“I’m reporting it to you.”
“That won’t do. By the way, where were you last night, between ten and eleven o’clock?”
“Come on, what in hell is this?”
“I told you. It’s a homicide investigation.”
“All right. I was home.”
“Alone?”
“Alone, in bed, reading a screenplay. After a day in this place, I don’t even want to get laid.”
“No witnesses, no one to vouch that you were there?”
“Just tell me one thing, mister-what are you trying to accuse me of? Of murdering this Alice Greene, who I never even laid eyes on? Or of planning to murder Mitzie? If it’s a crime to plan a murder, you can take me in right now. Oh, shit, the hell with it! I got a film to make.”
Masuto stood up. “All right, Mr. Fuller. Don’t forget to call in about the gun. By the way”-he held out the snapshot of Catherine Addison-“do you know this girl?”
He glanced at the picture without interest. “Should I?”
“I don’t know. Would you take a good look at it?”
Fuller stared at the picture for a moment. “Good-looking kid, but the woods are full of them. No, I don’t know her.”
Masuto nodded and put the picture back in his pocket. As he left the soundstage, the strident voice of Billy Fuller was calling the actors back to their places. Outside, the blazing sunlight blinded Masuto as much as the darkness had previously, and squinting, he walked back to the guard at the gate.
“How’d it come out?” the guard asked him.
“Not too bad. Tell me, isn’t Fulton Legett here on this lot?”
“Going down the list, huh?” The guard nodded and pointed. “Over there in the executive building.”
“Are you going to give me a hard time again?”
“You’re really a Beverly Hills cop?”
For the second time, Masuto took out his badge and exhibited it.
“I didn’t know they had plainclothes cops on the Beverly Hills force.”
“They even have them in uniform,” Masuto said. “I’ll step in there and have a word with Mr. Legett.”
Inside, there was another guard at the desk, and once again Masuto went through the routine.
“I’ll call up,” the guard said.
“Why don’t you let me surprise him?”
“What is this? Are you going to make some kind of arrest?”
“No arrest. But I have some questions for him. If you call up there, and he says he won’t see me, and then I go up there anyway, you’re in hot water. This way, you just figured it was okay for me to go up. You can’t get into trouble.”
“He’s in room six eleven.”
“Thanks.”
The girl in six eleven-Masuto decided she was receptionist and secretary-looked up at him in surprise and said that they were not casting. She was a very pretty girl, with blonde hair and wide blue eyes.
“I’m not here for casting. I wish to see Mr. Legett.”
“Oh? Did you have an appointment, mister-?”
“Detective Sergeant Masuto. Beverly Hills police.”
“Oh? Are you sure it’s Mr. Fulton Legett you wish to see?”
“Quite sure.”
“And you’re sure you’re a policeman? I never saw a Chinese policeman before.”
“I’m a policeman,” Masuto said, showing her his badge.
She pressed a button on her telephone and said unhappily, “F.L., there’s a policeman here to see you.” She listened for a moment and then said plaintively, “He asked me if I’m sure you’re a policeman and not one of the studio guards. He thinks I can’t tell the difference between a policeman and a studio guard. That’s hitting below the belt, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Through that door,” she said, pointing.
Masuto opened the door and went into a large, square carpeted and wood-paneled room. The furnishings were all chrome and leather, with glass-topped tables and non-objective paintings on the walls. Fulton Legett sat behind a very large desk. He was a short, overweight man who looked more than his fifty years. He had pudgy hands with well-manicured nails, nails polished to a high sheen, and he had a small cupid’s bow of a mouth.
“Are you sure you want to see me?” Legett asked.
Masuto nodded. “Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police.” He held out his badge.
“Ah, I see. I suppose it’s about that terrible thing at the Crombie house. Poor Alice. She deserved better.”
“Then you knew Mrs. Greene?”
“Oh, indeed, indeed. Knew her very well. I called Laura as soon as I saw it in the papers.”
“You knew Mrs. Crombie?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”
“Do you know Mitzie Fuller?”
Legett’s eyes narrowed. He hesitated a moment too long. “No,” he said shortly.
“But you do know Billy Fuller?”
“Of course I know the little son of a bitch. We’re on the same lot. He’s got a head as big as the Goodyear balloon. I’ve showed him a few scripts, nothing good enough for the little king-” He had forgotten grief and the dead; he was a producer whose scripts had been turned down by a director.
Masuto interrupted. “Your ex-wife, Nancy-”
“Yes, I spoke to her.”
“When?”
“When I called Laura Crombie. Nancy told me about the situation there. I just can’t believe it-that there’s some bloodthirsty lunatic out to kill those women.”
“There is.”
“Well, damn it, it’s one of those things that are hard to believe. Who would want to kill Nancy?”
“I don’t know.” Masuto shrugged. “Would you?”
“Are you serious?”
“I only meant would you know anyone who might want to kill her. I didn’t mean to suggest that you might want to kill her. But since you appear to take it that way, I’ll ask you. Would you want to kill her?”
“That’s a hell of a question.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But Mrs. Legett suggested it.”
“What? You mean she said I wanted to kill her?”
“Not exactly. But when I asked her who might want her dead, she pointed to you.”
“That miserable, crazy woman!”
“Oh? Then I take it she was responding emotionally.”
“What a lousy thing to say! I give that woman blood. Practically every nickel I got goes to paying my alimony. She is loaded. Loaded. That house of mine-which is now hers-up on Lexington Road is one of the best pieces of property in Beverly Hills. It would fetch a million, and from an Arab or an Iranian, maybe a million and a half, and she’s got it and I eat at Hamburg Hamlet. And now she tells the cops that I’m out to murder her. You know something,” he snapped at Masuto, “it’s not a bad idea. If I knew where to buy one of those contracts you see in films, I wouldn’t mind putting it out on her.”
“That’s not anything to tell me.”
“The hell with it! Who gives a damn?”
“Do you own a gun?” Masuto asked him.
“A gun? What in hell would I do with a gun?”
“Then you don’t own one?”
“No, of course not.”
