The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery (6 page)

“You don't know what this has done to us, Sergeant. Jack's been at the bank all morning, and that's only the beginning. I have been talking to five hundred people and trying to help Phoebe arrange the funeral proceedings at the same time.” He looked at his watch. “As a matter of fact, I have a very important luncheon meeting at one. I imagine we can finish by then. I have been talking to your boss at the police station, and he agrees that there is absolutely no sense in pursuing the murder angle. We have no evidence of murder, no real suspicion of anyone, and a very definite knowledge of poor Al's illness. Jack Cotter is willing to forget what he heard. Do you agree?”

“It hardly matters whether I agree or not,” Masuto said, spreading his hands slightly. “Mine is a negative search—simply to dispel any lingering doubts. I think the very fact that this was kept out of the papers helps your desire.”

“Thank God for that. I don't mind telling you—but in confidence—that we are in the middle of the biggest move in the history of this business, the acquisition of the remaining library of World Wide Films—for eighteen million dollars. Jack Cotter finished signing the papers this morning. If this had broken as murder, the deal would have been postponed or killed completely.”

“Then if we were fanciful,” Masuto smiled, “we could say that the murderer attempted to frustrate your deal.”

“Then why didn't she break the story to the press?”

Masuto shrugged. “Who knows? Could you tell me something, perhaps, about your company.”

“To what point?”

“Again—who knows? But I am curious. If I am not mistaken, Mr. Greenberg began the company some fifteen years ago?”

“Closer to twelve years. He and I began together, and then we took Jack Cotter in. Al began to produce TV shows about fifteen years ago. He was one of the first. I was his lawyer, and he organized the company to produce and I went in with him. But I don't take any of the credit. I am a lawyer and a businessman, a good lawyer and a pretty good businessman, but I think I would make a lousy producer. Whatever Northeastern is, Al Greenberg is mainly responsible.”

“How did Jack Cotter come into it?”

“Jack was a sort of Western star back in the late 'thirties. He made five feature films for Asterlux, and they went bankrupt in 1940—or almost bankrupt. They liquidated their assets and settled. They owed Jack a hundred thousand dollars in back wages, and as a settlement they gave him the American distribution rights to the five Westerns. Who ever knew then how TV would eat feature films! Back in 1957, Jack proposed to throw his five features into our operation in return for a piece of stock and a vice-presidency in the company. We needed the features and we took him in.”

“Is Sidney Burke also in the firm?”

“Not exactly in it. He began with our publicity right from the beginning. He's good. At first he worked almost for nothing. Then he got some stock. He still does our publicity, but he has his own company.”

“Would you mind telling me who the stockholders are?”

“Why?”

“Because it would be easier if you told me,” Masuto said, “than if I had to track down the information. I could, you know.”

“You still want to make something out of this, don't you?”

“No. What is there, is there, Mr. Anderson. If nothing is there—”

“OK. There are five stockholders—or were. Al held sixteen thousand shares. His wife, Phoebe, five thousand, a gift from him when they were married. Sidney has two thousand and Jack has four thousand. I own six thousand shares, which makes me the second largest stockholder.”

“And Mr. Tulley—Mike Tulley?”

“He has no shares. Why should he? We hired him three years ago and we made him a TV star. But at this point our shares have a book value of almost three hundred dollars each. There's no market on them, but if there were, it would be enormous.”

“And now what happens to Mr. and Mrs. Greenberg's shares?”

“Nothing happens to Phoebe's—unless she decides to sell. And I have advised her not to and I will continue to so advise her. But Al's personal stock, according to our initial agreement, goes back into the company treasury, and his estate is paid fifty percent of book value. Providing Jack and I refuse to purchase.”

“How's that?”

“If any one of the three officers dies, the remaining two have the right to divide his stock and purchase it at twenty-five percent of book value. The remaining twenty-five percent is then paid by the company treasury. It's a peculiar arrangement, but perfectly legal and it protects the officers and major stockholders.

“And what do you and Mr. Cotter intend to do?”

