerns he had played, and thinking of those films, Masuto realized with a curious sense of hopelessness and resignation that like the others, he was a particular product of this thing called the United States, shaped by Westerns and other mythology; a strange, strange product of his time, a slant-eyed, dark-skinned, Zen-Buddhist—California-Yankee—a condition that made him shiver a bit. Still he responded to Cotter with some tinge of that ancient hero worship. Cotter was consciously playing a role now. The great Tudor room was the set, and as players, the circle of people he faced were both dramatic and interesting. Masuto had no doubt but that he had rehearsed an opening statement over and over, when he spoke, he said the line well.

  “One of us,” he told them, flatly and without emotion,” is a murderer.”

  There was an explosion of silence, a reaction Masuto understood very well indeed. Not one of the women said a word. Sidney Burke smiled self-consciously. Murphy Anderson shook his head slightly.

  The silence stretched. It reached its breaking point. And Jack Cotter savored his moment. Then Stacy Anderson said crisply, “Jack, don’t be an ass. These people are my friends. They are not murderers.”

  And Masuto asked himself, “What will I tell my wife tomorrow then—that there are two women here I admire enormously?” Of course he realized that he often chose strange people to admire. A man of prudence depended upon his own understanding more than upon his wife’s.

  “One of us is a murderer,” Cotter repeated. “What’s the use of horsing around? When I said that poor Al was murdered, the doctors pooh-poohed the whole thing. Well, I say, let’s face it. You knew damn well, when Murph asked us here, just what we had in mind.”

  “Did I know it too, Jack?” Phoebe inquired.

  “Let’s stop beating around the bush. In one way or another, we all knew it. Aside from Sergeant Masuto, there are eight of us here, and one of the eight is a killer. Seven came because they had a genuine desire to see the killer exposed. The killer came because if she didn’t come, she would give herself away.”

  “She?” Stacy Anderson raised a brow.

  “Come on, Stacy—enough.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means that you know as well as I do that we’re dealing with a woman,” Jack Cotter said. “Mr. Masuto will bear witness to that.” He turned to Masuto and demanded, “Am I right, Sergeant?”

  “That I will bear witness to your statement?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But how can I, Mr. Cotter? Do you think I know who the killer is?” The others were watching him intently now, and Masuto allowed his narrowed eyes to scan their faces.

  “I think you have a damn good notion who the killer is.”

  “Suppose we were to grant that,” Masuto said. “Suppose we were to grant that, simply for the sake of argument—and understand that I will accept your contention on no other basis. Suppose we say that I have a damn good notion of who the murderer is? What could I do with a damn good notion, as you put it? It’s not proof. It will not stand up in any court of law. And if I had any real proof, do you imagine that I would have come to a charade like this? I think that you and Mr. Anderson have read too many murder mysteries, sir.”

  “That’s a hell of a note!” Cotter snapped. “I think you got one hell of a goddamn nerve, Mister—”

  “Oh, hold on, hold on, Jack,” Murphy Anderson said. “Just take it easy. I was dubious about this idea in the first place, and I agreed to go along and give it a try because you were so certain that it would bring some results. But the fact of the matter is that Detective Masuto is right. We have no proof, and we have no right to keep anyone here who desires to leave. All we have is about seven yards of insinuations.”

  “Is that so,” said Sidney Burke, rising abruptly. “Well, as far as I am concerned, some of these suspicions and insinuations got to be busted wide up.”

  “Oh, Sidney, sit down and don’t be such a cockamamie shmuck,” Trude said.

  “Like hell I will. I am going to say my piece.”

  “Well, there it is,” Trude sighed, spreading her arms. “He is going to say his piece.”

  “And to you too,” he snapped, turning on Trude.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “God damn it, Sidney,” Anderson said, “whatever you got to say—say it and let’s not have a family squabble.”

  “Oh, Murph doll, you are dreaming if you think we won’t have family squabbles tonight,” Arlene said. “By the dozen—believe me.”

  “You weary me so, why don’t you shut up!” Trude said.

  “All right—all of you!” Cotter ordered. “Now say your piece, Sidney.”

