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

by Howard Fast

  “Peter Litovsky drowned. The kind of loose talk and thoughtless statements you just indulged in could have the most serious consequences.”

  “Yes, he was drowned,” Masuto admitted. “He did not drown, he was drowned. There is a specific semantic difference. I would like you to note that, Mr. Clinton. I am not accustomed to loose or thoughtless statements.”

  “Who the devil do you think you’re talking to, Masuto?”

  “A federal agent. I’m quite aware of that. But you are in Beverly Hills in the State of California. The fact that Peter Litovsky was a Soviet intelligence agent makes him your problem. The fact that he was murdered in Beverly Hills makes him mine.”

  “How do you know he was an intelligence agent?” Clinton demanded.

  “I told him,” Wainwright said.

  “Who gave you the right to? The information given to you was classified.”

  “Masuto’s the head of Homicide. Beckman works with him. I felt they ought to know.”

  “You felt?”

  “That’s right. I felt. And what are you going to do about it, mister?”

  “All right. I know the kind of people I’m dealing with. But let me tell you this, and these instructions come from the top. Litovsky drowned—an accidental death. That’s what the newspapers will print, and that’s what you will back up. And Mr. Gritchov will stand on the same ground.”

  “All right,” Wainwright agreed. “We cooperate with the federal authorities. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what the newspapers print or what you tell them. But I do give a damn when people come into my city and murder, and as far as I am concerned, Litovsky was murdered and I intend to find out who did it.”

  “We are taking over the investigation. I’ll expect your cooperation.”

  “I’m honored,” said Wainwright.

  “We can do without the sarcasm. I’ll see you later, Captain Wainwright.”

  He stalked out of the room, and Wainwright muttered, “That shithead. That miserable shithead.” When Masuto and Beckman started to follow, he snapped, “Where are you two going?”

  “To San Fernando.”

  “What for? The country air?”

  “You don’t need us, Captain. You have the whole F.B.I. working for you. In fact, you don’t even have a crime. You have an accidental drowning.”

  “Don’t get cute with me, Masao. I’ve had just about all I can take today.”

  “I think we’re on to something—maybe.”

  “You don’t want to tell me. I might know what’s happening in this department if you did.”

  “I don’t know myself. Something about some explosive that was ripped off in San Fernando a few days ago. I don’t even know how it connects. I just have a feeling that it does.”

  “Why don’t you call the San Fernando cops and talk to them?”

  “I need the fresh air.”

  “The cutes. Everyone has them today. What about this Binnie Vance? Do you want us to find her and tell her?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather tell her myself. I’ll do that tonight.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Masao, her husband’s dead.”

  “I imagine she knows that by now.”

  “Where do you think she is, in that new hotel downtown?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, we got to inform her. It’s procedure. You know that.”

  “Right.”

  “When can I expect you back?”

  “Two hours. No more than that.”

  As they walked out to Masuto’s car, Beckman said to him, “I sure as hell admire your control, Masao. Maybe it’s Oriental or something. That second-rate putz!”

  “I try not to respond to fools.”

  “You know, Masao, these shmucks who work for the F.B.I., they get maybe double what we do.”

  “I suppose I have heard that word a hundred times. Sy, just what is a shmuck?”

  “It’s Yiddish for a flaccid penis.”

  “And a putz?”

  “Yiddish for an erect penis.”

  “A remarkable language,” Masuto said thoughtfully.

  5

  THE

  RELIGIOUS

  MAN

  People who have spent half their lives in Los Angeles are still unable to solve the jigsawlike relationship between the City of Los Angeles, the County of Los Angeles, and the dozens of independent communities that exist both within the city and within the county. Like Beverly Hills, the City of San Fernando is an independent community, but it lies in the San Fernando Valley, entirely surrounded by the City of Los Angeles, an arrangement that succumbs to reason only because it is factual. By freeway, it is some fourteen miles north of Beverly Hills, and all the way there, Masuto remained silent, lost in his own thoughts, grappling with a puzzle that was no more susceptible to reason than the civic arrangements that existed in Los Angeles County. Intermittently, he remembered that he had not called Kati to inquire about Ana’s sore throat, and that caused him small twinges of guilt.

