The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) (11 page)

Masuto walked into the lobby of the hotel, dropped into a chair, and looked at his watch. It was almost ten o'clock. A long, long day. He turned it over in his mind, trying to remember the events of the day and put them into proper sequence. It was Beckman who caught the piece in the paper about the Russian agronomists. No one else had mentioned them. Was it a three-day visit or a four-day visit that they were making to Southern California? According to Toda Masuto, three days were hardly enough to scratch the surface of the art of orange growing. The Russians could build spaceships, but they couldn't grow oranges. Americans could grow oranges better than anyone in the world, but they couldn't keep their cities from disintegrating. It occurred to him that he had told Beckman to find the agronomists, but then the thing happened to Jack Stillman and they were all there, Beckman and the others, and both he and Beckman forgot about the agronomists. It was a crowded, disorganized day, and that was his fault. He had gone off on a wild goose chase to San Fernando, because someone had stolen some lead azide. Why? What sense did it make? The whole country, no, the whole world was bomb crazy. It had been in his mind all the time. Why hadn't he simply told Beckman to look in the papers for the makings of a bomb? Was it true, he asked himself, that he liked to be mysterious, or was there an undercurrent in his thoughts that he himself was hardly aware of?

He looked up, and there, standing in front of him, was Binnie Vance. She had changed into a yellow pants suit.

“Hello, cop,” she said to him.

“I thought you were tired.”

“You were the tired one.” She dropped into a chair next to him. “I was kind of pissy with you, wasn't I?”

Masuto shrugged.

“I gave you the impression that I didn't give one damn about Jack. That isn't true.”

“Oh?”

“You know anything about Vegas?”

“A little.”

“Jack lived in Vegas fourteen years. He was an operator, and he spent a lot of time in the casinos. That's why he never had a nickel. When you got a crush on the crap tables, you got an expensive habit.”

“I suppose so.”

“You don't spend all those years like that and not get mixed up with the Mob.”

“And was Stillman mixed up with the Mob?” Masuto asked indifferently.

“He was.”

“And you think the Mob put out a contract on him and had him shot?”

“It's happened.”

“If that's the case, that's pretty much the end of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those kind of killings—well, for the most part, they're never solved.”

“You mean you don't care about solving them.”

“No, we care.” He stood up. “Why? Had he run up a score at the tables? Was he a big loser?”

She shrugged. “That's the last thing he'd talk to me about.”

“But you'd know. He was your husband.”

“I don't know.”

“Did you ever hear of the Jewish Defense League?”

“What?”

“The J.D.L., they're called.”

“Should I?”

“Your husband was Jewish. You knew that.”

She stared at him without speaking.

“You're not Jewish, are you?”

“If it's any of your damn business, no!”

“Well, good night,” Masuto said.

7

THE
QUIET
WOMAN

“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.