  “OK. I don’t have to go into the Samantha thing again. You know about that bitch. Now I am going to be sincere—fully sincere, and let the pieces fall where they may. I was driving on Mulholland today, and I passed Trude in her MG going in the other direction. I went on and came on the accident. You all know about the accident by now. A onetime stripper named Peggy Groton went over the shoulder and was killed. The Sarge was there. He’s on this case, but he was there in LA—and I say the two cases connect. You don’t have to be no genius for that. I spoke to you and Murph about it before,” he said to Cotter, “and you agreed with me. The two cases got to connect.”

  “Not necessarily,” Masuto said.

  “Then what in hell were you doing up there on Mulholland Drive in Los Angeles?”

  “I have friends in the LA Police Department,” Masuto told them. “Pete Bones is the name of one of them. I had business with him. I found him up there at the accident.”

  “Well, what about that, Sidney?” Anderson asked seriously.

  “What about it? Does it account for the fact that I passed Trude driving away from the scene of the accident?”

  Now Trude was on her feet. “Do you know what that crumby little bastard is trying to do?” she cried. “I’ll tell you what he’s trying to do! He’s trying to set me up for the gas chamber! He’s trying to finger me as Samantha! Does that make a record or does it not? My own husband fingering me for murder!”

  “Take it easy,” Anderson said. “No one is fingering you for any murder.”

  “Murph, for Christ’s sake, open your eyes and stop being a calm, objective lawyer!” his wife shouted. “It’s bad enough to have to live in the same town as Sidney Burke. Now I got him under my own roof talking like the little pisspot he is!”

  “Oh, that’s fine language!” Anderson exclaimed. “That’s real fine language.”

  “The hell with my language,” Stacy shouted. “Next thing, he’ll open a cathouse in the maid’s room.”

  “Sure, you’re a dame!” Sidney yelled back at her. “Go ahead. Call me anything you like. I’m gentleman enough not to bat you one.”

  “Shut up—all of you!” Cotter roared. “You’re all behaving like a bunch of delinquent kids. Now just shut up for one lousy cotton-picking moment!”

  A sort of silence prevailed. Sidney took a turn away from the couch and stopped to lean against the bar. Trude sank back into the couch. Phoebe watched Masuto, who sat back in his chair, breathing softly and evenly, his face blank, composed, receptive. Murphy took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, and Stacy walked to the bar and poured herself a shot glass half full of sherry. She ignored Sidney, and Masuto considered it as fine a job of ignoring as he had ever seen. His respect for Stacy Anderson rose another notch, and he considered how it would be to spend an evening with her. Just an evening, he assured himself.

  “Anyone want a drink?” she asked.

  “Give me a sherry an
d dry vermouth on the rocks,” Lenore said. “It’s intermission. Do you know they sell liquor in the New York theatres now—between the acts?”

  “Just like London,” Arlene Cotter said.

  “Then you’ve been to London, darling,” Lenore said. “What a well-travelled, cultured little dear you are!”

  “Enough of that,” Cotter told her. “Let’s cut out this back-biting and get to the center of things.” He addressed himself to Trude. “Where were you today between twelve noon and twelve-thirty?”

  Trude laughed. “You are a lulu, Jack. The ever-living end, aren’t you?”

  “I am going to repeat that question,” Cotter said. “Where were you today between twelve and twelve-thirty?”

  “Drop dead, lover boy.”

  “You refuse to answer?”

  “Are you nuts?” Trude demanded. “I don’t have to answer your stupid questions. Where do you come off putting your nose into my business? You want this Samantha of yours—go find her. But I don’t have to answer any of your stupid questions.” She turned to Masuto. “Do I?”

  “Not if you don’t want to,” Masuto said.

  “Well then, you ask her the question,” Cotter told Masuto.

  “She doesn’t have to answer me either.”

  “What? You mean you can ask her questions, and she can tell you to go run around the block?”

  “Exactly.”

  Cotter turned to Anderson. “Murph—is that so?”

  “That’s so. I don’t know what the hell you expect to accomplish here tonight, Jack.”

  “You poor jerks really think I am Samantha?” Trude said.

  “They think we’re all Samantha,” Stacy said.

  “Stacy!” Anderson protested.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve had enough of this,” Arlene Cotter said. “I am going home before I start thinking about this crew we married and throw up.”

  “Stick around, lovey,” Trude said. “If you walk out, they’ll pin it on you.”

  “What I can’t understand,” Jack Cotter said to Masuto, “is why, now that we’re all here together, you don’t start asking questions and rooting out the truth.”