  They were almost in San Fernando when Beckman, who knew Masuto well enough to respect his silences, asked where they were going, to the Felcher Company or to the cops?

  “I imagine the company’s closed for the day. We’ll talk to the cops.”

  “Masao, this clown from the F.B.I., he never asked one word about Stillman.”

  “Perhaps no one told him.”

  “That’s not very patriotic.”

  “No, I guess it isn’t.”

  “Masao, do you know any of the San Fernando cops?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “There’s a fellow called Gonzales who used to be with the Hollywood Division. He switched to a better job with the San Fernando cops. I think he’s the chief of detectives or something like that.”

  They turned off the freeway at San Fernando Road, and a few minutes later they parked at the police station, an old, battered building in the Spanish style. It was almost six o’clock now, but the summer sun was still high, and the shimmering valley heat was only now beginning to break. The cop at the desk told them that Lieutenant Gonzales was down the hall, second door to the right.

  They knocked and entered. Gonzales, a heavy-set, dark-skinned man, had his feet up on the desk. He was smoking a cigar and reading a copy of Playboy. He grinned at Beckman and shook hands with Masuto.

  “Still working for the rich?”

  “The pay is regular,” Beckman said.

  “What brings you up this way? I hear you run a busy little hotel down there, with a drowning and a murder.”

  “Already?”

  “The news gets around. What can I do for you?”

  “Four days ago, someone broke into the Felcher Company and stole four ounces of lead azide. We’re curious.”

  “Why?”

  “The truth is, I don’t really know,” Masuto confessed. “We’re groping in the dark. We have a situation where nothing connects, and I’m trying to connect it. Maybe it’s a gut feeling more than anything else. What about this Felcher Company?”

  “They’re a small outfit on the edge of town, a chemical company that specializes in detonator explosives.”

  “Are they clean?”

  “As clean as mother’s wash. If you’re gonna fault them on anything, it’s their security system. That stinks. They never had any trouble, so they just coasted along on the proposition that they never would. Not even a night watchman.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Someone snipped the padlock on the wire fence around the building and forced a window. No alarm system, would you believe that?”

  “I’d believe it.”

  “All that was taken were the four ounces of lead azide.”

  “Just what is lead azide?” Masuto asked him. “I know it’s some kind of explosive, but what exactly? You don’t hear about it.”

  “It’s a son of a bitch. The way it was explained to me, a detonator explosive is sensitive. It goes off easily. And this lead azid
e is nasty. According to the manager, even a contamination by dust could set it off. Just take a stone and let it drop on this lead azide—bang, off it goes.”

  “And what could four ounces do?”

  “Blow us out of this room. They tell me that they use a single grain for a detonator.”

  “How much is a grain?” Beckman asked.

  “Seven thousand in a pound, I think,” Masuto said.

  “God almighty.”

  “You know, they keep it in a sort of refrigerator, a temperature control room they call it. That’s locked too, and the door was jimmied. And down in the right-hand comer of the door, they scratched the same three letters, J.D.L. The kind of thing you might not even notice if you didn’t look. I couldn’t make head or tail of it, but one of the men at the plant had been reading about this Jewish Defense League, and so that’s how it got into the papers. Me, I just don’t believe in crooks that leave calling cards, and anyway we don’t have no Jewish Defense League here, and when the cops put out some inquiries in L.A., the people in that outfit were as indignant as hell. Funny thing, this stuff is never used as an explosive. The bomb squad in L.A., they don’t come up with anything either.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Felcher’s a small outfit with only fourteen people working there, and they all come out clean.”

  “Yet it had to be someone local.”

