The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery Read Free

been a sort of a star—just after World War II—but briefly. Then a very successful agent—or was it a producer?
    He rose and said, “My name is Jack Cotter, officer. This is my wife, Arlene—”
    Of course, the agent. And now Al Greenberg’s vice-president in Northeastern Films.
    â€œâ€”and I am afraid that I am responsible for the imposition. Entirely responsible. You see, I have made a damn nusiance of myself by insisting that Al was murdered.”
    â€œYou can say that again!” Tulley snorted.
    â€œA veritable goddamn nuisance,” said Burke.
    â€œSuppose you shut up, Sidney. You talk when you’re told to talk,” Tulley, the TV actor, said.
    â€œJust who the hell do you think you’re putting down?” Burke demanded. “I don’t work for you, Mister. You’re a client of mine, and now that Al’s dead, I don’t want such clients. So up your ass!”
    â€œTake it easy, Sidney,” Murphy Anderson said. “You too, Mike,” he told the actor. “Just take it easy. Jack heard something, and not to report what he heard would make him an accessory after the fact.”
    â€œWhat fact?” Sidney Burke demanded.
    â€œThe fact of a murder—if a murder took place. I don’t like the whole thing any more than any of you, but there it is—”
    Masuto held up his hands for silence at this point. Being a policeman in Beverly Hills might not be exactly like being a diplomat to the Benelux countries. It might be better compared to being a UN representative to a small, new country. It required tact, judgement, and above all, good manners—and control.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen,” he said, “the sooner and the more quietly we conclude this, the better. As you know, Mr. Greenberg was quite ill, and it would appear that he died of natural causes. But appearances are frequently deceiving. Now if you heard something, Mr. Cotter, that bears on Mr. Greenberg’s death, I think you should state it for me in as few words as possible, while we are all still here.”
    Cotter nodded. “We finished dinner a few minutes after nine. Ordinarily, we might sit at the table a while, but Al did not feel too good, and he said that he’d go upstairs and have an Alka Seltzer. Everyone got up. Then the girls left with Mike and Sidney and Al. I am told that Al went up to his bedroom on the second floor. The kitchen people said that. Al went through the kitchen to the pantry, where he has a little private elevator. The others went into the living room.”
    â€œSidney and I went into the viewing room—here,” Mike Tulley interrupted. “The girls went to freshen up.”
    â€œAll right,” said Cotter. “Murph—Mr. Anderson—and I sat at the table with cigars. We had things to talk about, and then Murph said about something that before we discussed it any further, we should get Al’s point of view. It was almost a yes or no matter, so Murph said that he would wait at the table while I went upstairs. I went through the living room and up the stairs. No one in the hallway up there. I knocked at Al’s bedroom door. Then I heard Al say, ‘For Christ’s sake, put that gun away and give me my medicine—please—’ He was pleading, crazy, desperate, pleading. He was pleading for his life.’”
    Out of the corner of his eye, Masuto saw Dr. Baxter, the medical examiner, come into the viewing room, and he moved his head for Baxter to join him. Cotter waited. The room was very quiet now. Baxter walked over to Masuto, who whispered to him, “Medicine?”
    â€œHe was on quinidine according to Meyer, but also armed with nitroglycerin sublingual. He would have that in his pocket. Every angina does. But his jacket was off and across the room from where he lay.”
    Baxter spoke softly, but not so softly that everyone in the room could not hear him. Phoebe