The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three)

by Howard Fast

  “Where is he? The stiff?”

  “Quiet and easy,” Gellman said. “Right in the lunch hour. There’ll be fifty cars into the hotel in the next half hour.”

  “In the bathroom, I told you,” Masuto said to Comstock, who started for the bathroom door. “Leave it alone, Fred. I don’t want anything touched. Now please, go down and do what I told you to.”

  He hesitated, and Gellman said weakly, “Go ahead, Fred. Do what Masao told you to. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Comstock grunted and left the room.

  “I wish I did,” Masuto said. He closed his eyes and stood silently in the center of the room.

  “What the devil are you doing?”

  “Trying to think some sense into this.”

  “Can we open a window? I’m choking.”

  Masuto went over to the manager and patted him softly on the shoulder. “Not yet. I want to leave everything just as it is until Sweeney gets here. I don’t believe you solve anything with fingerprints, but that’s his stock in trade, and he’s touchy about it. Try to relax. Tell me, Al, when do you open the pool in the morning for the guests?”

  “At nine o’clock.”

  “Did you open it this morning?”

  He nodded.

  “Who does it?”

  “Joe Finnuchi, the pool man. He has a kid who assists him, a college kid who works as pool boy during the summer. His name is Bobby Carlton.”

  “When they open in the morning, is anyone there waiting to use the pool?”

  “Yeah, there’s always three or four health nuts down for their morning swim. Sometimes more. I don’t know what you’re getting at, Masao. What difference does it make?”

  “Maybe none. I’m just trying to understand that public-spirited prostitute who called in the information about the drowned man in the middle of the night. The point is, Al, that if she’d left it alone and this Joe Finnuchi and the pool boy and the guests had walked into the pool area, the news of the drowned man would be all over the hotel and the city and the country too.”

  “So we lucked out—until this.”

  “No. She was just buying time. But why? That’s why he was naked. Eight hours, and we still don’t know who he is. Why did she need the eight hours?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Al, listen to me. The fat man’s clothes are somewhere in the hotel. I want them. Will you give it a try?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just accept the fact that I know. Will you tell Comstock to really shake down the place—every place someone in a hurry might hide clothes, shoes, and the rest of it?”

  “Two murders, and you tell me to shake down the place and find the clothes of a man who wasn’t even a guest here, and he has to go and pick this place to get himself murdered.”

  The doorbell rang, and Masuto opened it for Wainwright, Sweeney, Beckman, Haskins, the police photographer, and trailing them, Doc Baxter, whose sour glance at Masuto indicated that the detective was solely responsible for dragging him over here.

  “I do hope to hell you haven’t loused everything up,” Sweeney said by way of introduction.

  “We haven’t touched a thing.”

  “Where is he?” Baxter demanded.

  Masuto led them to the bathroom. “Use your handkerchief!” Sweeney yelled as he reached for the door. Masuto nodded, did as he was told, and opened the door. Baxter bent over Stillman’s body.

  “He’s dead,” he told them.

  “I thought so,” Masuto said.

  “Don’t give me your smartass talk. He’s dead when I say so. One shot at the base of the skull, very effective and quick. Close range—see where the hair is singed.”

  “Small gun, small caliber,” Masuto said, almost apologetically. “Small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She just reached up and fired the bullet into the back of his head.”

  “She? She? What the hell do you mean, Masao?”

  “He was shaving, Captain. He was looking into the mirror. So he saw whoever came into the bathroom, and apparently he didn’t even turn around. Someone he knew. If it were a man, he would have seen the movement of his hands in the mirror. The movements of a small woman would be entirely concealed behind his back. She could snuggle up to him, and then just slide the gun up and kill him.”

  “You’re telling me that some dame could be cold-blooded enough—”

  “It’s happened. We underestimate women.”

  “How long ago?” Wainwright asked Baxter.