  “We got only one thing in that direction, and it leads absolutely nowhere. They got nice landscaping in front of the plant and they use a Chicano gardener, name of Garcia. He’s an old guy, and lived here for years and clean, plain, quiet life, never been busted for anything. Every now and then he picks up a kid to help him, mostly Chicano kids. Two weeks ago, this guy asked for a few days’ work. Said he was broke and he’d work for ten dollars a day. He works out a day and then never shows again.”

  “Any name?”

  “He says his name is Frank. No last name, and Garcia didn’t push. About twenty years old, five seven or so, dark hair, dark skin, dark eyes, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds, and that’s it. No leads, no trace, nobody else seems to remember him. Yeah, he had an accent.”

  “Spanish?”

  “No. Not Oriental either. Garcia’s sure he wasn’t Spanish. Garcia heard him muttering to himself, and it wasn’t Spanish. You want to talk to Garcia?”

  “No,” Masuto said after a moment. “I think you got everything there was to get. Anyway, I have an uncle who grows oranges near here, and I want to see him before it gets dark.”

  “Toda Masuto? Is he your uncle?”

  “You know him?”

  “The real estate guys would like to put out a contract on him. He has some of the best land around. Say hello for me.”

  The road to Toda Masuto’s neat white cottage was lined with orange and lemon trees, and when Masuto parked in front of the house, the little old man and his wife came out to greet Masuto and Beckman with a delight that their formality hardly concealed. When the bowing and the exchange of courtesies and the family inquiries were completed, Toda said, “Well, sonny, what brings you here?” He had been born in Japan, but he had only the faintest trace of an accent. Masuto had told Beckman that Toda was past seventy, but he was skinny and vigorous and worked in his groves every day. They sat at a small lawn table in front of the house. Mrs. Masuto had gone into the house and now emerged with a tray containing a teapot, cups and cakes. Toda poured the tea, his eyes twinkling as he looked at the two men.

  “Two detectives. Either you’ve come to arrest me, or the real estate trust hired you to beguile me off my land. May I say, with sincere apologies, such is not possible. So very sorry. The land remains in groves until we die. Then my unworthy son, who teaches physics at Stanford, may do with it as he pleases. However, I shall leave the house and two acres of land to your mother, who has always been my favorite sister-in-law.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Uncle,” Masuto replied. “But I come merely to talk about oranges.”

  “So?” Now he smiled. “You will stay a week perhaps?”

  “All my apologies. A half hour at the most. Is the subject so complicated?”

  “More than you might imagine. The history of the orange alone could consume hours of pleasant instruction.”

  “I recognize the value of such instruction, and I have no desire to be disrespectful, and at another time I shall be honored to listen. For the moment, I seek only to know why the Soviet Union should send five agronomists to Southern California and to Florida to seek instruction in the art of growing oranges. Incidentally, the leader of the group is a Nobel Prize winner, by the name of Ilya Moskvich.”

  “The answer is simple.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Russians do not know how to grow oranges.”

  “They have sent spaceships to the moon.”

  “Ah, so. Truly. They still do not know how to grow oranges.”

  “I find that difficult to believe,” Masuto said respectfully.

  “Naturally. You consider the growing of oranges to be a simple matter. You go into the supermarket, you select your fruit, and you buy it. Simple, no? No. In fact, there are only four places in the world where they understand oranges. Actually three. I include Spain, because they are very good at the Seville orange, which goes by the technical name of aurentium. That is the sour orange, which the English are so fond of for their marmalade. But we must also credit the Spanish for rootstock, excellent rootstock, and that is important. Because you see, nephew, all of the finest oranges are budded. This is a process which you might think of as grafting. We select the most excellent strains and bud them onto proper rootstock. But actually the art of growing fine table oranges is confined to three countries—Japan, the United States, and Israel. In Japan they favor the mandarin orange, which they can for export. That, of course, is a generic name. There are many varieties. In Israel, they grow a fine large fruit, which is a variation of sorts on our navel orange, the unique table orange which is distinguished by the small fruit within the fruit. In Israel, as in America, they specialize in the sweet orange, Valencia, navel, pineapple, Washington, Hamlin, juice oranges in Florida, table oranges here in Southern California—those are our favorite varieties, excluding of course the native mandarins—”

  Masuto and Beckman exchanged glances hopelessly, and now Masuto seized his opportunity, “Of course, Uncle.”

