Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“She’s not there,” the desk clerk said. “Miss Vance is rehearsing in the Arabian Room.”

“Where is the Arabian Room?”

The clerk looked at Masuto, a tall, long-limbed, tired Japanese man, hatless, tieless-and shook his head firmly.

“No, sir. It’s not open to the public.”

Masuto showed his badge.

“That’s Beverly Hills-”

“You want the Los Angeles cops?” Masuto snapped. “I’ll have them here in the lobby in five minutes, if that’s what you want. I want to talk to Miss Vance about her husband. Now use your head.”

“About her husband. Yes, sir. Terrible thing. You go up the escalator at the left. You’ll see the sign.”

“Thank you.”

He had almost lost his temper. The day was too long, and he was tiring, and it was no good for a policeman to tire. It was only eighteen hours since Wainwright had awakened him, but it seemed to Masuto that days had been compressed into that time. He had not tasted food since the lunchtime sandwich in his office, and he desperately desired a hot bath, steaming hot, and after that thirty or forty minutes of quiet meditation where he could look into himself and turn away from a world that was at best half mad. Well, very soon now.

There was the Arabian Room, and Masuto wondered why in this day and age in America a hotel would establish a nightclub so named, unless, indeed, there was Arab money invested in the hotel. Certainly it would not surprise him, but then, he reflected, very little surprised him these days.

He pushed open one of the double doors and entered. The room was shaped like a slice of pie, three tiers of tables sloping downward, with the stage where the point of the slice would be. The dominant colors in the decor were red, black, and silver, with tassels, crescent moon, and paired scimitars as a motif. In a pit between the tables and the stage, a four-piece orchestra played. Three men sat at one of the tables, and on the stage a woman in a body stocking undulated to the rhythm of the music. She moved slowly and sensuously, every movement controlled, calculated, exaggerated for the utmost sensual effect.

One of the three men at the table saw Masuto, rose, and walked back to the entrance where the detective stood watching.

“We’re closed, mister,” he said to Masuto. “We don’t open until tomorrow. And tomorrow we’re sold out.” He was a large, fat man with an unlit cigar clamped in his teeth.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the manager. Who are you?”

Masuto took out his badge. “Detective Sergeant Masuto. I have to talk to Miss Vance about what happened at the Beverly Glen Hotel this morning.”

The man’s tone changed. “Look, Officer, Miss Vance knows all about what happened in Beverly Hills this morning. It knocked the crap out of her, but she took it. Don’t make her take any more of it. Not tonight.”

“The show must go on and all that?”

“You’re damn right, and thank God she’s a trouper. We put out twenty thousand dollars’ worth of advertising on this opening-TV spots, radio spots, and the press. We’re sold out for three shows, and believe me, they ain’t coming to see no Arabian Room. They’re coming to see Binnie do her belly dance.”

As if taking the cue, one of the two men at the table down front stood up and called out, “Okay, Binnie, that does it for the opening. We’ll take a few bars of the belly dance and then we’ll wrap it up.”

She had come down to the edge of the stage, and both Masuto and the manager turned to watch her. She was not a tall woman, but she had a full, voluptuous figure-without being fat or even plump. She had brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Masuto thought her eyes might be green; at this distance, he was not certain.

“Stillman didn’t hurt it none. Just more publicity. It adds up, like a snowball rolling downhill.”

“I’m sure Stillman is grateful for that.”

“What is it, Officer? You got a bone to pick? The kid’s trying to turn a buck. She pays her own way. So lay off her.”

“What’s your name, manager?” Masuto asked coldly.

“Peterson.”

Binnie Vance was doing the belly dance now. Watching her, Masuto said, “Well, Mr. Peterson, I’m here to talk to Mrs. Stillman. I intend to. So when she’s finished, you will go over and tell her that.”

“Who the hell do you think you are, mister? In the first place, you’re a Beverly Hills cop-”

“Just knock that off, Mr. Peterson. If you knew the law, you would know that I can go anywhere in this county in the investigation of a crime. Now I am provoked and I am tired, so if you interefere with me in any way, I’ll pull you in for impeding the investigation of a crime.”

“You wouldn’t-”

“I would.”

The music finished. Binnie Vance came down from the stage, and Masuto saw her talking to the two men who had remained at the table. Peterson walked down the aisle and joined them. He pointed to Masuto. They talked softly, too softly for Masuto to hear what they were saying, and then one of the two men who had remained at the table raised his voice.

“Bullshit! You don’t have to say one goddamn word to him!”

Binnie Vance tossed her head, the hair flowing around her shoulders; she picked up a light coat from a chair, and walked up the aisle toward Masuto. The three men watched her but didn’t move.

“You’re the Beverly Hills cop?” she said to Masuto, a faint, almost undefinable accent in her voice.

“That’s right, Mrs. Stillman. Detective Sergeant Masuto. I’m the chief of homicide in Beverly Hills.”

“Call me Miss Vance. I was Miss Vance a few weeks ago. Now I’m Miss Vance again. I didn’t have time to get used to the other one.” There was a bitter edge in her voice. It was not a sweet voice. It rasped, and Masuto decided that she had been wise to choose dancing.

“Very well. Miss Vance.”

“How about a drink? I need one.”

“That would be fine.”

“Can a cop drink on duty?”

“I’ll go off duty when we start drinking. I’ve had a long day.” She noticed small things, Masuto decided. She was an alert woman. He also realized that her eyes were green, an unusually vivid green.

“There’s a bar on the main floor,” she said, and when they were on the escalator, she said to him, “Help me on with my coat. You don’t walk around here in a body stocking.”

He held the coat for her.

“What do you think of this place?”

“Interesting.”

“L.A. is the pits for me, but this place gets to me. I like it. It’s wild.”

Masuto nodded.

“You don’t agree?”

“Well, as I said, it’s interesting.”

“That’s a pissy word. They want to knock an act, they say it’s interesting. Here’s the bar. You want a table?”

“If you don’t mind,” Masuto said.

He led her to a table in a corner. It was not a very active bar at this hour. “What will you have?” he asked her.

“A cognac.”

He motioned to a waiter, and ordered two cognacs. She was studying him curiously, a slight smile on her lips. Her lips were rather thin, and she wore no makeup, no lip rouge. The dark skin was sunburned, the underside of her chin much lighter. She was pretty, he admitted to himself, and then revised the thought. Handsome was a better word. Her face was square rather than round, with sloping, flat cheeks and a square chin.

“What are you?” she asked. “Chinese? Japanese? Korean? I hear L.A. is lousy with Koreans.”

“Nisei,” he replied.

“Nisei?”

“That means my parents were born in Japan.”

“Then you’re a Jap,” she said, making the remark deliberately and provocatively.

“If you wish to think of me that way,” Masuto agreed, unperturbed. The waiter returned and set down the two brandies. Masuto raised his glass.