“Dead. He’s lying in the bathroom with a bullet in his head.”
“No. No. Look,” Gellman said, his hand trembling, “I got ulcers and before this is over I’m going to have a coronary to go with it. So cut out the gags.”
“Sit down,” Masuto said, pointing to a chair. “Sit down and pull yourself together.”
Gellman collapsed into a chair. “Do you know what this is going to do to the hotel?”
“It’s even worse for Stillman. It happened. Now take it easy. I’m going to call Fred Comstock. Is he in his office?”
Gellman nodded, got to his feet and started to reach for the brandy bottle on top of the chest of drawers.
“Don’t touch anything!” Masuto snapped at him. “Just sit down and pull yourself together.” He picked up the phone, dialed the operator, and asked for Comstock.
“I got to see what’s in that bathroom,” Gellman said weakly.
“First pull yourself together.” Into the phone, “Fred, this is Masuto. I’m in room three-twenty-two with Gellman. Get up here. It’s important.”
“He had to kill himself,” Gellman moaned. “That inconsiderate son of a bitch! Masao, suicide is the goddamned most inconsiderate thing a person can do. They never think of anyone but themselves.”
“He didn’t kill himself, Al. He was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“That’s right. Someone shot him in the back of the head.”
“Oh, God. I thought it was bad, but this-”
“You might as well know, Al, the fat man was also murdered.”
“They said he was drowned.”
“Drugged and then drowned.”
“Oh, brother, this is one stinking nightmare. Masao, for God’s sake, can we keep a lid on this?”
“Maybe on the fat man, Al. There’s a whole committee that wants to keep a lid on that one. But this? No. There’s no way.”
The doorbell rang. Masuto went to the door and Comstock came in.
“If it takes money,” Gellman was saying, “we can pay. I’ll talk to the city manager. I know the Chandlers-”
“What in hell is going on in here?” Comstock wanted to know. “This is Stillman’s room. Where is he?”
“He’s lying in the bathroom, dead, bullet in the back of his head. Mr. Gellman’s disturbed, naturally.” Comstock’s mouth fell. He looked from Gellman to Masuto, who went on, “Captain Wainwright’s on his way over, and he’ll have Sy Beckman with him and Sweeney, the fingerprint man, and the photographer and maybe a uniformed cop or two. Then Doc Baxter will be coming, and he’s got a loud mouth. Then the ambulance will be here to take the body away. Now what we don’t want, Fred, is to make this any worse for Al than it already is, so go down to the front and talk to Sal Monti, and tell him to ease everyone in with no questions. If a black-and-white comes, have it pull down the row and park with no commotion. Just try to keep it going very quiet and easy, and tell the people downstairs to keep their peace and not to talk.”
“Where is he? The stiff?”
“Quiet and easy,” Gellman said. “Right in the lunch hour. There’ll be fifty cars into the hotel in the next half hour.”
“In the bathroom, I told you,” Masuto said to Comstock, who started for the bathroom door. “Leave it alone, Fred. I don’t want anything touched. Now please, go down and do what I told you to.”
He hesitated, and Gellman said weakly, “Go ahead, Fred. Do what Masao told you to. He knows what he’s doing.”
Comstock grunted and left the room.
“I wish I did,” Masuto said. He closed his eyes and stood silently in the center of the room.
“What the devil are you doing?”
“Trying to think some sense into this.”
“Can we open a window? I’m choking.”
Masuto went over to the manager and patted him softly on the shoulder. “Not yet. I want to leave everything just as it is until Sweeney gets here. I don’t believe you solve anything with fingerprints, but that’s his stock in trade, and he’s touchy about it. Try to relax. Tell me, Al, when do you open the pool in the morning for the guests?”
“At nine o’clock.”
“Did you open it this morning?”
He nodded.
“Who does it?”
“Joe Finnuchi, the pool man. He has a kid who assists him, a college kid who works as pool boy during the summer. His name is Bobby Carlton.”
“When they open in the morning, is anyone there waiting to use the pool?”
“Yeah, there’s always three or four health nuts down for their morning swim. Sometimes more. I don’t know what you’re getting at, Masao. What difference does it make?”
“Maybe none. I’m just trying to understand that public-spirited prostitute who called in the information about the drowned man in the middle of the night. The point is, Al, that if she’d left it alone and this Joe Finnuchi and the pool boy and the guests had walked into the pool area, the news of the drowned man would be all over the hotel and the city and the country too.”
“So we lucked out-until this.”
“No. She was just buying time. But why? That’s why he was naked. Eight hours, and we still don’t know who he is. Why did she need the eight hours?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Al, listen to me. The fat man’s clothes are somewhere in the hotel. I want them. Will you give it a try?”
“How do you know?”
“Just accept the fact that I know. Will you tell Comstock to really shake down the place-every place someone in a hurry might hide clothes, shoes, and the rest of it?”
“Two murders, and you tell me to shake down the place and find the clothes of a man who wasn’t even a guest here, and he has to go and pick this place to get himself murdered.”
The doorbell rang, and Masuto opened it for Wainwright, Sweeney, Beckman, Haskins, the police photographer, and trailing them, Doc Baxter, whose sour glance at Masuto indicated that the detective was solely responsible for dragging him over here.
“I do hope to hell you haven’t loused everything up,” Sweeney said by way of introduction.
“We haven’t touched a thing.”
“Where is he?” Baxter demanded.
Masuto led them to the bathroom. “Use your handkerchief!” Sweeney yelled as he reached for the door. Masuto nodded, did as he was told, and opened the door. Baxter bent over Stillman’s body.
“He’s dead,” he told them.
“I thought so,” Masuto said.
“Don’t give me your smartass talk. He’s dead when I say so. One shot at the base of the skull, very effective and quick. Close range-see where the hair is singed.”
“Small gun, small caliber,” Masuto said, almost apologetically. “Small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She just reached up and fired the bullet into the back of his head.”
“She? She? What the hell do you mean, Masao?”
“He was shaving, Captain. He was looking into the mirror. So he saw whoever came into the bathroom, and apparently he didn’t even turn around. Someone he knew. If it were a man, he would have seen the movement of his hands in the mirror. The movements of a small woman would be entirely concealed behind his back. She could snuggle up to him, and then just slide the gun up and kill him.”
“You’re telling me that some dame could be cold-blooded enough-”
“It’s happened. We underestimate women.”
“How long ago?” Wainwright asked Baxter.
