The Case of the Russian Diplomat

4

Riding the mile that separated the police station and All Saints Hospital, the Soviet consul general was rigidly silent, and Masuto made no effort to engage him in conversation. As they entered the pathology room, Dr. Baxter unbent from over the corpse of Jack Stillman, and grinned malevolently at Masuto.

“Back again with a live one,” he said.

“Got the bullet?”

“All wrapped up nice and neat. Thirty-caliber short. Pop, pop! Sounds like a stick breaking, so I guess you won’t find anyone who heard it. Do you want it?”

“Please,” said Masuto.

Baxter handed him a little packet, the bullet wrapped in tissue, which Masuto placed in his jacket pocket. “This is Mr. Gritchov.”

Gritchov was observing the action with interest. He showed no signs of being disturbed by the contents of the pathology room.

“Oh?” Baxter raised a brow.

“I would like to take him into the morgue for identification.”

“You already know his name. You just told me.” Baxter grinned again.

“Very funny. Where’s the body?”

Baxter led the way to the morgue door, but as he started to enter, Masuto barred his way. “We’d like to be alone, Doctor-if you don’t mind.”

“Alone with the dead. How touching!”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I have no objection, and I’m sure the corpse has none.”

Inside the morgue room, Gritchov said, “You’re an interesting man, Detective Sergeant Masuto.”

“All people are interesting, Consul General, if you regard them without judgment.”

“And do you?”

“I try to.” He pointed. “There is the body.”

Gritchov went to the table and drew back the sheet that covered the fat man. Masuto watched as he stood there, studying the face of the dead man. Then Gritchov replaced the sheet.

“You know him?” Masuto asked.

“Yes. His name is Peter Litovsky. He had a small post in the embassy in Washington. He was what we call a cultural attache, one who maintains-”

“I understand the function of a cultural attache.”

“Shocking,” said Gritchov, with nothing in his manner or tone to indicate that it actually was shocking. “I shall have to inform his family, and that will not be pleasant.”

“Then you know him personally?”

“Of course. I had dinner with him two nights ago.”

“Then he was in San Francisco? I thought he was attached to the embassy in Washington.”

“He is. Of course. He came to San Francisco with the Zlatov Dancers. That was entirely within his proper function as cultural attache.”

Puzzled, wondering what had changed an angry, taciturn Russian official, who opened his mouth only to deliver thinly veiled insults, into this almost affable conversationalist, Masuto decided to press his advantage and confessed to being somewhat confused by the fact that Mr. Gritchov had refused to comment on the photograph.

“One wishes to make certain in a serious matter like this.”

“Naturally. Do you know what Mr. Litovsky was doing in Los Angeles?”

“In Beverly Hills, as you pointed out to me, Detective Sergeant. Beverly Hills is very much spoken of, even in our country. I suppose he seized this opportunity to see how the very rich live in a capitalist country. We have no equivalent of Beverly Hills in our country, so it is quite natural for a visitor from the Soviet Union to be curious about it. What an unhappy thing that he had to pay such a price for his curiosity.”

“Do you know whether Mr. Litovsky could swim?”

Gritchov shrugged. “Evidently not.”

“Perhaps you do not remember, but when we spoke on the telephone, I told you that Mr. Litovsky was found naked and drowned in the swimming pool.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I see. Is it the custom in your country for men to swim naked in a public pool?”

“You mean he had no bathing suit?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Furthermore, his clothes, his eyeglasses, his wristwatch, his wallet-all of these things have disappeared. Furthermore, his drowning was not an accident. He was murdered.”

Masuto saw the small muscles around Gritchov’s jaw tighten, but his voice was even as he said, “Can’t we leave this place, Detective Sergeant? It’s cold and the air is fetid.”

Masuto led the way out. Baxter had left, and the two bearded young men working in the pathology room gave them only a passing glance. In that place, death was more interesting than life.

“Where can I take you?” Masuto asked when they were in his car.

“I have a reservation at the Beverly Wilshire.”

“Then you’re staying in Beverly Hills?”

“For the time being.”

