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

Greenberg involved?”
    â€œI think he was. I can’t be sure, but I think I remember him on the set that day.”
    â€œCotter? Murphy Anderson? Sidney Burke?”
    â€œI think so. Burke brought the girl onto the set.”
    â€œHow old is your wife, Mr. Tulley?”
    â€œThirty-one.”
    â€œDo you think that your wife was in the room with Mr. Greenberg?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œDo you own a gun?”
    â€œWe have a small thirty-two automatic. I keep it in the bedroom.”
    â€œObviously, you looked for it when you came home tonight. Was it there?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd you asked your wife whether she knew where it was?”
    â€œShe didn’t know. She said she couldn’t care less. She hates guns and she has been after me to get rid of it.”
    â€œWhy don’t you, Mr. Tulley? We have an excellent police force here in Beverly Hills.”
    â€œWhich couldn’t do one cotton-picking thing about keeping Al Greenberg alive.”
    â€œWe are policemen, not physicians. Those men and women you had dinner with tonight—they have all been here at your home?”
    â€œThey have.”
    â€œWithin the past two weeks?”
    â€œThat’s right. We entertain a lot—dinner parties, cocktails. Sometimes when Al wanted a conference about the show, we would have it here.”
    â€œI see. But to get back to what you were inferring—is it your notion that this Samantha waited patiently for eleven years to have her revenge, and that she began by murdering Al Greenberg?”
    â€œIt sounds stupid when you put it that way. Maybe she waited for the one opportunity. Maybe she’s patient. It still seems stupid.”
    â€œFarfetched, let’s say. Still, someone wrote a note on your wife’s typewriter and signed it ‘Samantha.’”
    â€œDon’t you want to compare the note with a sample from the typewriter?”
    â€œWhat will that prove, Mr. Tulley? If Samantha is patient enough to wait eleven years for her revenge, she’s patient enough to wait for a chance at your wife’s typewriter.”
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do?”
    â€œI can’t say, Mr. Tulley. If you believe you are in danger, you can inform my chief and he will no doubt station a policeman in front of your house.”
    â€œJust one thing,” said Tulley, shooting out a hand at Masuto. “You’re a cop—and this is Beverly Hills. So don’t throw your weight around with me.”
    â€œI am very sorry if I gave that impression,” Masuto said, smiling deferentially. “Thank you for your information.”
    Tulley’s apology was contained in the gesture of rising and escorting Masuto to the door.
    Masuto’s wife was awake and waiting for him when he got home. She was very gentle and full of many fears, and when a case kept him hours past his regular working time, she could not sleep, and hovered over her two children and allowed her mind to fill with awful possibilities. Although she had been born in Los Angeles, her first years had been spent in an old-fashioned and protected environment, and she had many of the mannerisms of a girl brought up in Japan. Without trying, and very tastefully, she had given a Japanese decor to their little house in Culver City. She liked paper screens and low, black enamel tables, and both she and her husband, when they were alone for the evening, would wear kimono and robe; and tonight she had his robe waiting and tea ready, and she sat dutifully staring at him with great affection and waiting to hear whether he proposed to speak of what had happened.
    â€œAl Greenberg died,” he said finally, after he had tasted the tea and relaxed somewhat. “You will remember that when we ride with the children in Beverly Hills and I point out houses, his is the house with the great columns, like the big house in front of the old Selznick Studio.”
    â€œI