The Case of the Angry Actress: A Masao Masuto Mystery

by Howard Fast

  “I may or may not be able to find the second name. That is not your problem. I want every Samantha who joined the Guild eleven years ago, give or take a few months on either end. The name is not a common one and there can hardly be too many.”

  “Indeed!” said Miss Arthur.

  “Indeed,” Masuto smiled.

  Whereupon Miss Arthur led him into another office where two girls sat, both of them younger even when their ages were added together, and where she figuratively washed her hands of Masuto.

  “Who is she?” Masuto asked them. “I mean, who was she? The name sort of rings a bell.”

  “Della Arthur? And you didn’t remember?” asked one.

  “He didn’t remember,” said the other.

  “She hates you. She’ll cut your heart out. We’ll let you out the back way, officer. We’ll protect you.”

  “Are you married?”

  “I’m married.”

  “Then we’ll let her kill you. You know, all the Beverly Hills policemen are very handsome. Is that how they pick you?”

  “I want—” Masuto began.

  “We know,” said one of them. “We heard. Enough of this light-hearted girlish talk. Only we don’t file membership by year of admission. We file by name, and you don’t have the family name.”

  “But there must be some annual bookkeeping.”

  “Oh, yes—yes. If she paid dues, we should have the receipts and the duplicate statements.” The girl was dark haired and bright eyed, and she licked her lips when she looked at Masuto. “Why are they always married? Never mind. Come on, we’ll go in the file room and study 1955 and we’ll find a Samantha. Of course, you know that’s a phony name,” she said to Masuto.

  She had led him into the next room, facing a whole wall of files, when he turned and looked at her curiously.

  “Why do you say that, Miss—?”

  “Just call me Jenny.”

  “OK, Jenny. Why?”

  “Well, isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not to my inscrutable Oriental mind. I grew up in a Japanese community, let us say a little apart from your folkways.”

  “You know, Sergeant, you got a nice sense of humor. Cool, if you follow me.” She had opened a file drawer and was riffling through it with practiced fingers as she spoke. “Suppose this Samantha is a kid of twenty or so in 1955. That makes her born in 1935, right?”

  “Give or take a few years—yes.”

  “Middle of the depression—who’s going to give a kid a nutty name like Samantha? Today’s another matter, but around then, from what I hear, people weren’t thinking about these stylish names.”

  “Good. Go on.”

  “I bet you a pretty her last name’s a phony too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You know—like Glendale or Frazer or Buckingham or Sanford, but no Kaminski or Levy or Jones or Richter—”

  “You’d make an excellent cop,” Masuto said admiringly.

  “Nah. Half the names here are phonies. It’s part of the profession.”

  “Do they also have to register their real names?”

  “No rule about that. Some do. Most don’t. If an actor takes a stage name, it becomes part of him. He usually can’t live with two names. Hold on—here’s a beginning. What do you know about that! Samantha Adams. Here’s the address, on Sixth Street in Hollywood. That’s a sorry block of bungalows turned rooming house a long time ago—so this kid was no millionaire.”

  Masuto copied down the name and address in his pad. There was no telephone number.

  “No payment either,” continued Jenny. “The large sum is for membership,” she told Masuto, showing him the statement. “Almost two hundred with the dues, which is not hay by any means. You see, Sergeant, that’s the initiation fee, entrance fee, lifetime. But it was never paid. Neither was the dues payment—that is, the first payment. Here’s the follow-up statement and the second statement. That finishes the year. So this kid you’re looking for never joined the Guild. She had one job, maybe two—but not three. I mean in the profession. Maybe she went back to slinging hash. That’s another union. And she’s the only one. No more Samantha’s for 1955.”

  “You amaze me,” Masuto nodded.

  “You want me to amaze you some more, officer? I’m only doing it because you’re the sexy type. I’ll tell you something else about this kid. She never played anything real legitimate. Translated, that means adult theatre. She was never AEA.”

  “What’s AEA?”

