The Case of the Russian Diplomat

7

“In one day,” Kati said, “you are everywhere. You see the whole world.”

“Not really the whole world, dear Kati.” Masuto was steaming in the hot bath he had looked forward to all day, and Kati sat by the tub with two thick white towels in her lap. She was glad that her husband, who was so very American in so many ways, was at least old-fashioned enough to make a sort of ritual out of his bath.

“Only San Fernando and downtown Los Angeles.”

“Only San Fernando. That’s well enough for you to say. Do you know how long it is since I have been to San Fernando? What can your Uncle Toda think of me?”

“That you are an excellent wife and a devoted mother. What else should he think?”

“That I am an uncaring niece.”

“What nonsense!”

“Anyway, I can’t understand what took you there. What has Uncle Toda to do with these terrible things that happened at the Beverly Glen Hotel?”

“I had to know why the Russians would send five agronomists to Southern California to study orange growing.”

“I could have told you that.”

“You could have?”

“Of course. They don’t know how to grow oranges. That’s all.”

“Kati,” Masuto said, “you are a remarkable woman.”

“I see nothing remarkable about that. It’s only common sense.”

“When you’re a policeman long enough, you tend to forget about common sense.”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You never took me to the Ventura Hotel. It’s a place that tourists come to see from all over the country, but you never took me there. You’re very fine about such things when you’re out doing your work, but as far as I am concerned all you desire is an old-fashioned Japanese wife.”

“You’re not Japanese. You’re American.”

He stood up, and she opened the towel for him, admiring his strong, long-limbed body. “That’s well enough for you to say, but you don’t want an American wife.”

“That’s true. I want you.”

“And of course you are too tired to do anything but say that.” She covered her mouth, to show a proper exhibition of embarrassment. Then she giggled.

“Too tired!”

“What was she like?”

“What was who like?”

“Turn around, and I will dry your back. That woman you took to the Ventura Hotel.”

“For heaven’s sake, I didn’t take her there. She was there. She’s living there. She’s performing there.”

“Ah, so?”

“You never hear anything I tell you. You just don’t listen.”

“That’s because you only tell me what you want me to know. Did you go to her room?”

“No. What on earth would I do that for?”

“She’s a dancer,” Kati said smugly. “You see, I do listen to you.”

“She’s not a woman I would want to have anything to do with.”

“Ah, so. And what kind of women do you desire to have something to do with?”

“Kati, this is not like you.”

“You see, I have changed. And you still haven’t answered me. I asked you what she was like.”

“She’s well masked.”

“You mean when she dances?”

“No, I mean in the Zen sense.”

“You know I don’t understand the Zen sense, whatever that means.”

“I would not like to have this woman as my enemy.”

“Perhaps you already do,” Kati said lightly. “I think, Masao, that you know women less well than you imagine. You think all women are good.”

“Only compared to men. Anyway, I do not like to judge, and good is really a meaningless word. Tell me about Ana. Is her throat better?”

“It’s still scratchy. I think I’ll keep her home tomorrow. She can play in the sunshine in the garden, and one more day out of school won’t hurt. It’s better than medicine. Can you imagine paying a doctor twenty dollars for a house call?”

Masuto considered telling Kati that he had just spent ten dollars for three brandies, and then he thought better of it.

“I’ll meditate a little now-only for ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Oh-will you? Then I am sure I’ll be asleep.”

“Then I’ll meditate in the morning,” he replied, smiling. “You see who is the master here.”

“I see that you spent the evening with an exotic dancer, whatever that may be-something nasty, I’m sure.” She began to giggle, covering her mouth with both hands.

Masuto was awake at six o’clock, refreshed and rested. He put on his saffron robe, leaving Kati still asleep, and went into the living room to meditate. He had often thought of how pleasant it would be to have a small room, walls painted ivory, with no furniture other than a grass mat and a single black meditation pillow, but for a police sergeant with two small children that was impossible. He had a fleeting thought of the two acres that his Uncle Toda would certainly leave him, but he cast that aside. It was an unworthy thought, and in any case, Uncle Toda would probably live for ninety-five useful years.

