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

had left, and the two bearded young men working in the pathology room gave them only a passing glance. In that place, death was more interesting than life.
    â€œWhere can I take you?” Masuto asked when they were in his car.
    â€œI have a reservation at the Beverly Wilshire.”
    â€œThen you’re staying in Beverly Hills?”
    â€œFor the time being.”
    â€œPermit me to say that I am somewhat bewildered. I inform you that a colleague of yours was murdered under very unusual circumstances, that he was left to drown naked in a swimming pool, and you have not even the curiosity to ask me how he was murdered.”
    â€œHow was he murdered, Detective Sergeant Masuto?”
    â€œHe was given chloral hydrate, probably in a drink, and then when he went into the pool area, probably because he was choking for air, a person or persons unknown pushed him into the pool and saw to it that he drowned. Then they undressed him and left his naked body floating in the pool, a shameful and ignominious end to any life.”
    â€œDetective Sergeant Masuto,” Gritchov said quietly, “you are a small and unimportant public official, the equivalent of what we in our country would call a militiaman. You neither function in nor understand a larger scheme of things. I am a diplomat, with diplomatic immunity. I am not called upon to answer any of your questions. There are men in your country who have both the experience with and the responsibility for what happened to Mr. Litovsky last night, and I am sure that they will take the appropriate measures. I think that closes the subject.”
    For once, Masuto envied Wainwright’s choice of language and response. “So sorry, Consul General,” he said. “Most humble apologies.”
    Gritchov said no more. Masuto dropped him at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills and then drove back to police headquarters. Sy Beckman was in the office, and he said to Masuto, “Wainwright’s in a lather. What got him so pissed off?”
    â€œThe Soviet Union. We had a visit from the consul general.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œHe charmed us all. What did you come up with in Stillman’s room?”
    â€œZero. He smokes dollar-fifty H. Upmann cigars. Had half a box there, and I only accepted one of them. It is hell to be an honest cop. Nothing else worth mentioning—not one damn thing. You’d think that if he had a hooker in the room last night, she’d drop a bobby pin or something. Nothing.”
    â€œPrints?”
    â€œYou know Sweeney. He got enough prints to keep him busy for a week.”
    â€œHow about Stillman’s prints?”
    â€œL.A.P.D. is working on them. Look, Masao, I am starved. Suppose we knock off and go out and eat.”
    â€œOrder sandwiches and coffee,” Masuto said with some irritation.
    â€œWhat’s bugging you?”
    â€œThis whole thing. No motive, no reason, no clue, no sanity, and the fat man’s clothes.”
    â€œMasao, you know Freddie Comstock’s a bonehead. Let’s you and me shake down that place ourselves.”
    â€œMaybe later.” He took the tissue-wrapped packet out of his jacket. “Here’s the bullet that killed Stillman. Send it down to ballistics and see what they make out of it. I’ll order the sandwiches. And then come back with the past ten days of the L.A. Times . What kind of a sandwich do you want?”
    â€œAnything that chews.”
    Masuto ordered the sandwiches, and Beckman returned with a foot-high pile of the Los Angeles Times . He had learned from experience not to question Masuto’s methods, however far out in left field they happened to be.
    â€œWe go through them,” Masuto said, dividing the pile in two. “Page by page.”
    â€œThat will take a month.”
    â€œNo. Skip the classified and the ads.” He thought about it for a moment. “Skip the sports, theater and financial. Stick to the