The Case of the Russian Diplomat

2

Masuto lay steaming luxuriously in water as hot as he could bear. Kati, having just seen the children into their school bus, entered the bathroom with an enormous white towel and settled herself on the stool to await her husband’s completion of his bath. To Masuto, a hot bath was not simply a hot bath; it was the continuation of an ancient ritual without which life would have been considerably less tolerable.

He had already told her about the incidents of the night, and now she said, rather plaintively, “You know that I have never been to the Beverly Glen Hotel. Wouldn’t it be pleasant if we could have dinner there some night and I could see that famous Rugby Room? My mother would be happy to stay with the children.”

“No.”

“But she would.”

“I was not referring to your excellent mother, but to the Beverly Glen Hotel.”

“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?”

“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.

“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.

Masuto went back into the bedroom, picked up the telephone, and dialed his headquarters. “Joyce,” he said to the operator, “this is Masuto. Give me Captain Wainwright.”

“Masao,” Wainwright said, “where the hell are you? It’s almost twelve, and I want you here when that Russian shows up. And by the way, the F.B.I, knows who our drowned man is. I didn’t think those jokers knew which side was up, but they pegged him right off. And it’s got class, Masao. They asked me not to pass it on to the local clowns. They’re flying some special character in from Washington-his name is Arvin Clinton, but that’s between you and me. Nothing to anyone else, nothing to the papers. This is a doozy. Nobody wants publicity. So just get your ass over here.”

“That’s all very interesting,” Masuto agreed.

“Thank you. Did you hear me? Where the devil are you?”

“At the hotel.”

“Good. Nothing to Gellman. Just tell him that we’ll cooperate to keep a lid on this if he’ll just bottle up the loudmouths at the hotel.”

“I’m in Jack Stillman’s room.”

“Christ, he couldn’t listen in?”

“No, Captain. He’s dead.”

“What!”

“Someone shot him through the back of the head while he was shaving.”

“You’re putting me on.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

“Murdered?”

“It would seem so. The back of his head and no gun in sight.”

“Anyone else there?”

“Just me. I thought I’d talk to him again. I waited too long.”

“Gellman will truly have a fit when he hears about this.”

“I think I hear him knocking at the door,” Masuto said. “I told him to meet me here.”

“All right. Keep him there until I get there. I’ll call Baxter and have him meet us there. Christ, Masao, what about the Russian?”

“He can’t get to L.A. before another hour. No way. I have to answer the door.”

Masuto hung up the telephone and went to the door.