  “Maybe three or four hours,” flexing Stillman’s fingers. “Maybe eight o’clock this morning, maybe nine.” He straightened up and picked up his bag. “Well, that’s that. You don’t need me here anymore. Never needed me in the first place. I’ll poke around at the hospital and have the reports filled in. I want a card with his name tied to his hand. I’m rotten with names.” And with that he bustled out through the door, sending a last nasty glance at Masuto.

  “He’s a sweetheart,” Beckman said.

  “Stay with Sweeney,” Wainwright said to Beckman. “Once he’s lifted his prints, I want every corner of this place turned inside out.” And to Sweeney, “I want a full set of Stillman’s prints before they take him away, and when you get back to the office, put them on the wire to Washington and give them to L.A.P.D. as well. Nobody just gets himself shot. There’s got to be some sanity in this.”

  “In murder?” Masuto said. “There never is, you know.”

  Gellman said, “Look, Captain—I’m destroyed, so I’m not asking for pity. But if you have that body carried through the hotel—how do you do it?”

  “The ambulance is on its way.”

  “You mean the morgue wagon?”

  “Al, get hold of yourself. We don’t have a morgue wagon. We got an arrangement with All Saints Hospital, and we use their pathology room and morgue. So it will just be an ambulance and some interns in white coats or whatever. It’s done, and life goes on.”

  “Fool, fool!” Masuto exclaimed, and reached for the phone.

  “Handkerchief!” Sweeney yelled.

  Masuto dialed headquarters while the others watched curiously. He told Joyce, the operator, “I want an All Points Bulletin on a yellow Cadillac. First check all the car rentals at the airport and find out what kind of car Jack Stillman of Las Vegas rented. No. No, forget that. I have the license number.” He fumbled through his pockets, found the slip. “Here it is, seven-six-nine-two VVN, give it to everyone, our own cars, L.A.P.D., the sheriff, the Highway Patrol. High priority. Possibly driven by a woman. Even if it is a woman, she is armed and dangerous. I want the car located and anyone in it held for questioning.”

  He put down the phone and turned to face Wainwright. “I should have thought of it immediately.” He shrugged. “Well, it’s three or four hours since Stillman died, so I don’t suppose it matters, They’ll probably find the car parked somewhere.”

  “What the devil is this all about?” Wainwright demanded.

  Masuto looked at his watch. “Twelve-thirty,” he said to Wainwright. “We ought to get back before the Russian comes.”

  Wainwright started to say something, swallowed, and said to Beckman, “Sit on this, Sy.” And to Gellman, “When Sweeney’s finished, Al, we’ll have to close up the room. At least for twenty-four hours.”

  “With a cop outside?” Gellman asked plaintively.

  “Okay, I’ll tell the cop to go.”

  “And what do I do now?”

  “You’ll have the press all over you. They’ll keep you busy.”

  “What do I tell them?”

  “About the drowned man—if they ask, just tell them that he drowned. If they don’t ask, tell them nothing. About Stillman, he’s a guy from Vegas and he got shot. It happens.”

  “He’s not just a guy from Vegas. He’s Binnie Vance’s husband and manager.”

  “Who the hell is Binnie Vance?”

  “You don’t live right, Captain,” Sweeney said, pausing in his dusting
. “Binnie Vance is only the hottest thing that hit Vegas this season. She’s an exotic dancer who makes Gypsy Rose Lee look like a Girl Scout entertainer.”

  “Gypsy Rose Lee—you got to be kidding. That goes back thirty years.”

  “So do I,” said Sweeney.

  “Well, whoever she is, she’s got to be told that Stillman is dead. Where do you suppose she is?”

  “Probably in Las Vegas,” Beckman said.

  “Oh, great, great,” Gellman said. “Do you know what the goddamn media is going to do? They’re going to make it a mob execution.”

  “I told you a woman killed him,” Masuto said. “The mob doesn’t have women executioners, not yet.”

  In the hallway, Wainwright told the uniformed policeman that he could go back to his car, and then he said to Masuto, “You seem damned sure that a woman did it.”

  “Not positive. I think so.”

