by Howard Fast
Masuto looked at Wainwright, who nodded, apparently intrigued. Then Masuto covered the phone and told Beck-man, “Start going through the papers. Anything that concerns Russia and Los Angeles, any connection.”
Beckman spread out the papers. Masuto spoke into the phone: “How do you do, sir. I am Detective Sergeant Masuto in Beverly Hills. We have an unexplained death, a drowning-” Pause. “No, sir. This is your business and it does concern you. I have some reason to believe that the dead man is a Russian national.” Pause. “About fifty-five years old, thin blond hair, five feet eight inches, blue eyes-” Pause. “No, sir. I did not say that he is thin. His hair is thin. He’s a fat man, quite fat.” Pause. “No, sir, there is no way we can identify him. He was found naked, drowned in the pool.” Pause. “Yes, sir, I understand. We will do our best, but I cannot promise.” Pause. “Yes, the police station is on Rexford Drive in Beverly Hills. Any cab driver.”
Masuto put down the phone and looked at Wainwright.
“Well?”
“The Soviet consul general will be on the first shuttle flight he can catch. He will be here today, early afternoon.”
The telephone rang, and Masuto picked it up. “Yes,” he said. “This is Detective Sergeant Masuto.” Pause. “Yes, I just spoke to the consul general. I understand.”
“Checking,” Wainwright said.
“They’re thorough.”
“What can’t you promise?”
“Like Mr. Gellman,” Masuto said, “he wants it kept out of the press.”
“Masao?” Beckman said.
“Find something?”
“Just this, and I don’t know if it means a goddamn thing.”
Wainwright took the paper from Beckman and read aloud, “Mayor Bradley was on hand to extend an official welcome to five Soviet agronomists, here on a three-day visit to observe orange growing in Los Angeles and Orange counties. From here, they will fly to Florida, for an extended seven-day tour of the Florida orange groves-” Wainwright paused and stared at Masuto. “What do we have, a dead agronomist?”
“What the hell is an agronomist?” Beckman wanted to know.
“An educated farmer,” Masuto said. “No-” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I don’t think we have a dead agronomist.”
“Why not?”
Masuto shrugged. “Nearsighted, fat, soft hands-it just doesn’t fit. Anyway-” He picked up the paper and scanned the story. “You see, they move in a group. If one were missing-no.” He stood up suddenly and said, “I’m going to the hotel. Sy, see if you can catch up with the agronomists.”
“And do what?”
“I don’t know. Nose around.”
“Nose around,” Wainwright said sourly. “I’m not running a police force. I’m running a goddamn curiosity shop. Masao, I want you back here when that Russian comes.” He started away, then turned back. “I’ll talk to L.A.P.D. and see what they’re doing with these Russian farmers. Now I got your disease.”
Sal Monti, doorman at the Beverly Glen Hotel, was reputed to have a very large income, even in a city of noticeably large incomes, even after his split with the hotel management. He ran a service with four assistant carhops, and having seen the way traffic poured into the hotel driveway around lunchtime and cocktail hour, Masuto felt that Monti was understaffed. He was skilled in what he did, had a remarkable memory, and had held down his post for the past dozen years, a long history in the life of Beverly Hills-measured, as Monti put it, from the time of the T-Bird, through the Lincoln Continental period, through the era of the large Cadillac, through the era of the Porsche, into the time of the Mercedes, which shared the present reign with the Seville. It was Monti who coined the phrase “Beverly Hills Volkswagen” for the Mercedes. The present era, just burgeoning, was that of the Rolls-Royce Corniche; and at every opportunity, Monti told the story of the film producer who bought a solid silver funeral casket for sixty thousand dollars and whose partner remarked, as Monti put it, “Shmuck, for the same money you could have been buried in a Corniche.” Now he eyed Masuto’s Toyota with tolerant disgust.
“Sergeant,” he said, “there is going to be a house rule against economy cars. It cuts the ambiance, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ll look it up in the dictionary,” Masuto said. “Meanwhile, I want a few minutes of your time.”
