Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“Sergeant,” he said, “there is going to be a house rule against economy cars. It cuts the ambiance, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ll look it up in the dictionary,” Masuto said. “Meanwhile, I want a few minutes of your time.”

“About the excitement last night? By all means. You can fill me in.”

“No, Sal. You fill me in.”

“It’s eleven-fifteen,” Monti observed. “We got forty-five minutes before the rush starts. Billy,” he called to one of the carhops, “take over.” They sat down on an iron bench under the striped canopy that led into the hotel.

“Tell me about Jack Stillman,” Masuto began.

“This fat guy-what is it? Was he knocked over or what?”

“I’ll ask the questions. Tell me about Stillman.”

“What’s to tell? He’s a booking agent out of Vegas-so it goes. He stayed here maybe half a dozen times.”

“What does he book?”

“I’d give it a guess. The high-priced acts in the casinos. He just married Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer. She’s very hot right now. Or maybe he don’t book at all. Who knows with them characters from Vegas?”

“And when he’s here, do you see him with girls?”

“I guess he was a swinger, as much as the next guy. Not on this trip.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m only sure about what goes in and out of this place. What happens inside is another department. Are you going to give me some flak about the fat man?”

“What are they saying?”

“Nothing. Gellman’s put the fear of God into them. I got it from Freddie Comstock, and he don’t say one word more than that they had a drowning.”

“Sal,” Masuto said, “how many hookers work the Rugby Room?”

“Are you kidding! Sarge, this is a high-class hotel. We got an international reputation. We got presidents and senators going in and out of here. That’s no question to ask. You know that.”

“Cut out the bullshit, Sal. How many? It’s important.”

“Well, look. You don’t get floozies or streetwalkers in a place like this. It’s a different kind of a hustle. A girl works in the Rugby Room, she don’t look no different from the classy broads you see on the street in Beverly Hills. Maybe she ain’t no different. They got class, good clothes, rocks, and they got the looks. They make out for fifty to two notes for a quick throw, and that don’t include dinner and drinks. We don’t have no pimps here, Sarge, you know that. It’s a whole other thing. They come in by twos, two girls, because Fritz won’t seat one broad alone in the Rugby Room-”

“They buy the ticket from you, Sal,” Masuto said coldly. “Either you talk sense to me, or I’ll bust your whole operation wide open.”

“Sarge, you got to be kidding. All right, a man works the door, he depends on tips.”

“I asked you how many?”

“Okay, okay. Maybe a dozen. Then there are floaters. They drive up in a two-seater Mercedes, in a twenty-five-thousand-dollar car-what am I supposed to do? Be a vice squad?”

“Begin with the dozen regulars. I’m looking for a woman named Judy, about five seven, good figure, blond hair, blue eyes.”

“That ain’t no description, Sarge. That’s like a uniform. Anyway, in what you call the regulars there ain’t nobody called Judy.”

“She was wearing a pants suit, light brown suede, silk shirt, gold chains, those boots they wear now.”

Monti shood his head. “It don’t register.”

“Did anyone fitting that description drive up to the hotel last night?”

“Blue eyes, blond hair, stacked-you just got to be kidding. I can name you twenty.”

“And the costume?”

Sal frowned and shook his head. “Jesus, Sarge, when the rush comes, I see them, I write the tickets, but the clothes. Maybe yes, maybe no.”

“How about this morning? Forget about the clothes. Did anyone fitting the description come out of the hotel?”

Monti pointed to the door of the hotel. “Sarge, just watch that door, and if five minutes goes by without a blue-eyed blond broad going in or out, I’ll cut you into my take. It all comes out of the same bottle. It’s the Beverly Hills color. If they want blue eyes, they buy tinted contact lenses. If they want to be stacked, they buy that too. You know that as well as I do.”

Masuto sighed and nodded. “All right, Sal. Thank you.” He rose. “One more thing-did you see Stillman this morning?”

“Not yet, Sarge.”

“You’d know if he called for his car?”

“You bet.”

“What does he drive?”

“He picks up a rental at the airport, usually a caddy. A yellow one this time.”

“Look in your box for the keys.”

Monti went to the key box, opened it, and stared at the rows of hooks. Then he looked at Masuto. Then he yelled, “Billy, run down the hill and see if Stillman’s yellow caddy is still there!”

Billy took off down the hill. Monti went through the motions with the people entering and leaving the hotel, and Masuto waited in silence. Then Billy came pounding back up the hill.

“The caddy’s gone.”

“You made a note of the license?” Masuto asked Monti.

Monti went through his cards. “Here it is.” Masuto jotted it down, Monti telling him meanwhile that there was no way-just no way the keys could have gotten out of his box.

“Except the way they did. Do you lock the box?”

“Hell, no. It’s right here.”

Masuto went into the hotel and walked over to the registration desk. Ira Jessam, the day clerk, looked at him sadly and said, “That was a terrible thing last night, Sergeant, just terrible.”

Masuto agreed and asked him to ring Stillman’s room. The desk clerk picked up his phone, gave his instructions to the operator and waited.

“Mr. Stillman doesn’t answer,” he said.

“Does he drop his keys at the desk when he leaves the hotel?”

“Always.”

“Are they there now?”

The clerk looked. “No, sir. But he could be in the restaurant.”

“Call them.”

The clerk did so, and then put down his phone and shook his head.

“I’d like a duplicate key to his room,” Masuto said.

Jessam hesitated, then sighed and handed the key to Masuto, who asked him where Gellman was.

“In his office, I believe. Probably taking a nap. He was utterly exhausted.”

“Wake him up and tell him I’m going up to Stillman’s room. I’d like him to join me there.”

Masuto took the elevator up to the third floor. The chambermaid’s cart was in the hallway, and several room doors were open. On the door of Stillman’s room there was a “Do not disturb” sign. Masuto put his key in the lock and opened the door.

The bed was unmade. In one corner, Stillman’s underwear, shirt and socks, lying in a little pile. Masuto had noticed them the day before. The bathroom door was closed, and from behind it came the sound of running water. The windows were closed and the air in the room smelled stale. On the chest of drawers, a bottle of brandy and two glasses. The ashtrays were filled with half-smoked cigarettes, most of them impatiently crushed out.

Closing the door behind him, Masuto called out, “Stillman!” No response from the bathroom. He tapped on the bathroom door and repeated Stillman’s name. Then he opened the door.

The water in the sink was running. On the floor in front of the sink was Stillman, in his black pajamas. Masuto bent over him and felt for his pulse. His wrist was cold; as for his pulse, he had none. Then Masuto noticed a small spot of blood in Stillman’s hair on the back of his head. He moved the hair aside, and there was a bullet hole where his spine joined the back of his skull. He lay with his face against the floor, and Masuto did not touch him again or try to move him. Using his handkerchief, Masuto turned off the faucet. It was the hot water faucet. Stillman evidently had been shaving. The razor lay on the floor beside him. A tube of shaving cream was on the sink shelf, and by bending over the body, Masuto could see that much of his face was still lathered.