Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“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’hotel.