The meditation took hold. He was alive without moving, listening without hearing, focused entirely on the even rise and fall of his breath. Somewhere, Kati’s alarm clock sounded, and then there was the laughter and the muted sounds of the children. As the meditation ended, the room had begun to fill with the delicious smell of crisp, fried bacon.

He ate an enormous breakfast, three eggs, bacon, and two of the fish cakes which Kati had saved from the night before, washed down with two cups of coffee. With Ana protesting against being kept out of school and with the boy dashing through the door to meet the school bus and with Kati glowing in a lovely pink and green kimono, it appeared to be the most normal of days in the most normal of worlds, and Masuto reflected that although his work now and then took Turn into the depths of a nightmare, he was nevertheless the most fortunate of men.

With that kind of glowing thought, he could not resist the temptation to spend at least fifteen minutes in his rose garden. There he found chafers, which must be removed, one by one by hand. Chafers-and he was already late. Groaning, he abandoned the roses and went out to his car. It took him awhile to get his mind off the subject of chafers and onto the curious jigsaw puzzle of the previous day.

Beckman was already in the office when Masuto arrived, his feet on his desk, drinking coffee from a container and eating a piece of Danish pastry.

“Sy, you remember yesterday I told you to catch up with the agronomists?”

“Yeah, but then Stillman got himself scragged, and we never caught up with anything. Anyway, it says here in the Times that they’re pulling out on the five o’clock flight for Miami.”

“And what about the clothes?”

“What clothes? You want some of this Danish?” Beckman asked him.

“No, it’s poison. The Russian’s clothes. The drowned man.”

“Yeah, that. I called Fred Comstock this morning as soon as I got in. He hasn’t turned anything up.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Right. He’s a living proof that the body can survive after the brain dies. What difference do the clothes make now, Masao? We know who he is.”

“I don’t give a damn about the clothes. It’s where they were hidden and why they were hidden.”

“They’ll turn up.”

“Perhaps. Sy, get Sweeney in here, will you, and tell him to bring whatever he has.”

Small, skinny, truculent, Sweeney watched Masuto carefully remove the brandy glass from his handkerchief.

“Going to offer me a drink, Sergeant?”

Masuto grinned at Sweeney. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“Why the hell are you being polite to me?”

“I am always polite to you,” Masuto said.

“You,” said Sweeney, “are why I don’t miss a confession, so I can tell the priest that I dream of cutting your throat. You would abolish me. You are the clown who is always telling the press that fingerprints are a crock. Now you want favors.”

“I have seen the light,” Masuto said humbly.

“That’ll be the day.”

“Sweeney,” Masuto said, “I admire you. You are the most professional part of this department. Even the L.A. cops downtown say that you’re better than anyone they have.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ask Beckman.”

“That’s right,” said Beckman. “That’s what they say.”

“Well, goddamn it, I know my business.”

“I know you do. Now tell me, did you find anything in Stillman’s room that matches up with what the L.A. cops took off the yellow Cadillac?”

Sweeney grinned.

“You did?”

“Kind of surprised, aren’t you?”

“What did you get?”

“One print. Second finger, I think. But both of them are good, clear prints and they match.”

“Good. Good. Maybe the right hand?”

“I think so.”

“Great. Now take this glass, and see if you can come up with another print that matches the two you have. It’s a possibility.”

Sweeney nodded. “You think you’re on to something?”

“If I am, I’m going to credit you big, Sweeney. I mean that.”

“Just show respect, Masao. That’s all I ask.”

“You have it. Now listen, Sweeney, do the L.A. cops have a machine that can transmit prints to Interpol?”

“If it’s a machine, they got it.”

“They can send pictures,” Beckman said, “so they can send prints.”

“What else did you pick up in the room that isn’t Stillman’s or the chambermaid’s?”

“I got three good ones,” Sweeney said.

“Put them through to Interpol, and all of them to Washington. The matching set, the car and the room-put them through to the New York cops and to Chicago. But all of them to Interpol, and all of them to Washington.”

