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

by Howard Fast

  “Bullshit.”

  “Ask Beckman.”

  “That’s right,” said Beckman. “That’s what they say.”

  “Well, goddamn it, I know my business.”

  “I know you do. Now tell me, did you find anything in Stillman’s room that matches up with what the L.A. cops took off the yellow Cadillac?”

  Sweeney grinned.

  “You did?”

  “Kind of surprised, aren’t you?”

  “What did you get?”

  “One print. Second finger, I think. But both of them are good, clear prints and they match.”

  “Good. Good. Maybe the right hand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Great. Now take this glass, and see if you can come up with another print that matches the two you have. It’s a possibility.”

  Sweeney nodded. “You think you’re on to something?”

  “If I am, I’m going to credit you big, Sweeney. I mean that.”

  “Just show respect, Masao. That’s all I ask.”

  “You have it. Now listen, Sweeney, do the L.A. cops have a machine that can transmit prints to Interpol?”

  “If it’s a machine, they got it.”

  “They can send pictures,” Beckman said, “so they can send prints.”

  “What else did you pick up in the room that isn’t Stillman’s or the chambermaid’s?”

  “I got three good ones,” Sweeney said.

  “Put them through to Interpol, and all of them to Washington. The matching set, the car and the room—put them through to the New York cops and to Chicago. But all of them to Interpol, and all of them to Washington.”

  “That’s going to cost a bundle, Masao, and you know how the L.A. cops are. They want a guarantee that they’re going to get paid.”

  “Get an authorization from Wainwright.”

  “He’s not here,” said Beckman. “He went downtown this morning to meet with the Feds. He said to remind you that the G-man wants you to bring all the records on the case down there at eleven o’clock.”

  “Get the authorization. I’ll sign it myself.”

  When Sweeney had left to get the authorization, Beckman said to Masuto, “What’s this all about, Masao?”

  “A lot of wild guesses. I could put them together, but what would it mean? I still have nothing.”

  “Whose hand was around that brandy glass?”

  “Binnie Vance’s.”

  “You don’t say.” He looked at Masuto with new respect. “When did you see her?”

  “Last night at the Ventura Hotel. Would you believe it, ten dollars for three brandies?”

  “Is she all they say?”

  “She is.”

  “And you think she killed Stillman?”

  “If she did, I’d like to know why.”

  “She only just married him. That’s a quick turnoff.”

  Sweeney came back with the authorization. Masuto signed it and then said to Sweeney, “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Now that you seen the light, yes.”

  “Stop off at the Ventura Hotel on your way downtown. There’s a man called Peterson who runs the Arabian Room, or if you don’t find him, there must be a P.R. office for the hotel. Tell them you want a picture of Binnie Vance, and then have the L.A. cops put it through with the fingerprints.”

  “To all them places?”

  “We might as well.”

  “Wainwright’s going to yell like hell.”

  “If he’s going to have murders, it’s got to cost,” said Beckman.

  “Put it through to the cops in Bonn in Germany too. We might as well go the whole hog.”

  “You’re the boss, Masao.”

  “You got him eating out of your hand,” said Beckman, after Sweeney had gone. “Did the L.A. cops really say that about Sweeney?”

  “I stretched it.”

  “Well, they won’t tell him. It’s nine-thirty, Masao. What do you want me to do while you’re down there with the Feds?”

  “Find Litovsky’s clothes.”

  “I’ll give it a try. You think this Binnie Vance, being an exotic dancer and hotheaded and full of piss and vinegar, comes into Stillman’s room and finds him with that big blond hooker and loses all her cool and kills him?”

  “Stillman was shaving. That doesn’t sound very passionate.”

  “You think maybe Stillman invented the hooker?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Funny, in a place like the Beverly Glen Hotel, you don’t have to invent. You just reach out and take. So no hooker. Who was in the room and made the call, Binnie Vance?”

  “Maybe. She claims she flew in from Las Vegas yesterday morning.”

  The telephone rang. Beckman picked it up, listened for a moment, and then passed it to Masuto.

  “Masao?” It was Kati’s voice, high-pitched, uncontrolled.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Ana’s gone!”

  “Kati, get hold of yourself! What do you mean, Ana’s gone?”

  “She isn’t here. She’s gone.”

  “Where was she?”

  “In the garden. She was there playing with her doll, Masao. Then I turned away for a few minutes. I went into the kitchen—” Her voice broke, and she began to sob.

  “Kati! Kati, get hold of yourself!”

  “I shouldn’t have left her alone. I looked out of the kitchen window, and she was gone.”

  “Did you look for her? She may have wandered off.”

  “Masao, it was only a minute or two.” She was sobbing uncontrollably now.

  “Please, Kati, please. You must talk to me. Get hold of yourself.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “Now just what happened?”

  “I tried—I tried to see her from the kitchen window. Then I went out into the garden. I thought she was hiding. I thought she was playing a game. I didn’t know—”

  “Kati!”

  “So I looked everywhere. Then I began to call her. Then I went out on the street. I ran up and down the street. I looked everywhere. But she’s gone.”

  “She didn’t go back into the house?”

  “How could she, except through the kitchen?”