  “Actors Equity. Legitimate theatre. Also, she was never AFTRA, which is TV and radio artists, and she never did the clubs—no stripping, no Las Vegas, not even the crumb joints. That’s because she never claimed AGVA. So either she dumped it all—or else.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “No mystery. Look, we have this big overall membership fee of two hundred dollars. But there are also three other major theatrical unions, and if one had to duplicate the entrance fee for every membership, some of these kids would die first. So we scale it. If you’re an Equity member, we give a credit of one hundred dollars. We also have a code of notation for the statements. So that’s how I do it. And if your wife locks the door on you, give me a ring right here. Nine to five. You just ask for Jenny. One Samantha, one Jenny. I told you the last name would be a phony too. Samantha Adams—get that.”

  Out on Sunset Boulevard and walking toward his car, Masuto wondered vaguely how it would be to be single and to date someone like this Jenny. He had only dated a Caucasian girl once, and she had been shapely but stupid. It had not been a satisfactory evening at all. He was impatient at himself for allowing his thoughts to wander. It was wasteful and childish, and he gathered them together.

  Sixth Street, east of Gower; it was an old, old Hollywood bungalow built of spit and slats, as they said, almost half a century before, with the sign out, “Furnished Rooms. Transients Accommodated.” In the old manner—the way most California houses had been before air-conditioning—the windows were closed and the blinds were drawn against the hot noonday sun. Masuto rang the bell, and a fat, frowzy woman of fifty or so, her feet in old slippers, her ample body in a bathrobe and her breath alcoholic, opened the door and said sourly. “I know—you’re a cop.”

  “You’re very perceptive.”

  “Nuts. You got it written all over you, and I ain’t fooled by the Charlie Chan makeup. What do you want? I run a clean, if a lousy house. Only men. This ain’t no Beverly Drive, so I don’t want no hookers giving me heartache.”

  “I’m looking for a girl.”

  “Then you’re looking through the wrong keyhole, Officer Chan. I only rent to men.”

  “That wasn’t the case eleven years ago, I am sure.”

  “Good God Almighty, nothing was the case eleven years ago. I was a hootchie-kootchie dancer eleven years ago, believe it or not. Sure, I took in a lady now and then in those days. But what do I remember? I ain’t no elephant, except in appearance.”

  “This girl’s name was Samantha Adams.”

  “Samantha Adams. You don’t say.”

  “Maybe eighteen, twenty years old. Blue eyes, blonde hair, good figure, maybe five feet six or seven inches tall—”

  “Poor Officer Chan—what are you, an LA cop?”

  “Beverly Hills,” Masuto replied, taking out his billfold and showing her his badge.

  “That accounts for it. Some day they give you a day off, wander along the Sunset Strip—you’ll find maybe ten thousand babes to answer your description—no! No, wait a moment. Samantha Adams. That wasn’t her real name. Some other name—no, I can’t remember the other name for the life of me, but I remember her. I used to kid her about that Samantha business. Poor kid—poor, stupid kid.”

  “Why do you say that?” Masuto asked softly.

  “Ah, she had no brains. You know, mister, for a dame this is the hardest, lousiest, dirtiest dark bunghole of a town in all these USA. Make it—you don’t even exist out here unless you got a stainless steel
ramrod up your you-know-where. This kid was soft—all the time soft and scared. Then one day she is going to lick the world and she goes off on a job at some studio—I think at World Wide, over in the Valley. Something happens. I don’t know what—but here’s a kid has the heart torn out of her. She has the curse after that, and we can’t stop the bleeding, so I finally get a doctor and pay him. She comes out of it finally, but very weak and not good up on top. She’s broke and a month behind. What the hell, I never threw a kid out on the street. That’s why I stopped it with the dames. I know what it is to be one, and I ain’t got the cabbage for an institution. So I don’t even mention it to this Samantha kid, but one day she walks out. Leaves me her lousy suitcase and her few lousy clothes for payment—I should sell them. Can you imagine? Yes, sir, this world is one big joyride.”

  “You said your name is Mrs. Baker?”

