The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery (3 page)

Lenore Tulley stared narrowly without replying. No love between them, Masuto decided. They were too alike: Beverly Hills twins, same height, same figure, same hairdresser.

“But then Lenore disappeared somewhere. Where did you disappear to, darling?”

“The pot, you bitch. You saw me go in there.”

“Temper, temper,” Arlene Cotter said.

“Then I went into the guest room, which connected with the guest bathroom,” Lenore Tulley told Masuto. “To tell the truth, I was prowling. I have never been to this particular castle before. I was curious. Then I heard the commotion and stepped out into the hallway and joined the crowd in Al's bedroom.”

Arlene Cotter smiled tolerantly. Mike Tulley watched them both intently, his wife and Cotter's wife.

“You remained at the dining room table?” Masuto asked Murphy Anderson.

“My cigar and I. I heard the commotion and then Sidney joined me. There is a small, spiral staircase in the projection booth, there—” He pointed. “—and first we thought something had happened in the viewing room. But it was empty. We went upstairs by the projection room staircase, which lets one into the far end of the upstairs hall.”

“And before that, Mr. Burke?”

“I was with Mike Tulley in the viewing room. We were going to watch some shorts, and Mike was going to run them. He went into the projection booth. I mixed myself a drink and went into the dining room to see what had happened to the girls.”

“Mr. Tulley?” Masuto said.

“Like Sidney says, I was in the projection booth, setting up the film. I heard the yelling from upstairs and I went up the staircase.”

Beckman had been making notes. Now Masuto said, “I don't think we need trouble you further now. I would appreciate it if you would give pertinent facts, name, place, telephone to Detective Beckman here. Then you can leave. I think it would be wise if you say nothing about what Mr. Cotter heard—for the time being, that is.”

“In other words, you are closing this up,” Cotter said.

“No, Mr. Cotter, I am closing nothing. You can give your story to the press if you wish. I only feel that it might be better for everyone concerned if we waited a bit.”

Detective Beckman was copying out his notes for Masuto, and Dr. Baxter was sipping at a glass of his dead host's excellent brandy, which the Japanese butler had poured for him. The house was staffed by a Japanese couple, not Niseis but recently come from Japan. The guests had departed. Mrs. Greenberg was asleep under the influence of a sedative; the guests had departed; and Al Greenberg's body had been taken to the hospital for the autopsy. The Japanese houseman was dutifully waiting for the policemen to depart, and Masao Masuto was explaining to his wife why he would be late. He spoke in Japanese quite deliberately. He wanted the houseman to overhear him, and when he had finished with the phone, he turned to the butler and said in Japanese, “What do you and your wife think of this?”

“Honorable official, we have no thoughts on the matter.”

“That is nonsense, countryman of my father, as you well know. It is too late for witless formalities. I am not going to entrap you or arrest you, and not for a moment do I believe that you had anything to do with this. Do you think Mr. Greenberg was murdered?”

“No one hates such a man,” the butler answered simply.

“All murders do not signify hate. What of the wife? Did they love each other?”

“They approached each other with respect. He was more than old enough to be her father.”

“Would she kill him?”

“No.”

“You are very sure.”

“I am a man of small purpose—a house servant. I am poor and I must take what work is offered to earn my bowl of food. But I am not a fool.”

“And where were you and your wife when this happened?”

“In the kitchen—where she is now. Would you speak with her?”

“No, it is not necessary. Go to her. I will call you when we are ready to leave.”

The butler departed for the kitchen, and Baxter, the medical examiner, asked what it was all about.

“I asked him whether Phoebe Greenberg would have scalped her husband. He says no. He's a student of human nature, so I believe him. I don't have your Occidental gift for telling Jews from Gentiles. But Phoebe is not a Jewish name, is it?”

“Anything's a Jewish name today,” Beckman said. “All the rules are broken. I'm a Jewish cop. But if you want to know about the girls—none of them is Jewish.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. Take my word for it. About the men, I don't know with any confidence. I would guess that Greenberg was the only Jew in the lot. Maybe Murphy Anderson—”

“With a name like that!” Baxter snorted.

“I told you, names don't figure. It's all mixed up. By the way, Masao, this Mike Tulley, he whispers to me that you should give him half an hour to get home and then call him. I got his number here.” He handed the number to Masuto, who nodded and said to Baxter, “What do you think, doc?”

“I don't think. The autopsy will show absolutely nothing. Nothing. Greenberg died of a heart attack.”

“Could fear have caused it?”

“Are you going to prove that, Masao? Come off it. If this is a murder, it's a perfect murder. File and forget. Even if one of those babes confesses to being in that bedroom and pointing a gun at Greenberg and refusing to get him the sublinguals, and you put me on the stand and read me the confession ten times over, I will still say that there is no evidence of murder or even reasonable doubt that the heart attack came from natural and inevitable causes. And I think any physician you get will agree with me. So if you got a murder, you got a perfect murder.”

“A very few people on this earth,” Masuto said thoughtfully, “perfect themselves in all of their being and actions. Such people do not murder.”

Then he dialed Mike Tulley's number.

Tulley answered and waited. Masuto reminded the TV actor that he had asked him to call, and then Tulley said, “I think we had better talk, Detective Masuto.”

“It's past midnight. Can't it wait for tomorrow?”

“Maybe you sleep good. I take pills but that won't help tonight. I agree with Cotter. Greenberg was murdered.”

“You're out in Benedict Canyon?”

“That's right. Five minutes from where you are.”

“I'll be there,” Masuto said. “Ten or fifteen minutes.” He put down the phone and turned to Beckman. “He thinks Greenberg was murdered and he's frightened.”

