It’s a possibility.”
Sweeney nodded. “You think you’re on to something?”
“If I am, I’m going to credit you big, Sweeney. I mean that.”
“Just show respect, Masao. That’s all I ask.”
“You have it. Now listen, Sweeney, do the L.A. cops have a machine that can transmit prints to Interpol?”
“If it’s a machine, they got it.”
“They can send pictures,” Beckman said, “so they can send prints.”
“What else did you pick up in the room that isn’t Stillman’s or the chambermaid’s?”
“I got three good ones,” Sweeney said.
“Put them through to Interpol, and all of them to Washington. The matching set, the car and the room-put them through to the New York cops and to Chicago. But all of them to Interpol, and all of them to Washington.”
“That’s going to cost a bundle, Masao, and you know how the L.A. cops are. They want a guarantee that they’re going to get paid.”
“Get an authorization from Wainwright.”
“He’s not here,” said Beckman. “He went downtown this morning to meet with the Feds. He said to remind you that the G-man wants you to bring all the records on the case down there at eleven o’clock.”
“Get the authorization. I’ll sign it myself.”
When Sweeney had left to get the authorization, Beckman said to Masuto, “What’s this all about, Masao?”
“A lot of wild guesses. I could put them together, but what would it mean? I still have nothing.”
“Whose hand was around that brandy glass?”
“Binnie Vance’s.”
“You don’t say.” He looked at Masuto with new respect. “When did you see her?”
“Last night at the Ventura Hotel. Would you believe it, ten dollars for three brandies?”
“Is she all they say?”
“She is.”
“And you think she killed Stillman?”
“If she did, I’d like to know why.”
“She only just married him. That’s a quick turnoff.”
Sweeney came back with the authorization. Masuto signed it and then said to Sweeney, “Would you do me a favor?”
“Now that you seen the light, yes.”
“Stop off at the Ventura Hotel on your way downtown. There’s a man called Peterson who runs the Arabian Room, or if you don’t find him, there must be a P.R. office for the hotel. Tell them you want a picture of Binnie Vance, and then have the L.A. cops put it through with the fingerprints.”
“To all them places?”
“We might as well.”
“Wainwright’s going to yell like hell.”
“If he’s going to have murders, it’s got to cost,” said Beckman.
“Put it through to the cops in Bonn in Germany too. We might as well go the whole hog.”
“You’re the boss, Masao.”
“You got him eating out of your hand,” said Beckman, after Sweeney had gone. “Did the L.A. cops really say that about Sweeney?”
“I stretched it.”
“Well, they won’t tell him. It’s nine-thirty, Masao. What do you want me to do while you’re down there with the Feds?”
“Find Litovsky’s clothes.”
“I’ll give it a try. You think this Binnie Vance, being an exotic dancer and hotheaded and full of piss and vinegar, comes into Stillman’s room and finds him with that big blond hooker and loses all her cool and kills him?”
“Stillman was shaving. That doesn’t sound very passionate.”
“You think maybe Stillman invented the hooker?”
“Maybe.”
“Funny, in a place like the Beverly Glen Hotel, you don’t have to invent. You just reach out and take. So no hooker. Who was in the room and made the call, Binnie Vance?”
“Maybe. She claims she flew in from Las Vegas yesterday morning.”
The telephone rang. Beckman picked it up, listened for a moment, and then passed it to Masuto.
“Masao?” It was Kati’s voice, high-pitched, uncontrolled.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Ana’s gone!”
“Kati, get hold of yourself! What do you mean, Ana’s gone?”
“She isn’t here. She’s gone.”
“Where was she?”
“In the garden. She was there playing with her doll, Masao. Then I turned away for a few minutes. I went into the kitchen-” Her voice broke, and she began to sob.
“Kati! Kati, get hold of yourself!”
“I shouldn’t have left her alone. I looked out of the kitchen window, and she was gone.”
“Did you look for her? She may have wandered off.”
“Masao, it was only a minute or two.” She was sobbing uncontrollably now.
“Please, Kati, please. You must talk to me. Get hold of yourself.”
“Yes. Yes.”
“Now just what happened?”
“I tried-I tried to see her from the kitchen window. Then I went out into the garden. I thought she was hiding. I thought she was playing a game. I didn’t know-”
“Kati!”
“So I looked everywhere. Then I began to call her. Then I went out on the street. I ran up and down the street. I looked everywhere. But she’s gone.”
“She didn’t go back into the house?”
“How could she, except through the kitchen?”
“All right. Now look, Kati dear, this is not your fault. I’m sure Ana is all right. I want you to stay in the house. Don’t go out looking for her again. Just stay in the house, and I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t talk to anyone about this. Just stay there and be calm, do you understand?”
“You’ll find her, Masao, please.”
“I’ll find her.”
Then he turned to Beckman. “Come on, Sy.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you in the car. Let’s get moving.”
8
Driving through the streets of Beverly Hills, his car siren howling, Masuto knew only that his lovely, pleasant world of the morning had shattered, leaving an empty hole of sheer terror. He had always lived with a simple acceptance of the fact that fear was not a problem he had to face. An old Zen story told of the student who came
