Howard Fast - The Case of the Russian Diplomat

When they were in the car, Masuto said gently, “You could have given them something.”

“No, sir. Not one word out of either of us. This is tangled up with Washington, and nobody says that you or me shot our mouths off. Now what the hell is all this about knowing who did it?”

“I don’t know, I make guesses. What is a guess worth when you don’t have motive or a shred of evidence?”

“You wouldn’t like to tell me?”

“To what end? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Like hell it is. I don’t know why I put up with you, Masao. You are the most peculiar Oriental son of a bitch I ever encountered. Now what the devil is all this about a yellow caddy and the All Points?”

“Stillman rented the yellow Cadillac at the airport. Someone took the keys out of Monti’s box this morning and drove it away.”

“You said a woman.”

“That was a guess. I think a woman killed Stillman. I think the same woman drove off in his car. Nothing’s going to come of that, believe me, Captain. You said the F.B.I. knows who the dead man is. Who is he?”

“I never liked that little bastard.”

“What little bastard?”

“Sal Monti. Someone just takes the keys out of his box. Horseshit.”

“It can happen. What about the fat man?”

“This is what I got from the F.B.I. I told you they’re sending a special man out here. I hate those bastards. I guess every cop in America hates them. Anyway, according to the Feds, the dead man’s name is Peter Litovsky. He’s attached to the Soviet embassy in Washington as cultural attache, whatever that means.”

“It’s a very minor post. I imagine his job would be to effect cultural exchanges, keep us posted on what is happening in the Russian theater, concert stage, and so on. And the same thing in the other direction.”

“That may be, except that this Litovsky is not what he seems to be. The Feds say that he’s one of the top men in Soviet Intelligence, whatever their equivalent of the C.I.A. is, and that he uses the cultural attache job as a cover, and what I can’t understand is that if they know all this, why in hell do they let him operate?”

“I suppose because we do the same thing.”

“And instead of being pleased that he’s dead, they’re in a lather over it. Goddamn it, Masao, they talked to me like I’m their errand boy. Hell, I don’t work for them. We’re not to mess it up. We’re not to louse up any evidence. We’re not to give out anything to the press. They will take over the inquiry. They are conferring with the Soviets. This is classified.”

“Who did you talk to there?”

“The top man. A half hour after we sent them the picture, they telephoned me.”

“And?”

Wainwright looked at Masuto and grinned. “I told them that a murder had taken place in Beverly Hills, and as chief of the plainclothes division of the Beverly Hills police force, I was following routine procedure.”

“He must have loved that.” Masuto permitted himself a slight smile.

“He loved it.”

They were at the police station now. Masuto stopped to talk to Joyce. She looked pleased with herself.

“The yellow Cadillac,” she told Masuto, “is a Carway rental. It’s a two-door 1976 convertible, the only one they have, and they had a fit when I told them it was a police inquiry. I told them not to worry about their car.”

“You told them that?”

“Indeed I did. Because just before I called them, the L.A.P.D. phoned in that they had found the car.”

“Where?”

“Parked downtown at a meter in front of the public library. Not a scratch on it, but it was ticketed for overtime.”

“But you didn’t tell them to do a fingerprint search?”

“Sergeant Masuto, it just happens that I did. Now what do you think of that?”

“I think you’re wonderful, and you also have blond hair and blue eyes. And I’d guess you’re about five feet eight inches?”

“I am, but what has that got to do with anything?”

“That is what I’d like to know,” Masuto said.

In his office, the phone was ringing. It was his wife, Kati, and he was suddenly worried. It was rarely that she called him at police headquarters.

“Masao,” Kati said unhappily, “they sent Ana home from school with a sore throat.”

“Is that all?”

Illness in one of the children terrified Kati. “All?” she cried. “She has a hundred and one degrees of fever.”

“Then perhaps you should call the doctor.”

“I want to, but it’s so expensive. Twenty dollars for a house call.”

“Don’t worry about the money. Call the doctor.”

“Trouble?” Wainwright asked, coming over to Masuto’s desk.

“Ana’s sick. When I was a kid, a doctor made a house call for three dollars. Now it’s twenty.”

“A different world, Masao.”

“L.A.P.D. found the yellow Cadillac.”

“Where?”

“Downtown L.A. They’re dusting it.”

“Why don’t we talk about this, Masao?” Wainwright demanded. “I get nervous as hell when you’re holding back.”

“I’m not holding back. I just have a package of wild guesses that don’t fit. As soon as something fits, I’ll let you know. I asked Gellman to have them shake down the hotel until he finds the fat man’s clothes.”

“He won’t. He’s so damn nervous already that he’s not going to do anything to shake the place. Anyway, we know who he is. What’s so important about his clothes?”

“Where they are.”

“Well, we don’t know that. What about Stillman’s wife?”

Masuto picked up the phone and asked Joyce to put him through to police headquarters in Las Vegas. “Who do you know there?” he asked Wainwright.

“I know Brady, the chief. I’ll talk to him.” He took the phone from Masuto, and a moment later he was asking for Chief Brady. Masuto watched him thoughtfully as he said, “Tom, this is Wainwright in Beverly Hills. One of your citizens, feller by the name of Jack Stillman, was shot to death at the Beverly Glen Hotel this morning.” Pause. “No, we got nothing, no motive, no suspects, absolutely nothing. He’s married to Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer.” Pause. “Yeah, at the Sands, you say. Good. Get someone to break it to her, will you? We’ll hold the body until we get her instructions. Thanks.”

As he put down the phone, Officer Bailey came in and informed them that a man called Boris Gritchov was outside in the waiting room. He handed Wainwright a card, which stated that Boris Gritchov was consul general in San Francisco of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

“Bring him in here,” Wainwright said. “And be damned nice to him, and then keep your mouth shut about his being here.”

Gritchov was a tall man, well-dressed, in his early forties, with iron-gray hair and pale gray eyes. He did not offer to shake hands with either of the policemen, and when Wainwright offered him a chair near Masuto’s desk, he appeared to accept it reluctantly. His eyes traveled around the room with its bare walls, its pale green paint, and its painted steel furniture. When he spoke, it was with barely a trace of an accent, and he wasted no time with formalities.

“I would like to see a picture of this man who you say drowned.”

Masuto opened his desk drawer, took out a picture of the drowned man, and handed it to the Russian. He stared at it thoughtfully, but with no change of expression that Masuto could detect. Masuto gave him points for that. If the Russian had anything to give, it would not come by accident or through an emotional lapse.

“I would like to see the body,” he said slowly. “Is it in your morgue?”

“We don’t have a morgue,” Wainwright said. “We have an arrangement with All Saints Hospital, and we use their pathology room and morgue.”