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

beautiful day, and it’s not over.”
    â€œIt’s not over,” Masuto agreed.
    â€œDid it connect?” Beckman asked.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œBinnie Vance.”
    â€œKeep looking.”
    â€œTwo German shepherd attack dogs found dead, poisoned, in the Altra Kennels at Azuza?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMasao, give me a clue.”
    â€œI haven’t any.”
    â€œHow about this: ‘Jewish Defense League denies theft of four ounces of lead azide, stolen from the Felcher Company in San Fernando.’”
    Masuto was suddenly alert. “What date?”
    â€œFour days ago. What’s lead azide?”
    â€œRead the rest of it.”
    â€œYeah, here it is. Lead azide, a volatile form of detonator explosive. They reported the theft to the San Fernando police. Whoever took it scratched the letters J.D.L. on the metal container.”
    â€œConvenient.”
    â€œWell, it made ten lines on page eight. What the hell—four ounces of explosive.”
    Masuto pushed the papers aside. “Come on, Sy, let’s go for a ride.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œSan Fernando.”
    â€œWhat makes you think this is a connection? I don’t see it.”
    â€œNeither do I, but I am sick and tired of sitting here. Anyway, it is time I saw my uncle, Toda.”
    â€œWho the hell is your Uncle Toda?
    â€œMy father’s younger brother. He has ten acres of oranges outside of San Fernando. Do you know, the land’s worth about forty thousand dollars an acre now. That would make my uncle a rich man, but he says that until he dies, the orchard will not be disturbed.”
    â€œYou grew up around there, didn’t you?”
    â€œBefore the war. The Valley was like a garden then, no subdivisions, no tract houses, just miles of pecan groves and avocado groves and orange groves. My father used to compare it to Japan. He would say that a place like the San Fernando Valley could feed half the population of Japan. Of course, that was an exaggeration, but that’s the way the people from the old country felt about the Valley.”
    They were on their way out when Masuto caught Wainwright’s eye. The captain was talking to a neatly dressed man, gray suit, blue tie, pink cheeks, blue eyes, sandy hair, a man in his forties whose face retained the bland shapelessness of a teenager’s. Wainwright motioned to Masuto.
    â€œThis is Mr. Clinton, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
    Since Clinton did not extend his hand, Masuto made no offer of his. As he examined Masuto, the old gray flannels, the shapeless tweed jacket, the tieless shirt, his cold blue eyes belied the blandness of his face.
    â€œThis is Masuto?” he asked Wainwright.
    â€œDetective Sergeant Masuto.”
    â€œI hear you grilled Mr. Gritchov?”
    â€œGrilled? No, sir, that’s hardly the word. I asked him a few questions.”
    â€œWhere in hell do you get your nerve? Gritchov is a diplomatic representative of a foreign country, with which at the moment we are in process of most delicate negotiations. He has immunity. How dare you question him.”
    â€œSo sorry,” said Masuto. “It simply happens that another representative of the Soviet Union was murdered in a city which employs me as the chief of its homicide division.”
    â€œPeter Litovsky drowned. The kind of loose talk and thoughtless statements you just indulged in could have the most serious consequences.”
    â€œYes, he was drowned,” Masuto admitted. “He did not drown, he was drowned. There is a specific semantic difference. I would like you to note that, Mr. Clinton. I am not accustomed to loose or thoughtless statements.”
    â€œWho the devil do you think you’re talking to, Masuto?”
    â€œA federal agent. I’m quite aware of that. But you are in Beverly Hills in the State of California. The fact that Peter Litovsky was a Soviet intelligence agent makes him your problem.