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

by Howard Fast

  “All right, five hours. We got the second largest metropolitan district in the United States. Where do we look?”

  “In the hotel. Those clothes never left the Beverly Glen Hotel.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not sure of anything, but that’s where we look.”

  “And right now Mr. Arvin Clinton, the pride of the F.B.I., is sitting in his office downtown waiting for you to show up and kiss his ass.”

  “We’ll just let him wait.”

  Masuto went into the bedroom, where Kati lay huddled on the bed. He sat down beside her and touched her cheek gently.

  “Kati.”

  “Masao, if anything should happen to her—”

  “Nothing will happen to her.”

  “Or to you. Then I would surely die.”

  “Nothing will happen to me. I will find Ana and bring her home. I promised that. I want you to stay here. I still have a son, and he will look for his mother when he comes back from school. He is not to know anything about this. No one is. Even if Captain Wainwright calls, you must tell him nothing, except that you do not know where I am. And you must say that to whoever calls.”

  “Then you will do what they ask?”

  “I will do what has to be done.” He bent over and kissed her. “Lock the doors. Remain in the house. If the man who took Ana calls again, you must tell him that I am carrying out his wishes.”

  “And Uraga?” she asked. “What can I tell my son? He will see my face.”

  “Then you must compose your face. Ura is nine years old. He is old enough to behave like a man and accept the fact that his mother is not always smiling and laughing.”

  “He will ask about Ana.”

  “I took her to the doctor. Tell him that, and also tell him that he must remain in the house.”

  “How do I know he’s all right?”

  “He’s all right. If you wish, call the school, but don’t let them know that anything is wrong. I’m sure he’s all right. I’ll call you later. From here on, Kati dear, every minute is precious to me. Let me depend on you.”

  She sat up and nodded, her face tear-stained. “Yes, I will do as you say.”

  9

  THE

  DARK

  MAN

  Masuto was himself again as they got into his car. He said to Beckman, “You drive, Sy. I want to put it together.”

  “The hotel?”

  “Yes, the hotel.”

  “You know, Masao, when I spoke to Freddie Comstock, he said that he cased every empty room in the hotel, and those that were vacated too.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean anything?”

  “I don’t want to think about it that way,” Masuto said. “I want to start from the beginning and put it together. I have all the pieces, or at least I think I have. So just let me put it together, and then we’ll see where we are—” thinking to himself that now he must put everything else out of his mind, all his terror about his daughter, Kati’s misery, what might be happening to Ana right at this moment, all of it out of his mind and only the puzzle, only the game that sick men played all over the world in this time of his life.

  “Go ahead, Masao.”

  “We begin with a man who calls himself cultural attaché but who works for Soviet Intelligence. He uses the Zlatov Dancers as an excuse to go to San Francisco, I don’t think the Soviets give two damns about the Zlatov Dancers, but the only other Russian event on the West Coast that we know about is the fact of the agronomists. That the Soviets care about. They used to buy oranges from Israel. Now they have to learn how to grow their own. So we make our first guess: Peter Litovsky is sent to California to keep an eye on the agronomists.”

  “Maybe,” Beckman said.

  “Why maybe?”

  “Because the fat man is no bodyguard. He’s in his fifties, fat and soft. One punch in his gut would put him out of the running.”

  “That makes sense. All right, the fat man’s an intelligence agent. He comes out here because someone wants a meeting to discuss something concerning the agronomists. That’s better, of course. The meeting is set up at the Beverly Glen Hotel.”

  “Who with?”

  “The next guess. Binnie Vance.”

  “Why?”

  “It makes some sense. At least we know that whoever killed Stillman was someone he knew and trusted. You don’t walk up behind a man who’s shaving and put a bullet into the base of his skull while he’s looking into a mirror unless he knows you and trusts you. So from there we make the presumption that she was in his room the night before and that she was the woman who phoned in the news about the fat man.”

  “And the hooker?”

  “She never existed. I never believed she did.”

