The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery (14 page)

Stacy Anderson

M
ASUTO
took a liberty that his chief would certainly note and resent and called his wife on his car radiophone. The children were asleep, and she was reading a mystery novel by Rex Stout. She was rather nervous, and pleased that he had called her; and after telling him about the children, she suggested that it would be a nice thing some day to take a vacation and go to New York City.

“A very long and expensive trip.”

“In this book, it is a very pleasant place. Perhaps you will stop being a policeman and earn a great deal of money.”

“That's not likely,” he said.

“Will I ever see you again?”

“I think it's possible,” he said.

“Now you tease me.”

“Never.”

“You have no more use for me, your wife, but only for the beautiful blondes one sees in Hollywood.”

“That's right.”

“I know. I know. There was a picture of Mike Tulley's wife in the evening paper—in the
Times.
She is so beautiful.”

“The
Times
is a morning paper.”

“Don't we get it in the evening? Is she as good as she is beautiful?”

“Who?”

“Lenore Tulley.”

“I am happy to speak to you, and I love you very much,” he said.

“But you never tell me about the wonderful things that happen to you.”

“I love you anyway,” he said.

“Michael has a sore throat.”

“Is it bad?”

“No. I gave him some aspirin. I am sure he'll be better tomorrow.”

Then Masuto said his goodbys, put away the telephone, and fingered the tiny hole in his windshield. He felt better since speaking to his wife. He felt better able to face the rest of the night.

Murphy Anderson's house on Rodeo Drive was gigantic Beverly Hills-half-timber-Tudor. Stacy Anderson must have left the chapel soon after Masuto, since she was already home to open the door for him and usher him into the red leather, brass nail, Oriental rug interior and through the baronial hall into an immense sunken living room, which sported medieval banners from its cross-beams. In a fire-place large enough to drive a sport car through, two huge imitation logs glowed with light and warmth, and in one corner a suit of armor leaned moodily on its spear.

“I felt someone had to be here to welcome you, Inspector,” Stacy Anderson said, “so I made my apologies and rushed home.”

“Sergeant, Mrs. Anderson.”

“Sergeant?”

“I mean, we don't have inspectors. We should, I often feel.”

“You are humorous. I mean, for a Japanese. We never give Orientals any credit for a sense of humor, and I fear we make a dreadful mistake—don't you?”

“I really couldn't say, Mrs. Anderson. I have never been in the Orient.”

“What a shame!”

Could she be as stupid as she appeared, Masuto wondered, as insensitive and gauche? Or was she putting him on? Was she possibly one of those extraordinary women who can move through life playing the role of the fool, and who wears a fool's mask to cover the intelligence? Now it was hard to say, and he rejected any quick judgements. Certainly, she was a beautiful and seductive woman, about thirty-one or thirty-two, round, just the slightest bit plump, pale blue eyes contrasting strangely with her black hair. For the chapel, she had put on a dress of black velvet—a stunning repeat for her glowing hair. Masuto reflected that in today's America, it is almost unthinkable that a blonde woman should dye her hair black. Blondness was big business, a passion, a semiracist ingredient of the mythology current in the land. Yet few women could adorn themselves with anything more beautiful than Stacy Anderson's hair. Why shouldn't she dye it black?

He became conscious of the fact that he was staring at her and pulled his gaze away. She was in no way disturbed. Quite to the contrary, she was pleased at being the object of his admiration. Masuto had the very strong feeling that she would be pleased to be the object of any man's admiration, and he was in no position to draw conclusions. Why Murphy Anderson had married her was only too evident, and why she had married him was almost equally obvious.

“Isn't this a huge room?” she asked. “You know, Murph has two children from his first marriage and they spend their summers with us and they're absolutely divine youngsters, so when Murph and I decided to buy a place here in Beverly Hills, I felt we should have something that was both homey and big enough for the kids to romp around in. This seemed just to fill the bill perfectly, and there's a wonderful big pool and a tennis court out back. But do you know, Inspector—”

“Sergeant,” Masuto said.

“Of course. Sergeant. You know, they always seem to be a little overawed by the house until they get the hang of it. That takes time, you know.”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you like my dress?”

“It's very attractive.”

“Thank you, dear Inspector. I wonder whether you would suggest something I might serve. I thought of champagne, but this isn't that kind of a party, is it?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Then each to his own desire.”

“You don't appear to be very upset by anything today,” Masuto said quite deliberately.”

“Upset? You mean by Al's death?”

“And Tulley's murder.”

“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 and 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.