The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) by Howard Fast

him points for that. If the Russian had anything to give, it would not come by accident or through an emotional lapse.
    â€œI would like to see the body,” he said slowly. “Is it in your morgue?”
    â€œWe don’t have a morgue,” Wainwright said. “We have an arrangement with All Saints Hospital, and we use their pathology room and morgue.”
    â€œIsn’t that strange for Los Angeles?” the Russian asked. “I always understood that Los Angeles had a large and efficient police force and sufficient violent death to warrant a morgue.” He underlined his question with a thinly concealed tone of contempt.
    â€œWe are not Los Angeles. This is the City of Beverly Hills.”
    â€œBut this is Los Angeles,” the Russian insisted.
    â€œLos Angeles County, yes,” Masuto explained. “The county contains a number of cities, including Los Angeles. It’s true that most of Beverly Hills is surrounded by the City of Los Angeles, but we are nevertheless an independent city with its own police force.” He felt almost like a character in Alice in Wonderland , explaining local geography to a man who has just discovered that a colleague and countryman of his was dead. “May I ask you whether you can identify the man in the photograph?”
    â€œYou are Japanese?” Gritchov asked.
    â€œNisei, which means an American born of Japanese parents.”
    â€œAnd a policeman.”
    Masuto directed a warning glance at Wainwright, who appeared ready to explode, and then said softly, “So very sorry, Consul General, but America is a place of ethnic diversity which, unlike your country, makes no claims to ethnic purity.”
    Gritchov’s face tightened slightly, but he kept his tone as polite as Masuto’s. “You know very little of the Soviet Union.”
    â€œAh, so, I am sure. But I was not thinking of the Soviet Union but of Russia. But I may be mistaken. If so, you have my profound apologies. Nevertheless, would you be kind enough to tell us whether you know the man in the photograph?”
    â€œI would prefer, if you will, to have this whole matter taken under the auspices of the Los Angeles Police Department.”
    â€œThat’s impossible,” Wainwright said shortly.
    â€œThen I would like to see the body immediately. I also believe, Captain, that no formal request of the Soviet Union in a matter like this should be dismissed as impossible by a petty bureaucrat.”
    â€œIf you will wait outside for a moment or two, Mr. Gritchov,” Wainwright said slowly, as if each word choked him, “I will have Detective Sergeant Masuto take you to All Saints Hospital.”
    Gritchov nodded and left the office, closing the door behind him, and Wainwright burst out, “That lousy son of a bitch! Petty bureaucrat!”
    â€œI think we both behaved with admirable control, Captain.”
    â€œAnd we continue to. And for Christ’s sake, cut out that Charlie Chan stuff. He’s no fool, and I don’t want any backwash. Take him over to the hospital. I’m going up to talk with the city manager.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œAnd don’t push it. If the goddamn F.B.I. wants it, let them have it.” At the door he paused. “You still think that hooker in the hotel killed him?”
    Masuto shrugged and nodded.
    â€œScrew the F.B.I! Petty bureaucrat! That bastard!”

4

    THE
F.B.I.
MAN
    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.
    â€œBack again with a live one,” he said.
    â€œGot the bullet?”
    â€œAll wrapped up nice and neat. Thirty-caliber short. Pop, pop! Sounds like a stick breaking, so I guess you won’t find anyone who