  “Ah, so. A new note of respect?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes,” Masuto admitted.

  “If I were to hold forth on rootstock alone, we could be here until midnight—for instance, the miracle whereby the rootstock of the sour orange increases the sugar content of the sweet orange that is budded upon it.”

  “I am certain.”

  “Or the means by which the Japanese raise oranges in a climate hardly suited to them.”

  “I look forward to that, but not today. I am interested in the Russians.”

  “Ah, so, I forget that you are a policeman. Well, what I said to you is a fact. I have spoken to growers who have been to the Soviet Union, invited there, as a matter of fact. The Russians are desperately eager to grow good oranges in the Crimea. They used to import oranges from Israel, but now they are very angry at each other. Why the Russians do not have a talent for this, I don’t know. I have met few Russians. I know that it is difficult to say anything kind about the Russians, but in one way they are superior to us.”

  “And what is that way, Uncle?”

  “They treasure their agronomists. They are among their most honored citizens. So if they sent five agronomists here, headed by this Nobel Prize man, then they are very serious about oranges.”

  Mrs. Masuto, who had sat quietly, replenishing teacups throughout the recitation, now smiled with pleasure and informed them that they must stay for dinner.

  “I am so sorry,” Masuto said. “I am devastated. Accept my most humble apologies. But it would be impossible. We must return to Beverly Hills.”

  In the car, driving so
uth, Beckman complained about Masuto’s refusal of the dinner offer. “I’m starved, Masao, and anyway I’m crazy about Japanese food.”

  “It might have been roast ham, and if we had not stayed for an hour after the meal, it would have been a breach of courtesy.”

  “Well, the old man certainly knows his oranges. Why were we there, Masao?”

  “Just a notion.”

  “Goddamn, I’d like to have an acre of that land waiting for me when I retire. It’s pure gold. Well, your mother gets two acres, but you’re out in the cold.”

  “Oh, not at all. There are two acres for me in his will.”

  “Then why didn’t he mention it?”

  “It would have been most discourteous and thoughtless. It would have placed me in the position of a greedy nephew who desired his death. No, he couldn’t possibly mention it.”

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Beckman admitted.

  Masuto drove on in silence for a while, and then he asked, apropos of nothing, “Are you a religious man, Sy?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, since you’re Jewish, you might belong to a synagogue.”

  “That’s another matter entirely. You got kids, they got to have a bar mitzvah. It’s a matter of teaching. Religious? Well, we go on the High Holy Days. I ought to go more often, but you know the way it is.”

  “Then you belong to a synagogue?”

  “I belong. Why?”

  “I’d like to talk to a rabbi. How about the rabbi at your place? Would he talk to me?”

  “He’ll talk to anyone. You ever see a rabbi who didn’t like to talk?”

  “Where’s the synagogue?”

  “On La Cienega, south of Wilshire.”

  “Would he be there now, or at home?”

  “Let’s see—today’s Thursday, and if I remember that’s the sisterhood night. They meet at eight, so he should be back at the synagogue by seven-thirty. It’s just seven now. What do you want to talk to him about?”

  “Jews.”

  “Why don’t you talk to me?”

  “I thought I’d get an expert opinion.”

  “I figured maybe you wanted to be converted. You know, its a thing in Japan now. I was reading how a whole group of Japanese went and settled in Israel. You know, they tell the story about the Jewish tourist. Wherever he went, he’d look up the local synagogue. So he comes to Tokyo and he looks up the local synagogue and goes to the Friday night service. When the service is over, he goes up to the rabbi, tells him he’s a Jew from New York. The rabbi looks at him and says, ‘That’s funny. You don’t look Jewish.’”