Read Online The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) by Howard Fast - Free Book Online

news. Never mind the columns and the editorials, just the news.”
    â€œWhat are we looking for? The Russians again?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think so.”
    â€œThen what?”
    â€œI’m not sure. Something that connects.”
    â€œGoddamn it, Masao, I go along with you, but this is crazy. What connects?”
    â€œI don’t know, but there has to be something. An important Russian secret agent is murdered. The call comes from Stillman’s room. Stillman is murdered. They both knew something, and whatever they knew is going to happen very soon.”
    â€œSo we look for something that connects. Great.”
    â€œLet’s say something as meaningless as all the rest of it. Odd. Different. Then we’ll try to fit it together.”
    â€œYou’re the boss.” He grinned suddenly. “Masao, suppose it happened already? That lets us off the hook.”
    â€œThat’s a thought,” Masuto agreed. He picked up the phone and asked Joyce to get him Mike Hennesy in the city room at the Los Angeles Times .
    â€œMike,” he said, “this is Masuto over in Beverly Hills.”
    â€œGreat!” Hennesy exclaimed. “Masao, what in hell goes on up there at the Beverly Glen Hotel? We got a drowning and a murder—”
    â€œHold on!”
    â€œMasao,” came Hennesy’s pleading voice, “it’s the big story today. Come on—”
    Masuto put down the phone, and shook his head. “Start on the papers.” The phone rang again. It was Hennesy. “You know I can’t peddle information, Mike. Talk to the captain.”
    â€œFour fires in a single day in West Covina,” Beckman said. “The police suspect arson. Nothing else even shows signs of anything. Here’s another one about the agronomists. The leader of the group is Ilya Moskvich. Leading agronomist in the Soviet Union. Nobel Prize four years ago.”
    â€œInteresting.”
    Wainwright walked in and stared at the pile of newspapers. “Never mind, I won’t ask,” he said. “This is what the city pays you for.”
    Masuto nodded without replying.
    â€œI heard from Vegas,” Wainwright said.
    â€œOh?”
    â€œThey can’t locate his wife. Stillman’s wife.”
    â€œI thought she was performing at the Sands.”
    Beckman looked up and said, “Binnie Vance?”
    â€œThat’s right. Stillman’s wife.”
    â€œThey got a great police force there in Vegas. Almost as good as ours. They can’t locate Binnie Vance, who’s only opening tomorrow night here in L.A.”
    â€œHow do you know that?” Wainwright demanded.
    â€œI’m reading the papers. She opens tomorrow night at the Ventura, that new hotel downtown with the round glass towers.” He turned to Masuto. “Does that connect? It’s true it’s in the theater section, but what the hell, you notice things—”
    He paused. Masuto was there and yet not there. He was sitting rigidly, his eyes half closed, and Beckman and Wainwright exchanged glances. Then Masuto said quietly, smiling slightly, “Captain, how do you feel about murders in Beverly Hills?”
    â€œYou know damn well how I feel about murders anywhere.”
    â€œYes. The Russian was unpleasant. They apparently have a very centralized system, and they have a low opinion of underpaid policemen like myself. However, if you insist that this is our case, I think that Sy and I can clear it up in the next twenty-four hours.”
    â€œYou got it.”
    â€œAnd what about Stillman’s prints?”
    â€œHe was clean as a whistle,” Wainwright said, “which don’t mean a thing except that he’s never been caught.”
    â€œAnd the prints on the yellow Cadillac?”
    â€œThey’re working on it.” At the door, he paused and said forlornly, “The F.B.I. character should be at the airport about now. It’s been one