Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“To you, Mr. Japanese detective,” she said.

“And since we are being ethnic, what are you, Miss Vance?”

“What do you mean, what am I?”

“You weren’t born in this country.”

“How do you know that?”

“By your accent.”

“I don’t have an accent.”

“Ah, but you do,” Masuto said gently. “Ever so slight.”

“All right. I was born in Germany. I left at the age of fourteen, but I thought my English was near perfect.”

“It is,” Masuto agreed approvingly.

“Why don’t you stop being such a hotshot superior Oriental and say what you’re thinking?”

“And what am I thinking?”

“That I must be a completely heartless bitch to be sitting here and talking like this and not shedding one damn tear a few hours after my husband was killed.”

“No.”

“No what?”

“That’s not what I was thinking. I was thinking what an extraordinarily beautiful set of movements you went through up there on the stage. You’re a remarkable dancer.”

She paused, swallowed the retort that was on her lips, and stared at him. “Thanks.”

“I meant it.”

“Okay, but let’s get one thing straight. I wasn’t in love with Jack Stillman. All right, I didn’t hate him, but I didn’t love him. Now he’s dead and I’m alive. What should I do? Wrap myself in mourning? I don’t have to lie to anyone.”

“Not even to me,” Masuto agreed. “Why did you marry him?”

“Can I have another brandy?”

Masuto motioned to the waiter. She sat in silence, playing with her half-empty glass until the waiter put down the second brandy. Then she finished the first, dipped her finger in the second one and licked it off.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

“Try me.”

“You know what I got for dancing last week at the Sands?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Fifteen grand. For five performances. Fifteen thousand dollars. Before I met Jack Stillman in Vegas, I did club dates and lousy stag affairs for peanuts.”

“And he was responsible-for your success?”

“He booked me, and he gave me an image. I can’t deny that.”

“Then you owed him a good deal?”

“So he owed me. It works both ways. He took fifteen percent off the top and expenses.”

“And that’s why you married him, because he was responsible for your success?”

“I was responsible for my success, Buster, make damn sure of that. Anyway, I don’t have to explain to you why I married Jack Stillman. I had my reasons. I married him.”

“No, you don’t have to explain. By the way, Miss Vance, when did you leave Las Vegas?”

“This morning. On the eight o’clock plane.”

“One day of rehearsal here? Is that enough? I don’t know much about such things.”

“With that combo in there, it’s enough. They’re good.”

“Do you have your ticket?”

“What do you mean, my ticket?”

“Your airplane ticket.”

“No, I threw it away.”

“You know, Miss Vance, we can check the passenger list.”

“I’m afraid not. I came in on Vegas West. It’s a shuttle service. Anyway, what the hell is this? You said when you drink that you’re off duty. When you come right down to it, I don’t have to answer any questions.”

“I only thought it might be easier if you did, here. It’s a convenient place for you. It would be tiring to go up to Beverly Hills. By the way, did you know that your husband was staying at the Beverly Glen Hotel?”

“Of course I did. He always stays there.”

“But I should think that with you opening here, he would stay at the Ventura. As you are.”

“He hated downtown L.A. Anyway, I like to be alone when I’m dancing.”

“Do you have any notion who might have shot him?”

“No. None.”

“Did he have enemies?”

“A man like Jack, well, what do you think? But not to kill him.” She stood up suddenly. “Excuse me for a moment.” And she walked off, pausing only to exchange a few words with the waiter.

The moment her back was turned, Masuto took out his handkerchief, folded it carefully around the brandy glass, and slipped the glass into his jacket pocket. The waiter came to the table and said, “The lady won’t be back. She’s tired. And by the way, we don’t give away our glasses.”

“It’s a memento,” Masuto said. He gave the waiter ten dollars. “Keep the change.”

“Keep the memento,” the waiter said.

Masuto walked into the lobby of the hotel, dropped into a chair, and looked at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. A long, long day. He turned it over in his mind, trying to remember the events of the day and put them into proper sequence. It was Beckman who caught the piece in the paper about the Russian agronomists. No one else had mentioned them. Was it a three-day visit or a four-day visit that they were making to Southern California? According to Toda Masuto, three days were hardly enough to scratch the surface of the art of orange growing. The Russians could build spaceships, but they couldn’t grow oranges. Americans could grow oranges better than anyone in the world, but they couldn’t keep their cities from disintegrating. It occurred to him that he had told Beckman to find the agronomists, but then the thing happened to Jack Stillman and they were all there, Beckman and the others, and both he and Beckman forgot about the agronomists. It was a crowded, disorganized day, and that was his fault. He had gone off on a wild goose chase to San Fernando, because someone had stolen some lead azide. Why? What sense did it make? The whole country, no, the whole world was bomb crazy. It had been in his mind all the time. Why hadn’t he simply told Beckman to look in the papers for the makings of a bomb? Was it true, he asked himself, that he liked to be mysterious, or was there an undercurrent in his thoughts that he himself was hardly aware of?

He looked up, and there, standing in front of him, was Binnie Vance. She had changed into a yellow pants suit.

“Hello, cop,” she said to him.

“I thought you were tired.”

“You were the tired one.” She dropped into a chair next to him. “I was kind of pissy with you, wasn’t I?”

Masuto shrugged.

“I gave you the impression that I didn’t give one damn about Jack. That isn’t true.”

“Oh?”

“You know anything about Vegas?”

“A little.”

“Jack lived in Vegas fourteen years. He was an operator, and he spent a lot of time in the casinos. That’s why he never had a nickel. When you got a crush on the crap tables, you got an expensive habit.”

“I suppose so.”

“You don’t spend all those years like that and not get mixed up with the Mob.”

“And was Stillman mixed up with the Mob?” Masuto asked indifferently.

“He was.”

“And you think the Mob put out a contract on him and had him shot?”

“It’s happened.”

“If that’s the case, that’s pretty much the end of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those kind of killings-well, for the most part, they’re never solved.”

“You mean you don’t care about solving them.”

“No, we care.” He stood up. “Why? Had he run up a score at the tables? Was he a big loser?”

She shrugged. “That’s the last thing he’d talk to me about.”

“But you’d know. He was your husband.”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you ever hear of the Jewish Defense League?”

“What?”

“The J.D.L., they’re called.”

“Should I?”

“Your husband was Jewish. You knew that.”

She stared at him without speaking.

“You’re not Jewish, are you?”

“If it’s any of your damn business, no!”