“Oh, balls,” said the doctor. “I am going home to bed if you don't mind.”

“Want me to come along with you, Masao?” Detective Beckman asked.

“No—no, you knock off, Sy. I'll see what he has to say. By the way, it seems to me that Anderson and Cotter were Greenberg's partners. Is that right?”

“I think so. Greenberg was the president of an outfit called Northeastern Films.”

“And if I remember, I read somewhere that they produced the “Lonesome Rider” or whatever that thing Tulley plays in is called.”

“That's right—very big, successful. Number two on the Neilsen for seven months now. I read the
Hollywood Reporter
,” Beckman explained to Dr. Baxter. “It's a sort of a damn trade journal, when you labor in Beverly Hills. I know where all the stars live. So does Masao. It gives us some kind of status among cops, but the pay remains lousy. Sidney Burke is press agent for Northeastern, according to what I hear tonight.”

“Good night,” Dr. Baxter said sourly.

Masuto called the Japanese houseman, said his good-bys formally, and then he and Detective Baxter left. Officer Seaton was still outside, but Masuto felt it would be better to call no attention to the house, and he sent Seaton back to duty.

CHAPTER TWO

Mike Tulley

M
IKE
Tulley's home was in Benedict Canyon just north of Lexington, or something over half a mile north of Sunset Boulevard. Three months before, the tourist sightseeing buses had taken to making a right turn on Sunset along Benedict—which was a tribute to his rating. The house was one hundred and fifty thousand dollars modern with a bean-shaped swimming pool and a carport wide enough to hold five cars.

Tulley was standing in the carport when Masuto drove up, and he was visibly relieved. He led Masuto toward the house, through the entranceway and living room to the library. Statuswise, this had replaced the den. There was a whole wall of fine leather bindings, Heritage Club, Limited Editions Club, and also several shelves of plain, common books purchased at Martindale's and at Mary Hunter's Bookshop. It made a good wall; people like Mike Tulley had little time for reading. There was an enormous antique globe and four Eames chairs. The couch, upholstered in black vinyl, was built in along one wall.

Tulley motioned for Masuto to sit down and asked whether he would have a drink. Masuto shook his head. Coffee? Again Masuto shook his head, and at that point Lenore Tulley stepped into the library and said, “You don't offer an Oriental coffee. Give him some tea.”

“Lenore, suppose you go to bed. What I got to say to the detective here is private.”

“You mean it stinks.”

“You've had too much.”

“Drop dead,” she said, and swung around and left. Tulley stared hopelessly at Masuto.

Masuto waited. He was tired and unhappy, but he attempted to be patient and objective, without judgement or identification.

“Great! Great!” Tulley said. He poured himself a drink. “It's a great, stinking life. I am going to tell you something quick—because if I don't tell it quick, I can't tell it.” He went to the door, opened it and then closed it again. “I wouldn't put it past her to have this place bugged,” he said.

“Why don't you simply tell me whatever you wish to tell me.”

“All right. Now look—this happened eleven years ago. I had a rotten small part in a TV thing they were doing at World Wide. They brought in some idiot kid who wanted a part—you got to know how these kids want a part. There are maybe ten thousand girls in this town who came here to make it big, and none of them do and they would sell their souls and their mothers for one stinking little part. So this kid is promised a part if she lets herself get banged once or twice—”

“Just spell that out, please,” Masuto said.

“This guy makes a deal with her. He brings her into one of those little movable dressing rooms. She promises to have some sex with a couple of buddies. Then he invites me to be his guest. So I am a louse—you know a man who isn't a louse?”

“Go on, please.”

“So I go in with this kid. I don't know how many there are before me. All I know is that I am invited to take a free ride, and I do it. In a crumby little dressing room with some kid I can barely see—except that she's a blond with a good figure. And she tells me her name and I kid her about the part and I hate myself a little and that's it.”

Again, Masuto waited. Tulley was sprawled in the Eames chair. Masuto sat on the edge of the built-in couch. He was never at ease sprawling or reclining, and now he sat rather primly.

“I even forgot about it,” Tulley said. “It was eleven years ago. Who remembers?”

“There are people who remember,” Masuto said.

Tulley glanced at him sharply. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a card case and from it a folded piece of pink note paper. He unfolded it and handed it to the policeman. It was strongly scented and typed on it were the following words:

Mike, you've had your time and I have been patient.

Samantha.

Masuto handed it back to him. “I suppose Samantha was the girl?”

“That was her name. Would you believe it, I forgot. But when I got the note, I remembered.”

“When did you get it?”

“In the mail, yesterday. I also know what typewriter was used.”

“You do?”

He pointed to the wall opposite the couch, where a portable typewriter sat on a built-in teakwood table. “That one. I compared the type. There's a convenient broken ‘t' to make it easy. Do you want to keep this note?”

“If you wish.” Masuto took the note and put it in his pocket. “Do you think your wife wrote it?”

“You saw her. She's not stupid, is she? Wouldn't she pick another typewriter?”

“I don't know. That is why I asked you.”

Tulley stared at Masuto for a while, and then he said, “Something like this happens and you begin to think twice. I mean, nobody's stupid enough to do it this way, but she's smart enough to know we wouldn't believe she was stupid enough.”

“Why?” Masuto asked softly. “Do you think your wife is Samantha?”

He sat without answering.

“Eleven years ago, how old was this kid? Samantha?”

“Eighteen, nineteen, twenty—how the hell do you know?”

“You just told me it was eleven years ago. When did you meet your wife?”