The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) (14 page)

They were turning off Sunset Boulevard now, entering the long driveway of the Beverly Glen Hotel. It was twelve minutes after eleven o'clock in the morning.

“No evidence and no motive,” Masuto said. “But it's all we have.”

Sal Monti opened the door. His grin vanished when he saw Masuto's face.

“Just keep it in front where we can get it quickly,” Masuto told him. “Don't park it down the hill.”

“A Toyota in front? It makes a lousy—”

“You just damn well do as I tell you!” Masuto snapped.

“All right, all right. Don't burn my ass off.”

They went into the hotel. Comstock was sitting in the lobby, reading the Los Angeles
Times
. In an attempt to blend with the surroundings, he wore wide-bottom slacks and a golfing sweater. His shirt was open two buttons on the top. It went oddly with his square face and bristly gray hair. When he saw Masuto and Beckman enter, he jumped up to greet them.

“Anything I can do for you boys?”

“You didn't find the clothes?” Masuto asked.

“No, sir, Masao. I turned this place inside out. You know, you're the second party asked me that today. The Fed was here, bright and early this morning.”

“Arvin Clinton, the F.B.I, man?”

“Him and a buddy.”

“What did they want?”

“They asked me a few questions, same stuff about yesterday, and then they wanted to see the pool. So I took them down to the pool, and they stood there looking at it for about five minutes. Then they wanted to know what part of the pool the fat man was in. So I showed them. Then you know what they tell me, Masao?”

Masuto and Beckman exchanged glances.

“Tell us.”

“They tell me the fat man drowned. I know he drowned, I say to them. So they say to me, no, Mr. Comstock. The word's around that he was murdered. That's dangerous talk. That's the kind of talk that makes a lot of trouble. You're a decent patriotic American, and you don't want to get involved in that kind of trouble. So you just remember that this is an accidental drowning. The fat man falls in the pool and he drowns.”

“And then?”

“And then they take off. The funny thing is, I been reading the L.A.
Times
and that's the story they been running, that the fat man drowned by accident.”

Masuto nodded. “I guess that's the way it is, Fred. Tell me something, do you know of any hotel employee who didn't show up for work yesterday or today?”

“Jesus Christ, Masao, there got to be maybe a hundred people work in the hotel, with the gardeners and the restaurants and the chambermaids. There ain't no day when one of them don't show up.”

“Who runs the bellhops?”

“Artie. That's the big black guy over there.”

They walked over to the tall black man, who nodded and said, “I know you, Sergeant. What can I do for you?”

“How many men work for you?”

“I got four good boys.”

“Any of them call in sick yesterday or today?”

“No, sir. They are all on the job.”

“I'll try the Rugby Room,” Masuto said to Beckman. “You go downstairs and do the laundry.”

The Rugby Room and the open lanai that was the outdoor connecting part of it was sparsely populated by the last of the late breakfasters. It was still too early for lunch. It was a warm, lovely June day, and the doors to the lanai were wide open, revealing the wrought-iron tables and the pink tablecloths. As Masuto stood there, studying the place, he was approached by Fritz, the maitre d'hôtel.

“Sergeant Masuto, is it breakfast? As our guest, please.”

“I had breakfast. How many people work in your room, Fritz?”

“Bartenders, waiters, waitresses, busboys, the kitchen help-all of them?”

“Yes.”

“Forty-two, I think. We overlap because we are open sixteen hours a day.”

“Fritz, I'm interested in someone who didn't turn up for work yesterday and today.”

“That's every day, Sergeant. If not for goldbricking, I could get by with five people less.”

“I'm interested in yesterday and today.”

“There's Johnny at the bar. He was out yesterday, but he came in today. Ah—let's see. There is a kid we take on for busboy, maybe a week ago. Look, Sergeant, I don't want no trouble about this. It's hard as hell to find busboys—especially busboys who got more brains than a cow. So we don't ask too many questions when we get one we can use.”