  “And you also know who she is,” Wainwright observed sarcastically.

  “I think so. But that doesn’t mean one damn thing, Captain. It’s just a wild guess, and I don’t know why or how it adds up or comes together or what it all means.”

  “And you also know who killed the fat man?”

  “Sort of.”

  They were in the elevator now, along with the uniformed cop and two hotel guests, so Wainwright held his peace. But when they got out into the lobby, Wainwright snapped, “What the hell do you mean, sort of? Even from you, that’s a new one.”

  “Captain, look at that,” the uniformed officer said, pointing to Sal Monti, talking to half a dozen reporters and cameramen.

  “That little son of a bitch,” Wainwright snorted. “Where’s your car, Masao? You got the keys or did you give them to Monti?”

  “I’m down the hill and I have the keys.”

  “Good. I came with Beckman, so you drive. We go right through. Not one word.”

  They were past the entrance before someone recognized Wainwright, and then the reporters raced after the captain and Masuto. “Nothing!” Wainwright snapped at them. “Not one word! Not one comment! Go back and talk to Gellman.”

  When they were in the car, Masuto said gently, “You could have given them something.”

  “No, sir. Not one word out of either of us. This is tangled up with Washington, and nobody says that you or me shot our mouths off. Now what the hell is all this about knowing who did it?”

  “I don’t know, I make guesses. What is a guess worth when you don’t have motive or a shred of evidence?”

  “You wouldn’t like to tell me?”

  “To what end? Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Like hell it is. I don’t know why I put up with you, Masao. You are the most peculiar Oriental son of a bitch I ever encountered. Now what the devil is all this about a yellow caddy and the All Points?”

  “Stillman rented the yellow Cadillac at the airport. Someone took the keys out of Monti’s box this morning and drove it away.”

  “You said a woman.”

  “That was a guess. I think a woman killed Stillman. I think the same woman drove off in his car. Nothing’s going to come of that, believe me, Captain. You said the F.B.I. knows who the dead man is. Who is he?”

  “I never liked that little bastard.”

  “What little bastard?”

  “Sal Monti. Someone just takes the keys out of his box. Horseshit.”

  “It can happen. What about the fat man?”

  “This is what I got from the F.B.I. I told you they’re sending a special man out here. I hate those bastards. I guess every cop in America hates them. Anyway, according to the Feds, the dead man’s name is Peter Litovsky. He’s attached to the Soviet embassy in Washington as cultural attaché, whatever that means.”

  “It’s a very minor post. I imagine his job would be to effect cultural exchanges, keep us posted on what is happening in the Russian theater, concert stage, and so on. And the same thing in the other direction.”

  “That may be, except that this Litovsky is not what he seems to be. The Feds say that he’s one of the top men in Soviet Intelligence, whatever their equivalent of the C.I.A. is, and that he uses the cultural attaché job as a cover, and what I can’t understand is that if they know all this, why in hell do they let him operate?”

  “I suppose because we do the same thing.”

  “And instead of being pleased that he’s dead, they’re in a lather over it. Goddamn it, Masao, they talked to me like I’m their errand boy. Hell, I don’t work for them. We’re not to mess it up. We’re not to louse up any evidence. We’re not to give out anything to the press. They will take over the inquiry. They are conferring with the Soviets. This is classified.”

  “Who did you talk to there?”

  “The top man. A half hour after we sent them the picture, they telephoned me.”

  “And?”

  Wainwright looked at Masuto and grinned. “I told them that a murder had taken place in Beverly Hills, and as chief of the plainclothes division of the Beverly Hills police force, I was following routine procedure.”

  “He must have loved that.” Masuto permitted himself a slight smile.

  “He loved it.”

  They were at the police station now. Masuto stopped to talk to Joyce. She looked pleased with herself.

  “The yellow Cadillac,” she told Masuto, “is a Carway rental. It’s a two-door 1976 convertible, the only one they have, and they had a fit when I told them it was a police inquiry. I told them not to worry about their car.”

