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

said to Anderson, “Who is Fred Saxton and who is Mike Green?”
    â€œOh, my God,” Anderson whispered.
    â€œWho are they?”
    â€œFred Saxton was the production manager on the ‘Lonesome Rider.’ Max Green was the assistant producer.”
    â€œIsn’t that sort of the same job?”
    â€œSort of.”
    â€œThen I presume they’re both dead?”
    â€œYes, they’re dead. We had changed the title from assistant producer to production manager and then we gave the job to Fred Saxton.”
    â€œHow did they die, Mr. Anderson?”
    â€œMax died a normal death. My God, this thing is insane enough without making it crazier. Max died of a heart attack, over a year ago.”
    â€œHow old was he?”
    â€œI don’t know—forty-six, forty-seven.”
    â€œThen it wasn’t so normal, was it?”
    â€œWhy? It’s young, but people die of heart attacks in their forties. It happens.”
    â€œAnd how did Fred Saxton die?”
    â€œOne of these stupid accidents—” He broke off, rose suddenly, and went to a little bar in the room and poured himself a glass of brandy.
    â€œYou want a little brandy, Sergeant?”
    â€œNo. So maybe it was not an accident. What happened?”
    Anderson drank the brandy, wincing and making faces. “His skull was crushed. On one of the sound stages we rent over at World Wide. A hundred-pound sandbag counterweight fell from the beam where it was rigged. He never knew what hit him. Died instantly. Terrible—just terrible.”
    â€œI thought everything was lead counterweights and electric winches today.”
    â€œThis was an old stage. Those bags could have been up there for years—I don’t know. But it could have been an accident too.”
    â€œI suppose so,” Masuto admitted.
    â€œCan I tell Jack and Sidney about what she said?”
    â€œWhy not? A few minutes ago, you refused to give an inch about our Samantha. Have you changed your mind?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Anderson replied.

CHAPTER FOUR

    Peggy Groton

W HEN Masuto entered City Hall on Santa Monica Boulevard, he was already aware of a glow of notoriety in which the city would alternately squirm and bask. Beverly Hills was hardly a place for violent murder. He sometimes thought of the place as a toy city, with a toy police force to guard people who dreamed away their lives, but those were very private thoughts and not proper to any bona fide policeman. Usually, he came and went unnoticed, but today reporters tried to buttonhole him, and curious ones, town bureaucrats and employees, begged to be let in on the facts.
    His chief also begged. “What I want to know, Masao, is do the two deaths connect? Do we have some kind of a double killing on our hands?”
    â€œMaybe a triple killing,” Masuto said. “This is one with a taste for blood and death. This is a demon. But you don’t believe in demons, do you?”
    â€œI also do not buy any high-class Oriental philosophy at this moment. I also don’t like a cop who gets on a connecting bug and goes off on the mass-killer kick. Just before you came in, it was on the wire that some dame goes off Mulhol land Drive on the Valley side. You’ll connect that up too.”
    â€œWhat dame?”
    â€œI don’t know. It’s Hollywood anyway. Haven’t we got enough trouble? Let the city worry about it.”
    â€œWho’s up there?”
    â€œI don’t know, rescue service and city cops, I suppose. What’s the difference?”
    â€œDid the car burn?”
    â€œHow do I know if the car burned?”
    â€œChief, do me a favor,” Masuto said, trying to control his excitement. “Believe me—something is happening, something is working out. Get them on the radiophone and tell them to hold everything until I get there. Not to touch the car. I don’t mean they should not take the woman to the