Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“Isn’t that strange for Los Angeles?” the Russian asked. “I always understood that Los Angeles had a large and efficient police force and sufficient violent death to warrant a morgue.” He underlined his question with a thinly concealed tone of contempt.

“We are not Los Angeles. This is the City of Beverly Hills.”

“But this is Los Angeles,” the Russian insisted.

“Los Angeles County, yes,” Masuto explained. “The county contains a number of cities, including Los Angeles. It’s true that most of Beverly Hills is surrounded by the City of Los Angeles, but we are nevertheless an independent city with its own police force.” He felt almost like a character in Alice in Wonderland , explaining local geography to a man who has just discovered that a colleague and countryman of his was dead. “May I ask you whether you can identify the man in the photograph?”

“You are Japanese?” Gritchov asked.

“Nisei, which means an American born of Japanese parents.”

“And a policeman.”

Masuto directed a warning glance at Wainwright, who appeared ready to explode, and then said softly, “So very sorry, Consul General, but America is a place of ethnic diversity which, unlike your country, makes no claims to ethnic purity.”

Gritchov’s face tightened slightly, but he kept his tone as polite as Masuto’s. “You know very little of the Soviet Union.”

“Ah, so, I am sure. But I was not thinking of the Soviet Union but of Russia. But I may be mistaken. If so, you have my profound apologies. Nevertheless, would you be kind enough to tell us whether you know the man in the photograph?”

“I would prefer, if you will, to have this whole matter taken under the auspices of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“That’s impossible,” Wainwright said shortly.

“Then I would like to see the body immediately. I also believe, Captain, that no formal request of the Soviet Union in a matter like this should be dismissed as impossible by a petty bureaucrat.”

“If you will wait outside for a moment or two, Mr. Gritchov,” Wainwright said slowly, as if each word choked him, “I will have Detective Sergeant Masuto take you to All Saints Hospital.”

Gritchov nodded and left the office, closing the door behind him, and Wainwright burst out, “That lousy son of a bitch! Petty bureaucrat!”

“I think we both behaved with admirable control, Captain.”

“And we continue to. And for Christ’s sake, cut out that Charlie Chan stuff. He’s no fool, and I don’t want any backwash. Take him over to the hospital. I’m going up to talk with the city manager.”

“Right.”

“And don’t push it. If the goddamn F.B.I. wants it, let them have it.” At the door he paused. “You still think that hooker in the hotel killed him?”

Masuto shrugged and nodded.

“Screw the F.B.I! Petty bureaucrat! That bastard!”

Riding the mile that separated the police station and All Saints Hospital, the Soviet consul general was rigidly silent, and Masuto made no effort to engage him in conversation. As they entered the pathology room, Dr. Baxter unbent from over the corpse of Jack Stillman, and grinned malevolently at Masuto.

“Back again with a live one,” he said.

“Got the bullet?”

“All wrapped up nice and neat. Thirty-caliber short. Pop, pop! Sounds like a stick breaking, so I guess you won’t find anyone who heard it. Do you want it?”

“Please,” said Masuto.

Baxter handed him a little packet, the bullet wrapped in tissue, which Masuto placed in his jacket pocket. “This is Mr. Gritchov.”

Gritchov was observing the action with interest. He showed no signs of being disturbed by the contents of the pathology room.

“Oh?” Baxter raised a brow.

“I would like to take him into the morgue for identification.”

“You already know his name. You just told me.” Baxter grinned again.

“Very funny. Where’s the body?”

Baxter led the way to the morgue door, but as he started to enter, Masuto barred his way. “We’d like to be alone, Doctor-if you don’t mind.”

“Alone with the dead. How touching!”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I have no objection, and I’m sure the corpse has none.”

Inside the morgue room, Gritchov said, “You’re an interesting man, Detective Sergeant Masuto.”

“All people are interesting, Consul General, if you regard them without judgment.”

“And do you?”

“I try to.” He pointed. “There is the body.”

Gritchov went to the table and drew back the sheet that covered the fat man. Masuto watched as he stood there, studying the face of the dead man. Then Gritchov replaced the sheet.

“You know him?” Masuto asked.

“Yes. His name is Peter Litovsky. He had a small post in the embassy in Washington. He was what we call a cultural attache, one who maintains-”

“I understand the function of a cultural attache.”

“Shocking,” said Gritchov, with nothing in his manner or tone to indicate that it actually was shocking. “I shall have to inform his family, and that will not be pleasant.”

“Then you know him personally?”

“Of course. I had dinner with him two nights ago.”

“Then he was in San Francisco? I thought he was attached to the embassy in Washington.”

“He is. Of course. He came to San Francisco with the Zlatov Dancers. That was entirely within his proper function as cultural attache.”

Puzzled, wondering what had changed an angry, taciturn Russian official, who opened his mouth only to deliver thinly veiled insults, into this almost affable conversationalist, Masuto decided to press his advantage and confessed to being somewhat confused by the fact that Mr. Gritchov had refused to comment on the photograph.

“One wishes to make certain in a serious matter like this.”

“Naturally. Do you know what Mr. Litovsky was doing in Los Angeles?”

“In Beverly Hills, as you pointed out to me, Detective Sergeant. Beverly Hills is very much spoken of, even in our country. I suppose he seized this opportunity to see how the very rich live in a capitalist country. We have no equivalent of Beverly Hills in our country, so it is quite natural for a visitor from the Soviet Union to be curious about it. What an unhappy thing that he had to pay such a price for his curiosity.”

“Do you know whether Mr. Litovsky could swim?”

Gritchov shrugged. “Evidently not.”

“Perhaps you do not remember, but when we spoke on the telephone, I told you that Mr. Litovsky was found naked and drowned in the swimming pool.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I see. Is it the custom in your country for men to swim naked in a public pool?”

“You mean he had no bathing suit?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Furthermore, his clothes, his eyeglasses, his wristwatch, his wallet-all of these things have disappeared. Furthermore, his drowning was not an accident. He was murdered.”

Masuto saw the small muscles around Gritchov’s jaw tighten, but his voice was even as he said, “Can’t we leave this place, Detective Sergeant? It’s cold and the air is fetid.”

Masuto led the way out. Baxter had left, and the two bearded young men working in the pathology room gave them only a passing glance. In that place, death was more interesting than life.

“Where can I take you?” Masuto asked when they were in his car.

“I have a reservation at the Beverly Wilshire.”

“Then you’re staying in Beverly Hills?”

“For the time being.”

“Permit me to say that I am somewhat bewildered. I inform you that a colleague of yours was murdered under very unusual circumstances, that he was left to drown naked in a swimming pool, and you have not even the curiosity to ask me how he was murdered.”