The Case of the Russian Diplomat: A Masao Masuto Mystery (Book Three) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Florida orange groves—” Wainwright paused and stared at Masuto. “What do we have, a dead agronomist?”
    â€œWhat the hell is an agronomist?” Beckman wanted to know.
    â€œAn educated farmer,” Masuto said. “No—” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, I don’t think we have a dead agronomist.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Masuto shrugged. “Nearsighted, fat, soft hands—it just doesn’t fit. Anyway—” He picked up the paper and scanned the story. “You see, they move in a group. If one were missing—no.” He stood up suddenly and said, “I’m going to the hotel. Sy, see if you can catch up with the agronomists.”
    â€œAnd do what?”
    â€œI don’t know. Nose around.”
    â€œNose around,” Wainwright said sourly. “I’m not running a police force. I’m running a goddamn curiosity shop. Masao, I want you back here when that Russian comes.” He started away, then turned back. “I’ll talk to L.A.P.D. and see what they’re doing with these Russian farmers. Now I got your disease.”
    Sal Monti, doorman at the Beverly Glen Hotel, was reputed to have a very large income, even in a city of noticeably large incomes, even after his split with the hotel management. He ran a service with four assistant carhops, and having seen the way traffic poured into the hotel driveway around lunchtime and cocktail hour, Masuto felt that Monti was understaffed. He was skilled in what he did, had a remarkable memory, and had held down his post for the past dozen years, a long history in the life of Beverly Hills—measured, as Monti put it, from the time of the T-Bird, through the Lincoln Continental period, through the era of the large Cadillac, through the era of the Porsche, into the time of the Mercedes, which shared the present reign with the Seville. It was Monti who coined the phrase “Beverly Hills Volkswagen” for the Mercedes. The present era, just burgeoning, was that of the Rolls-Royce Corniche; and at every opportunity, Monti told the story of the film producer who bought a solid silver funeral casket for sixty thousand dollars and whose partner remarked, as Monti put it, “Shmuck, for the same money you could have been buried in a Corniche.” Now he eyed Masuto’s Toyota with tolerant disgust.
    â€œSergeant,” he said, “there is going to be a house rule against economy cars. It cuts the ambiance, if you know what I mean.”
    â€œI’ll look it up in the dictionary,” Masuto said. “Meanwhile, I want a few minutes of your time.”
    â€œAbout the excitement last night? By all means. You can fill me in.”
    â€œNo, Sal. You fill me in.”
    â€œIt’s eleven-fifteen,” Monti observed. “We got forty-five minutes before the rush starts. Billy,” he called to one of the carhops, “take over.” They sat down on an iron bench under the striped canopy that led into the hotel.
    â€œTell me about Jack Stillman,” Masuto began.
    â€œThis fat guy—what is it? Was he knocked over or what?”
    â€œI’ll ask the questions. Tell me about Stillman.”
    â€œWhat’s to tell? He’s a booking agent out of Vegas—so it goes. He stayed here maybe half a dozen times.”
    â€œWhat does he book?”
    â€œI’d give it a guess. The high-priced acts in the casinos. He just married Binnie Vance, the exotic dancer. She’s very hot right now. Or maybe he don’t book at all. Who knows with them characters from Vegas?”
    â€œAnd when he’s here, do you see him with girls?”
    â€œI guess he was a swinger, as much as the next guy. Not on this trip.”
    â€œYou’re sure?”
    â€œI’m only sure about what goes in and out of this place. What happens inside is another department. Are you going to give me some flak about the fat