  “Dolly Baker, sonny.”

  “You never saw her again?”

  “No. That was ‘Goodby Samantha.’”

  “And you can’t remember her name—the other name?”

  “It’ll come to me.”

  “You wouldn’t have a register or anything like that?”

  “Buster,” she smiled, “what do I look like, a sap? They can make their space ships without my poor widow’s mite.”

  He grinned back at her. “Thanks, Mrs. Baker. You have great heart, and I think that when you reflect on it and realize that I bear no harm for this poor girl, you will remember. Here’s my card. Will you call me when the name comes back to you?”

  “Masao Masuto,” she read from the card. “I like you, Buster. I’ll call you, but if that poor kid is in something that stinks, find the lousy male bastard that put her there and go easy on her. Will you?”

  “I’ll try, Mrs. Baker.”

  “You’re Leo, aren’t you?” she asked, looking at him narrowly.

  “How did you know?” He was impressed but not astounded, recalling that he had shown her the open wallet with badge and identity card.

  “I’m sensitive to such things. I am Scorpio myself—very perceptive. That girl didn’t steal anything. She did not hurt anyone. You take my word for that.”

  “It’s eleven years later.”

  “People don’t change—not the deep nut of them. You ought to know that, Officer Chan.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Murphy Anderson

  IT was just 12:15, just past midday, when Detective Sergeant Masuto parked his car behind one of the new savings and loan office buildings on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Northeastern Films had the entire sixth floor, with at least one hundred thousand dollars worth of modern-Italian-Southern-California decor; but today the bright edge of wealth was muted by the haze of death. The men and women who worked in the offices of Northeastern were depressed by the fact that it was incumbent upon them to be depressed by the death of Al Greenberg.

  The girl at the reception desk looked upon Masuto bleakly as he told her that he had an appointment with Mr. Anderson. She spoke into the phone and then she rose and led Masuto through a section of minor offices to the rear of the floor. This whole end of the floor was divided into three offices. According to the names on the door, the center office belonged to Al Greenberg, the one on the left to John D. Cotter, and the one on the right to Murphy Anderson.

  Expressionless faces examined them as they walked through, and when they reached Anderson’s office, the big, white-haired man opened the door himself, invited Masuto to be seated, and closed the door behind him. Masuto lowered himself into a straight-backed Italian import, and Anderson apologized for not having Cotter there with them.

  “You don’t know what this has done to us, Sergeant. Jack’s been at the bank all morning, and that’s only the beginning. I have been talking to five hundred people and trying to help Phoebe arrange the funeral proceedings at the same time.” He looked at his watch. “As a matter of fact, I have a very important luncheon meeting at one. I imagine we can finish by then. I have been talking to your boss at the police station, and he agrees that there is absolutely no sense in pursuing the murder angle. We have no evidence of murder, no real suspicion of anyone, and a very definite knowledge of poor Al’s illness. Jack Cotter is willing to forget what he heard. Do you agree?”

  “It hardly matters whether I agree or not,” Masuto said, spreading his hands slightly. “Mine is a negative search—simply to dispel any lingering doubts. I think the very fact that this was kept out of the papers helps your desire.”

  “Thank God for that. I don’t mind telling you—but in confidence—that we are in the middle of the biggest move in the history of this business, the acquisition of the remaining library of World Wide Films—for eighteen million dollars. Jack Cotter finished signing the papers this morning. If this had broken as murder, the deal would have been postponed or killed completely.”

  “Then if we were fanciful,” Masuto smiled, “we could say that the murderer attempted to frustrate your deal.”

  “Then why didn’t she break the story to the press?”

  Masuto shrugged. “Who knows? Could you tell me something, perhaps, about your company.”

  “To what point?”

  “Again—who knows? But I am curious. If I am not mistaken, Mr. Greenberg began the company some fifteen years ago?”

