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

to fingerprints and photography.
    â€œThey 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.
    â€œYou want to look at this, Masao?”
    â€œHer gun?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œShe admits it?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œSend it over to ballistics. Where is she?”
    â€œUpstairs, lying down. She was hysterical. Doc gave her something to quiet her down.”
    â€œWhat did you give her?” Masuto asked Baxter.
    â€œA placebo. Two aspirin. No shock, just lady hysterics. She quieted down almost immediately.”
    â€œYou’re a witch doctor,” Beckman said.
    â€œAren’t we all?”
    â€œDo you want to see her now?” asked Beckman.
    â€œLater. Tell me about it. It seems I make a practice of coming in after everyone else is seated.”
    â€œAs 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—”
    â€œLady?”
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œYeah, 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