“We'll buy the stock, of course. Are you thinking of that as a motive? But whose motive for Al's death, Sergeant? I am the only one who profits. I gain control, God help me. There's no reason for you to believe me, but I'd blow this business and ten like it to give Al a week of extra living.”

“We were not to talk of murder, but simply to eliminate any possibility of it. Forgive me if I raise a rather shameful matter, Mr. Anderson, but do you remember an incident with a girl called Samantha? Eleven years ago.”

Murphy Anderson stared at Masuto for a long moment. Then he swung on his heel and walked to the window. When he turned back, his face was cold and set.

“What the hell business is that of yours, Sergeant?”

“Last night, Mike Tulley asked me to come over. He told me about the incident. He was very frightened. I gathered that he is under the impression that one of you—one of your four men, or five if we include Greenberg—is married to Samantha.”

“Let me tell you something about Al Greenberg, Sergeant. I never spoke of this until now. But Al never touched that kid. I'm not defending myself or Jack or Mike or Sidney. What we are, we are. But Al went into that dressing room, looked at the kid, had a few words with her and came out. He was the last. Don't worry—I remember, I goddamn well remember. Jack had disappeared, and when Sidney saw Al's face, he took off. Al said to me, ‘If anything like this ever happens again on one of my sets, Murph, I will kill you and everyone else concerned with my own hands. And I'm not kidding. You were high in my esteem, and now you are low as a turd—you and that stinking shithead Sidney.' Maybe not those exact words, but that was the tune.”

“Then if what you say is true,” Masuto said slowly, “why are we all quietly thinking that Samantha murdered him?”

“Baloney. Why would she wait eleven years?”

“Then would you mind telling me the gist of your discussion with Mr. Cotter, concerning Samantha?”

“I would mind. It has no bearing here.”

“Have you also spoken to Sidney Burke about it?”

“You know, I don't like those questions, Sergeant Masuto. Not one goddamn bit. Your job is to protect the citizens of this community, not to harass them. I am no stranger at City Hall—”

“You know well enough what my job is, Mr. Anderson. You are an officer of the court, so don't threaten me. I don't threaten you. This case is as sticky as flypaper, and my hands are full of it and I am trying to walk a tight rope at the same time. I ask you something, and you could blow your top and slug me, and what would that solve?”

“I don't blow my top. So if you got any questions, ask them and then get to hell out of here!”

“Do you believe your wife is Samantha?” Masuto asked flatly.

Anderson's face whitened and he clenched his fists. He took a step toward Masuto, and then his telephone rang. He picked it up, shouted into it, “I told you, no calls!” and slammed it back into its cradle. It rang again. He picked it up and listened. The white of his face became whiter.

“Oh, my God,” he said. “My God—my God.”

He put the telephone down and stared hopelessly at Masuto.

“What happened?” Masuto asked him.

“Mike Tulley has just been murdered. Shot. With his wife's gun.”

There were cars all around the Tulley house. This one had not been kept quiet. There were newspapermen at the place and more still arriving. Over a dozen cars were crowded in and around the driveway.

Officer Frank Seaton supervised the half-dozen uniformed men who were trying to keep the newspaper people and the curious out of the house—and at the same time keep the traffic moving on Benedict Canyon Road. Inside the house, Detective Beckman was in charge. They were waiting for Masuto to arrive before they removed the body, and Beckman immediately led Masuto into the study. Murphy Anderson stayed in the living room. Anderson remained silent. Like so many big, fleshy men, a mood could age him. He had not spoken a word on the way over with Masuto, and he said nothing now as he slumped into a chair in the living room.

“Why?” asked Detective Beckman, nodding at him.

“He's the boss now,” Masuto said. “I want him here. Something's going on inside him that I don't know about.”

Beckman closed the door of the study behind them—the same room Masuto had been in the night before, except that now it was full of smoke from Dr. Sam Baxter's cigar. There were also the fingerprint man, the photographer and two men from the hospital, Beverly Hills being too small a community to boast its own police autopsy facilities. The mortal remains of Mike Tulley lay on the floor, covered by a thin rubber sheet, which Dr. Baxter callously threw back. Tulley's body was stripped to the waist. There were three small, ugly bullet holes in his chest.

