The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery by Howard Fast

tune.”
    â€œThen if what you say is true,” Masuto said slowly, “why are we all quietly thinking that Samantha murdered him?”
    â€œBaloney. Why would she wait eleven years?”
    â€œThen would you mind telling me the gist of your discussion with Mr. Cotter, concerning Samantha?”
    â€œI would mind. It has no bearing here.”
    â€œHave you also spoken to Sidney Burke about it?”
    â€œYou 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—”
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œI don’t blow my top. So if you got any questions, ask them and then get to hell out of here!”
    â€œDo 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.
    â€œOh, my God,” he said. “My God—my God.”
    He put the telephone down and stared hopelessly at Masuto.
    â€œWhat happened?” Masuto asked him.
    â€œMike 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.
    â€œWhy?” asked Detective Beckman, nodding at him.
    â€œHe’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.
    â€œThere 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.”
    â€œYour sense of humor leaves something to be desired,” Masuto said. “God help him.”
    â€œMacabre 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.
    â€œWhat about them?” Beckman asked, motioning