The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery (16 page)

“It is very interesting,” Masuto observed, “that when a man speaks of the killer he designates him as a woman, and when a woman speaks of the murderer, she designates him as a man. There should be a neutral designation in a society as complex as ours—wouldn't you say? Some criminologists hold that murder never occurs without the presence of homosexuality—”

“Who the hell needs philosophy?” Cotter snapped.

“I don't like this talk about faggots,” Sidney said. “To me, a man is what he is. That's all. That's my sincere feeling. A man is what he is. That's the way you judge him.”

“You were asked a question, Sergeant Masuto,” Murphy Anderson said. “You said you knew who the murderer is. Then you were asked why you don't arrest the murderer.”

“No. Not at all,” said Masuto. “I was not asked whether I knew who the murderer is. I was asked whether the murderer is in this room. I answered in the affirmative.”

“Then I am asking you. Who is the murderer?”

Masuto waited for a long moment before he replied. No one moved. Each and every one of them there in that room was completely self-conscious about not moving.

“There are two reasons why I don't answer that,” Masuto said. “First, I am not certain, not totally certain. Three men and a woman have been murdered. The murderer has been a fool, but a lucky fool. But this is a monstrous crime, and there must be certainty before I make the accusation. Second, I must have proof. An arrest is meaningless without proof.”

“And until you get this proof?” Cotter demanded. “Do we just wait and die?”

They were all beginning to relax—as if the accusation of any one of them there and then would have been more than they could take.

“No. I think the case is breaking.”

“Just what do you mean by that?” Anderson asked.

“There was a witness to one of the murders,” Masuto said. He had been holding it all evening and waiting to drop it. He dropped it now. He dropped it almost casually and watched them.

Nothing. They tightened as a group, and they watched him.

“Which murder?” Cotter asked finally.

“Fred Saxton—your production manager who was killed by a counterweight seven weeks ago. That would appear to be a nearly perfect murder, but like every nearly perfect act it faces too many imponderables. One of them was this woman.”

“What woman?” Trude asked softly.

“Just an actress, a character actress, age fifty-one, not too much work, only now and then. She lives. She has a husband. She minds her own business.”

“Who is she?” Stacy asked sharply.

“How does she come into this?” Anderson wanted to know.

“She was a witness, Mr. Anderson,” Masuto said. “The day Fred Saxton was killed, she wandered over to Stage 6. No reason for it. There is never any reason for the imponderables. She had been standing by for hours waiting for her take, and she was bored. So she poked into Stage 6 out of idle curiosity, and she saw someone with a hand on the rope release. Then the counterweight fell and Saxton was dead. In the excitement that followed, she slipped away. But as the day wore on she became aware of all the details involved, and being a reasonably intelligent woman, she put two and two together and came up with murder. But being a timid woman, she did what a great many people would do. She decided to keep her mouth shut and not get involved.”

“And when did she change her mind?” Phoebe asked coldly, staring at Masuto. Their eyes met.

“Today, of course,” Masuto replied.

“Why?”

“Because she heard about Mike Tulley's murder, and she put two and two and two together, and she called the Los Angeles police. They put a call out for me and we talked. They agreed to let me do it my way, because the Beverly Hills need took preference.”

“And what is your way?” Anderson asked.

“Very simple, very direct. She's working out at World Wide tomorrow—you do have a permanent lease on Stage 6?” he asked Anderson.

“Not permanent, but we have it for another ten days. There's nothing shooting there now. We wound up our work there after Freddie's death. We made an arrangement with Grapheonics to keep their tour costumes there.”

“What is Grapheonics?” Masuto asked.

“They're an animated cartoon outfit. ‘Captain Devildom,' ‘Space Ace Ambrose,' ‘Major Meridean,' ‘Tentacle Horror,' ‘Captain Sharkman'—they have a slew of things that the kids eat up. Four to five on prime kiddie time. They've been so successful that World Wide asked them to become a part of the tour.”

“The tour?”

“The ‘studio tour.' They have those motor buses, you know, little open things, and they take tourists all over the sets and sound stages and the back lot. It's been enormously successful—so much so that they incorporated into the tour the characters from Grapheonics—in costume, of course. World Wide likes it and Grapheonics likes it, and we allow Grapheonics to keep their costumes on Stage 6—in the wardrobe there. It's convenient for them. Just a gesture on our part.”

“That won't interfere with my plan,” Masuto said. “I would like all of us to get together tomorrow on Stage 6 at about ten minutes to eleven in the morning. Then I'll bring her to Stage 6, and she'll pick out the murderer.”

“Just like that,” Anderson said coldly.

“It's very simple. Yes. Just like that.”

“And your murderer will come there like a lamb to the slaughter?”

“What alternative does the murderer have, Mr. Anderson?”

“I don't buy it!” Sidney Burke declared shrilly. “I don't buy it. It's a lousy, stupid scheme and I don't want any part of it. I have tried to be sincere through this whole crumby business, but now I've had a bellyful!”

“Sidney,” Trude said sweetly.

“Now you listen to me—” he began.

“Oh, no—no, you cockamamie idiot, you just listen to me. A moment ago, you were calling me a murderer. But let's lay it on the line. You're too stupid to be Samantha, even if you had enough guts to be a woman, which you haven't. So no one here is going to think you are the killer. We both go to World Wide tomorrow, and we wind this business up. Once and for all, because I don't intend to live with it another day.”

“I second that,” Jack Cotter said. “The Sergeant makes sense. Do you agree?” he asked his wife.