  “Okay. We got Binnie Vance as a Russian agent of some sort.” Beckman shook his head. “It don’t figure. It’s that Mata Hari crap. She’s just a belly dancer.”

  “She’s German. She doesn’t have to be an agent. She could have some connection in East Germany that would bring Litovsky out here to see her.”

  “All right. I go along, Masao. Now we come to the stopper. How did they get into the hotel? How did the fat man get in? No one saw him. No one remembers him. He never registered.”

  Masuto smiled slightly, the first time since his wife had phoned him that morning. “Kati was talking about common sense last night. Do you remember, yesterday morning, I told you to go down to the basement and check the bolt on the door?”

  “I did. It was open. That’s how she got out.”

  “She never got out,” Masuto said. “She was in the hotel all the time. If she killed Stillman, she had to be there. If she drove away in the yellow Cadillac, then she had to be in the hotel.”

  “And the bolt?”

  “Sy, it was opened from the inside, not to let anyone out but to let Litovsky and Binnie Vance in.”

  “You’re guessing, Masao.”

  “Of course I’m guessing. I haven’t got one shred of evidence to put Binnie Vance in the hotel or even in Los Angeles that night. But Sweeney lifted a fingerprint in the room that matches a fingerprint in the yellow car. So I know that someone who was in that room was also in the Cadillac.”

  “That makes three of them,” Beckman said. “Binnie Vance, someone to drive her and Litovsky to the hotel, and one inside the hotel to let them in.”

  “Three. It would have to be at least three. Sure, a drugged Litovsky could go staggering out to the pool and even a woman could push him in. Then if she were cool enough, conceivably she could get into the pool with him and undress him while his body floated there. It’s possible, but it doesn’t make much sense.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I can make a better guess. Whoever opened the service door for the woman and Litovsky had managed to get a housekeeper’s key. That wouldn’t be too difficult for someone working in the hotel. He opens an empty room and lets Litovsky and the woman in. They have drinks there, and Litovsky passes out.”

  “A smartass intelligence agent?”

  “You never met Binnie Vance,” Masuto said. “I don’t know what went on in that room. And what makes you think that intelligence agents are so bright? That F.B.I. man is no shining example of brilliance, and maybe the Russian agents are just as stupid as the Feds.”

  “Just as horny, you can count on that,” Beckman agreed.

  “All right. Now they got Litovsky, who’s out cold. The man and Vance come back in the room. They have a fat man who weighs well over two hundred pounds. Maybe they walk him down the hallway. Maybe they use a laundry bin or something of that sort to get him to the service elevator. It’s probably two o’clock in the morning now, and the hallway is empty. They take him down to the dressing room and undress him. They carry him to the pool and dump him in. They know that Litovsky will be identified, but they decide that undressing him will buy them a few hours, and that’s important to them. Then they go out through the service door.”

 
; “And why don’t they take the fat man’s clothes with them?”

  “Because they’re in Beverly Hills. Because if any one of our patrol cars spots two suspicious-looking people in a car at two in the morning, they might well pull them over. And after midnight, a Beverly Hills cop is very careful. At least, that’s the way the myth works, and those two probably know it. And if they have the fat man’s clothes, his wallet, his watch and his glasses in the car, then they’re finished.”

  “One loose end, Masao, and that knocks the whole thing apart. If they’re that smart—”

  “It’s not smart!” Masuto snorted. “That kind of sick conniving isn’t smart.”

  “Whatever they are, why didn’t Binnie Vance bolt the service door behind them?”

  “Two reasons. First, they wanted us to think that the killer had left the hotel.” Masuto sighed and shook his head. “It’s easy, when you look back.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “Because Binnie Vance wasn’t there.”

  “Where was she?”

  “In Stillman’s room, watching through the window, waiting for the body to be in the pool long enough for Litovsky to drown. Either she let herself in with the housekeeper’s key, or if the door was bolted, she awakened Stillman and he let her in.”

