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

the City of Los Angeles, an arrangement that succumbs to reason only because it is factual. By freeway, it is some fourteen miles north of Beverly Hills, and all the way there, Masuto remained silent, lost in his own thoughts, grappling with a puzzle that was no more susceptible to reason than the civic arrangements that existed in Los Angeles County. Intermittently, he remembered that he had not called Kati to inquire about Ana’s sore throat, and that caused him small twinges of guilt.
    They were almost in San Fernando when Beckman, who knew Masuto well enough to respect his silences, asked where they were going, to the Felcher Company or to the cops?
    â€œI imagine the company’s closed for the day. We’ll talk to the cops.”
    â€œMasao, this clown from the F.B.I., he never asked one word about Stillman.”
    â€œPerhaps no one told him.”
    â€œThat’s not very patriotic.”
    â€œNo, I guess it isn’t.”
    â€œMasao, do you know any of the San Fernando cops?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œThere’s a fellow called Gonzales who used to be with the Hollywood Division. He switched to a better job with the San Fernando cops. I think he’s the chief of detectives or something like that.”
    They turned off the freeway at San Fernando Road, and a few minutes later they parked at the police station, an old, battered building in the Spanish style. It was almost six o’clock now, but the summer sun was still high, and the shimmering valley heat was only now beginning to break. The cop at the desk told them that Lieutenant Gonzales was down the hall, second door to the right.
    They knocked and entered. Gonzales, a heavy-set, dark-skinned man, had his feet up on the desk. He was smoking a cigar and reading a copy of Playboy . He grinned at Beckman and shook hands with Masuto.
    â€œStill working for the rich?”
    â€œThe pay is regular,” Beckman said.
    â€œWhat brings you up this way? I hear you run a busy little hotel down there, with a drowning and a murder.”
    â€œAlready?”
    â€œThe news gets around. What can I do for you?”
    â€œFour days ago, someone broke into the Felcher Company and stole four ounces of lead azide. We’re curious.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œThe truth is, I don’t really know,” Masuto confessed. “We’re groping in the dark. We have a situation where nothing connects, and I’m trying to connect it. Maybe it’s a gut feeling more than anything else. What about this Felcher Company?”
    â€œThey’re a small outfit on the edge of town, a chemical company that specializes in detonator explosives.”
    â€œAre they clean?”
    â€œAs clean as mother’s wash. If you’re gonna fault them on anything, it’s their security system. That stinks. They never had any trouble, so they just coasted along on the proposition that they never would. Not even a night watchman.”
    â€œHow did it happen?”
    â€œSomeone snipped the padlock on the wire fence around the building and forced a window. No alarm system, would you believe that?”
    â€œI’d believe it.”
    â€œAll that was taken were the four ounces of lead azide.”
    â€œJust what is lead azide?” Masuto asked him. “I know it’s some kind of explosive, but what exactly? You don’t hear about it.”
    â€œIt’s a son of a bitch. The way it was explained to me, a detonator explosive is sensitive. It goes off easily. And this lead azide is nasty. According to the manager, even a contamination by dust could set it off. Just take a stone and let it drop on this lead azide—bang, off it goes.”
    â€œAnd what could four ounces do?”
    â€œBlow us out of this room. They tell me that they use a single grain for a detonator.”
    â€œHow much is a grain?” Beckman asked.
    â€œSeven thousand in a pound, I think,” Masuto