“That’s going to cost a bundle, Masao, and you know how the L.A. cops are. They want a guarantee that they’re going to get paid.”

“Get an authorization from Wainwright.”

“He’s not here,” said Beckman. “He went downtown this morning to meet with the Feds. He said to remind you that the G-man wants you to bring all the records on the case down there at eleven o’clock.”

“Get the authorization. I’ll sign it myself.”

When Sweeney had left to get the authorization, Beckman said to Masuto, “What’s this all about, Masao?”

“A lot of wild guesses. I could put them together, but what would it mean? I still have nothing.”

“Whose hand was around that brandy glass?”

“Binnie Vance’s.”

“You don’t say.” He looked at Masuto with new respect. “When did you see her?”

“Last night at the Ventura Hotel. Would you believe it, ten dollars for three brandies?”

“Is she all they say?”

“She is.”

“And you think she killed Stillman?”

“If she did, I’d like to know why.”

“She only just married him. That’s a quick turnoff.”

Sweeney came back with the authorization. Masuto signed it and then said to Sweeney, “Would you do me a favor?”

“Now that you seen the light, yes.”

“Stop off at the Ventura Hotel on your way downtown. There’s a man called Peterson who runs the Arabian Room, or if you don’t find him, there must be a P.R. office for the hotel. Tell them you want a picture of Binnie Vance, and then have the L.A. cops put it through with the fingerprints.”

“To all them places?”

“We might as well.”

“Wainwright’s going to yell like hell.”

“If he’s going to have murders, it’s got to cost,” said Beckman.

“Put it through to the cops in Bonn in Germany too. We might as well go the whole hog.”

“You’re the boss, Masao.”

“You got him eating out of your hand,” said Beckman, after Sweeney had gone. “Did the L.A. cops really say that about Sweeney?”

“I stretched it.”

“Well, they won’t tell him. It’s nine-thirty, Masao. What do you want me to do while you’re down there with the Feds?”

“Find Litovsky’s clothes.”

“I’ll give it a try. You think this Binnie Vance, being an exotic dancer and hotheaded and full of piss and vinegar, comes into Stillman’s room and finds him with that big blond hooker and loses all her cool and kills him?”

“Stillman was shaving. That doesn’t sound very passionate.”

“You think maybe Stillman invented the hooker?”

“Maybe.”

“Funny, in a place like the Beverly Glen Hotel, you don’t have to invent. You just reach out and take. So no hooker. Who was in the room and made the call, Binnie Vance?”

“Maybe. She claims she flew in from Las Vegas yesterday morning.”

The telephone rang. Beckman picked it up, listened for a moment, and then passed it to Masuto.

“Masao?” It was Kati’s voice, high-pitched, uncontrolled.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Ana’s gone!”

“Kati, get hold of yourself! What do you mean, Ana’s gone?”

“She isn’t here. She’s gone.”

“Where was she?”

“In the garden. She was there playing with her doll, Masao. Then I turned away for a few minutes. I went into the kitchen-” Her voice broke, and she began to sob.

“Kati! Kati, get hold of yourself!”

“I shouldn’t have left her alone. I looked out of the kitchen window, and she was gone.”

“Did you look for her? She may have wandered off.”

“Masao, it was only a minute or two.” She was sobbing uncontrollably now.

“Please, Kati, please. You must talk to me. Get hold of yourself.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“Now just what happened?”

“I tried-I tried to see her from the kitchen window. Then I went out into the garden. I thought she was hiding. I thought she was playing a game. I didn’t know-”

“Kati!”

“So I looked everywhere. Then I began to call her. Then I went out on the street. I ran up and down the street. I looked everywhere. But she’s gone.”

“She didn’t go back into the house?”

“How could she, except through the kitchen?”

“All right. Now look, Kati dear, this is not your fault. I’m sure Ana is all right. I want you to stay in the house. Don’t go out looking for her again. Just stay in the house, and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t talk to anyone about this. Just stay there and be calm, do you understand?”

“You’ll find her, Masao, please.”

“I’ll find her.”

Then he turned to Beckman. “Come on, Sy.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you in the car. Let’s get moving.”