“Yes.”
“Does that mean anything?”
“I don’t want to think about it that way,” Masuto said. “I want to start from the beginning and put it together. I have all the pieces, or at least I think I have. So just let me put it together, and then we’ll see where we are-” thinking to himself that now he must put everything else out of his mind, all his terror about his daughter, Kati’s misery, what might be happening to Ana right at this moment, all of it out of his mind and only the puzzle, only the game that sick men played all over the world in this time of his life.
“Go ahead, Masao.”
“We begin with a man who calls himself cultural attache but who works for Soviet Intelligence. He uses the Zlatov Dancers as an excuse to go to San Francisco, I don’t think the Soviets give two damns about the Zlatov Dancers, but the only other Russian event on the West Coast that we know about is the fact of the agronomists. That the Soviets care about. They used to buy oranges from Israel. Now they have to learn how to grow their own. So we make our first guess: Peter Litovsky is sent to California to keep an eye on the agronomists.”
“Maybe,” Beckman said.
“Why maybe?”
“Because the fat man is no bodyguard. He’s in his fifties, fat and soft. One punch in his gut would put him out of the running.”
“That makes sense. All right, the fat man’s an intelligence agent. He comes out here because someone wants a meeting to discuss something concerning the agronomists. That’s better, of course. The meeting is set up at the Beverly Glen Hotel.”
“Who with?”
“The next guess. Binnie Vance.”
“Why?”
“It makes some sense. At least we know that whoever killed Stillman was someone he knew and trusted. You don’t walk up behind a man who’s shaving and put a bullet into the base of his skull while he’s looking into a mirror unless he knows you and trusts you. So from there we make the presumption that she was in his room the night before and that she was the woman who phoned in the news about the fat man.”
“And the hooker?”
“She never existed. I never believed she did.”
“Okay. We got Binnie Vance as a Russian agent of some sort.” Beckman shook his head. “It don’t figure. It’s that Mata Hari crap. She’s just a belly dancer.”
“She’s German. She doesn’t have to be an agent. She could have some connection in East Germany that would bring Litovsky out here to see her.”
“All right. I go along, Masao. Now we come to the stopper. How did they get into the hotel? How did the fat man get in? No one saw him. No one remembers him. He never registered.”
Masuto smiled slightly, the first time since his wife had phoned him that morning. “Kati was talking about common sense last night. Do you remember, yesterday morning, I told you to go down to the basement and check the bolt on the door?”
“I did. It was open. That’s how she got out.”
“She never got out,” Masuto said. “She was in the hotel all the time. If she killed Stillman, she had to be there. If she drove away in the yellow Cadillac, then she had to be in the hotel.”
“And the bolt?”
“Sy, it was opened from the inside, not to let anyone out but to let Litovsky and Binnie Vance in.”
“You’re guessing, Masao.”
“Of course I’m guessing. I haven’t got one shred of evidence to put Binnie Vance in the hotel or even in Los Angeles that night. But Sweeney lifted a fingerprint in the room that matches a fingerprint in the yellow car. So I know that someone who was in that room was also in the Cadillac.”
“That makes three of them,” Beckman said. “Binnie Vance, someone to drive her and Litovsky to the hotel, and one inside the hotel to let them in.”
“Three. It would have to be at least three. Sure, a drugged Litovsky could go staggering out to the pool and even a woman could push him in. Then if she were cool enough, conceivably she could get into the pool with him and undress him while his body floated there. It’s possible, but it doesn’t make much sense.”
“Then what happened?”
“I can make a better guess. Whoever opened the service door for the woman and Litovsky had managed to get a housekeeper’s key. That wouldn’t be too difficult for someone working in the hotel. He opens an empty room and lets Litovsky and the woman in. They have drinks there, and Litovsky passes out.”
“A smartass intelligence agent?”
“You never met Binnie Vance,” Masuto said. “I don’t know what went on in that room. And what makes you think that intelligence agents are so bright? That F.B.I. man is no shining example of brilliance, and maybe the Russian agents are just as stupid as the Feds.”
“Just as horny, you can count on that,” Beckman agreed.
“All right. Now they got Litovsky, who’s out cold. The man and Vance come back in the room. They have a fat man who weighs well over two hundred pounds. Maybe they walk him down the hallway. Maybe they use a laundry bin or something of that sort to get him to the service elevator. It’s probably two o’clock in the morning now, and the hallway is empty. They take him down to the dressing room and undress him. They carry him to the pool and dump him in. They know that Litovsky will be identified, but they decide that undressing him will buy them a few hours, and that’s important to them. Then they go out through the service door.”
“And why don’t they take the fat man’s clothes with them?”
“Because they’re in Beverly Hills. Because if any one of our patrol cars spots two suspicious-looking people in a car at two in the morning, they might well pull them over. And after midnight, a Beverly Hills cop is very careful. At least, that’s the way the myth works, and those two probably know it. And if they have the fat man’s clothes, his wallet, his watch and his glasses in the car, then they’re finished.”
“One loose end, Masao, and that knocks the whole thing apart. If they’re that smart-”
“It’s not smart!” Masuto snorted. “That kind of sick conniving isn’t smart.”
“Whatever they are, why didn’t Binnie Vance bolt the service door behind them?”
“Two reasons. First, they wanted us to think that the killer had left the hotel.” Masuto sighed and shook his head. “It’s easy, when you look back.”
“And the second reason?”
“Because Binnie Vance wasn’t there.”
“Where was she?”
“In Stillman’s room, watching through the window, waiting for the body to be in the pool long enough for Litovsky to drown. Either she let herself in with the housekeeper’s key, or if the door was bolted, she awakened Stillman and he let her in.”
“Then he was awake when she made the phone call?”
“That’s right. Probably.”
“And when we went to his room yesterday morning?”
“She was there, Sy-maybe in the bathroom, maybe in a closet, but sure as God she was there. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what happened during the next few hours. Possibly Stillman decided that he had to tell the truth. Maybe she pretended to go along with him. He went into the bathroom to shave, and she shot him.”
They were turning off Sunset Boulevard now, entering the long driveway of the Beverly Glen Hotel. It was twelve minutes after eleven o’clock in the morning.
“No evidence and no motive,” Masuto said. “But it’s all we have.”
Sal Monti opened the door. His grin vanished when he saw Masuto’s face.
“Just keep it in front where we can get it quickly,” Masuto told him. “Don’t park it down the hill.”
“A Toyota in front? It makes a lousy-”
“You just damn well do as I tell you!” Masuto snapped.
“All right, all right. Don’t burn my ass off.”
They went into the hotel. Comstock was sitting in the lobby, reading the Los Angeles
