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

hurry might hide clothes, shoes, and the rest of it?”
    â€œTwo 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.
    â€œI do hope to hell you haven’t loused everything up,” Sweeney said by way of introduction.
    â€œWe haven’t touched a thing.”
    â€œWhere 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.
    â€œHe’s dead,” he told them.
    â€œI thought so,” Masuto said.
    â€œDon’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.”
    â€œSmall 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.”
    â€œShe? She? What the hell do you mean, Masao?”
    â€œHe 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.”
    â€œYou’re telling me that some dame could be cold-blooded enough—”
    â€œIt’s happened. We underestimate women.”
    â€œHow long ago?” Wainwright asked Baxter.
    â€œMaybe three or four hours,” flexing Stillman’s fingers. “Maybe eight o’clock this morning, maybe nine.” He straightened up and picked up his bag. “Well, that’s that. You don’t need me here anymore. Never needed me in the first place. I’ll poke around at the hospital and have the reports filled in. I want a card with his name tied to his hand. I’m rotten with names.” And with that he bustled out through the door, sending a last nasty glance at Masuto.
    â€œHe’s a sweetheart,” Beckman said.
    â€œStay with Sweeney,” Wainwright said to Beckman. “Once he’s lifted his prints, I want every corner of this place turned inside out.” And to Sweeney, “I want a full set of Stillman’s prints before they take him away, and when you get back to the office, put them on the wire to Washington and give them to L.A.P.D. as well. Nobody just gets himself shot. There’s got to be some sanity in this.”
    â€œIn murder?” Masuto said. “There never is, you know.”
    Gellman said, “Look, Captain—I’m destroyed, so I’m not asking for pity. But if you have that body carried through the hotel—how do you do it?”
    â€œThe ambulance is on its way.”
    â€œYou mean the morgue wagon?”
    â€œAl, get hold of yourself. We don’t have a morgue wagon. We got an arrangement with All Saints Hospital, and we use their pathology room and morgue. So it will just be an ambulance and some interns in white coats or whatever. It’s done, and life goes on.”
    â€œFool, fool!” Masuto exclaimed, and reached for the phone.
    â€œHandkerchief!” Sweeney yelled.
    Masuto dialed headquarters while the others watched curiously. He told Joyce, the operator, “I want an All Points Bulletin on a yellow Cadillac. First check all the car rentals at the airport and find out what kind of car Jack