  “All right. Now look, Kati dear, this is not your fault. I’m sure Ana is all right. I want you to stay in the house. Don’t go out looking for her again. Just stay in the house, and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t talk to anyone about this. Just stay there and be calm, do you understand?”

  “You’ll find her, Masao, please.”

  “I’ll find her.”

  Then he turned to Beckman. “Come on, Sy.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll tell you in the car. Let’s get moving.”

  8

  THE

  EDUCATED

  MAN

  Driving through the streets of Beverly Hills, his car siren howling, Masuto knew only that his lovely, pleasant world of the morning had shattered, leaving an empty hole of sheer terror. He had always lived with a simple acceptance of the fact that fear was not a problem he had to face. An old Zen story told of the student who came to the Zen master and asked the question: “Why should I study Zen, Rashi?” to which the master replied, “Because then you will not be afraid to die.” Masuto was not afraid to die, but the world was full of many other things that were more terrible than death.

  “If we pile up and end up in a hospital, Masao,” Beckman said quietly, “you won’t be helping the kid any.” They had just made a two-wheel braking turn into Motor Avenue off Pico Boulevard and were roaring south toward Culver City. “Anyway, we ought to think, and I can’t think at this speed.”

  Masuto slowed down. “You’re right, Sy,” he muttered. “You’re right.”

  “You’re sure it’s connected?”

  “I have a gut feeling.”

  “A kid could wander out of a back yard and drift away and just get disoriented, and then the kid is lost. It’s happened before. It happens every day.”


  “Not a Japanese child. She wouldn’t leave the garden. I know Ana. Kati knows her. She just wouldn’t leave the garden.”

  “Then if she was snatched, you face it and try to think it through. I can’t do your thinking for you,” Beckman told him, almost harshly. “All day yesterday you ran us in circles, with the damn oranges and the lead azide and all the rest of it. What does it add up to?”

  Masuto made no reply, and Beckman said more softly, “I got kids, so don’t think I’m not feeling this. But you’re a cop, Masao. Now why would anyone snatch your kid? It’s not money; you don’t have any.”

  “It’s a club.”

  “Best damn club there is. But if they’re going to clobber you, they got to tell you why.”

  “They will,” Masuto whispered. “They will.”

  The quiet, cottage-lined, neat and sun-drenched street where Masuto lived belied the thought of violence. The houses were owned, for the most part, by Nisei and Chicano families. They were plain, hard-working people who had put their life effort into owning a home on a small plot of land and the houses and the flower-lined lawns underlined the care and pride that went into that ownership.

  Beckman remained in the car when they reached Mas-uto’s house. “I’ll drift around and see if I can turn up anything,” Beckman said. “Just the streets around here. You go in to Kati.”

  Masuto nodded and ran into the house. Beckman drove off. Kati had been watching for them, and after she let her husband in, she burst into tears. Masuto took her in his arms and rocked her gently.

  “Easy, easy, Kati. Ana will be all right. I promise you that.”

  “Who took her, Masao?”

  “Stop crying. You must stop crying. We are going to be very calm, both of us.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “No, you must. Now go into the kitchen and make tea.”

  “Tea? Now?”

  “Yes, now,” he said firmly. “I will go with you, but I want you to make the tea. Mr. Beckman will be here in a moment, and we will give him tea and cake. Have you cake in the house?”

  “Masao!”

  “The tea now, please.”

  She bowed her head and dried her tears on her apron and went into the kitchen. Masuto followed her. She filled the tea kettle.

  “Now tell me again what happened.”

  “But I told you.”

  “Again, very carefully.”

  “She was playing in the garden with her doll, sitting under the acacia tree. I went into the kitchen to do the breakfast dishes. I cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink. Then I looked out of the window—” She choked up.

  “Go on, Kati. Think. Exactly as it happened.”

  “She wasn’t there. First I tried to see through the window. Then I ran outside.”

  “How long was she out of your sight?”

  “Maybe three minutes, no more. I had cleared the table before. Then, after you left, I had a cup of tea while Ana had her cereal and hot milk. Oh, Masao—”

  The telephone rang.

  “Stay here and finish the tea,” Masuto said. He went into the living room then and picked up the phone. It was a singsong voice with a curious accent, a man’s voice.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Masuto?” the voice asked.

  “Yes. Speaking.”

  “Then you will listen to me very carefully, Detective Sergeant Masuto. She has not been harmed. She will not be harmed—so long as you obey our instructions.”

  “How do I know you have her? How do I know she’s all right?”

  As he said this, the doorbell rang. Kati ran through the living room to the door. It was Beckman. He took Kati’s hand, and the two of them stood there, watching Masuto.

  “I will let you talk to her. But quickly.”

  “Daddy, Daddy,” came Ana’s voice, “they broke my doll.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “They broke my doll.”

  “You mustn’t cry, baby, you’ll be home soon.”

  Kati began to sob. Beckman put his arm around her and whispered, “She’s all right, Kati.”

