The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) (3 page)

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.”