  “Closer to twelve years. He and I began together, and then we took Jack Cotter in. Al began to produce TV shows about fifteen years ago. He was one of the first. I was his lawyer, and he organized the company to produce and I went in with him. But I don’t take any of the credit. I am a lawyer and a businessman, a good lawyer and a pretty good businessman, but I think I would make a lousy producer. Whatever Northeastern is, Al Greenberg is mainly responsible.”

  “How did Jack Cotter come into it?”

  “Jack was a sort of Western star back in the late ’thirties. He made five feature films for Asterlux, and they went bankrupt in 1940—or almost bankrupt. They liquidated their assets and settled. They owed Jack a hundred thousand dollars in back wages, and as a settlement they gave him the American distribution rights to the five Westerns. Who ever knew then how TV would eat feature films! Back in 1957, Jack proposed to throw his five features into our operation in return for a piece of stock and a vice-presidency in the company. We needed the features and we took him in.”

  “Is Sidney Burke also in the firm?”

  “Not exactly in it. He began with our publicity right from the beginning. He’s good. At first he worked almost for nothing. Then he got some stock. He still does our publicity, but he has his own company.”

  “Would you mind telling me who the stockholders are?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it would be easier if you told me,” Masuto said, “than if I had to track down the information. I could, you know.”

  “You still want to make something out of this, don’t you?”

  “No. What is there, is there, Mr. Anderson. If nothing is there—”

  “OK. There are five stockholders—or were. Al held sixteen thousand shares. His wife, Phoebe, five thousand, a gift from him when they were married. Sidney has two thousand and Jack has four thousand. I own six thousand shares, which makes me the second largest stockholder.”

  “And Mr. Tulley—Mike Tulley?”

  “He has no shares. Why should he? We hired him three years ago and we made him a TV star. But at this point our shares have a book value of almost three hundred dollars each. There’s no market on them, but if there were, it would be enormous.”

  “And now what happens to Mr. and Mrs. Greenberg’s shares?”

  “Nothing happens to Phoebe’s—unless she decides to sell. And I have advised her not to and I will continue to so advise her. But Al’s personal stock, according to our initial agreement, goes back into the company treasury, and his estate is paid fifty percent of book value. Providing Jack and I refuse to purchase.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If any one of the three offic
ers dies, the remaining two have the right to divide his stock and purchase it at twenty-five percent of book value. The remaining twenty-five percent is then paid by the company treasury. It’s a peculiar arrangement, but perfectly legal and it protects the officers and major stockholders.

  “And what do you and Mr. Cotter intend to do?”

  “We’ll buy the stock, of course. Are you thinking of that as a motive? But whose motive for Al’s death, Sergeant? I am the only one who profits. I gain control, God help me. There’s no reason for you to believe me, but I’d blow this business and ten like it to give Al a week of extra living.”

  “We were not to talk of murder, but simply to eliminate any possibility of it. Forgive me if I raise a rather shameful matter, Mr. Anderson, but do you remember an incident with a girl called Samantha? Eleven years ago.”

  Murphy Anderson stared at Masuto for a long moment. Then he swung on his heel and walked to the window. When he turned back, his face was cold and set.

  “What the hell business is that of yours, Sergeant?”

  “Last night, Mike Tulley asked me to come over. He told me about the incident. He was very frightened. I gathered that he is under the impression that one of you—one of your four men, or five if we include Greenberg—is married to Samantha.”

  “Let me tell you something about Al Greenberg, Sergeant. I never spoke of this until now. But Al never touched that kid. I’m not defending myself or Jack or Mike or Sidney. What we are, we are. But Al went into that dressing room, looked at the kid, had a few words with her and came out. He was the last. Don’t worry—I remember, I goddamn well remember. Jack had disappeared, and when Sidney saw Al’s face, he took off. Al said to me, ‘If anything like this ever happens again on one of my sets, Murph, I will kill you and everyone else concerned with my own hands. And I’m not kidding. You were high in my esteem, and now you are low as a turd—you and that stinking shithead Sidney.’ Maybe not those exact words, but that was the tune.”

  “Then if what you say is true,” Masuto said slowly, “why are we all quietly thinking that Samantha murdered him?”