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

heard it. Do you want it?”
    â€œPlease,” said Masuto.
    Baxter handed him a little packet, the bullet wrapped in tissue, which Masuto placed in his jacket pocket. “This is Mr. Gritchov.”
    Gritchov was observing the action with interest. He showed no signs of being disturbed by the contents of the pathology room.
    â€œOh?” Baxter raised a brow.
    â€œI would like to take him into the morgue for identification.”
    â€œYou already know his name. You just told me.” Baxter grinned again.
    â€œVery funny. Where’s the body?”
    Baxter led the way to the morgue door, but as he started to enter, Masuto barred his way. “We’d like to be alone, Doctor—if you don’t mind.”
    â€œAlone with the dead. How touching!”
    â€œIf you don’t mind.”
    â€œI have no objection, and I’m sure the corpse has none.”
    Inside the morgue room, Gritchov said, “You’re an interesting man, Detective Sergeant Masuto.”
    â€œAll people are interesting, Consul General, if you regard them without judgment.”
    â€œAnd do you?”
    â€œI try to.” He pointed. “There is the body.”
    Gritchov went to the table and drew back the sheet that covered the fat man. Masuto watched as he stood there, studying the face of the dead man. Then Gritchov replaced the sheet.
    â€œYou know him?” Masuto asked.
    â€œYes. His name is Peter Litovsky. He had a small post in the embassy in Washington. He was what we call a cultural attaché, one who maintains—”
    â€œI understand the function of a cultural attaché.”
    â€œShocking,” said Gritchov, with nothing in his manner or tone to indicate that it actually was shocking. “I shall have to inform his family, and that will not be pleasant.”
    â€œThen you know him personally?”
    â€œOf course. I had dinner with him two nights ago.”
    â€œThen he was in San Francisco? I thought he was attached to the embassy in Washington.”
    â€œHe is. Of course. He came to San Francisco with the Zlatov Dancers. That was entirely within his proper function as cultural attaché.”
    Puzzled, wondering what had changed an angry, taciturn Russian official, who opened his mouth only to deliver thinly veiled insults, into this almost affable conversationalist, Masuto decided to press his advantage and confessed to being somewhat confused by the fact that Mr. Gritchov had refused to comment on the photograph.
    â€œOne wishes to make certain in a serious matter like this.”
    â€œNaturally. Do you know what Mr. Litovsky was doing in Los Angeles?”
    â€œIn Beverly Hills, as you pointed out to me, Detective Sergeant. Beverly Hills is very much spoken of, even in our country. I suppose he seized this opportunity to see how the very rich live in a capitalist country. We have no equivalent of Beverly Hills in our country, so it is quite natural for a visitor from the Soviet Union to be curious about it. What an unhappy thing that he had to pay such a price for his curiosity.”
    â€œDo you know whether Mr. Litovsky could swim?”
    Gritchov shrugged. “Evidently not.”
    â€œPerhaps you do not remember, but when we spoke on the telephone, I told you that Mr. Litovsky was found naked and drowned in the swimming pool.”
    â€œYes. Of course.”
    â€œI see. Is it the custom in your country for men to swim naked in a public pool?”
    â€œYou mean he had no bathing suit?”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I mean. Furthermore, his clothes, his eyeglasses, his wristwatch, his wallet—all of these things have disappeared. Furthermore, his drowning was not an accident. He was murdered.”
    Masuto saw the small muscles around Gritchov’s jaw tighten, but his voice was even as he said, “Can’t we leave this place, Detective Sergeant? It’s cold and the air is fetid.”
    Masuto led the way out. Baxter