  “That’s enough,” said the voice of the man. “Listen. About the case of the drowned man, you will do nothing. You will leave it alone. Completely alone. You will do nothing. You will make yourself unavailable to the police, and then if you leave it alone, completely alone, your child will be released at seven o’clock this evening. Otherwise, you will never see your child again.” Then a click. It was over.

  “Who was it?” Beckman asked.

  “The kidnapper.”

  “What did he say?”

  “What did Ana say?” Kati cried. “Is she all right? Why didn’t you tell him my child is sick?”

  “I think she’s all right. She sounded all right.”

  “Was she crying? Did they hurt her?”

  “I don’t think they hurt her. She said they broke her doll. No, don’t cry anymore, Kati. I told you I will take care of this. I want to talk to Sy now. Would you bring us tea in here, please?”

  Kati nodded and went into the kitchen. Masuto dropped into a chair and motioned for Beckman to sit down.

  “What do they want?” Beckman asked him.

  “As he put it, the case of the drowned man. I imagine that includes Stillman. I am to leave it alone and make myself unavailable to the police. I use his words. If I follow their instructions, Ana will be released at seven o’clock. If I don’t, I will never see her again.”

  “You’re sure he said you? You, Masao? One person? He didn’t say both of you?”

  “What are you getting at, Sy?”

  “If he had someone watching the house or watching the station, he would have said both of you. You and your partner.”

  “Yes. Of course. I’m not thinking.” Masuto took a deep breath. “I have to think. I have to think clearly. It’s not a game anymore.”

  “Why do you say game? That’s not like you, Masao.”

  “Game. Yes.”

  Kati came in with a tray, which she put down on the coffee table. “What do they want, Masao?” she asked pleadingly. “Why did they take my child? We don’t have money. Children are kidnapped for money.”

  “They want me to stop what I’m doing.”

  “But what are you doing?”

  “Kati, do you trust me? I love Ana as much as I can love. But you must trust me. Will you, please? And I will bring Ana back to you today. I promise that.”

  “And will you stop what you are doing? Will you listen to them?”

  “I will find Ana.”

  “How can you find her?”

  “I will find her. I promise you. Now I want you to leave us alone. We must talk.”

  “What shall I do?” she asked woefully.

  “I think you should lie down for a little while. You’ve had a bad shock. Lie down and rest. There’s nothing else you can do for Ana.”

  She nodded and left the room. Beckman looked at Masuto thoughtfully, and said, “There’s been a kidnapping, Masao. You know what the procedure is. We notify the Culver City police, and then we bring in the F.B.I.”

  Masuto didn’t answer. He poured two cups of tea, and Beckman noticed that his hand did not shake.

  “Do you want anything in your tea?”

  “No.”

  Masuto lifted the cup to his lips in what was almost a formal gesture and sipped at the tea. Then he put the cup down.

  “You heard me, Masao.”

  “I heard you, Sy. Here is the way it’s going to be. We do not notify the Culver City police and we do not call in the F.B.I. This is for me. If you want to help me, I’ll be grateful. Otherwise, you can have out of it.”

  “That’s a lousy thing to say.”

  “I apologize. I’m sorry. We’re in this together.”

  “And you’re making that same stupid mistake that the parents of every kidnapped child make. Ana’s seven years old. If she saw them, she can identify them. Do you think there’s a chance in the world that they’d let
her go alive?”

  “Not much chance, no.”

  “Then what?”

  “We have to find her.”

  “How? Where? If you think this Binnie Vance was involved with the drowned man, then she had help. Is that it? Does she know where the kid is?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. We can’t even place her at the Beverly Glen Hotel. She only fits with a lot of guesswork—and there’s no reason, no motive, no sense in the whole thing.”

  “We could pick her up and sweat it out of her.”

  “Pick her up for what?”

  “We could try to sweat it out of her.”

  “She’s not the kind of a woman you could sweat anything out of. You know,” said Masuto, “there was something damned strange about that voice on the phone.”

  “What?”

  “Adverbs.”

  “You just lost me.”

  “Adverbs. They’re part of what makes English an impossible language. An uneducated man faults his adverbs. So do foreigners. The man on the phone said, ‘you will listen to me very carefully.’ Why didn’t he say, listen careful? Then he used the word unavailable. That’s a fancy word. He could have said, get lost. Stay away. Forget it. Drop it. But he said unavailable. Then the adverb again. Leave it completely alone or something like that. But he said completely.”

  “What does it add up to?”

  “It was a young voice, high pitched. I’ll tell you what it adds up to. It adds up to a student.”

  “And there’s got to be maybe ten thousand foreign students just in L.A. alone.”

  “It’s a game!” Masuto blurted out. “It’s a crazy, sick, monstrous game. The games children play—the bloody, stupid games! Sy, there’s only one way to go. We have to find the drowned man’s clothes.”

  “Why? For Christ’s sake, why?”

  “For the same reason that they were hidden. Because they make a connection, and right now we have no connection. None. I could make guesses. I could put the whole thing together—or at least I think I could—but now they’ve pulled Ana into their insane game, and I want my child. I want her alive.”

  “All right, Masao. It’s a quarter to eleven. We have eight hours.”

  “No. We have five hours.”

  “Why only five?”

  “Four, five, six—somewhere in there, believe me.”