Read Online The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery by Howard Fast - Free Book Online Page A

Greenberg?”
    â€œThat’s right, Al Greenberg. And that rotten bitch murdered Al Greenberg and now she murdered Mike.”
    â€œWhen did you find out about Samantha?”
    â€œLast night. After you left. It was a stinking, dirty mess, just the way this whole thing is. I don’t know how to tell it to you.”
    â€œAny way. Try. I’m not a human being. I’m a cop.”
    â€œHe accused me of being Samantha, Sergeant. Can you imagine? He accused me of being Samantha.”
    â€œWell, that’s not so strange. He was overwrought, terrified, filled with guilt. Did you know about Samantha at that point? When he accused you?”
    â€œNo. I did not. Furthermore, I made him understand that when he and his anthropoid buddies were having their gangshag, I was in Smith College in western Massachusetts. And then that fool—that poor fool had the nerve to ask me whether I could prove it.”
    â€œThen you knew what had happened to Samantha?”
    â€œNo. Not then. I’m mixing up the sequence last night—that’s because I’m upset.”
    â€œI understand,” Masuto said. “He accused you of being Samantha, but you did not know what he meant?”
    â€œExactly. I said to him, ‘Mike, are you nuts?’ Oh, I was no joy. I hate myself. But I did not know he was going to be killed. I said, ‘Mike, I always knew you were a louse, but I always figured you for a louse with marbles. Do I have to tell you that I am your own miserable, everloving wife, Lenore? Smith College, class of ’56. Have you really flipped? Haven’t you looked at my yearbook? What kind of a nut are you? And who is this Samantha?’ Then he wanted out of the whole thing, but I wouldn’t let go. Then he told me. I think he enjoyed telling me.”
    â€œThe dressing room, the part in a TV show, the arrangements that Sidney Burke made?”
    â€œRight down the line. Oh, he was a daisy, my Mike—right down the line. Do you mind if I have a drink?”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    â€œWill you join me?”
    Masuto shook his head. Lenore Tulley went to a cedar chest, opened it and by that motion caused a small but well-equipped bar to rise out of its depths. She poured herself a straight vodka and threw it down her throat.
    â€œYou’re sure you won’t join me?” she asked Masuto again. “You know—you’re a good-looking cop. How old are you?”
    â€œOld enough not to drink in a lady’s bedroom while I am on duty.”
    â€œHow about that? Shouldn’t you have a stenographer in here taking notes and all that?”
    â€œNo. You’re not a suspect—”
    Detective Sy Beckman knocked on the door, and then entered. “Masao,” he said, “what about the news boys talking to Mrs. Tulley? Also the CBS and ABC and NBC trucks are outside. They all want Mrs. Tulley.”
    Masuto looked inquiringly at Lenore Tulley, who shook her head and said, “I have had it. They can drop dead, the lot of them. Los Angeles, farewell. They can get lost in the smog.”
    â€œYou’ll have to talk to them sooner or later,” Beckman said.
    â€œThen later.”
    â€œTell them she is prostrated and unable to talk to anyone.”
    â€œNo!” she exclaimed.
    â€œTell them that,” Masuto said.
    Beckman left, and Lenore Tulley said to Masuto, “You got a hell of a lot of nerve for a—”
    â€œFor a Jap?”
    â€œJust don’t push me around. I have had enough of being pushed around.”
    Masuto rose abruptly and started for the door.
    â€œWhere are you going?” she demanded.
    â€œTo look for whoever killed your husband, instead of pushing you around.”
    â€œOh, stop being a horse’s ass and sit down,” she said. “I never met a male who didn’t have all the engaging tactics of a frustrated six-year-old. You’re married,