  “You told them that?”

  “Indeed I did. Because just before I called them, the L.A.P.D. phoned in that they had found the car.”

  “Where?”

  “Parked downtown at a meter in front of the public library. Not a scratch on it, but it was ticketed for overtime.”

  “But you didn’t tell them to do a fingerprint search?”

  “Sergeant Masuto, it just happens that I did. Now what do you think of that?”

  “I think you’re wonderful, and you also have blond hair and blue eyes. And I’d guess you’re about five feet eight inches?”

  “I am, but what has that got to do with anything?”

  “That is what I’d like to know,” Masuto said.

  In his office, the phone was ringing. It was his wife, Kati, and he was suddenly worried. It was rarely that she called him at police headquarters.

  “Masao,” Kati said unhappily, “they sent Ana home from school with a sore throat.”

  “Is that all?”

  Illness in one of the children terrified Kati. “All?” she cried. “She has a hundred and one degrees of fever.”

  “Then perhaps you should call the doctor.”

  “I want to, but it’s so expensive. Twenty dollars for a house call.”

  “Don’t worry about the money. Call the doctor.”

  “Trouble?” Wainwright asked, coming over to Masuto’s desk.

  “Ana’s sick. When I was a kid, a doctor made a house call for three dollars. Now it’s twenty.”

  “A different world, Masao.”

  “L.A.P.D. found the yellow Cadillac.”

  “Where?”

  “Downtown L.A. They’re dusting it.”

  “Why don’t we talk about this, Masao?” Wainwright demanded. “I get nervous as hell when you’re holding back.”

  “I’m not holding back. I just have a package of wild guesses that don’t fit. As soon as something fits, I’ll let you know. I asked Gellman to have them shake down the hotel until he finds the fat man’s clothes.”

  “He won’t. He’s so damn nervous already that he’s not going to do anything to shake the place. Anyway, we know who he is. What’s so important about his clothes?”

  “Where they are.”

  “Well, we don’t know that. What about Stillman’s wife?”

  Masuto picked up the phone and asked Joyce to put him through to police headquarters in Las Vegas. “Who do you know there?” he asked Wainwright.
>
  “I know Brady, the chief. I’ll talk to him.” He took the phone from Masuto, and a moment later he was asking for Chief Brady. Masuto watched him thoughtfully as he said, “Tom, this is Wainwright in Beverly Hills. One of your citizens, feller by the name of Jack Stillman, was shot to death at the Beverly Glen Hotel this morning.” Pause. “No, we got nothing, no motive, no suspects, absolutely nothing. He’s married to Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer.” Pause. “Yeah, at the Sands, you say. Good. Get someone to break it to her, will you? We’ll hold the body until we get her instructions. Thanks.”

  As he put down the phone, Officer Bailey came in and informed them that a man called Boris Gritchov was outside in the waiting room. He handed Wainwright a card, which stated that Boris Gritchov was consul general in San Francisco of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

  “Bring him in here,” Wainwright said. “And be damned nice to him, and then keep your mouth shut about his being here.”

  Gritchov was a tall man, well-dressed, in his early forties, with iron-gray hair and pale gray eyes. He did not offer to shake hands with either of the policemen, and when Wainwright offered him a chair near Masuto’s desk, he appeared to accept it reluctantly. His eyes traveled around the room with its bare walls, its pale green paint, and its painted steel furniture. When he spoke, it was with barely a trace of an accent, and he wasted no time with formalities.

  “I would like to see a picture of this man who you say drowned.”

  Masuto opened his desk drawer, took out a picture of the drowned man, and handed it to the Russian. He stared at it thoughtfully, but with no change of expression that Masuto could detect. Masuto gave him points for that. If the Russian had anything to give, it would not come by accident or through an emotional lapse.

  “I would like to see the body,” he said slowly. “Is it in your morgue?”

  “We don’t have a morgue,” Wainwright said. “We have an arrangement with All Saints Hospital, and we use their pathology room and morgue.”