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

Greenberg—Phoebe Greenberg. Rabbi Gitlin told me you spoke with him this morning.”
    â€œOh, yes—yes, we had a talk.”
    â€œHe was impressed with you.”
    â€œI was impressed with him,” Masuto said.
    â€œHe said that you were a friend of my—of my husband.”
    â€œYes, in a way.”
    â€œIn any way—then I would like you to come to the funeral tomorrow. But that isn’t what I called you about. I would like to speak to you, if I might.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œNow. Is that possible?”
    â€œIn ten minutes—or less. I am leaving now.”
    But the Chief intercepted him and said, “What about it, Masao? You’re way out on a limb and I’m with you.”
    â€œI told you, tomorrow.”
    â€œI sure as God hope so, Masao.”
    Even with the interruption, Masuto was at the Greenberg home in eight minutes, and now it was a little after four o’clock in the afternoon. The driveway was full and there were cars in front of the house; and in the living room, Murphy Anderson and his plump wife, Stacy, Jack Cotter alone, and Sidney Burke alone.
    They would be off to the chapel later to pay their respects to the deceased. Now they were here to pay their respects to the living.
    â€œTwo chapels.” Sidney Burke said pointedly. He resented the fact that they were on opposite sides of Beverly Hills, as if he could see no reason on earth why two people in dying should not have the thoughtfulness to be of the same faith.
    â€œWhere is Mrs. Greenberg?” Masuto asked.
    They explained that she was in the viewing room with Rabbi Gitlin. “I suppose he’s some comfort to her,” Jack Cotter said, “but the last thing in the world I would have imagined is that Phoebe needed that kind of thing.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œHer relationship with Al—”
    â€œOh, why don’t you shut up, Jack,” Anderson interrupted.
    â€œI don’t like to be talked to like that,” Cotter said coldly.
    Stacy Anderson burst out, “Have you met Rabbi Gitlin, Sergeant Masuto? He’s absolutely fascinating. He’s—”
    Rising, Murphy Anderson said, “I think we must go, Stacy, if we want to get to both chapels tonight.”
    â€œPoor Lenore,” Stacy said, as if she only now remembered that Mike Tulley was dead. “What a dreadful thing she went through. Just imagine—to be trapped on one side of a door while your husband is being murdered by some dreadful woman on the other side of the door. It’s perfectly dreadful. Dreadful.” She enjoyed the word.
    â€œSergeant Masuto,” Anderson said, “the three of us—Mr. Cotter, Mr. Burke and myself—would like to talk to you tonight. We feel that it’s very important.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œMy house. I’m on North Rodeo. Say about nine?”
    â€œI’ll be there,” Masuto agreed.
    The Japanese houseman came back into the room at that point and speaking in Japanese told Masuto that Mrs. Greenberg would like to see him.
    â€œWhy in hell doesn’t he talk English?” Cotter growled.
    â€œI am sorry,” Masuto apologized. “He apparently forgot himself with me—there is a natural desire to use one’s own language. He simply told me that Mrs. Greenberg would like to see me.”
    Masuto followed the houseman into the viewing room. Pale, deep circles under her eyes, Phoebe Greenberg greeted him with evident relief. Rabbi Gitlin, sprawled in a chair at one side of the room, nodded at him. Phoebe asked him whether he would have a drink. She had a drink in her hand. She wore a pale green at-home that was most becoming and gave her a sort of ethereal appearance.
    â€œIf you wonder why I don’t wear black, Mr. Masuto,” she said, “it is because my husband hated symbols as a substitute for reality. He bought me this dress himself. I have very few abilities and very few