“Your photographer was here and he took pictures.”
“I know. Please forgive my insistence. I think whoever comes looking for him will want to see him in the flesh.”
“He won’t keep forever.”
“A few days will do.”
Masuto pulled back the man’s upper lip and stared thoughtfully.
“You are a ghoul,” Baxter said.
“And I would deeply appreciate a telephone call, concerning whatever you find in his stomach or in his blood.”
Baxter grunted. Masuto thanked him and got out of the pathology room and breathed deeply outside. Back in his office, he still had the illusion of smelling the formaldehyde. He hated the smell.
“That’s one place I do not like,” Detective Beckman said, after Masuto told him what had taken place. “Anyway, Masao, what makes you think that you can’t detect chloral hydrate in an autopsy?”
“Something I read somewhere.”
“You talk about the stink of formaldehyde. The same thing for chloral hydrate. It stinks.”
“In a drink?”
“Well, maybe a few drops in a drink couldn’t be smelled. You think the fat man got a Mickey and drowned?”
“Something of the sort.”
Masuto picked up the telephone and dialed Dr. Rosenberg, his dentist. Beckman drifted away, yawning. Dr. Rosenberg came on the phone.
“You’re due for a cleaning, Masao. We sent you two notices. None of you turkeys understand the necessity for prophylactic dentistry. It’s like shouting in the wilderness.”
“Next week,” Masuto promised.
“So you say. I’m putting my nurse on. Make a date with her.”
“Hold on. I have a question.”
“Oh?”
“Did you ever see a false tooth or a cap or a bridge or something like that made out of some grayish metal?”
“Silver?”
“I don’t think silver. Maybe an aluminum alloy, maybe steel.”
“I’ve seen it,” Dr. Rosenberg said, his tone indicating severe disapproval.
“Where? When?”
“Russian dentistry, if you call it dentistry. They wouldn’t use gold. Too expensive or bourgeois, and they just weren’t any good with ceramics. Back during the war, we liberated a batch of Russian prisoners and I saw a lot of it, aluminum alloy and even steel-lousy dentistry. I don’t know if they still do it.”
“Thanks, Dave-”
“Hold on. I’ll put on the nurse.”
Masuto made his appointment for a prophylactic treatment, and Beckman, still yawning, drifted back and sat down opposite him. “Don’t you want to know what Joe Haley had to say?”
“I do.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Not exactly nothing. He said that keeping the reputation of Beverly Hills clean is like trying to canonize Marie Duplessis. Who is Marie Duplessis?”
“The most notorious hooker of nineteenth-century Paris. Sy, let me ask you a few questions. First. Stillman says he picked up this girl, Judy, in the Rugby Room. How did she get there?”
“How does anyone get there?”
“Exactly. By car. No one walks to the Beverly Glen Hotel. It’s not on the street. It’s on a hill and there’s not even a sidewalk.”
“So she drove.”
“But nobody saw her. And if she cut out of there by the basement door, what happened to her car?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Beckman admitted.
“Next. Why the missing clothes?”
“That one’s easy, Masao. They don’t want the body identified.”
“But sooner or later, it will be, so we can conclude that they’re playing for time. Next question.”
Wainwright walked into the office in time to hear that, and asked whether they were playing guessing games or just killing time.
“That’s right. Next question. A woman sees a body in a swimming pool. She doesn’t get excited or hysterical, just calls the operator and tells her. Why?”
“You tell us,” said Wainwright.
“Because she knows he’s dead; because she killed him.”
“Goddamn it, Masao, you can’t operate like that. You don’t know if the man was murdered, and already you got a killer.”
The telephone rang, and Beckman answered it. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”
“That was Baxter, Captain.”
“Oh?”
“He said he thinks he found traces of chloral hydrate in the fat man’s stomach. He can’t be sure, but he thinks so. He doesn’t like you,” he said to Masuto.
“So sorry. So we have a murder. What about the alcohol?”
“The man was drunk-maybe,” Beckman said.
“A little drunk, perhaps. High. He strips and goes into the pool, falls asleep and drowns.”
“The trouble is,” Wainwright said, “that when you come down to it, we’re a small town with a small-town police force, and still we got a collection of some of the most important characters in the country, and if they don’t live here, then they come here. This one bothers me.”
Masuto nodded. “That’s understandable. I think he’s a Russian.”
“Why?”
“Just a guess. My dentist, Dr. Rosenberg, suggests that his bridgework comes from there.”
“Gellman’s going to love that. A dead Russian in the Beverly Glen pool.” Wainwright turned to Beckman. “Put his picture on the wire to Washington. We’ll see if the F.B.I. can come up with something.”
Masuto picked up the telephone, dialed Information, and asked for the telephone number of the Soviet consul general. He listened for a moment, thanked the operator and put down the phone.
“What are you after, Masuto?” Wainwright wanted to know.
“Just fishing. Did you know the Russians don’t have a consulate here? The operator thinks they have one in San Francisco.” Beckman was coming back. Masuto called, “Sy, find a San Francisco phone book, and give me the L.A.
“And goddamn it, stop yawning!” Wainwright snapped.
Wainwright watched with interest as Masuto dialed the San Francisco number and asked for the consul general. Then Masuto said, “No, I insist on speaking to him. This is an official call from the Beverly Hills police on a matter of the utmost importance.” Pause. “Yes, Detective Sergeant Masuto.” Pause. “Yes, I’ll wait.”
Masuto looked at Wainwright, who nodded, apparently intrigued. Then Masuto covered the phone and told Beck-man, “Start going through the papers. Anything that concerns Russia and Los Angeles, any connection.”
Beckman spread out the papers. Masuto spoke into the phone: “How do you do, sir. I am Detective Sergeant Masuto in Beverly Hills. We have an unexplained death, a drowning-” Pause. “No, sir. This is your business and it does concern you. I have some reason to believe that the dead man is a Russian national.” Pause. “About fifty-five years old, thin blond hair, five feet eight inches, blue eyes-” Pause. “No, sir. I did not say that he is thin. His hair is thin. He’s a fat man, quite fat.” Pause. “No, sir, there is no way we can identify him. He was found naked, drowned in the pool.” Pause. “Yes, sir, I understand. We will do our best, but I cannot promise.” Pause. “Yes, the police station is on Rexford Drive in Beverly Hills. Any cab driver.”