“About the excitement last night? By all means. You can fill me in.”
“No, Sal. You fill me in.”
“It’s eleven-fifteen,” Monti observed. “We got forty-five minutes before the rush starts. Billy,” he called to one of the carhops, “take over.” They sat down on an iron bench under the striped canopy that led into the hotel.
“Tell me about Jack Stillman,” Masuto began.
“This fat guy-what is it? Was he knocked over or what?”
“I’ll ask the questions. Tell me about Stillman.”
“What’s to tell? He’s a booking agent out of Vegas-so it goes. He stayed here maybe half a dozen times.”
“What does he book?”
“I’d give it a guess. The high-priced acts in the casinos. He just married Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer. She’s very hot right now. Or maybe he don’t book at all. Who knows with them characters from Vegas?”
“And when he’s here, do you see him with girls?”
“I guess he was a swinger, as much as the next guy. Not on this trip.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m only sure about what goes in and out of this place. What happens inside is another department. Are you going to give me some flak about the fat man?”
“What are they saying?”
“Nothing. Gellman’s put the fear of God into them. I got it from Freddie Comstock, and he don’t say one word more than that they had a drowning.”
“Sal,” Masuto said, “how many hookers work the Rugby Room?”
“Are you kidding! Sarge, this is a high-class hotel. We got an international reputation. We got presidents and senators going in and out of here. That’s no question to ask. You know that.”
“Cut out the bullshit, Sal. How many? It’s important.”
“Well, look. You don’t get floozies or streetwalkers in a place like this. It’s a different kind of a hustle. A girl works in the Rugby Room, she don’t look no different from the classy broads you see on the street in Beverly Hills. Maybe she ain’t no different. They got class, good clothes, rocks, and they got the looks. They make out for fifty to two notes for a quick throw, and that don’t include dinner and drinks. We don’t have no pimps here, Sarge, you know that. It’s a whole other thing. They come in by twos, two girls, because Fritz won’t seat one broad alone in the Rugby Room-”
“They buy the ticket from you, Sal,” Masuto said coldly. “Either you talk sense to me, or I’ll bust your whole operation wide open.”
“Sarge, you got to be kidding. All right, a man works the door, he depends on tips.”
“I asked you how many?”
“Okay, okay. Maybe a dozen. Then there are floaters. They drive up in a two-seater Mercedes, in a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car-what am I supposed to do? Be a vice squad?”
“Begin with the dozen regulars. I’m looking for a woman named Judy, about five seven, good figure, blond hair, blue eyes.”
“That ain’t no description, Sarge. That’s like a uniform. Anyway, in what you call the regulars there ain’t nobody called Judy.”
“She was wearing a pants suit, light brown suede, silk shirt, gold chains, those boots they wear now.”
Monti shood his head. “It don’t register.”
“Did anyone fitting that description drive up to the hotel last night?”
“Blue eyes, blond hair, stacked-you just got to be kidding. I can name you twenty.”
“And the costume?”
Sal frowned and shook his head. “Jesus, Sarge, when the rush comes, I see them, I write the tickets, but the clothes. Maybe yes, maybe no.”
“How about this morning?
Forget about the clothes. Did anyone fitting the description come out of the hotel?”
Monti pointed to the door of the hotel. “Sarge, just watch that door, and if five minutes goes by without a blue-eyed blond broad going in or out, I’ll cut you into my take. It all comes out of the same bottle. It’s the Beverly Hills color. If they want blue eyes, they buy tinted contact lenses. If they want to be stacked, they buy that too. You know that as well as I do.”
Masuto sighed and nodded. “All right, Sal. Thank you.” He rose. “One more thing-did you see Stillman this morning?”
“Not yet, Sarge.”
“You’d know if he called for his car?”
“You bet.”
“What does he drive?”
“He picks up a rental at the airport, usually a caddy. A yellow one this time.”
“Look in your box for the keys.”
Monti went to the key box, opened it, and stared at the rows of hooks. Then he looked at Masuto. Then he yelled, “Billy, run down the hill and see if Stillman’s yellow caddy is still there!”
