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

ways to pay tribute to him.”
    â€œYou have the only ability that counts,” Masuto answered.
    â€œAnd what is that?”
    â€œTo see yourself as a human being.”
    â€œI don’t really understand that,” she said, frowning. “But I am glad that you came here. I was very troubled about what I should do, and Rabbi Gitlin suggested that I talk to you. He said that you would hear whatever I had to say with understanding.”
    â€œThat’s very kind of you,” Masuto told the rabbi.
    Gitlin rose and said, “Perhaps it would be best if I left you alone—both of you.”
    â€œNo, no,” Phoebe protested. “I want you to remain.”
    â€œAll right.” Gitlin sank back into the chair. Masuto remained standing and Phoebe Greenberg paced nervously as she spoke.
    â€œI didn’t want to bring this whole thing up. I wasn’t going to. My husband was a very sick man, Mr. Masuto. I knew this, because his physician told me and also instructed me in what to do in an emergency. I can’t talk very well about the relationship between my husband and me. We were only married three years, and his illness precluded any normal relationship. But I think I worshipped the ground he walked on. I never looked at another man after I married him, Mr. Masuto. Well, that’s done, and I cannot weep or carry on. Some can, some can’t. I was going to wash this whole wretched thing out of my mind until Mike was killed today. Tell me, do you think that the same person who murdered Mike Tulley killed my husband?”
    â€œLet me answer that obliquely, Mrs. Greenberg. No one will ever know, unless there is some sort of a confession, whether or not your husband was murdered. But I do know this—that if he was murdered, it was the same person. And I can tell you that this same person coldbloodedly killed two others.”
    â€œOh, no! Who?”
    â€œDid you know a man called Fred Saxton?”
    â€œYes—yes, I knew Fred. He worked for Al—for my husband. But his death—it was one of those awful accidents.”
    â€œI don’t think so, any more than the death of a woman called Peggy Groton, whose car went over the shoulder up on Mulholland Drive today, was an accident. There is very little doubt in my mind that both of these people were murdered.”
    â€œThat’s a pretty terrifying statement,” Gitlin said. “What are you trying to tell us, Sergeant? That four murders were committed? Then what kind of horror is loose among us?”
    â€œYou’re asking for a philosophical conclusion, rabbi. I am only a policeman.”
    â€œIt’s not fashionable to faint, is it?” Phoebe asked.
    Masuto and the rabbi helped her to a chair. Very pale, she sat there and said, “When I was a little girl, my mother used to tell me about fainting and smelling salts and that sort of thing. It was very fashionable once, but I guess no one faints any more. You never hear about it. I don’t even have smelling salts in the house, whatever they are.” She took a deep breath and went on, “I am going to tell you about this, Mr. Masuto. It may be wrong and vile to speak about it, because it happened a long time ago. But I must tell you about it—I must.”
    Masuto waited. The rabbi glanced from Phoebe to Masuto, opened his mouth to say something, then clamped it shut.
    â€œA terrible thing happened eleven years ago on a set where my husband was producing a TV segment. A man—well, it was Sidney Burke, because I will have to name names or this whole thing is meaningless. Sidney got some young kid actress to agree to have sex with some men on the set in return for a tiny part in the show. You have to be an actress yourself to know what these crazy kids will do for a part—any part. They all live with some kind of childish, pathetic dream that once they are seen, they will all instantaneously become Natalie Wood. So Sidney