Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“But why?”

“Kati, darling, I dislike being judgmental about the City of Beverly Hills, since they pay me my wages. The hotel is another matter. It makes my skin crawl.”

“But why?”

Masuto sighed and shook his head. “How can I explain why? Perhaps another time. Hand me the towel, please.”

He meditated for half an hour before he left the house, sitting cross-legged, wrapped in a saffron-colored robe, silent and motionless until his mind was clear and alert. When he had finished he felt renewed and refreshed, and on his way to Rexford Drive, where police headquarters was, he thought a good deal about the drowned man. It promised to be a quiet day-so far, at nine-thirty, no robberies, no assaults, nothing of importance on his desk except an inquiry from the city manager concerning the drowned man.

“What about the media?” Masuto asked Beckman.

“I’m sitting on it until I hear from Wainwright. He’s not in yet.”

“How does Joe Haley know about it?” Haley was the city manager.

“I told him.”

“What?”

“Just that there was a drowning.”

“That’s no good. Go up there and give him the whole story, the missing clothes, everything. I don’t want him to scream about us covering up anything. Let him decide whether he wants to keep a lid on it. Did you hear from Doc Baxter?”

“I called his home just before you came in. He’s on his way to the hospital.”

“You didn’t find his clothes?” Masuto asked, almost as an afterthought.

“No.”

“Okay. If Wainwright wants me, tell him I’m at the hospital-down in the pathology room.”

Beckman looked at him curiously. “Are you on to something, Masao?”

“I don’t like a drowned man who undresses himself and then hides his own clothes. Do you?”

Driving to the hospital, Masuto wondered whether he was unduly harsh with Beckman. Sy Beckman was a large, lumbering, slow-moving man, not stupid, but slow in his conclusions, and totally dependable. Given his choice, Masuto would rather have Beckman than any other man on the force. Yet there were times when Beckman irritated him, and reflecting on that now, he determined to go out of his way to be pleasant, even grateful. He felt better then. It was a lovely morning, and his car radio told him that there would be a minimum of smog. Well, that at least was something, not great but better than those hideous days when the Los Angeles basin filled up with the noxious yellow stuff. Masuto had been born in the San Fernando Valley, in the long, long ago when his father owned a four-acre produce farm outside of what was then the little village of San Fernando-a farm that he lost when he was interned during the madness of World War II. Then the Valley had been like a garden, and no one ever thought about a thing called smog. Ah well, that was long ago and over now. Los Angeles was still for him the best of all possible places.

At the hospital, he showed his badge to the clerk at the pathology room and then went inside-trying not to breathe too deeply of the smell of formaldehyde, which he disliked intensely-past three young, bearded men who were bent over microscopes, to the autopsy room, where Dr. Baxter was leaning over the corpse of the drowned man.

Baxter straightened up, saw Masuto, and said graciously, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Just curious.”

“You’re not a policeman, you’re a damn ghoul. You just can’t stand a natural death.”

“I don’t enjoy any kind of death,” Masuto replied gently. “Was his death natural?”

“He drowned. That’s natural enough for someone who can’t swim and takes a few too many.”

“Mostly, people who can’t swim don’t go swimming.”

“I’m tired, Masuto. I’m in no mood for Oriental philosophy.”

“If that’s philosophy, heaven help us. Are you sure he died of drowning?”

“You’re damn right I’m sure. Water in the lungs-all of it. He drowned. No marks, no sign of violence.”

“How many drinks? Was he drunk?”

“No, he was not drunk-unless two or three drinks wiped him out.”

“Then why did he drown?”

“Because he couldn’t swim. Why don’t you leave it alone?”

“I suppose because both Gellman and you want me to. That brings out the nastiness in my nature. Have you spoken to Gellman today?”

“That’s none of your damn business, Masuto.”

“You’re the attending physician up there at the hotel. You’re also the medical examiner for the city.”

“What are you insinuating?”

“Nothing so awful. Gellman wants it to be an accident. I refuse to accept the fact that a fat man who would float like a cork makes his clothes, his watch, and his spectacles disappear and then proceeds to drown himself in a swimming pool. The pool is only sixty feet long. From the shallow end there’s twenty-five feet before it deepens to five feet. Did he suffer a coronary? Did he have angina?”

Baxter hesitated. “No.”

“Then he was poisoned, which means he was murdered.”

“There’s no sign of poisoning.”

“What about the contents of his stomach?”

“I haven’t gotten to that.”

“And if you find nothing,” Masuto insisted, “I still say he was poisoned.”

“By what? By the smog?” Baxter asked sarcastically.

“I suggest chloral hydrate, more commonly known as a Mickey Finn. You’d find no trace of that, no matter how you tested. And how do you know he had only two or three drinks? Did you test for alcohol in his blood?”

“Damn you, Masuto, don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“Then don’t tell me how to do mine,” Masuto said, smiling slightly. “By the way, when you’re finished, put him in the icebox. I want him to stay fresh for identification.”

“Your photographer was here and he took pictures.”

“I know. Please forgive my insistence. I think whoever comes looking for him will want to see him in the flesh.”

“He won’t keep forever.”

“A few days will do.”

Masuto pulled back the man’s upper lip and stared thoughtfully.

“You are a ghoul,” Baxter said.

“And I would deeply appreciate a telephone call, concerning whatever you find in his stomach or in his blood.”

Baxter grunted. Masuto thanked him and got out of the pathology room and breathed deeply outside. Back in his office, he still had the illusion of smelling the formaldehyde. He hated the smell.

“That’s one place I do not like,” Detective Beckman said, after Masuto told him what had taken place. “Anyway, Masao, what makes you think that you can’t detect chloral hydrate in an autopsy?”

“Something I read somewhere.”

“You talk about the stink of formaldehyde. The same thing for chloral hydrate. It stinks.”

“In a drink?”

“Well, maybe a few drops in a drink couldn’t be smelled. You think the fat man got a Mickey and drowned?”

“Something of the sort.”

Masuto picked up the telephone and dialed Dr. Rosenberg, his dentist. Beckman drifted away, yawning. Dr. Rosenberg came on the phone.

“You’re due for a cleaning, Masao. We sent you two notices. None of you turkeys understand the necessity for prophylactic dentistry. It’s like shouting in the wilderness.”

“Next week,” Masuto promised.

“So you say. I’m putting my nurse on. Make a date with her.”

“Hold on. I have a question.”

“Oh?”

“Did you ever see a false tooth or a cap or a bridge or something like that made out of some grayish metal?”

“Silver?”

“I don’t think silver. Maybe an aluminum alloy, maybe steel.”

“I’ve seen it,” Dr. Rosenberg said, his tone indicating severe disapproval.

“Where? When?”