Billy took off down the hill. Monti went through the motions with the people entering and leaving the hotel, and Masuto waited in silence. Then Billy came pounding back up the hill.
“The caddy’s gone.”
“You made a note of the license?” Masuto asked Monti.
Monti went through his cards. “Here it is.” Masuto jotted it down, Monti telling him meanwhile that there was no way-just no way the keys could have gotten out of his box.
“Except the way they did. Do you lock the box?”
“Hell, no. It’s right here.”
Masuto went into the hotel and walked over to the registration desk. Ira Jessam, the day clerk, looked at him sadly and said, “That was a terrible thing last night, Sergeant, just terrible.”
Masuto agreed and asked him to ring Stillman’s room. The desk clerk picked up his phone, gave his instructions to the operator and waited.
“Mr. Stillman doesn’t answer,” he said.
“Does he drop his keys at the desk when he leaves the hotel?”
“Always.”
“Are they there now?”
The clerk looked. “No, sir. But he could be in the restaurant.”
“Call them.”
The clerk did so, and then put down his phone and shook his head.
“I’d like a duplicate key to his room,” Masuto said.
Jessam hesitated, then sighed and handed the key to Masuto, who asked him where Gellman was.
“In his office, I believe. Probably taking a nap. He was utterly exhausted.”
“Wake him up and tell him I’m going up to Stillman’s room. I’d like him to join me there.”
Masuto took the elevator up to the third floor. The chambermaid’s cart was in the hallway, and several room doors were open. On the door of Stillman’s room there was a “Do not disturb” sign. Masuto put his key in the lock and opened the door.
The bed was unmade. In one corner, Stillman’s underwear, shirt and socks, lying in a little pile. Masuto had noticed them the day before. The bathroom door was closed, and from behind it came the sound of running water. The windows were closed and the air in the room smelled stale. On the chest of drawers, a bottle of brandy and two glasses. The ashtrays were filled with half-smoked cigarettes, most of them impatiently crushed out.
Closing the door behind him, Masuto called out, “Stillman!” No response from the bathroom. He tapped on the bathroom door and repeated Stillman’s name. Then he opened the door.
The water in the sink was running. On the floor in front of the sink was Stillman, in his black pajamas. Masuto bent over him and felt for his pulse. His wrist was cold; as for his pulse, he had none. Then Masuto noticed a small spot of blood in Stillman’s hair on the back of his head. He moved the hair aside, and there was a bullet hole where his spine joined the back of his skull. He lay with his face against the floor, and Masuto did not touch him again or try to move him. Using his handkerchief, Masuto turned off the faucet. It was the hot water faucet. Stillman evidently had been shaving. The razor lay on the floor beside him. A tube of shaving cream was on the sink shelf, and by bending over the body, Masuto could see that much of his face was still lathered.
Masuto went back into the bedroom, picked up the telephone, and dialed his headquarters. “Joyce,” he said to the operator, “this is Masuto. Give me Captain Wainwright.”
“Masao,” Wainwright said, “where the hell are you? It’s almost twelve, and I want you here when that Russian shows up. And by the way, the F.B.I, knows who our drowned man is. I didn’t think those jokers knew which side was up, but they pegged him right off. And it’s got class, Masao. They asked me not to pass it on to the local clowns. They’re flying some special character in from Washington-his name is Arvin Clinton, but that’s between you and me. Nothing to anyone else, nothing to the papers. This is a doozy. Nobody wants publicity. So just get your ass over here.”
“That’s all very interesting,” Masuto agreed.
“Thank you. Did you hear me? Where the devil are you?”
“At the hotel.”
“Good. Nothing to Gellman. Just tell him that we’ll cooperate to keep a lid on this if he’ll just bottle up the loudmouths at the hotel.”
“I’m in Jack Stillman’s room.”
“Christ, he couldn’t listen in?”
“No, Captain. He’s dead.”
“What!”
“Someone shot him through the back of the head while he was shaving.”
“You’re putting me on.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Dead?”
“Dead.”