“There you are, Masao,” said Baxter. “Close range. Thirty-two lady's gun. Smith and Wesson automatic. Victim died of heart failure but not of a heart attack.”

“Your sense of humor leaves something to be desired,” Masuto said. “God help him.”

“Macabre job, macabre humor. I don't get too many murders, Masao, but they mash themselves up in cars day in and day out. Half the human race is in a frenzied race to eliminate itself. Can we take him away?”

Masuto nodded, and the hospital attendants put the body on a stretcher and carried it out.

“What about them?” Beckman asked, motioning to fingerprints and photography.

“They should be finished now.”

Reluctantly, the fingerprint man and the photographer allowed themselves to be ushered out of the room. Dr. Baxter dropped into a chair and relit his cigar. Detective Beckman seated himself on the built-in couch. Masuto remained standing, staring at the blood blot on the carpet. Tall, sliding aluminum doors at one side of the study opened onto planting and swimming pool—that heady badge of status that is almost obligatory in Beverly Hills. The contained vista was very beautiful, and Masuto thought he recognized the work of Hono Asaki, the landscape gardener who was very much in demand at the moment. Standing there, Masuto attempted to feel something of what the dead man had felt. It was not good to die in the face of such beauty—in youth and vigor. But then, it is not good to die, anywhere, anyplace.

Beckman rose, went to the table, and picked up a card-board box. It contained the gun.

“You want to look at this, Masao?”

“Her gun?”

“Right.”

“She admits it?”

“Right.”

“Send it over to ballistics. Where is she?”

“Upstairs, lying down. She was hysterical. Doc gave her something to quiet her down.”

“What did you give her?” Masuto asked Baxter.

“A placebo. Two aspirin. No shock, just lady hysterics. She quieted down almost immediately.”

“You're a witch doctor,” Beckman said.

“Aren't we all?”

“Do you want to see her now?” asked Beckman.

“Later. Tell me about it. It seems I make a practice of coming in after everyone else is seated.”

“As long as you're on time for the next one. As far as we can put it together, this is it. According to the wife. She's the only witness. The lady who did the killing—”

“Lady?”

“So it would seem. I am giving you Mrs. Tulley's version, because it's the only version we got. This lady killer, who seems to be the coldest dish around this town, evidently parked her car down the road toward Lexington. One of our cops saw it there when he was making his rounds, but he didn't give it a second glance. It was a cream-colored car, he thinks, but it could be dull yellow, and it could be either a Pontiac, an Olds or a Buick, or maybe just something that looks like one of them. That's what you train a cop for, to be observant. Well, she walked up to the driveway, and either Tulley let her into the house himself or she came around here and in through the windows. They have a housekeeper, who was in the kitchen. They have a maid, who was upstairs. Maybe Tulley knew she was coming. Anyway from when the cop saw the car, we guess that this killer-type broad arrived here at about noon or thereabouts. Ten or fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Tulley comes down. She is dressed and on her way to make a lunch date at the Beverly Wilshire. The lunch date is a Susie Cohn, and we checked that out because she called here to see what was keeping Lenore. But Mrs. Tulley has to have a word with her husband before she leaves the house and she comes to the study, tries the door, finds it locked. ‘Mike!' she calls out. ‘Open up.' Then she hears a woman's voice, ‘The mills of the gods, you—'”

At this point, Detective Beckman consulted his notebook.

“Yeah, this is it, ‘The mills of the gods, you dirty louse!' Then Tulley yells, ‘What are you talking like that for? Are you nuts? Put away that gun!' Then three shots, deliberate, one, two, three. Then the sound of Tulley's body hitting the floor. Then Mrs. Tulley begins to scream. The cook comes running. The maid comes running. There is Mrs. Tulley screaming and pounding on the door. They think they hear a car start—but it doesn't send any message to them. Then the maid gets the idea to run around to the big sliding windows. As she leaves the house, she sees Tulley's car swing out of the driveway to the right. It's parked on Benedict Canyon Road, where the killer picked up her own car and drove off, just as cool as a cucumber. Apparently, she knocked off Tulley and then walked through the sliding doors into the garden, like a lady should, got into Tulley's car and took off.”