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

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    â€œSergeant Masuto, it just happens that I did. Now what do you think of that?”
    â€œI think you’re wonderful, and you also have blond hair and blue eyes. And I’d guess you’re about five feet eight inches?”
    â€œI am, but what has that got to do with anything?”
    â€œThat is what I’d like to know,” Masuto said.
    In his office, the phone was ringing. It was his wife, Kati, and he was suddenly worried. It was rarely that she called him at police headquarters.
    â€œMasao,” Kati said unhappily, “they sent Ana home from school with a sore throat.”
    â€œIs that all?”
    Illness in one of the children terrified Kati. “All?” she cried. “She has a hundred and one degrees of fever.”
    â€œThen perhaps you should call the doctor.”
    â€œI want to, but it’s so expensive. Twenty dollars for a house call.”
    â€œDon’t worry about the money. Call the doctor.”
    â€œTrouble?” Wainwright asked, coming over to Masuto’s desk.
    â€œAna’s sick. When I was a kid, a doctor made a house call for three dollars. Now it’s twenty.”
    â€œA different world, Masao.”
    â€œL.A.P.D. found the yellow Cadillac.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œDowntown L.A. They’re dusting it.”
    â€œWhy don’t we talk about this, Masao?” Wainwright demanded. “I get nervous as hell when you’re holding back.”
    â€œI’m not holding back. I just have a package of wild guesses that don’t fit. As soon as something fits, I’ll let you know. I asked Gellman to have them shake down the hotel until he finds the fat man’s clothes.”
    â€œHe won’t. He’s so damn nervous already that he’s not going to do anything to shake the place. Anyway, we know who he is. What’s so important about his clothes?”
    â€œWhere they are.”
    â€œWell, we don’t know that. What about Stillman’s wife?”
    Masuto picked up the phone and asked Joyce to put him through to police headquarters in Las Vegas. “Who do you know there?” he asked Wainwright.
    â€œI know Brady, the chief. I’ll talk to him.” He took the phone from Masuto, and a moment later he was asking for Chief Brady. Masuto watched him thoughtfully as he said, “Tom, this is Wainwright in Beverly Hills. One of your citizens, feller by the name of Jack Stillman, was shot to death at the Beverly Glen Hotel this morning.” Pause. “No, we got nothing, no motive, no suspects, absolutely nothing. He’s married to Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer.” Pause. “Yeah, at the Sands, you say. Good. Get someone to break it to her, will you? We’ll hold the body until we get her instructions. Thanks.”
    As he put down the phone, Officer Bailey came in and informed them that a man called Boris Gritchov was outside in the waiting room. He handed Wainwright a card, which stated that Boris Gritchov was consul general in San Francisco of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.
    â€œBring him in here,” Wainwright said. “And be damned nice to him, and then keep your mouth shut about his being here.”
    Gritchov was a tall man, well-dressed, in his early forties, with iron-gray hair and pale gray eyes. He did not offer to shake hands with either of the policemen, and when Wainwright offered him a chair near Masuto’s desk, he appeared to accept it reluctantly. His eyes traveled around the room with its bare walls, its pale green paint, and its painted steel furniture. When he spoke, it was with barely a trace of an accent, and he wasted no time with formalities.
    â€œI would like to see a picture of this man who you say drowned.”
    Masuto opened his desk drawer, took out a picture of the drowned man, and handed it to the Russian. He stared at it thoughtfully, but with no change of expression that Masuto could detect. Masuto gave