  “Then he was awake when she made the phone call?”

  “That’s right. Probably.”

  “And when we went to his room yesterday morning?”

  “She was there, Sy—maybe in the bathroom, maybe in a closet, but sure as God she was there. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what happened during the next few hours. Possibly Stillman decided that he had to tell the truth. Maybe she pretended to go along with him. He went into the bathroom to shave, and she shot him.”

  They were turning off Sunset Boulevard now, entering the long driveway of the Beverly Glen Hotel. It was twelve minutes after eleven o’clock in the morning.

  “No evidence and no motive,” Masuto said. “But it’s all we have.”

  Sal Monti opened the door. His grin vanished when he saw Masuto’s face.

  “Just keep it in front where we can get it quickly,” Masuto told him. “Don’t park it down the hill.”

  “A Toyota in front? It makes a lousy—”

  “You just damn well do as I tell you!” Masuto snapped.

  “All right, all right. Don’t burn my ass off.”

  They went into the hotel. Comstock was sitting in the lobby, reading the Los Angeles Times. In an attempt to blend with the surroundings, he wore wide-bottom slacks and a golfing sweater. His shirt was open two buttons on the top. It went oddly with his square face and bristly gray hair. When he saw Masuto and Beckman enter, he jumped up to greet them.

  “Anything I can do for you boys?”

  “You didn’t find the clothes?” Masuto asked.

  “No, sir, Masao. I turned this place inside out. You know, you’re the second party asked me that today. The Fed was here, bright and early this morning.”

  “Arvin Clinton, the F.B.I, man?”

  “Him and a buddy.”

  “What did they want?”

  “They asked me a few questions, same stuff about yesterday, and then they wanted to see the pool. So I took them down to the pool, and they stood there looking at it for about five minutes. Then they wanted to know what part of the pool the fat man was in. So I showed them. Then you know what they tell me, Masao?”

  Masuto and Beckman exchanged glances.

  “Tell us.”

  “They tell me the fat man drowned. I know he drowned, I say to them. So they say to me, no, Mr. Comstock. The word’s around that he was murdered. That’s dangerous talk. That’s the kind of talk that makes a lot of trouble. You’re a decent patriotic American, and you don’t want to get involved in that kind of trouble. So you just remember that this is an accidental drowning. The fat man falls in the pool and he drowns.”

  “And then?”

  “And then they take off. The funny thing is, I been reading the L.A. Times and that’s the story they been running, that the fat man drowned by accident.”

  Masuto nodded. “I guess that’s the way it is, Fred. Tell me something, do you know of any hotel employee who didn’t show up for work yesterday or today?”

  “Jesus Christ, Masao, there got to be maybe a hundred people work in the hotel, with the gardeners and the restaurants and the chambermaids. There ain’t no day when one of them don’t show up.”

  “Who runs the bellhops?”

  “Artie. That’s the big black guy over there.”

  They walked over to the tall black man, who nodded and said, “I know you, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

  “How many men work for you?”

  “I got four good boys.”

  “Any of them call in sick yesterday or today?”

  “No, sir. They are all on the job.”

  “I’ll try the Rugby Room,” Masuto said to Beckman. “You go downstairs and do the laundry.”

  The Rugby Room and the open lanai that was the outdoor connecting part of it was sparsely populated by the last of the late breakfasters. It was still too early for lunch. It was a warm, lovely June day, and the doors to the lanai were wide open, revealing the wrought-iron tables and the pink tablecloths. As Masuto stood there, studying the place, he was approached by Fritz, the maitre d’hôtel.

  “Sergeant Masuto, is it breakfast? As our guest, please.”

  “I had breakfast. How many people work in your room, Fritz?”

  “Bartenders, waiters, waitresses, busboys, the kitchen help-all of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Forty-two, I think. We overlap because we are open sixteen hours a day.”

  “Fritz, I’m interested in someone who didn’t turn up for work yesterday and today.”