“Murdered?”
“It would seem so. The back of his head and no gun in sight.”
“Anyone else there?”
“Just me. I thought I’d talk to him again. I waited too long.”
“Gellman will truly have a fit when he hears about this.”
“I think I hear him knocking at the door,” Masuto said. “I told him to meet me here.”
“All right. Keep him there until I get there. I’ll call Baxter and have him meet us there. Christ, Masao, what about the Russian?”
“He can’t get to L.A. before another hour. No way. I have to answer the door.”
Masuto hung up the telephone and went to the door.
3
THE SOVIET MAN
Masuto opened the door, and Gellman slipped into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Are you alone?” he whispered.
Masuto nodded.
His voice rose. “Masao, you are putting me in one hell of a position. It’s not enough that I got a drowning on my hands and the owners are threatening me and my wife thinks I’m shacking up here and I haven’t slept in two days, but on top of all that you got to search a guest’s room. Jessam ought to be fired for giving you the key. You can’t do it. Do you have a warrant?” he asked as an afterthought.
Masuto shook his head.
“Then you’re out of your mind. It’s a violation. You know that. If Stillman finds out, he could sue us to hell.”
“He won’t find out.”
“How do you know? He could walk in right now.”
“I wish he could, but he can’t,” Masuto said gently. “He’s dead.”
“He is what?”
“Dead. He’s lying in the bathroom with a bullet in his head.”
“No. No. Look,” Gellman said, his hand trembling, “I got ulcers and before this is over I’m going to have a coronary to go with it. So cut out the gags.”
“Sit down,” Masuto said, pointing to a chair. “Sit down and pull yourself together.”
Gellman collapsed into a chair. “Do you know what this is going to do to the hotel?”
“It’s even worse for Stillman. It happened. Now take it easy. I’m going to call Fred Comstock. Is he in his office?”
Gellman nodded, got to his feet and started to reach for the brand
y bottle on top of the chest of drawers.
“Don’t touch anything!” Masuto snapped at him. “Just sit down and pull yourself together.” He picked up the phone, dialed the operator, and asked for Comstock.
“I got to see what’s in that bathroom,” Gellman said weakly.
“First pull yourself together.” Into the phone, “Fred, this is Masuto. I’m in room three-twenty-two with Gellman. Get up here. It’s important.”
“He had to kill himself,” Gellman moaned. “That inconsiderate son of a bitch! Masao, suicide is the goddamned most inconsiderate thing a person can do. They never think of anyone but themselves.”
“He didn’t kill himself, Al. He was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“That’s right. Someone shot him in the back of the head.”
“Oh, God. I thought it was bad, but this-”
“You might as well know, Al, the fat man was also murdered.”
“They said he was drowned.”
“Drugged and then drowned.”
“Oh, brother, this is one stinking nightmare. Masao, for God’s sake, can we keep a lid on this?”
“Maybe on the fat man, Al. There’s a whole committee that wants to keep a lid on that one. But this? No. There’s no way.”
The doorbell rang. Masuto went to the door and Comstock came in.
“If it takes money,” Gellman was saying, “we can pay. I’ll talk to the city manager. I know the Chandlers-”
“What in hell is going on in here?” Comstock wanted to know. “This is Stillman’s room. Where is he?”
“He’s lying in the bathroom, dead, bullet in the back of his head. Mr. Gellman’s disturbed, naturally.” Comstock’s mouth fell. He looked from Gellman to Masuto, who went on, “Captain Wainwright’s on his way over, and he’ll have Sy Beckman with him and Sweeney, the fingerprint man, and the photographer and maybe a uniformed cop or two. Then Doc Baxter will be coming, and he’s got a loud mouth. Then the ambulance will be here to take the body away. Now what we don’t want, Fred, is to make this any worse for Al than it already is, so go down to the front and talk to Sal Monti, and tell him to ease everyone in with no questions. If a black-and-white comes, have it pull down the row and park with no commotion. Just try to keep it going very quiet and easy, and tell the people downstairs to keep their peace and not to talk.”