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

comment! Go back and talk to Gellman.”
    When they were in the car, Masuto said gently, “You could have given them something.”
    â€œNo, sir. Not one word out of either of us. This is tangled up with Washington, and nobody says that you or me shot our mouths off. Now what the hell is all this about knowing who did it?”
    â€œI don’t know, I make guesses. What is a guess worth when you don’t have motive or a shred of evidence?”
    â€œYou wouldn’t like to tell me?”
    â€œTo what end? Your guess is as good as mine.”
    â€œLike hell it is. I don’t know why I put up with you, Masao. You are the most peculiar Oriental son of a bitch I ever encountered. Now what the devil is all this about a yellow caddy and the All Points?”
    â€œStillman rented the yellow Cadillac at the airport. Someone took the keys out of Monti’s box this morning and drove it away.”
    â€œYou said a woman.”
    â€œThat was a guess. I think a woman killed Stillman. I think the same woman drove off in his car. Nothing’s going to come of that, believe me, Captain. You said the F.B.I. knows who the dead man is. Who is he?”
    â€œI never liked that little bastard.”
    â€œWhat little bastard?”
    â€œSal Monti. Someone just takes the keys out of his box. Horseshit.”
    â€œIt can happen. What about the fat man?”
    â€œThis is what I got from the F.B.I. I told you they’re sending a special man out here. I hate those bastards. I guess every cop in America hates them. Anyway, according to the Feds, the dead man’s name is Peter Litovsky. He’s attached to the Soviet embassy in Washington as cultural attaché, whatever that means.”
    â€œIt’s a very minor post. I imagine his job would be to effect cultural exchanges, keep us posted on what is happening in the Russian theater, concert stage, and so on. And the same thing in the other direction.”
    â€œThat may be, except that this Litovsky is not what he seems to be. The Feds say that he’s one of the top men in Soviet Intelligence, whatever their equivalent of the C.I.A. is, and that he uses the cultural attaché job as a cover, and what I can’t understand is that if they know all this, why in hell do they let him operate?”
    â€œI suppose because we do the same thing.”
    â€œAnd instead of being pleased that he’s dead, they’re in a lather over it. Goddamn it, Masao, they talked to me like I’m their errand boy. Hell, I don’t work for them. We’re not to mess it up. We’re not to louse up any evidence. We’re not to give out anything to the press. They will take over the inquiry. They are conferring with the Soviets. This is classified.”
    â€œWho did you talk to there?”
    â€œThe top man. A half hour after we sent them the picture, they telephoned me.”
    â€œAnd?”
    Wainwright looked at Masuto and grinned. “I told them that a murder had taken place in Beverly Hills, and as chief of the plainclothes division of the Beverly Hills police force, I was following routine procedure.”
    â€œHe must have loved that.” Masuto permitted himself a slight smile.
    â€œHe loved it.”
    They were at the police station now. Masuto stopped to talk to Joyce. She looked pleased with herself.
    â€œThe yellow Cadillac,” she told Masuto, “is a Carway rental. It’s a two-door 1976 convertible, the only one they have, and they had a fit when I told them it was a police inquiry. I told them not to worry about their car.”
    â€œYou told them that?”
    â€œIndeed I did. Because just before I called them, the L.A.P.D. phoned in that they had found the car.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œParked downtown at a meter in front of the public library. Not a scratch on it, but it was ticketed for overtime.”
    â€œBut you didn’t tell them to do a fingerprint