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

is.” Masuto jotted it down, Monti telling him meanwhile that there was no way—just no way the keys could have gotten out of his box.
    â€œExcept the way they did. Do you lock the box?”
    â€œHell, no. It’s right here.”
    Masuto went into the hotel and walked over to the registration desk. Ira Jessam, the day clerk, looked at him sadly and said, “That was a terrible thing last night, Sergeant, just terrible.”
    Masuto agreed and asked him to ring Stillman’s room. The desk clerk picked up his phone, gave his instructions to the operator and waited.
    â€œMr. Stillman doesn’t answer,” he said.
    â€œDoes he drop his keys at the desk when he leaves the hotel?”
    â€œAlways.”
    â€œAre they there now?”
    The clerk looked. “No, sir. But he could be in the restaurant.”
    â€œCall them.”
    The clerk did so, and then put down his phone and shook his head.
    â€œI’d like a duplicate key to his room,” Masuto said.
    Jessam hesitated, then sighed and handed the key to Masuto, who asked him where Gellman was.
    â€œIn his office, I believe. Probably taking a nap. He was utterly exhausted.”
    â€œWake him up and tell him I’m going up to Stillman’s room. I’d like him to join me there.”
    Masuto took the elevator up to the third floor. The chambermaid’s cart was in the hallway, and several room doors were open. On the door of Stillman’s room there was a “Do not disturb” sign. Masuto put his key in the lock and opened the door.
    The bed was unmade. In one corner, Stillman’s underwear, shirt and socks, lying in a little pile. Masuto had noticed them the day before. The bathroom door was closed, and from behind it came the sound of running water. The windows were closed and the air in the room smelled stale. On the chest of drawers, a bottle of brandy and two glasses. The ashtrays were filled with half-smoked cigarettes, most of them impatiently crushed out.
    Closing the door behind him, Masuto called out, “Stillman!” No response from the bathroom. He tapped on the bathroom door and repeated Stillman’s name. Then he opened the door.
    The water in the sink was running. On the floor in front of the sink was Stillman, in his black pajamas. Masuto bent over him and felt for his pulse. His wrist was cold; as for his pulse, he had none. Then Masuto noticed a small spot of blood in Stillman’s hair on the back of his head. He moved the hair aside, and there was a bullet hole where his spine joined the back of his skull. He lay with his face against the floor, and Masuto did not touch him again or try to move him. Using his handkerchief, Masuto turned off the faucet. It was the hot water faucet. Stillman evidently had been shaving. The razor lay on the floor beside him. A tube of shaving cream was on the sink shelf, and by bending over the body, Masuto could see that much of his face was still lathered.
    Masuto went back into the bedroom, picked up the telephone, and dialed his headquarters. “Joyce,” he said to the operator, “this is Masuto. Give me Captain Wainwright.”
    â€œMasao,” Wainwright said, “where the hell are you? It’s almost twelve, and I want you here when that Russian shows up. And by the way, the F.B.I, knows who our drowned man is. I didn’t think those jokers knew which side was up, but they pegged him right off. And it’s got class, Masao. They asked me not to pass it on to the local clowns. They’re flying some special character in from Washington—his name is Arvin Clinton, but that’s between you and me. Nothing to anyone else, nothing to the papers. This is a doozy. Nobody wants publicity. So just get your ass over here.”
    â€œThat’s all very interesting,” Masuto agreed.
    â€œThank you. Did you hear me? Where the devil are you?”
    â€œAt the hotel.”
    â€œGood. Nothing to Gellman. Just