“Permit me to say that I am somewhat bewildered. I inform you that a colleague of yours was murdered under very unusual circumstances, that he was left to drown naked in a swimming pool, and you have not even the curiosity to ask me how he was murdered.”

“How was he murdered, Detective Sergeant Masuto?”

“He was given chloral hydrate, probably in a drink, and then when he went into the pool area, probably because he was choking for air, a person or persons unknown pushed him into the pool and saw to it that he drowned. Then they undressed him and left his naked body floating in the pool, a shameful and ignominious end to any life.”

“Detective Sergeant Masuto,” Gritchov said quietly, “you are a small and unimportant public official, the equivalent of what we in our country would call a militiaman. You neither function in nor understand a larger scheme of things. I am a diplomat, with diplomatic immunity. I am not called upon to answer any of your questions. There are men in your country who have both the experience with and the responsibility for what happened to Mr. Litovsky last night, and I am sure that they will take the appropriate measures. I think that closes the subject.”

For once, Masuto envied Wainwright’s choice of language and response. “So sorry, Consul General,” he said. “Most humble apologies.”

Gritchov said no more. Masuto dropped him at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills and then drove back to police headquarters. Sy Beckman was in the office, and he said to Masuto, “Wainwright’s in a lather. What got him so pissed off?”

“The Soviet Union. We had a visit from the consul general.”

“Oh?”

“He charmed us all. What did you come up with in Stillman’s room?”

“Zero. He smokes dollar-fifty H. Upmann cigars. Had half a box there, and I only accepted one of them. It is hell to be an honest cop. Nothing else worth mentioning-not one damn thing. You’d think that if he had a hooker in the room last night, she’d drop a bobby pin or something. Nothing.”

“Prints?”

“You know Sweeney. He got enough prints to keep him busy for a week.”

“How about Stillman’s prints?”

“L.A.P.D. is working on them. Look, Masao, I am starved. Suppose we knock off and go out and eat.”

“Order sandwiches and coffee,” Masuto said with some irritation.

“What’s bugging you?”

“This whole thing. No motive, no reason, no clue, no sanity, and the fat man’s clothes.”

“Masao, you know Freddie Comstock’s a bonehead. Let’s you and me shake down that place ourselves.”

“Maybe later.” He took the tissue-wrapped packet out of his jacket. “Here’s the bullet that killed Stillman. Send it down to ballistics and see what they make out of it. I’ll order the sandwiches. And then come back with the past ten days of the L.A. Times. What kind of a sandwich do you want?”

“Anything that chews.”

Masuto ordered the sandwiches, and Beckman returned with a foot-high pile of the Los Angeles Times. He had learned from experience not to question Masuto’s methods, however far out in left field they happened to be.

“We go through them,” Masuto said, dividing the pile in two. “Page by page.”

“That will take a month.”

“No. Skip the classified and the ads.” He thought about it for a moment. “Skip the sports, theater and financial. Stick to the news. Never mind the columns and the editorials, just the news.”

“What are we looking for? The Russians again?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then what?”

“I’m not sure. Something that connects.”

“Goddamn it, Masao, I go along with you, but this is crazy. What connects?”

“I don’t know, but there has to be something. An important Russian secret agent is murdered. The call comes from Stillman’s room. Stillman is murdered. They both knew something, and whatever they knew is going to happen very soon.”

“So we look for something that connects. Great.”

“Let’s say something as meaningless as all the rest of it. Odd. Different. Then we’ll try to fit it together.”

“You’re the boss.” He grinned suddenly. “Masao, suppose it happened already? That lets us off the hook.”

“That’s a thought,” Masuto agreed. He picked up the phone and asked Joyce to get him Mike Hennesy in the city room at the Los Angeles Times.

“Mike,” he said, “this is Masuto over in Beverly Hills.”

“Great!” Hennesy exclaimed. “Masao, what in hell goes on up there at the Beverly Glen Hotel? We got a drowning and a murder-”

“Hold on!”

“Masao,” came Hennesy’s pleading voice, “it’s the big story today. Come on-”

Masuto put down the phone, and shook his head. “Start on the papers.” The phone rang again. It was Hennesy. “You know I can’t peddle information, Mike. Talk to the captain.”

