The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery (15 page)

“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 and 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.”

“Because there's no truth in that.”

“Don't tell me that!”

“Mr. Cotter,” Masuto said softly, “suppose I began to ask questions, as you suggest. No one has to answer.

“Then when they don't answer, you got guilt.”

“Is she guilty then?” the detective asked, pointing to Trude. “Because if she is, then our search is over.”

“I didn't say she was guilty.”

“Don't even infer it,” Trude said, smiling pleasantly. “Because, Jackie dear, we are not inside some silly novel but here in this room and surrounded with witnesses. That jackass, my husband, over there by the bar, has already practically called me a murderer. But he is my husband, and so long as he pulls down better than six figures a year, he remains my husband. But you, Jackie, you ain't my husband, and just make one lousy crack about me and I will sue you for defamation of character so hard you'll be knocking at the gates of the actors' old age home. I'll sue you for every nickle you got, so don't go pushing the Sarge to ask me questions.”

“Can she do that?” Cotter demanded of Anderson.

“I'm afraid so.”

“I never called you a murderer. That's for the record. I want everyone here a witness to that fact. I never called you a murderer.”

“Just what did you think you would accomplish with all this?” Stacy asked him.

“You know what I think,” Sidney Burke said suddenly. “I think the company should hire the best private eyes here on the coast. We get as many privates as we need, and we blow this thing wide open. That's my sincere position.”

“I don't believe it,” Stacy said with disgust.

“Sidney is Sidney,” Phoebe said tiredly, speaking for the first time. “He's been around for fifteen years, and suddenly, big deal, you discover that he's a louse. How about you and Murph?” she asked Cotter. “Aren't you lice? Aren't you the worst pair of lice that ever drove a pair of convertible Cadillacs in Bevery Hills? And you, Stacy—dear old Stacy.”

“I'm willing to forget what you just said,” Anderson told her. “You've had too much stress.”

“I think we have all had too much stress,” Stacy Anderson agreed. “We have all talked too much and said too much—which perhaps was exactly what our dear Mr. Masuto wanted.”

“Not at all,” Masuto said.

“Then why have you come?”

“I was asked to come.”

“And only that? And that's why you've been sitting there all evening like a superior cat waiting to select the proper mouse to eat?”

“That's a very poetic image, Mrs. Anderson, but I am not a psychological detective. I am only a policeman in plain clothes.”

“Then just what do you propose?” Cotter demanded. “That Murph and Sidney and I just sit on our hands and patiently allow ourselves to be murdered?”

“What, only the three of you? Why not the women?” Masuto asked.

“And you're not putting us on?” Sidney complained. “Oh, no—no, you're not putting us on, not one bit. Three men in this outfit are scragged, and you ask why the men.”

“How about Peggy Groton?” Masuto said.

“Who's Peggy Groton?”

“The dead are quickly forgotten, aren't they?”

“She's the dame on Mulholland Drive,” Cotter said.

“Anyway,” Anderson said, “it seems that we three men are the most likely sitting ducks. Don't you agree with that, Mr. Masuto?”

“Possibly.”

“Look,” Anderson continued, “I have been thinking about this all evening, and I see no reason why Jack's statement should be taken at face value.”

“What statement?” Cotter demanded.

“That the murderer is here in this room. How do we know that this Samantha is here? She might have never come near any of us. She might be a maid in someone's home. She might be a typist or secretary at the office. She might work on the set. The point I am making is that she might be anywhere.”

“Haven't you worked over that Samantha business sufficiently?” Phoebe Greenberg said.

Stacy Anderson then turned to Masuto and said, “My dear policeman, since you refuse to question us, may I question you?”

“By all means.” Masuto smiled.

“Where is this Samantha that these three dirty old men can't unhook from?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does she exist?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh, you are a great crystal ball. Is the murderer in this room? Jack says yes, Murph says no. Well?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean, yes? You're breaking your track record.”

“You asked me whether the murderer is in this room. I said yes. The murderer is in this room.”

“Then why don't you arrest him?”

The whole place tightened now. Masuto could hear their breathing, the difference in quality, the softness of some, the rasping quality of others. Sidney and Arlene lit cigarettes. The thin threads of smoke curled among the group.