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

eating, and says, ‘Take American out, shoot him.’ My wife’s sister was in the Brando film.”
    â€œHave a sandwich.”
    â€œI am honored,” Masuto said, taking the sandwich gratefully. He was starved. He bit into it and chewed thoughtfully and then said, “Didn’t anyone like Tulley?”
    â€œEveryone loved him. He received over a thousand letters a week—fans. They adored him. In Chicago, they tore off his pants.”
    â€œJust between you and me, Mr. Anderson—who do you think killed him?”
    â€œHave some coffee.”
    â€œOf course,” Masuto said, accepting the coffee, “that’s the trouble with this case. Every one of you knows who the killer is. Maybe the candidate isn’t the same in every case, but you all know. Only, there’s one thing you apparently can’t get into your respective skulls—that this killer is a homicidal maniac, and that he will kill again and again and again.”
    â€œThat’s your guess.”
    â€œNo. That the way the symbols are arranged—but you don’t believe in symbols anymore, and you don’t see them. You are a people enlightened—”
    The loudspeaker intercom on Anderson’s desk crackled at that moment, and his secretary said, “I have a call for Detective Sergeant Masuto.”
    â€œAny name?” Masuto asked.
    â€œOh, yes. She said you would know her. Her name is Samantha.”
    Anderson reached for the phone, but Masuto gripped his arm and said quickly, “Do you have a private line in the office?”
    â€œThere, in the corner,” pointing to a phone on an end table next to the couch.
    â€œGet on it. Call the operator. Use my name, give her the main number, and trace us. Quick.”
    Then, as Anderson ran across the room to the other phone, Masuto lifted the one on the desk and said, “Hello. This is Sergeant Masuto.”
    â€œAll right, Masuto—this is Samantha. Now listen carefully. I am not going to repeat.” The voice was the precise, controlled theatrically trained voice of a professional.
    â€œNow wait a minute. Let me get my pad.”
    â€œCome off it, Masuto. I know you’re having the call traced right now. That will take you at least eleven minutes. I don’t propose to give you more than five.”
    â€œYou’re optimistic if you think we can trace a call in eleven minutes. How do I know you’re Samantha?”
    â€œHow? Because I know what went on in that lousy trailer room when that little louse, Sidney Burke, arranged for his gangshag.”
    â€œA good many ladies seem to know,” Masuto said.
    â€œNo, no. Not at all. Let me give you the rundown, Sergeant. Max Green was in that room, and he’s dead—”
    â€œWho is Max Green?” Masuto interrupted.
    â€œInterrupt me once more, mister, and I hang up. Now are you ready to listen?”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    â€œMax Green was there, and he’s dead. A rotten little creep called Fred Saxton was there, and he’s dead. Al Greenberg was there and he’s dead. Mike Tulley was there, and he’s dead. Which leaves Jack Cotter, Murphy Anderson and Sidney Burke. Four down, three to go. You know, Sergeant, just to convince that heathen and doubting Oriental mind of yours, the gun that killed Mike Tulley was a 32-caliber Smith and Wesson. It was his wife’s gun. I shot him three times in the chest. None of that has been on the air yet. Check me and see. As for the other three—tell them to expect me.”
    She hung up, and Masuto replaced the phone and said to Anderson, “Let it go, Mr. Anderson. She’s off.”
    â€œWas it Samantha?” he asked eagerly.
    â€œThat’s what she said.”
    â€œWhat else did she say?”
    Almost word for word, Masuto repeated what the woman had said—all of it, leaving nothing out, and watching Murphy Anderson’s face as he spoke. At the end, he