Arlene shrugged. “I'm just along for the ride.”

“Al's funeral is tomorrow,” Anderson reminded them. “I don't see how Phoebe is going to get there.”

“Can't we leave Phoebe out of this?” Stacy asked. “I just can't cast her as some bloody, maniacal killer.”

“Then suppose you leave me out, cookie,” Lenore said. “My alibi is as good as hers.” She looked around from face to face. “And just in case you forget, I have my own dead to bury.”

“Darling,” said Arlene, “that line goes so much better in the original with Bogart than second hand with you.”

“Go to hell!”

Phoebe looked at Masuto, who nodded just the slightest bit, and then Phoebe said, “I'll come. The funeral's in the afternoon, and if poor Al won't rest easier, at least I'll shed a few tears less for knowing who did it and why.”

“Sidney?” Murphy asked.

“All right. I'm in the middle of this. I'm trying to be sincere—so I'm the number one louse. I'll be there.”

“I'll be with him,” Trude said.

“If I'm not dead,” Sidney said. “I got to live through the night. Remember that.”

“My heart bleeds for you.”

“I just bet.”

“All right, Sergeant,” Anderson said, running his fingers nervously through his thick white hair. “We're agreed, we'll be there, and God help all of us.”

Masuto followed Phoebe home. The cop on duty outside of her house was alert, and before Masuto had taken three steps, there was a gun in his ribs, and a harsh voice inquired, “What's wrong with the path, buster?”

He had deliberately stepped over the low hedge by the driveway to move through the shrubs in front of the veranda. A moment later the cop recognized him and apologized, and Masuto said, “Never mind the apologies. You guard this place as if it were Fort Knox.”

“I'll do that, Sarge.”

Masuto rang the front doorbell, and Phoebe opened the door herself.

“Don't open doors!” he snapped. “You have servants.”

“Don't order me around either, Mr. Masuto. I have had my fill of you. You're a liar.”

“I am, you are—” He walked into the entranceway, and she closed the door behind him. “We're all liars. I lie for my work. That's not a matter of morality.”

“But it is morality to set me up like a sheep for slaughter. Or is that in the line of good police work.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and then he shook his head. “Oh, no—Mrs. Greenberg. You misjudge me. I am a happily married man, but I have met a few women in my life who make me wonder whether being happily married is enough. You are one of them. You are a fine and beautiful woman—”

She burst out laughing. “Dear man,” she said.

“Did I say something stupid.”

She began to cry now. He gave her his handkerchief. “It's clean,” he said. “I haven't used it today. But what have I done to make you cry?”

She shook her head.

“I am not risking your life,” he said definitely. “There will be studio policemen there, both armed—two good men that we can count on. Nothing will happen to you.”

“I don't care.”

“But you must care.”

“There's really not one damned thing left to care about.”

“There's the world to live in,” he said. “To live in it and taste it and feel it—open your eyes to it.”

“Don't preach to me.”

He shook his head. She seemed to sway, and then he took her in his arms. Afterwards, he wondered whether the act was of specific volition or not. He only held her against him, tightly, for one long moment. He didn't kiss her, and when a moment later he loosed his arms and she stepped back away from him, he felt a sense of awful loss. He had not kissed her. The embrace was not an embrace. A wind of foolish memory blew away what had never been, and he stood there feeling bereft and stupid.

She handed him his handkerchief. It had lipstick on it. He knew he would throw it away. He had no desire to try to explain to his wife why it had lipstick on it.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Greenberg,” he said.

“Would you try to call me Phoebe, just once. Or don't you like the name?”

“It's a beautiful name.”

“Then please call me Phoebe.”

“Very well. I am sorry, Phoebe.”

“For what?”

“For embracing you.”

“Would you just tell me why you should be sorry because you embraced me?”

“There are three reasons, Phoebe. One, I am a cop. Two, I am a Nisei. Three, I am married. Perhaps a fourth reason more important than any—that you are Al Greenberg's widow.”

“Oh, don't be such a precious damned fool! I loved my husband. I think I would have died for him, if need be—but not as a husband, and he never expected me to love him as a husband. But that's beside the point. You didn't even make a pass at me. You don't want to, and I don't want you to, and I do wish that you would stop acting like something out of a Japanese print. You're a man—a strong man who is reasonably decent and who turns up on the one day of my life when I need a man desperately. If things were different—”

“But they are not different,” Masuto said.

“No, they are not different, are they? What is your first name?”

“Masao.”

“Very well. Then from here on until the end of this, you will call me Phoebe and I will call you Masao. Is that agreed? Openly. Right?”

“I will call you Phoebe, and you will call me Masao.”

“As good friends should.”

“As good friends should,” he repeated.

Then he left. On his way home, he threw away the handkerchief, just as he had known that he would.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Gertrude Bestner

W
HEN
Masuto entered his home in Culver City, his wife was waiting, her face drawn. She was an anxious mother. The house and her family were her world and all the world that she wanted, and she stubbornly refused to be Americanized. There were times when Masuto took great pleasure in this, and usually her anxieties were flattering to his own strength. But he had his own anxieties now, and he listened with some irritation to her story of Michael, the eight-year-old son, and his sore throat. Apparently, the sore throat was worse.

“Did you go to the doctor?” he asked.

She looked at him reproachfully. They had one car and she did not drive. She was always promising to learn to drive.

“Then why didn't you call the doctor to come here?”

“That's ten dollars, Masao. If I call the doctor every time a kid has a sore throat, we'll soon be penniless.”