“Fritz, I'm not going to make any trouble for you. But this is life and death.”

“As serious as that? Sure. Anyway, this kid, he got too many smarts for a busboy. He's not in yesterday. Today, he's on the late shift, starts at noon. Hey, Max,” he called to one of the waiters, “is Frank in yet, that new busboy?”

“No sign of him yet.”

“His name is Frank—Frank what?”

Fritz shook his head. “I can get it for you.”

“Wait. What does he look like?”

“Very dark, black hair. Maybe twenty, twenty-one. Skinny.”

“Chicano?”

“No, not Chicano. Some of the boys try to talk to him in Spanish, but he doesn't know Spanish. Some kind of accent, not German or French, because I can spot that. I figure he's some kind of student maybe.”

“Fritz,” Masuto said, trying to control his eagerness, “the people who work here, they have to come off the street and change into their work clothes. Where?”

“We got a dressing room behind the kitchen.”

“Take me there.”

“Sure, sure. You think there's something funny about that kid?” He led the way through the cocktail lounge into the kitchen and through it. “You know what kind of trouble we got already? You need a busboy, everyone says there are five million unemployed, but go try to find a busboy. So we can't pick and choose.”

“I know, I know,” Masuto said.

They were in a narrow room now, a room about twelve feet long, a wooden bench running down the middle and rows of metal lockers on either side. Most of the lockers had padlocks on them. A waiter sat on the bench, lacing his shoes.

“Which is his locker, Fritz?”

“We look. The names are on them.”

The waiter stopped dressing to watch them. Fritz was farsighted, fumbling for his glasses as Masuto traced through the names.

“Here!” Masuto cried. “Frank Franco!”

The locker was padlocked.

“I want this opened, Fritz. Now!”

Fritz nodded.

“Now, damn you! Now!”

“Sure, sure.” He turned to the waiter. “Steve, go get the handyman.”

“What did the kid do? You can't just-”

“Get the handyman,” Masuto said, his voice like ice. “I'm a policeman. You have him here in five minutes, or I swear I'll take you in.”

“Sure. Okay. I'll get him.” He got up, stared at Masuto a moment, then left.

“Fritz, does anyone know anything about this kid? Do you have an address for him?”

Fritz shook his head hopelessly. “All right, you don't hire people this way. He said he was looking for a place to live. He had just come into town. So I let it go, and a couple of days ago, I ask him again. He says he thinks he got a place—”

“Goddamn it, are you telling me you hire like that? Where was he sleeping?”

“Sergeant, I swear, I'm telling the truth. It happens.”

“All right, it happens,” Masuto said more softly. “Who did he talk to? Did he make any friends?”

Fritz creased his brows. He was a large, soft man, and he knew he was in trouble. The whole thing frightened him. He had never been at ease with the complex of laws that surrounded hiring, Social Security, withheld taxes, and compensation, and in this particular case he had short-circuited everything. He took out his handkerchief, wiped his brow, and said, “I try to help, yes? I do my best. A few times, I see him talking to Maria.”

“Who's Maria?”

“Maria Constanza—she's a good girl, a Chicano. I don't want no trouble for her. She's a waitress. She works in the lanai. In the lanai we have waitresses. She works three years here.”

“Is she here?”

“Yes.”

“Get her in here.”

“All right, I bring her.”

As he left, the handyman entered carrying his tool box—a middle-aged man whose blue eyes peered inquiringly at Masuto from behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Are you the cop?” he wanted to know.

“Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police. Open this locker for me.”

“You sure you got the right?”

“I'm damn sure. Now open it.”

He took out his hammer and gave the padlock a couple of sharp blows. It was a combination lock. Nothing happened. “Sometimes you can spring them, sometimes you can't.” Then he took out a hacksaw and went to work. He was sawing away at the lock when Fritz returned with Maria Constanza.

She was a slender, pretty girl, with wide brown eyes and a look of fear on her face.