“Four fires in a single day in West Covina,” Beckman said. “The police suspect arson. Nothing else even shows signs of anything. Here’s another one about the agronomists. The leader of the group is Ilya Moskvich. Leading agronomist in the Soviet Union. Nobel Prize four years ago.”

“Interesting.”

Wainwright walked in and stared at the pile of newspapers. “Never mind, I won’t ask,” he said. “This is what the city pays you for.”

Masuto nodded without replying.

“I heard from Vegas,” Wainwright said.

“Oh?”

“They can’t locate his wife. Stillman’s wife.”

“I thought she was performing at the Sands.”

Beckman looked up and said, “Binnie Vance?”

“That’s right. Stillman’s wife.”

“They got a great police force there in Vegas. Almost as good as ours. They can’t locate Binnie Vance, who’s only opening tomorrow night here in L.A.”

“How do you know that?” Wainwright demanded.

“I’m reading the papers. She opens tomorrow night at the Ventura, that new hotel downtown with the round glass towers.” He turned to Masuto. “Does that connect? It’s true it’s in the theater section, but what the hell, you notice things-”

He paused. Masuto was there and yet not there. He was sitting rigidly, his eyes half closed, and Beckman and Wainwright exchanged glances. Then Masuto said quietly, smiling slightly, “Captain, how do you feel about murders in Beverly Hills?”

“You know damn well how I feel about murders anywhere.”

“Yes. The Russian was unpleasant. They apparently have a very centralized system, and they have a low opinion of underpaid policemen like myself. However, if you insist that this is our case, I think that Sy and I can clear it up in the next twenty-four hours.”

“You got it.”

“And what about Stillman’s prints?”

“He was clean as a whistle,” Wainwright said, “which don’t mean a thing except that he’s never been caught.”

“And the prints on the yellow Cadillac?”

“They’re working on it.” At the door, he paused and said forlornly, “The F.B.I. character should be at the airport about now. It’s been one beautiful day, and it’s not over.”

“It’s not over,” Masuto agreed.

“Did it connect?” Beckman asked.

“What?”

“Binnie Vance.”

“Keep looking.”

“Two German shepherd attack dogs found dead, poisoned, in the Altra Kennels at Azuza?”

“No.”

“Masao, give me a clue.”

“I haven’t any.”

“How about this: ‘Jewish Defense League denies theft of four ounces of lead azide, stolen from the Felcher Company in San Fernando.’”

Masuto was suddenly alert. “What date?”

“Four days ago. What’s lead azide?”

“Read the rest of it.”

“Yeah, here it is. Lead azide, a volatile form of detonator explosive. They reported the theft to the San Fernando police. Whoever took it scratched the letters J.D.L. on the metal container.”

“Convenient.”

“Well, it made ten lines on page eight. What the hell-four ounces of explosive.”

Masuto pushed the papers aside. “Come on, Sy, let’s go for a ride.”

“Where?”

“San Fernando.”

“What makes you think this is a connection? I don’t see it.”

“Neither do I, but I am sick and tired of sitting here. Anyway, it is time I saw my uncle, Toda.”

“Who the hell is your Uncle Toda?

“My father’s younger brother. He has ten acres of oranges outside of San Fernando. Do you know, the land’s worth about forty thousand dollars an acre now. That would make my uncle a rich man, but he says that until he dies, the orchard will not be disturbed.”

“You grew up around there, didn’t you?”

“Before the war. The Valley was like a garden then, no subdivisions, no tract houses, just miles of pecan groves and avocado groves and orange groves. My father used to compare it to Japan. He would say that a place like the San Fernando Valley could feed half the population of Japan. Of course, that was an exaggeration, but that’s the way the people from the old country felt about the Valley.”

They were on their way out when Masuto caught Wainwright’s eye. The captain was talking to a neatly dressed man, gray suit, blue tie, pink cheeks, blue eyes, sandy hair, a man in his forties whose face retained the bland shapelessness of a teenager’s. Wainwright motioned to Masuto.

