The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) Read Free

office to put out a call for any woman on foot. “Give it to L.A.P.D. too,” he told them. “She may be a fast walker.” He came back as Beckman reappeared.
    â€œThe bolt was open,” Beckman said.
    â€œI’m going home and get some sleep,” said Wainwright. “You take it from here, Masao. And for Christ’s sake, if he drowned, he drowned.”
    â€œOf course, Captain.” Masuto was opening the lockers. “Take that row, Sy,” he said to Beckman.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing, Masao?”
    â€œHe hid his clothes, his glasses and his wristwatch, and then he decided to drown.”
    â€œYou know what he’s after,” Gellman sputtered. “He’s determined to make something of this. God almighty, a man drowns, he drowns.”
    â€œMaybe. Every locker, Sy,” Masao said to Beckman.
    Gellman turned desperately to Wainwright. “Masao’s the boss. It’s his case now. I’m going to sleep. Anyway, we won’t know how he died until Doc Baxter does the autopsy. Why don’t you get some sleep yourself, Al? Good night, gentlemen.”
    Gellman followed Wainwright out of the dressing room. Masuto and Beckman went through the lockers. The lockers were there for the convenience of the hotel guests, and none of them were locked. The search turned up a number of bathing suits, male, some sunglasses and a wristwatch, all of which Fred Comstock took into his custody. They tried the ladies’ dressing room next, and the results were equally uninspiring.
    â€œIt’s five A.M.,” Comstock announced. “I lost a night’s sleep, and I don’t get overtime, and I’m on duty at eight. How about I sack down for a few hours? You guys don’t need me.”
    â€œI’ll want to talk with Stillman,” Masuto said.
    â€œGo ahead. But be gentle. At a hundred dollars a day, they’re entitled.”
    â€œI’m always gentle.”
    â€œThe way I figure it,” Beckman said, once they were in the elevator, “she made the call while he was sleeping and then skipped.”
    â€œYou’re sure he was asleep?”
    â€œEither that or he was a good actor.”
    They rang the bell at room 322, and then waited. A second time. Then a third time. Then Jack Stillman opened the door, in his pajamas.
    This time he had not been sleeping. The pajamas were heavy black silk, and they had not been slept in. His hair was combed. Stillman was a large, fleshy man, over six feet, with a lot of muscle gone to fat. He had the heavy neck of a football player, cold blue eyes, and brown hair. Behind him, past the small foyer, Masuto saw the unmade bed, an open notebook next to the telephone, and then a window, probably the one that overlooked the pool. The room was overdecorated in the gold and ivory that was a signature for the Beverly Glen Hotel.
    â€œWhat the hell is this?” Stillman asked unpleasantly.
    â€œI’m Detective Sergeant Masuto, Beverly Hills police. This is Detective Beckman. Are you Stillman?”
    â€œYes, but it’s five o’clock in the morning.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Masuto said. “Things happen at inconvenient hours. May we come in?”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œSimply to ask you a few questions.”
    â€œHe asked questions,” indicating Beckman. “I answered them.”
    â€œI have some questions of my own.”
    â€œLook,” said Stillman, “whatever happened here happened when I was asleep. I know nothing, and I don’t intend to be pushed around by a couple of small-town cops—not at this hour of the morning.”
    He started to close the door. Masuto put his shoulder in the way and replied mildly, “Beverly Hills is hardly a small town. We have a population of over thirty thousand, and if you will not talk to us here, Mr. Stillman, we will be happy to wait until you are dressed and then take you downtown, where you can