“Maria Constanza?” Masuto asked.

She nodded.

“Sit down please,” he said, indicating the bench. “Don't be afraid.”

She sat down tentatively, staring at him.

“Would it be better if we talked in Spanish? Would it be easier for you?”

“
Por favor
” she whispered.

Then he spoke in Spanish. “Don't be afraid. Nothing will happen to you. But if you can help me, a little girl's life might be saved.”

“I will try to help you.”

“That locker,” he said, pointing to where the handyman was sawing away, “belonged to a man called Frank Franco. Fritz tells me that you were friendly with him.”

She nodded again. “Yes.”

“How friendly?”

“What did he do?” she whispered.

“I don't know-yet.”

While they were speaking, Beckman came into the room. He exchanged glances with Masuto, shook his head, and then noticed the handyman sawing away. He stood silently.

“We talked to each other,” Maria said. “We had one date. He took me to the movies. We saw the picture called
King Kong
.”

“Did he ever tell you anything about himself?”

“A little. He was lonely. He lived with his brother.”

“His name was not Frank Franco.”

“You know that?”

“What was his real name?” Masuto asked gently.

“Issa.”

“Issa what?”

“I don't know.” She shook her head. “He never told me. But he said I might call him Issa, not in the restaurant, but when we were alone. He made me promise that I would never reveal his name. Now I've broken my promise.”

“You're an illegal immigrant?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Don't be afraid, please. The fact that you're an illegal immigrant is no business of mine. Nothing will happen to you. I promise you.”

“Please. I must work. I have a little boy who will starve if I don't work. My husband is in Mexico. This is the first man—I can't lose my job, please.”

“You will not lose your job.” He turned to Fritz. “She's done nothing, Fritz. I don't what her to lose her job.”

“She's a good girl. Maria,” Fritz said to her, “tell him whatever he wants to know. You won't lose your job.”

“This man, Issa,” Masuto said in Spanish, “is he an Arab?”

“I don't know. When I asked him where he was from, he just shrugged and said it was far away. He and his brother were students at the University of Nevada. Then they came here.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

She nodded. “We stopped by his house that night. He wanted to put on a clean shirt. I sat in the car.”

“Where? What address?”

“I don't know.” She shook her head. “I didn't see the address. It was on Fountain Avenue, a few blocks east of Western.”

“Would you recognize the house?”

“I think so.”

“What kind of car did he drive?”

“The locker's open,” the handyman said.

“Can I go?” Maria asked tremulously.

“No. Please. Stay here.”

“I must go back to the room,” Fritz said.

“Yes. Fritz, find someone to take over for her. I want her with us for a few hours.”

Beckman was at the locker. “What did she say, Masao? My Spanish is lousy. You asked her if she knew where he lives.”

“She thinks she could recognize the house.” He opened the locker. There, neatly folded, were a suit of blue worsted, shoes, socks, underwear, shirt and tie, and on top of them a wallet, a notebook, a wristwatch, and a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles.

“You can go now,” Masuto said to the handyman. “And just keep your mouth shut about this.”

“I got to tell Mr. Gellman that I opened the locker.”

“All right. Tell him to talk to Sergeant Masuto about it. And you tell no one else.”

He left, and they were alone in the room with the girl, who sat forlornly on the bench.

“Put it all together, Sy,” he said to Beckman. “We'll take it with us. Handle the glasses and the watch with your handkerchief. Sweeney may be able to take some prints from them.”

Then he turned to the girl. “I want you to help us, Maria. I want you to come with us—just for a half hour or so, and then you can come back here to work.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to show us the house where Issa lives.”

“What will happen to him?”

“Whatever he makes happen.”

“Will you hurt him?”

“I hope not.”

“Should I change my clothes?”

“No, we have no time for that. Just as you are is fine. Come on, Sy.”

Beckman, carrying the bundle of clothes, followed them out of the room.

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