Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“Russian dentistry, if you call it dentistry. They wouldn’t use gold. Too expensive or bourgeois, and they just weren’t any good with ceramics. Back during the war, we liberated a batch of Russian prisoners and I saw a lot of it, aluminum alloy and even steel-lousy dentistry. I don’t know if they still do it.”

“Thanks, Dave-”

“Hold on. I’ll put on the nurse.”

Masuto made his appointment for a prophylactic treatment, and Beckman, still yawning, drifted back and sat down opposite him. “Don’t you want to know what Joe Haley had to say?”

“I do.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Not exactly nothing. He said that keeping the reputation of Beverly Hills clean is like trying to canonize Marie Duplessis. Who is Marie Duplessis?”

“The most notorious hooker of nineteenth-century Paris. Sy, let me ask you a few questions. First. Stillman says he picked up this girl, Judy, in the Rugby Room. How did she get there?”

“How does anyone get there?”

“Exactly. By car. No one walks to the Beverly Glen Hotel. It’s not on the street. It’s on a hill and there’s not even a sidewalk.”

“So she drove.”

“But nobody saw her. And if she cut out of there by the basement door, what happened to her car?”

“That’s an interesting question,” Beckman admitted.

“Next. Why the missing clothes?”

“That one’s easy, Masao. They don’t want the body identified.”

“But sooner or later, it will be, so we can conclude that they’re playing for time. Next question.”

Wainwright walked into the office in time to hear that, and asked whether they were playing guessing games or just killing time.

“That’s right. Next question. A woman sees a body in a swimming pool. She doesn’t get excited or hysterical, just calls the operator and tells her. Why?”

“You tell us,” said Wainwright.

“Because she knows he’s dead; because she killed him.”

“Goddamn it, Masao, you can’t operate like that. You don’t know if the man was murdered, and already you got a killer.”

The telephone rang, and Beckman answered it. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

“That was Baxter, Captain.”

“Oh?”

“He said he thinks he found traces of chloral hydrate in the fat man’s stomach. He can’t be sure, but he thinks so. He doesn’t like you,” he said to Masuto.

“So sorry. So we have a murder. What about the alcohol?”

“The man was drunk-maybe,” Beckman said.

“A little drunk, perhaps. High. He strips and goes into the pool, falls asleep and drowns.”

“The trouble is,” Wainwright said, “that when you come down to it, we’re a small town with a small-town police force, and still we got a collection of some of the most important characters in the country, and if they don’t live here, then they come here. This one bothers me.”

Masuto nodded. “That’s understandable. I think he’s a Russian.”

“Why?”

“Just a guess. My dentist, Dr. Rosenberg, suggests that his bridgework comes from there.”

“Gellman’s going to love that. A dead Russian in the Beverly Glen pool.” Wainwright turned to Beckman. “Put his picture on the wire to Washington. We’ll see if the F.B.I. can come up with something.”

Masuto picked up the telephone, dialed Information, and asked for the telephone number of the Soviet consul general. He listened for a moment, thanked the operator and put down the phone.

“What are you after, Masuto?” Wainwright wanted to know.

“Just fishing. Did you know the Russians don’t have a consulate here? The operator thinks they have one in San Francisco.” Beckman was coming back. Masuto called, “Sy, find a San Francisco phone book, and give me the L.A. Times -today, yesterday, the day before.”

“And goddamn it, stop yawning!” Wainwright snapped.

Wainwright watched with interest as Masuto dialed the San Francisco number and asked for the consul general. Then Masuto said, “No, I insist on speaking to him. This is an official call from the Beverly Hills police on a matter of the utmost importance.” Pause. “Yes, Detective Sergeant Masuto.” Pause. “Yes, I’ll wait.”

Masuto looked at Wainwright, who nodded, apparently intrigued. Then Masuto covered the phone and told Beck-man, “Start going through the papers. Anything that concerns Russia and Los Angeles, any connection.”

Beckman spread out the papers. Masuto spoke into the phone: “How do you do, sir. I am Detective Sergeant Masuto in Beverly Hills. We have an unexplained death, a drowning-” Pause. “No, sir. This is your business and it does concern you. I have some reason to believe that the dead man is a Russian national.” Pause. “About fifty-five years old, thin blond hair, five feet eight inches, blue eyes-” Pause. “No, sir. I did not say that he is thin. His hair is thin. He’s a fat man, quite fat.” Pause. “No, sir, there is no way we can identify him. He was found naked, drowned in the pool.” Pause. “Yes, sir, I understand. We will do our best, but I cannot promise.” Pause. “Yes, the police station is on Rexford Drive in Beverly Hills. Any cab driver.”

Masuto put down the phone and looked at Wainwright.

“Well?”

“The Soviet consul general will be on the first shuttle flight he can catch. He will be here today, early afternoon.”

The telephone rang, and Masuto picked it up. “Yes,” he said. “This is Detective Sergeant Masuto.” Pause. “Yes, I just spoke to the consul general. I understand.”

“Checking,” Wainwright said.

“They’re thorough.”

“What can’t you promise?”

“Like Mr. Gellman,” Masuto said, “he wants it kept out of the press.”

“Masao?” Beckman said.

“Find something?”

“Just this, and I don’t know if it means a goddamn thing.”

Wainwright took the paper from Beckman and read aloud, “Mayor Bradley was on hand to extend an official welcome to five Soviet agronomists, here on a three-day visit to observe orange growing in Los Angeles and Orange counties. From here, they will fly to Florida, for an extended seven-day tour of the Florida orange groves-” Wainwright paused and stared at Masuto. “What do we have, a dead agronomist?”

“What the hell is an agronomist?” Beckman wanted to know.

“An educated farmer,” Masuto said. “No-” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I don’t think we have a dead agronomist.”

“Why not?”

Masuto shrugged. “Nearsighted, fat, soft hands-it just doesn’t fit. Anyway-” He picked up the paper and scanned the story. “You see, they move in a group. If one were missing-no.” He stood up suddenly and said, “I’m going to the hotel. Sy, see if you can catch up with the agronomists.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. Nose around.”

“Nose around,” Wainwright said sourly. “I’m not running a police force. I’m running a goddamn curiosity shop. Masao, I want you back here when that Russian comes.” He started away, then turned back. “I’ll talk to L.A.P.D. and see what they’re doing with these Russian farmers. Now I got your disease.”

Sal Monti, doorman at the Beverly Glen Hotel, was reputed to have a very large income, even in a city of noticeably large incomes, even after his split with the hotel management. He ran a service with four assistant carhops, and having seen the way traffic poured into the hotel driveway around lunchtime and cocktail hour, Masuto felt that Monti was understaffed. He was skilled in what he did, had a remarkable memory, and had held down his post for the past dozen years, a long history in the life of Beverly Hills-measured, as Monti put it, from the time of the T-Bird, through the Lincoln Continental period, through the era of the large Cadillac, through the era of the Porsche, into the time of the Mercedes, which shared the present reign with the Seville. It was Monti who coined the phrase “Beverly Hills Volkswagen” for the Mercedes. The present era, just burgeoning, was that of the Rolls-Royce Corniche; and at every opportunity, Monti told the story of the film producer who bought a solid silver funeral casket for sixty thousand dollars and whose partner remarked, as Monti put it, “Shmuck, for the same money you could have been buried in a Corniche.” Now he eyed Masuto’s Toyota with tolerant disgust.