“This is Mr. Clinton, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Since Clinton did not extend his hand, Masuto made no offer of his. As he examined Masuto, the old gray flannels, the shapeless tweed jacket, the tieless shirt, his cold blue eyes belied the blandness of his face.

“This is Masuto?” he asked Wainwright.

“Detective Sergeant Masuto.”

“I hear you grilled Mr. Gritchov?”

“Grilled? No, sir, that’s hardly the word. I asked him a few questions.”

“Where in hell do you get your nerve? Gritchov is a diplomatic representative of a foreign country, with which at the moment we are in process of most delicate negotiations. He has immunity. How dare you question him.”

“So sorry,” said Masuto. “It simply happens that another representative of the Soviet Union was murdered in a city which employs me as the chief of its homicide division.”

“Peter Litovsky drowned. The kind of loose talk and thoughtless statements you just indulged in could have the most serious consequences.”

“Yes, he was drowned,” Masuto admitted. “He did not drown, he was drowned. There is a specific semantic difference. I would like you to note that, Mr. Clinton. I am not accustomed to loose or thoughtless statements.”

“Who the devil do you think you’re talking to, Masuto?”

“A federal agent. I’m quite aware of that. But you are in Beverly Hills in the State of California. The fact that Peter Litovsky was a Soviet intelligence agent makes him your problem. The fact that he was murdered in Beverly Hills makes him mine.”

“How do you know he was an intelligence agent?” Clinton demanded.

“I told him,” Wainwright said.

“Who gave you the right to? The information given to you was classified.”

“Masuto’s the head of Homicide. Beckman works with him. I felt they ought to know.”

“You felt?”

“That’s right. I felt. And what are you going to do about it, mister?”

“All right. I know the kind of people I’m dealing with. But let me tell you this, and these instructions come from the top. Litovsky drowned-an accidental death. That’s what the newspapers will print, and that’s what you will back up. And Mr. Gritchov will stand on the same ground.”

“All right,” Wainwright agreed. “We cooperate with the federal authorities. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what the newspapers print or what you tell them. But I do give a damn when people come into my city and murder, and as far as I am concerned, Litovsky was murdered and I intend to find out who did it.”

“We are taking over the investigation. I’ll expect your cooperation.”

“I’m honored,” said Wainwright.

“We can do without the sarcasm. I’ll see you later, Captain Wainwright.”

He stalked out of the room, and Wainwright muttered, “That shithead. That miserable shithead.” When Masuto and Beckman started to follow, he snapped, “Where are you two going?”

“To San Fernando.”

“What for? The country air?”

“You don’t need us, Captain. You have the whole F.B.I. working for you. In fact, you don’t even have a crime. You have an accidental drowning.”

“Don’t get cute with me, Masao. I’ve had just about all I can take today.”

“I think we’re on to something-maybe.”

“You don’t want to tell me. I might know what’s happening in this department if you did.”

“I don’t know myself. Something about some explosive that was ripped off in San Fernando a few days ago. I don’t even know how it connects. I just have a feeling that it does.”

“Why don’t you call the San Fernando cops and talk to them?”

“I need the fresh air.”

“The cutes. Everyone has them today. What about this Binnie Vance? Do you want us to find her and tell her?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather tell her myself. I’ll do that tonight.”

“For Christ’s sake, Masao, her husband’s dead.”

“I imagine she knows that by now.”

“Where do you think she is, in that new hotel downtown?”

“Probably.”

“Well, we got to inform her. It’s procedure. You know that.”

“Right.”

“When can I expect you back?”

“Two hours. No more than that.”

As they walked out to Masuto’s car, Beckman said to him, “I sure as hell admire your control, Masao. Maybe it’s Oriental or something. That second-rate putz!”

“I try not to respond to fools.”

“You know, Masao, these shmucks who work for the F.B.I., they get maybe double what we do.”

“I suppose I have heard that word a hundred times. Sy, just what is a shmuck?”

“It’s Yiddish for a flaccid penis.”

“And a putz?”

“Yiddish for an erect penis.”

“A remarkable language,” Masuto said thoughtfully.