  “That’s every day, Sergeant. If not for goldbricking, I could get by with five people less.”

  “I’m interested in yesterday and today.”

  “There’s Johnny at the bar. He was out yesterday, but he came in today. Ah—let’s see. There is a kid we take on for busboy, maybe a week ago. Look, Sergeant, I don’t want no trouble about this. It’s hard as hell to find busboys—especially busboys who got more brains than a cow. So we don’t ask too many questions when we get one we can use.”

  “Fritz, I’m not going to make any trouble for you. But this is life and death.”

  “As serious as that? Sure. Anyway, this kid, he got too many smarts for a busboy. He’s not in yesterday. Today, he’s on the late shift, starts at noon. Hey, Max,” he called to one of the waiters, “is Frank in yet, that new busboy?”

  “No sign of him yet.”

  “His name is Frank—Frank what?”

  Fritz shook his head. “I can get it for you.”

  “Wait. What does he look like?”

  “Very dark, black hair. Maybe twenty, twenty-one. Skinny.”

  “Chicano?”

  “No, not Chicano. Some of the boys try to talk to him in Spanish, but he doesn’t know Spanish. Some kind of accent, not German or French, because I can spot that. I figure he’s some kind of student maybe.”

  “Fritz,” Masuto said, trying to control his eagerness, “the people who work here, they have to come off the street and change into their work clothes. Where?”

  “We got a dressing room behind the kitchen.”

  “Take me there.”

  “Sure, sure. You think there’s something funny about that kid?” He led the way through the cocktail lounge into the kitchen and through it. “You know what kind of trouble we got already? You need a busboy, everyone says there are five million unemployed, but go try to find a busboy. So we can’t pick and choose.”

  “I know, I know,” Masuto said.

  They were in a narrow room now, a room about twelve feet long, a wooden bench running down the middle and rows of metal lockers on either side. Most of the lockers had padlocks on them. A waiter sat on the bench, lacing his shoes.

/>   “Which is his locker, Fritz?”

  “We look. The names are on them.”

  The waiter stopped dressing to watch them. Fritz was farsighted, fumbling for his glasses as Masuto traced through the names.

  “Here!” Masuto cried. “Frank Franco!”

  The locker was padlocked.

  “I want this opened, Fritz. Now!”

  Fritz nodded.

  “Now, damn you! Now!”

  “Sure, sure.” He turned to the waiter. “Steve, go get the handyman.”

  “What did the kid do? You can’t just-”

  “Get the handyman,” Masuto said, his voice like ice. “I’m a policeman. You have him here in five minutes, or I swear I’ll take you in.”

  “Sure. Okay. I’ll get him.” He got up, stared at Masuto a moment, then left.

  “Fritz, does anyone know anything about this kid? Do you have an address for him?”

  Fritz shook his head hopelessly. “All right, you don’t hire people this way. He said he was looking for a place to live. He had just come into town. So I let it go, and a couple of days ago, I ask him again. He says he thinks he got a place—”

  “Goddamn it, are you telling me you hire like that? Where was he sleeping?”

  “Sergeant, I swear, I’m telling the truth. It happens.”

  “All right, it happens,” Masuto said more softly. “Who did he talk to? Did he make any friends?”

  Fritz creased his brows. He was a large, soft man, and he knew he was in trouble. The whole thing frightened him. He had never been at ease with the complex of laws that surrounded hiring, Social Security, withheld taxes, and compensation, and in this particular case he had short-circuited everything. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his brow, and said, “I try to help, yes? I do my best. A few times, I see him talking to Maria.”

  “Who’s Maria?”

  “Maria Constanza—she’s a good girl, a Chicano. I don’t want no trouble for her. She’s a waitress. She works in the lanai. In the lanai we have waitresses. She works three years here.”

  “Is she here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get her in here.”

  “All right, I bring her.”

  As he left, the handyman entered carrying his tool box—a middle-aged man whose blue eyes peered inquiringly at Masuto from behind gold-rimmed spectacles.